Rites of Passage

Table of Contents

In the wake of the Gunther hit, Starsky and Hutch consider the options for their future. Meanwhile, the two detectives become embroiled in a murder case against the backdrop of the music business.

DEDICATION: I would like to dedicate Rites of Passage to the memory of Eric Carr, late drummer for the rock band KISS. His courage, strength, and class in the face of a tragic illness defined the term “indomitable spirit.” His example never ceases to inspire me.

And, of course, to PMG and DS: thank you for so expertly and magically developing these characters for us.

PART ONE

“I’m just the shadow of the man I used to be,
And it seems that there’s no way out of this for me.
I used to bring you sunshine,
Now all I ever do is bring you down…”

–“Too Much Love Will Kill You” by Queen
Words & Music: Brian May, Frank Musker, Elizabeth Lamers

Starsky looked out the fifth-floor window at the world below. After almost two months in the hospital, not having ventured outside the sterile walls, the thought of going home was a little terrifying. Maybe it was just parking lots that scared him. He snickered at the thought. Gee, Doctor, I really want to go home, but in order to do so, I’d have to go through a parking lot, and they scare me silly.

What could be safer than a parking lot outside a police precinct? Unlocking the door to his own car, ready to start out for the day, bickering with Hutch about dinner won over a game of ping pong…God, do I even have the strength to play that dumb game anymore? Starsky wondered. He remembered a question born during a recurring nightmare: what did I do to deserve this? In the nightmare he could feel that horrible white-hot pain ripping into his flesh, feel the terror of knowing he could never hope to draw his weapon fast enough and having nowhere to run…trapped against the side of the Torino, hearing Hutch calling out to him from somewhere that seemed miles away…

The battered LTD was making its way into the lot now. Life in the hospital had reduced Starsky to watching the lot for Hutch’s car, or Huggy’s or Dobey’s or somebody’s. Some days, after he had graduated to sitting in a chair instead of being confined to the bed, he’d stare out at the cars for hours, watching people come and go, speculating on who was a visitor and who was staff, eventually identifying these same people, watching them pick up family members and take them home, seeing life move on while he watched.

Gunther had certainly paid him back a hundred fold for helping bring down his operation. His insides had been tossed around like a garden salad and stitched back together again. The doctors had written him off after surgery, started a death watch. Then he recovered, to everyone’s amazement. The Amazing Starsky, he thought with a snort of laugh. Recovers against all odds to sit in a chair and watch a parking lot.

Well, maybe that look of unbridled joy and infinite relief on Hutch’s face was worth pulling through for, he decided. The first thing he had seen upon regaining consciousness was that expectant face, which had burst into such happiness he thought Hutch might explode right there. He wondered if his partner considered him such a bargain anymore. Every night after work, he’d been at the hospital, every day off…Starsky could still strain his memory back to when Hutch had a social life…any kind of life of his own that didn’t revolve around hospital visits and Starsky’s recovery. A recovery that was supposed to lead him back to the force. He had professed a desire to go back to work as soon as he could. Now that the day of reckoning was in sight, it terrified him. Oh, there’d be a few more months to hide behind his recovery before he could be back on the streets again, but it was in sight now. Could he endure another set of bullets ripping into what felt like very delicate insides now? The devastation to his body had been so complete, and the pain so incredible, that it had left him in wide-eyed awe of it.

And he was left with the fear and uncertainty that made the hospital parking lot look like a war zone to him. He knew he was unreasonably dependent on Hutch, at least psychologically. As long as Hutch picked him up, took him home, stayed with him, took time off to help him out…in essence, turned his life over to Starsky…he could face the thought of venturing outside of this little cocoon where he had struggled so hard to heal.

But eventually, he’d be well, and Hutch would go on with the parts of his life that were separate from Starsky’s, and he’d be depending on Starsky again for back up and to do his part and Starsky felt himself positively trembling at the thought of touching his gun again, let alone risking one being aimed at him, ever again.

“Hey, buddy, ready to break out of here?” Hutch asked cheerfully as he entered the room pushing an empty wheelchair. “Talked the nurse into letting me drive.”

Starsky only smiled faintly in response. Geez, I should be able to rejoice a little. He’s so damn happy I’m going home today.

“Starsk—you feeling okay?”

I feel great, Starsky thought. Try putting your guts through a meat grinder and then tossing them all back in and stitching them back together and tell me if you feel okay. He swallowed an illogical lump rising in his throat.

“Starsky?” Hutch walked over to the chair now and crouched next to his partner. “Hey, are you feeling worse?” He rested a hand on Starsky’s arm. Hutch was a little shaken at the fact his partner still looked so pale and fragile, even in his street clothes.

“No different.” Starsky forced a smile. “I’m just a little shaky about goin’ out there again. Haven’t seen the outside world in quite a while.”

“I think it’s gonna feel pretty good once you try it. It’s a beautiful day out there. Sunshine, nice breeze. Fresh air—there’s a new concept, huh?”

“Right. Sounds good.” Starsky looked into Hutch’s worried eyes and came up with a more genuine smile. It seemed to put his partner at ease.

“Let’s go, buddy.” He brought the wheelchair closer and then reached out to support Starsky’s arm as he stood. “Nurses get you all packed up?” Hutch grabbed the duffle bag that was on the bed and hung it by the handles on a handle of the wheelchair.

“That’s everything. Underwear and a few paperbacks.”

“How does it feel to be in real clothes again?”

“Funny. Tight.”

“I bought you bigger jeans.”

“I noticed. If I get up suddenly I’ll probably moon somebody.”

“Okay, are we ready for lift-off?”

“Anytime.” Starsky hoped he sounded enthusiastic. He didn’t, and Hutch picked up on it, but chose to ignore it. He pushed the chair through the open door to the room and headed down the hall for the elevator. A nurse joined them with a couple of final forms for Starsky to sign.

If I refuse to sign these can I stay? That question ran through Starsky’s mind as he scrawled two signatures and she made some friendly farewell small talk as she rode down in the elevator with them so she could take the chair back inside after they left.

Hutch was right about the day and the fresh air. It surrounded him instantly and filled his lungs, which were used to the sterile, stale hospital air. The breeze toyed with his hair, and the sun felt foreign on his face. He squinted against it. He was glad not to see the Torino. It was part of his nightmares, a red and white blur in a moment of such utter anguish that even remembering it made his stomach twist into a knot.

“No complaints about the car?” Hutch probed as they drove out of the lot. There was a symphony of creaks, crunches and rattles in the old car that normally would have jangled Starsky’s nerves, but this hideous monstrosity had been the omen of Hutch’s arrival every day for so long that Starsky had forgotten to hate it. It was a friendly sight and one that made him feel safe—not to mention far less ridiculous that he would have felt riding around in the ill-fated compact convertible Hutch briefly owned and had named Belle.

“Give me time,” Starsky responded, trying to sound chipper.

“Probably feel pretty good to sleep in your own bed again, huh? Listen, I had your couch put in storage, and I rented a sofa bed. If I’m gonna stay with you, there’s no way I’m sleeping on that lumpy excuse for a couch.”

“That’s okay. Look, Hutch, I don’t blame you if you don’t want to do this. I could still get a visiting nurse, and the department’s been great about paying for everything.”

“Starsk, what’s eating you anyway?” Hutch seemed annoyed, and Starsky didn’t blame him. “You’ve been acting funny ever since I showed up to pick you up.”

“I don’t want to be burden.” Starsky said it before he thought about it, but then that was a luxury of his relationship with Hutch—he could say what he needed to say without weighing it very carefully.

“I thought we had this discussion already.”

“You wouldn’t be honest with me about this. You wouldn’t say, ‘yeah, Starsk, I do feel bogged down taking care of you and having no life.’ You’d never admit it.”

“That could be because that’s not how I feel. What’s that old song—’He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Partner’?”

“That’s brother, not partner.” Starsky had to laugh a little in spite of himself.

“Same difference.” Hutch smiled. “You couldn’t be a burden to me if you tried, so will you please quit worrying about it?”

“Okay, but I still mean I don’t want you to feel trapped into playing Florence Nightingale.”

“You see cuffs on me anywhere? I’m not trapped.”

“Okay.” Starsky watched the buildings move past the window as the car headed toward his apartment. “My plants still alive?”

“Watered them once a week. They’re fine.”

“You didn’t get a bunch of people lined up at the apartment to jump out at me and yell surprise, did you?”

“You said you didn’t feel up to it, so I took you at your word. I think you’re probably right. Our friends never know when to go home anyway.” Hutch seemed to have relaxed in his seat a little, and was calmly steering the old car with one wrist that was draped on the bottom of the wheel while the other elbow enjoyed the fresh air where it rested on the window frame.

Thoughts of what the doctors had said both reassured and haunted Hutch. In one breath they had said that Starsky would make a full recovery, and would be able to eventually get back in shape and return to the old job. At the same time, the doctor had expressed doubts about how well Starsky’s system would handle another massive shock to it in the future. The cardiac arrest had nearly killed him, and there was no escaping the fact that a good portion of his insides had been so extensively repaired that it was doubtful they’d withstand being ripped apart and patched up again. As long as no one shoots at him, we’ll be okay, Hutch thought with a grimace he hoped passed for a smile. After all, it was a day he never thought would come. Even after Starsky had managed to overcome cardiac arrest, and then regained consciousness, he seemed so damned weak and miserable and dependent that the thought of him getting out of bed, getting dressed, and sitting in a chair waiting to go home from the hospital seemed like a fantasy sequence.

Seeing his partner’s smile spread into his dark blue eyes like it used to would be a dream come true. It was as if his body were living, but something in his spirit had passed to the other side. Maybe he saw Terry while he was dying…Hutch had read about people seeing loved ones when they were on their way to the other side and then pulled back. Maybe Starsky didn’t want to be here at all anymore. Impulsively, Hutch took a hold of the wheel with the hand that had rested on the window frame and reached out to take Starsky’s hand, which was resting on the seat of the car. He didn’t say anything, just squeezed the hand.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he finally said. Starsky squeezed back, and this time a little of the smile did creep into his tired eyes.

“Me too, partner.” Starsky didn’t pull away, but absorbed the warmth and camaraderie of the gesture. Maybe Hutch is happier even with this stitched up, patched up version of me than nothing at all, he thought with a smile.

“Look familiar?” Hutch returned both hands to the wheel for the job of parking the car. Starsky’s apartment building seemed like a distant memory relived.

“Where’s the Torino?” Starsky scanned the street, almost dreading the sight of his prized possession.

“I rented it a room at Merl’s. Figured you wouldn’t want it out here on the street for two months.”

“Thanks. I wouldn’t.”

“We’ll get it back in the next few days. The doctor said you shouldn’t be driving for a while yet anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Starsky opened his door.

“Stay put ’till I get there,” Hutch directed, taking charge again with his best nurse’s tone. He hurried around the front of the car and supported Starsky’s arm as he got out of it.

They took the short flight of steps leading up to Starsky’s door at a snail’s pace. Starsky had seen his grandmother take the stairs faster to the longest day of her life. Even now he was breathing heavily and that damned pain was there that came every time he put too much demand on his respiration or exerted himself at all.

The inside of the apartment looked the same as always, except for the new sofa bed, and a bunch of balloons tied to the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

“You didn’t want a party, but I had to do something to mark the occasion,” Hutch explained. “Huggy sent over a bunch of food earlier, so you’ll be sure to have indigestion within the first hour of getting home.”

“These beat all those stupid flowers at the hospital. I was starting to feel like I was laid out in my casket, not recuperating.” He tugged at one of the strings and watched the balloons dance. “So what’d Huggy bring over?”

“Gettin’ a little hungry?” Hutch returned from the bedroom, where he had tossed the duffle bag on the bed.

“I missed chicken in snot sauce over dog biscuits—today’s lunch special…that’s gonna be a hard act to follow, pal.” Starsky found his way to the new couch and sank down into one of the seats.

“I can stick the pizza in the oven—one of Huggy’s ‘Double or Nothing’ specials.”

“You’re voluntarily feeding me one of those? I must be dying and you haven’t told me yet.”

“Just saving you the energy of fighting with me—at least for today. Don’t think you’re going to eat garbage every day, though. I did some grocery shopping of my own yesterday.”

“Dear God. Do you think the hospital would still take me back?” Starsky looked over the back of the couch at Hutch, who was putting the pizza box in the oven.

“Watch your mouth, smart ass, or I’ll make you eat what I bought for myself at the health food store.”

“I thought you were glad I survived…you just wanted the chance to kill me slowly, huh?” It had been a long time since Starsky had felt at ease enough to make a mortality joke. Even longer since Hutch had felt comfortable enough to laugh at it.

“I got some steaks and chicken and stuff to make spaghetti. I won’t poison you, Starsk. I promise.” Hutch dropped onto the opposite end of the couch.

“So what do we do today?”

“Eat lunch, and then you get some rest.”

“All I’ve done is rest for the last two months.” Starsky shrugged. “‘Course I’m not good for much of anything else, so I guess that’s okay. I didn’t sleep much last night anyway.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno. I’m on a lot less medication now, so it takes a little getting used to. I’m not as knocked out as I was for a while there. I have nightmares sometimes.”

“Nightmares? You never mentioned that before.”

“If I had, you’da been at the hospital all night too. You had to have some time off to get some sleep, Hutch. You couldn’t spend all your off hours baby-sitting a basket case.”

“About the shooting?” Hutch probed.

“I don’t want to talk about that now. I smell pizza, and if I get going on that topic, I’m gonna lose my appetite.”

“Okay, buddy.”‘ Hutch returned to the kitchen and worked on extracting a couple of pieces of pizza from the warm box. He delivered the pizza to the living room and then went to the refrigerator to get a couple of bottles of cola. Beer and pain pills didn’t seem like a smart combination, and Starsky was about due for another dose of his prescription.

“Tell me about what you’re workin’ on,” Starsky asked, nibbling on the pizza. He didn’t seem to have his old vigor.

“Nothing too special. We did bust Gordon Callahan yesterday.”

“We?”

“Dobey had me teamed up with Tony Sheridan—the new guy?”

“Don’t think I met him.” Starsky washed down a couple small bites of pizza with a drink of his pop.

“He started about six weeks ago—I guess he wasn’t around before… Anyway, he used to work in San Francisco, homicide. He’s a damn good cop. Good instincts. Really knows his way around on the streets. We’ve been following up on a few old leads you and I were working on a few months back about Callahan’s whereabouts, and Sheridan activated a few of his contacts up north, and before long, we had a good lead. Found the guy holed up in a condemned apartment building—right under our noses practically. Taking him in was a little tricky. You remember what a psycho the guy is.”

“A real head case. I remember. You can’t dice up a half dozen girls and have all your marbles rolling the same way.”

“True.”

“So what happened—when you tried to take him in, I mean?”

“I’m tellin’ ya, Starsk, I didn’t think I’d be making it to pick you up today. He had me cold—but Sheridan’s good back up. Snuck up behind the bastard and got a gun right up to his head before he knew what was happening.”

“Remind me to thank Sheridan when I meet him.”

“I’d like you to meet him. Think you’d like him.” Hutch had almost finished his first piece, but Starsky had only toyed with his and now set two-thirds of it aside on the plate. “Not hungry?”

“I guess I’m just tired. I’m sorry, Hutch. All of a sudden I’m winded.” Starsky made it to his feet slowly before Hutch could get up from his seat on the couch.

“Need some help?”

“Nah. I’m just gonna get in my pajamas and go to bed for a while. I’ve been so anxious to get up and dressed, and now I just wanna sleep.”

“You’ve got a ways to go before you get your old energy back. Don’t worry. It’ll come with time.”

“I guess.”

“You’re about due for your medicine, so I’ll get that while you get changed.”

“Thanks.”

Starsky chided himself for feeling such an odd pain in his chest at Hutch’s enthusiastic description of Tony Sheridan. Hell, maybe it was just an odd pain in his chest and nothing more. Where does your chest end and your stomach start? he queried absent-mindedly. Maybe its my torn up guts hurting from climbing up those damn steps. Wanting Hutch to stop and stroke his ego in the middle of their discussion was immature. What was he supposed to say? ‘Sheridan’s okay, but of course, he pales in comparison to you, Starsky?’ Yeah, right. Nobody’s indispensable, or irreplaceable. That hurts, damn it.

Back in the familiar pajamas, Starsky crawled into his bed, vaguely annoyed at the weight of the spread on top of the covers, but too tired to pull it back. It felt mushy and foreign compared to the hospital bed. The sheets were fresh. Hutch had done his homework. Full-time cop, part-time housekeeper, Starsky thought with an ironic smile.

“Hey, pal, you’re gonna roast to death under that.” Hutch entered the room and set a glass of water and a pill bottle on the nightstand. He pulled back the spread and folded it, tossing it on a chair. “Better—or are you cold?”

“Much better. I’m just right.”

“Okay. Drug time.” Hutch sat on the edge of the bed and took a pill out of the bottle and handed it to Starsky, who popped it in his mouth and then gulped a little of the water out of the glass. Hutch returned it to the nightstand and adjusted the covers over his partner as he went through his usual quest for a comfortable position. When somebody rearranges your insides, how do you find a comfortable position? Hutch wondered if anything didn’t hurt. He remembered that horrid, strangled yelp of pain from the other side of the Torino, barely audible over the shooting. Starsky finally gave up and returned to his back.

“If you need me, I’ll be right outside the door in the living room. I’m just gonna sit there and read for a while.”

“Anything good?” Starsky asked, his lids drooping a little.

“Poetry. I’m not sure how good it is. I’m still deciding.”

“Read me a little?”

“Sure.” Hutch hurried out to the living room and found the book among the pile of personal effects he had stashed next to the couch. Starsky was still awake when he returned, regarding him with an expression he wasn’t sure how to identify. Maybe the odd look was just fatigue or discomfort. “Okay. Close your eyes, relax, and let the words carry you. There’s one in here I do think is pretty good.” Hutch searched the pages until he found it, and settled on the empty side of the bed, leaning against the headboard and crossing his legs at the ankles. Starsky grinned a little, seeming happy at the company.

“I close my tired eyes
And wander to the sandy shore
And step into a small boat
Waiting on the beach.

The boat drifts languidly
On blue-green waters,
And I pass through a rainbow arch:
The passage to imagination.

On the banks
Of a narrowing waterway,
Tall grasses sway
Dotted with exotic flowers.

I drift aground
To wander among the blooms,
The sun warm and gentle
On my face.

There are no sounds
In my secret place,
Save for the song
Of birds…

But as I lie in the grass
Dreams sweeping me away,
Only the sweetest sound
Can draw me back…

Through the blooms
And the grasses
And the rainbow arch…
To yours, the gentlest of voices.”

Hutch looked at his sleeping partner. He didn’t know if it was the pain medication, the poem, or the company—or some mystical combination of all of them, but Starsky was breathing evenly, his face turned toward Hutch, a little smile still curving his lips slightly.

Hutch re-read the poem. It wasn’t any masterpiece. It was more of a lullaby than great prose, but there was something calming in it, and Hutch almost felt able to doze himself. He carefully slid off the bed, and when Starsky didn’t stir, he slipped out of the room noiselessly.

It seemed to Hutch that his partner was sleeping more now than he had while he was in the hospital. He had gone to bed around two that afternoon and slept until six, when he responded to the smell of steaks and vegetables being prepared in the kitchen. His appetite seemed to be back in gear, and he appeared to enjoy the meal, though his mood was subdued.

“Sure beats hospital food,” Starsky commented as he leaned back in his chair. “You do all right with this whole housekeeping thing. Interested in a new job?”

“Full-time maid, huh? Thanks a lot, Starsk.” Hutch got up and started clearing away the dishes. “Hope you saved room for dessert.”

“You made dessert? Is it something healthy?”

“I promise you it has no redeeming nutritional value at all,” Hutch replied as he removed a small decorated cake from a bakery box. He stuck one candle in the middle of it, lit it, and set it in front of Starsky. The blue writing said simply, “Welcome Home, Starsk.”

“Hey, that’s really great, Hutch.”

“Well, until you’re up to the whole party, I had to settle for the cake and the balloons.” Hutch took his seat once he had gathered a knife and two plates from the cupboard. “I don’t know if you’re supposed to make a wish on one of these cakes, but it seemed a little bleak without the candle.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Starsky stared at the dancing flame a moment. I wish it had never happened, he thought. I wish I hadn’t been shot. I wish I was still myself. I wish we were still out on the streets. I wish I didn’t have to sit here like an invalid and watch you do what we should be doing but with a new partner. I wish you didn’t like working with Tony Sheridan so well. I wish you didn’t have to take a leave of absence to play nurse to me, and I wish you wouldn’t rather be working with Tony than cooped up here with me. I wish…

“Must be a hell of a wish.” Hutch’s voice broke what had become a long silence. He was smiling broadly.

“It’s a big one.” Starsky looked at the candle. “What would you wish for if it were your candle?”

“I don’t think I have a right to ask for anything else. I already got my wish, partner—and it was a big one too. The only one that really matters to me.”

Starsky felt a lump rising in his throat. He was angry with himself for getting all misty and emotional about everything lately. If somebody said something about the weather, I’d probably cry, he ridiculed himself silently. He blinked a time or two and smiled back at Hutch.

“Thanks.”

“Ah, Starsk, if you don’t blow that thing out, I think it’ll set the cake on fire pretty soon.”

“Sorry.” He smiled and pushed the cake a little toward Hutch. “Since I couldn’t come up with much to wish for either, maybe we should blow it out together—maybe that way we’ll both get what makes us happy.”

“I think we’ve been lucky enough to have that for quite a long time.” Hutch could see Starsky shifting a little uncomfortably at such an obvious display of sentimentalism, and he felt the need to explain it just a little. “You know, Starsk, there were a lot of long bleak nights when I didn’t think I could ever say anything to you again—anything that mattered. All the stupid shit we went through with Kira—”

“That’s over, Hutch. We resolved that.”

“I know we resolved it, but it doesn’t change the fact it happened. I just feel like I’ve taken so much for granted lately, and then this happened, and suddenly there were no more chances. All the times I held back something I wanted to say to you, or was so sparing with my friendship that I only let you have a little at a time…Maybe you take people you love for granted so much that you forget you’re not ever telling them.”

“It’s not like I walk around every day telling you I love you. I think we’ve always figured it was obvious, that it didn’t need to be said. I don’t blame you for not getting all gooey with me all the time. I never doubted how you felt about me… well, maybe a little when the whole Kira thing happened, but we worked that out. We never needed a lot of words, Hutch. You’re my best friend, and I love you—I always have. Always will. But I guess it’s something that’s so much a part of who I am, and of my life, that it’s like breathing—I don’t think about it. I just do it, live it.” Starsky looked at the shrinking candle. “Well, we sure do get sticky by candlelight, don’t we?” He grinned at Hutch, who chuckled a little in response. “You wanna blow this damn thing out now?” Starsky’s question turned Hutch’s chuckle into a full-blown laugh. They both leaned forward and blew out the candle.

“I should’ve been able to do something,” Hutch said soberly as he sat back.

“About what?” Starsky was removing the candle, licking the frosting off the base of it.

“What happened…” Hutch shook his head. “I just stood there.”

“As opposed to doing what? Flying over the top of the car? We were separated by the car. I was in the line of fire—that was just the way it went down. I couldn’t have gotten to you any faster if the reverse had happened.” Starsky could feel that heaviness in the pit of his stomach at reliving the experience in his mind. “I didn’t have time to do anything for myself. They were just there all of a sudden…” Starsky shuddered almost visibly.

“I’m sorry I brought it up again, Starsk.”

“It’s okay.” Starsky realized suddenly that by making Hutch walk on eggshells about this subject, he was denying him the chance to share his feelings with the one person in the world Hutch seemed willing to share them with openly. “Hutch, there was no time to react rationally. No time for you to get to me. Don’t you think I know that you would have done anything you could to prevent this from happening to me? How many times have we risked our lives for each other? It’s not like you had a choice this time. Shit happens.”

“This is kind of a big thing to shelve under the category of ‘shit happens’.”

“That’s the category it belongs in. It was something you couldn’t fix, couldn’t stop, couldn’t change. It just was.”

“I guess.”

“Listen to me. You couldn’t stop me from being shot. You had no choices. But you could choose what you did after it happened. You could have sent me a couple of get well cards and some ugly flower arrangement and told me to get a visiting nurse to take care of me when I got out. You were there every day, and you’re still here, taking time off work to take care of me. When you have a choice, Hutch, you make the right ones.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“I do. I also am sick of looking at this cake and not sticking my fingers in the frosting and tasting it, so can we cut it now?”

“You got it.” Hutch cut the cake, and they finished dessert and spent a couple of hours in front of the TV before Starsky took his final dose of medication for the night and went to bed.

* * * *

It was a surreal image. The lot was longer, wider, more open than it really was. The whole thing was blurry, but there was the Torino, and Hutch laughing and saying something, and then the sound of grinding metal, and a police car coming toward them, and from somewhere in space Hutch called out, “Get down!” and it echoed millions of times through his mind in horrible waves. He reached hopelessly for his gun, panicked at the sight of the weapon protruding from the window, that split second of anticipation of the agony before it came…thousands of times more horrible than he thought anything could be. The impact came to his senses first, throwing him against the car and the glass shattering, and then the shredding of his body by the hot metal tearing into the tissue…Hutch was calling out somewhere, a flash of blond hair disappearing on the other side of the car…and the pain and the fear and the darkness and the solitude of the world the pain was creating…He screamed out for Hutch, for that fleeting glimpse of hair and then under the car, the sight of his dodging feet as the gunfire roared around him… and the pain…God, he wanted to cry from the pain, but the strength was gone out of his voice, his lungs wouldn’t support it anymore.

“Starsk, come on, buddy, it’s me.” Hutch’s voice was so close, but how… “Starsky!” Hands were on his shoulders, then gripping his arms, shaking gently. “Starsk, it’s me, come on, wake up.”

Starsky opened his eyes. In that moment of recognizing it was “the nightmare” again, and he wasn’t lying on the cement next to his car, it took him a moment to grasp that this was not a hospital staff person, firmly and clinically explaining to him that he was dreaming. This was Hutch. Somebody who might even care what the nightmare was about or why he was having it.

“Hey, partner, it’s okay. It was just a dream, buddy.” Hutch was smiling slightly, reaching up to wipe a couple of tears off Starsky’s face. “Try to take a couple deep breaths and relax. You’re gonna hurt pretty badly if you get out of breath.”

Starsky reached up and wound an arm around Hutch’s neck. His partner scooped him up with both arms and pulled him close. His tired lungs would support his voice and his tears now, and he let them go, holding onto Hutch as if he were a lifeline. And he felt like one at that moment: safety, security, and warmth. The hand that was gently intertwined in his hair, the other that alternately rubbed or patted lightly on his back.

“Pretty scary dream, huh?” Hutch asked softly. Starsky didn’t speak. He couldn’t. “Shh. I know, Starsk. I know, buddy. Just hang on to me, it’s okay.” After a while, Starsky just let himself relax in his partner’s arms. Hutch didn’t move for quite a while, just stroked through Starsky’s hair very gently and continued to murmur an occasional word of comfort. “You wanna lie back now, buddy?” Starsky nodded slowly, and Hutch made the downward motion with him, still supporting him as if he were made of china. “I’ll be right back.” Hutch got up and left the room for a moment, but returned quickly with a glass of water and a washcloth. He bathed Starsky’s face with the cool cloth, pushing sweaty ringlets of hair off his forehead. Usually if a nurse was satisfied he was dreaming and not actually dying, she left the room without further comment, and Starsky was used to lying in the semi-darkened room alone, watching demons dance on the ceiling until dawn. He looked back at Hutch, and finally said what his partner had hoped to hear earlier.

“It’s really good to be home.”

“It’s really good to have you home, you big dummy.” Hutch set the cloth aside and picked up the glass of water. “How about a sip, huh?” He held the glass while Starsky took a couple of swallows. “Better?” he asked, rearranging the covers neatly.

“A lot.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“It’s just the shooting, over and over again. Same dream. But it’s the fear and the pain…it’s like it goes on longer in the dream than it really did. I was so helpless, and I knew what they were going to do, but I couldn’t get my gun, I was trapped by that damned car…”

“Shh. Take it easy.” Hutch stroked his cheek lightly.

“I heard you calling me, and I felt that pain, and I wanted to reach you, but I couldn’t…I was so scared, Hutch. I thought I was gonna die, and I was afraid of that pain…”

“I know, buddy.” Hutch took his hand and rested his forehead against Starsky’s for a moment. “God it must have hurt like hell.” He moved away again. Starsky just nodded. “You’ve been having the same nightmare for a long time, huh?”

“Since they started cutting back on the medication. I was so drugged for a while there that I didn’t know the difference. But once they started cutting it down as I got better, my mind was working again.”

“I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Hutch, you were at the hospital just about every second you weren’t at work. If I had told you about this, you’d have been there every night, too, and I didn’t want you to get so worn out that you’d wind up getting yourself killed because your reflexes were shot.”

“Then I’d have taken my leave sooner. I haven’t been worth a hell of a lot to anybody working by myself anyway.”

“What about Tony Sheridan? I thought that was working out pretty well.”

“Sheridan’s a good guy—real sharp. He’ll make somebody here a hell of a partner.”

“Somebody—but not you?”

“I already have one, remember?” He patted Starsky’s shoulder.

“I thought you liked working with him—I won’t be upset if you say you did. I mean it’s not like cheating on your wife, working with another cop while I’m laid up.”

“Sheridan had to bail me out yesterday because my mind wasn’t where it was supposed to be. And there was something off in the way we worked together. It’s like the timing isn’t there. That innate, instinctual thing that doesn’t need a game plan.”

“That takes a lot of years to build up to. We screwed up a few times when we were first starting out together.”

“Yeah, but you could always read me, anticipate me—same with me where you’re concerned. We work like two parts of one being—in tandem.”

“A two-headed cop with eight limbs. Sounds like something out of a really good late show.” Starsky was grinning, and Hutch had to laugh. It was time to lighten up a little.

“Feel like you could sleep a little?”

“I think so.” He paused as Hutch stood up from his position on the edge of the bed. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“You think you could hang around for a few minutes?”

“You got it.”

“Do you have that book you had earlier—you know, the one with the poem?”

“It’s in the living room. Want me to read to you?

“I’d like that.”

“Then you got it, buddy.” Hutch retrieved the book and then settled into position on the other side of the bed, where he had sat to read earlier. “Same one?”

“Maybe a different one first. Pick one you like.” Starsky settled into position, his face turned toward Hutch as it had been earlier.

“Okay. This one’s called ‘Memories.’ I think it’s perfect for right now. Just relax and let yourself drift. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“Okay.” Starsky smiled and closed his eyes.

“‘I used to be afraid
To close my eyes
And to remember…

I used to fear
The past and the ghosts
That danced in my dreams…

Then you whispered to me
That dreams are only movies,
And memories only pictures…

They are imprisoned
Behind the bars of time
And I have conquered them…

I have risen above
These pathetic ghosts,
These impotent images…

I have overcome
And they are my prisoners,
Under my dominion…’.”

“I like that one too,” a sleepy voice commented. “Where’d you get that book? It’s not as weird as some of that other stuff you’ve read.” Starsky opened his eyes and focused on the small book with the plain cover.

“You’re cheating, pal. You’re supposed to be sleeping—or trying to, remember?”

“Okay. Read that other one—the one about the boat?”

“It’s called ‘Passages.'”

“Okay, whatever. That knocked me out the last time, but want to hear how it ends. I fell asleep somewhere in the grass, I think,” Starsky said with a smile.

“That was the idea, Starsk.” Hutch shifted his position a little and flipped through the book to the right page. “By the way, buddy, you don’t have to stay awake and keep me reading to keep me here. I won’t go anywhere.”

Starsky only grinned his response, listened to the poem, and fell asleep in the comfortable silence that followed the last line.

* * * *

The insistent rapping on the door disturbed Hutch first. He forced his droopy eyes open and squinted at the sunlight. Starsky was still sleeping soundly by his side, but that wouldn’t last long if the persistent visitor wasn’t satisfied quickly. Hutch carefully stood up and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. The odd angle his neck had been in all night made him stiff and irritable. Sleeping half-sitting against Starsky’s headboard hadn’t been a refreshing experience.

“All right already!” Hutch yanked the door open to see Dobey standing on the other side of it, holding a plant.

“Good morning to you too, Hutchinson.”

“Sorry, Captain. Long night. Come in.” He stood aside as Dobey entered and then closed the door. “Starsky’s still asleep.”

“It’s almost nine—thought I waited late enough.”

“Don’t worry about it. Thanks for stopping in. Want some coffee?”

“Sounds good.” Dobey set down his plant on the coffee table and took a seat at the kitchen table. “How’s Starsky?”

“Tired, weak, sore…not much different from when he was in the hospital. Sometimes I wish I’d killed Gunther when I had the chance.” Hutch poured water into the top of the new coffee maker Starsky had bought for himself just before the shooting. He was intrigued to no end by the timer function, and usually had it set so it was making coffee by the time Hutch showed up in the morning to pick him up for work.

“You don’t mean that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“Didn’t it ever occur to you that killing Gunther would have been doing him a favor? Picture a man like Gunther in prison, where he’s gonna spend the rest of his miserable life, and tell me if that isn’t a fate worse than death in his case.”

“I hadn’t really looked at it that way.”

“Because you’re too busy having revenge fantasies. Revenge isn’t always as sweet as you think it’ll be. Ask Gunther.” Dobey accepted the coffee from Hutch, and the detective joined his boss at the table.

“I hate to say this, Captain, but that is the ugliest damn plant I ever saw.”

“Venus flytrap.”

“I used to have one of those. I think I,” he cleared his throat, “accidentally killed it.”

“The clerk at the store said it preferred flies but would eat anything. Somehow I thought of Starsky.” The two men laughed quietly.

* * * *

Starsky stirred and opened his eyes. The sunlight was filtering in through the curtains, and Hutch and his book were nowhere in sight. He rolled over slowly to look at the clock.

It was a little after nine. How can you be tired before you even get up? His stomach and side hurt, but that wasn’t anything new. Time for another damn pain pill. He attempted a deep breath, but found it shaky and shallow. His injured lung was almost healed, but it still had a few limitations. He got out of bed and pulled on his robe. There were voices coming from the other room. Opening the door, Starsky spotted Dobey and Hutch sharing a congenial moment at the kitchen table. Odd to see those two relaxed for a change, he thought happily.

“Morning, Cap,” Starsky greeted. He felt almost as upbeat as he sounded, though his tired, frail appearance was a constant reminder of what had happened.

“Morning, Starsky. You’re looking more like your old self again,” Dobey lied pleasantly. Starsky accepted the courtesy at face value, and then lit on the couch to examine the plant.

“This for me?” he asked, surveying the numerous bristly mouths supported by waxy green stems.

“Call it a welcome home present.”

“Yeah. Its eating habits are actually worse than yours. I think we should congratulate the captain for finding something we could say that about,” Hutch needled. Oddly enough, Starsky enjoyed being teased again. The constant flow of gentle, good-natured words had made him feel like a dying man all the time. This was like being back to normal again.

“Thanks, Cap. You may have hit on something I can actually do now—feed a plant.” Starsky was smiling brightly as he said this, meaning it with the best of intentions, but his defeatist attitude toward his future seemed to creep into every conversation sooner or later.

“Well, I have a meeting downtown at ten, so I better get a move on.” Dobey stood and started toward the door. Hutch took care of the niceties of walking with him and opening it.

“Hey, thanks for stopping in and bringing this,” Starsky called after him. Dobey regarded the prematurely aged face of this young man, one of his best and brightest. No wonder Hutchinson wanted to kill Gunther. Sometimes Dobey would have liked the pleasure himself. Starsky seemed to be picking up on the prolonged glance in his direction. Dobey shook himself back to reality. No need to gape at him like I think he’s dying, he chided himself.

“Take care of yourself, Starsky.” Dobey left the apartment without further comment.

“How’re you feeling this morning?” Hutch asked as he joined Starsky on the couch.

“About the same. Feel more like I have my land legs back—being out of the hospital. Thanks for sticking with me last night.” Starsky kept his eyes focused on the unsightly plant.

“I never thought too much about what it was like for you—psychologically, I mean. We were all focused so much on you healing up physically, and what to expect for your recovery that I don’t think any of us, myself included, spent much time thinking about what had to be running through your mind.”

“You wouldn’t think you’d have time to think about it. A machine gun comes out a window, you go for your gun even though you know it’s useless, the bullets come out–you can see the flash—and they tear into your guts. I don’t know what I really noticed first: the impact or the pain, but I felt both. And all that shit about your life flashing before you?”

“Yeah?”

“Doesn’t happen. There’s no time. But there was the impact, that pain, the glass shattering and all the shots and somewhere I heard you—and when I hit the ground, I saw your feet moving for a split second, and I knew you were alive, probably not hit, and I let go.”

“Let go?”

“While it was all happening, my brain was trying to process the situation, and the pain, but I was afraid you were hit, because I couldn’t get a clear view of you. Then I saw your feet moving around when I was lying by the car, and I relaxed. Stupid bastard that I am, I was trying to figure out how to draw my gun, but I couldn’t move my arms anymore, and I was trying to help you, ’cause one person against all that ammo, just wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Oh, God, Starsk.” Hutch rested his hand on Starsky’s arm. “You’ve got four bullets in you and you were worrying about me?”

“Sorry, pal. Just instinct. As long as I’m breathin’, I’d try to be your back up.” Starsky took a deep but shaky breath. “How about some of that coffee?”

After a light breakfast, Starsky insisted on getting dressed and going somewhere. The apartment was becoming claustrophobic, and he knew Hutch had to be going stir crazy too. He felt weak, but almost human after showering, shaving and going to his own closet and picking out his own clothes. Before pulling the t-shirt over his head, he paused to regard his reflection in the mirror. The lower half of his body looked pretty much the same as it always had, free of any significant scars except for a couple of small ones on his leg from minor bullet wounds. Child’s play compared to this, he thought with a bitter smirk. He pulled on his jeans and then his eyes fell on the central portion of his body. He scolded himself for this moment of bruised vanity. Why can’t I just thank God I’m alive and leave it at that? I have to complain. He ran his hand over the scars the bullets and resulting surgeries had left behind. Feeling tears well up again, he turned and surveyed a couple of smaller marks on his back. Maybe they’d fade with time, he told himself, pulling the blue t-shirt over his head and reaching for his jacket. Fade, but not disappear, he reminded himself. Damn, I’m shallow, he heard his conscience chastising him. He sniffed and ran a hand past his eyes. Oh, well, one more thing to mope about and snivel about. All I do lately, he reflected, heading for the door. He hesitated and picked up his sneakers, kicked off the previous day and tossed in the corner. A nurse had tied them at the hospital for him, the downward curving of his body still uncomfortable at the sharp angle shoe-tying required. He would be damned if he called to Hutch to come in and tie his shoes too.

Hutch finished getting dressed and put the breakfast dishes in a sink full of water. It wasn’t exactly the best method of cleaning up, but he had no interest in washing dishes now…of course, it never was an activity he engaged in when he could avoid it. Of course, turning Starsky’s apartment into a pigsty wouldn’t exactly qualify as helping him, so he resolved to clean things up when they got home.

Gunther in prison. Hutch lingered with the thought for a moment, tasted it, savored it like a fine wine on his palate. Gunther had exacted a grisly revenge on them for their part in his downfall, but the sweetest revenge belonged to the good guys, Hutch thought triumphantly. And Starsky fooled you and lived anyway, Gunther. Screw you, you bastard. We won after all…

“Ready to go?” Starsky appeared behind him.

“Yup.” Hutch wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face his partner. “Need some help with those?” He indicated the sneakers that hung a little defeatedly from Starsky’s left hand.

“You mind? I tried but I’m still havin’ a little trouble curling up like that to tie ’em.”

“Park it right there. No sweat.” As Starsky sat at the kitchen table at his direction, Hutch slipped the shoes on and tied them. This had to be driving Starsky nuts, being this dependent. This was the man who had crawled off the couch in the back room of that Italian restaurant to try to help him even with a hemorrhaging bullet wound in his back, who was trying to draw his weapon as he lay dying by the Torino only a couple of months earlier. A man who could walk around with poison flowing in his veins and still save his partner’s life before collapsing…Hutch couldn’t picture what being unable to tie his own shoes must feel like to his fiercely independent and remarkably strong partner. He looked up to meet Starsky’s eyes when he’d finished the task. I said wanted you back no matter how you came back, and now I have to help you be all you can be now, and I have to make you feel like all this shit is worth it, Hutch thought to himself. “You’ve always wanted an excuse to make me kneel before you,” Hutch joked, straightening up. Starsky smiled, but the humor didn’t spread to his eyes. “Where d’you wanna go?”

“I don’t know. Can’t do much of anything. I’m just getting a little wacko being cooped up all the time.”

“Well, let’s go for a drive, and if you’re still feeling okay, maybe we can stop by The Pits for lunch.”

“Okay.” Starsky stood up, waving away Hutch’s offer to help him.

“Now all this is on one condition,” Hutch began, picking up his jacket off the couch. He was wearing his shoulder holster like any normal day. It pierced Starsky not to be putting his own on, armed with that gun and a strong, confident body to go with it. Now I’m just an invalid, and Hutch will have to look out for me. INVALID. IN-VALID. Not valid. Not a valid person anymore, not a valid partner. A lump of pummeled, repaired flesh tagging along for the ride. “…hear me, partner?”

“What?” Starsky looked at him blankly. They were almost to the door.

“As soon as you feel tired, or you’re ready to come home, you let me know. And I don’t care how good you feel, we’ll be coming home after lunch so you can get some rest.”

“That’s fine.”

The breeze that blew in the open windows of the car was a refreshing change from indoor air. It seemed odd not to hear the police radio breaking in on them from time to time, but Starsky wasn’t about to complain about the peacefulness of leaning back in the seat, almost dozing at times, while Hutch drove them farther into the country, taking some winding and scenic country roads to nowhere in particular. He seemed to understand his partner’s need to do something, but nothing in particular. Even going to Huggy’s made him uneasy. No one else would know to look at me that I can’t tie my shoes and that my partner has to read to me and sit up with me half the night and chase nightmares away, Starsky thought. But he still felt self-conscious about everything—his dependence on Hutch, most of all. They had always been openly dependent on each other professionally and emotionally, but this level of physical dependence was depressing and stifling for both of them. To recover just to sit in his apartment and be Hutch’s responsibility rather than his friend was no life at all. No life at all worth living…

“You like this one, don’t you?” Hutch turned up the radio. A Jim Croce song was starting. Starsky wondered if his voice still worked. Haven’t sung a note in months, he thought. Jim was starting… “Well I know it’s kinda late, I hope I didn’t wake you…”

“Yeah, I know it’s kinda strange, but every time I’m near you, I just run out of things to say, I know you’d understand, every time I tried to tell you, the words just came out wrong, so I have to say I love you in a song,” Starsky sang along, and continued to keep up with the song. His voice was still there, unharmed. It wasn’t long before Hutch couldn’t resist adding his own vocal back up to his partner, and they were giving poor Jim Croce little chance to be heard singing his own song. The experience seemed to buoy both their spirits, because Starsky had discovered one thing he could do just as well as he could before the shooting, and Hutch had found one thing they could still do together no matter how much further Starsky progressed with his physical recovery. From that point on, no singer on the radio was allowed dominion over his or her own song. Their singing ranged from serious to silly, but it was the first moment of totally light-hearted, genuine fun they had experienced together since the game of ping-pong the morning Starsky had been shot.

Maybe I did survive this for a reason, Starsky thought to himself as they quieted down for a few minutes. No singing along with the morning news, unfortunately, he thought, smiling. The announcer’s words caught both their attention: Gordon Callahan had escaped custody that morning, as he was being transported from the jail for his arraignment. One officer was killed, another wounded when Callahan had managed to somehow get free of his bonds and brandish a previously concealed weapon.

“I wanna go with you downtown,” Starsky said immediately.

“Starsk, you’re not up to this. I’m gonna drop you off at home and then I’ll make a quick run in to see if they need me. Probably won’t take long.”

“Damn it, Hutch, I want to know who bought it, and I want to be there. I’m still a cop, even if I’m a sick excuse for one right now.”

“Starsky,” Hutch chided.

“Hutch,” he said, mimicking the other’s tone.

“You’re impossible.” Hutch shook his head as he took the necessary turns on the country roads to take them back to the precinct.

Hutch thought nothing of driving into the lot, as he had done dozens of times since the shooting. He had flinched the first few times too, but now it was beyond that for him. Starsky’s reaction was understandably different. As Hutch pulled up near the door to drop him off, he noticed his partner almost visibly trembling.

“Starsk, let me take you home.”

“No. I want to do this.”

“Wait for me inside. I’ll park and be right in.”

“Right.” Starsky got out and made his way slowly to the entrance.

He waited obediently just inside the glass doors for his partner. He was in no mood to go up to the squad room alone, to face all this for the first time since the shooting by himself. Hutch parked quickly and was actually sprinting up the sidewalk to the doors.

“Still feeling okay?” he asked Starsky as they started walking slowly to the elevator to go upstairs.

“Physically. God, this is weird. It’s like walking into my nightmare, only this time I’m awake.”

“But this ain’t two months go, buddy. Anybody looks at you the wrong way, they’ve gotta go through me.”

“I’m not logically afraid of something really happening. It’s just…” Starsky shuddered a little as they stepped into the empty elevator. When the door closed, Hutch took a hold of Starsky’s arm.

“I know. First time I came in here, after you were in the hospital, I felt like my stomach was going to fall out.”

“Then you know the feeling.” Starsky reached up and patted the hand on his sleeve briefly. “Let’s go see what’s happening,” he stated confidently as the doors opened and they heard the commotion in the hall outside the squad room and Dobey’s office. Familiar faces were whizzing by in every direction, and a few stopped to briefly greet Starsky or offer a hasty well-wish.

Hutch tapped on Dobey’s closed door, and when the permission to enter was barked from the other side, he opened the door and they entered Dobey’s office. Just like coming home again, Starsky thought, as he watched his superior finishing up a heated phone conversation, a look of astonishment spreading over his features to see Starsky there with Hutch.

As the conversation ended, Hutch encouraged Starsky to sit down, and he did himself. Dobey ran his hands through his curly hair and then leaned back in his desk chair, looking generally frazzled.

“What the hell are you doing here, Starsky?”

“I’m Hutch’s partner, remember? Where else would I be when this is his case?” Starsky regretted sounding so defensive. “I mean I wanted to show some support—a cop’s been killed.”

“Hutch, the officer killed is someone you know. There’s no easy way to say this. It was Tony Sheridan, Ken.” The use of Hutch’s first name signaled to Starsky that a friendship, or certainly a very good professional rapport had to have developed between Sheridan and his partner, because Dobey obviously felt the need to soften the news somehow.

“Dear God.” Hutch slumped back in his chair. “The guy wasn’t even thirty years old yet.”

“Sorry, pal.” Starsky instinctively reached out and took a hold of Hutch’s forearm where it rested on the arm of the chair. “How’d it happen?” He looked at Dobey, but left his hand on Hutch.

“Apparently Callahan had a friend on the inside. Damn creepy thought. We’ve been questioning everybody, investigating everybody from the administration to the cleaning people. He got his hands on a .45 and a cuff key. Sheridan, Mitch Daniels and a couple of uniformed officers were escorting him. When he pulled the weapon, Tony was right next to him. Took it in the chest at point blank range. He died almost instantly.”

Almost instantly. Almost. He died. Alone. Killed by that lunatic he saved me from the day before yesterday, Hutch thought painfully. He liked working with me. Thought of me as a partner, even though he knew I planned on waiting for Starsky and working with him again. Tony worked with me like a real partner nonetheless, and laid his life on the line for me just the same. And if that had been you that was killed, Starsk, I’d have fallen right down and died with you…Hutch patted the hand on his arm briefly. He knew a verbal response of some sort was expected of him.

“Has anybody called his wife?” It was a dumb question, but the best he could come up with. If her husband had been killed in San Francisco, all his friends would have been there to honor him. They probably still would, but he was a new guy in a department full of strangers, except for me. We got to know each other, and we were friends, damn it. Damn Callahan. Real friendships are such rarities, and while no one could replace Starsky, this young detective was starting to be another good friend.

“She was notified before anything was announced on the radio. We sent someone to see her instantly. I plan on visiting later personally. I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me? You were the closest thing he had to a partner here.”

“I’d like that.”

“Any leads on Callahan?” Starsky asked.

“He’s driving a maroon Chevy Impala, a ’76. Beyond that, we haven’t had any luck tracking him. He’s probably ditched the car by now anyway. We’ve got the whole department reeled back in on this. Listen, Hutch, I know you’re on leave, and under the circumstances, I’m not putting you back on the active duty roster.”

“Me being the circumstances?” Starsky asked. He had never felt more like a disabled liability in his life. “Look, Hutch, if you drop me off at my place, I’ll be okay if you need to do something.”

“I do want to see Tony’s wife. After that, I heading home.”

“I’ll be going over there in about two hours. Meet me back here and we’ll ride over together,” Dobey instructed.

“Will do.” Hutch stood, and this time Starsky didn’t shoo away the arm that supported him as he did the same. He was feeling tired and stressed out by horror of the morning’s events.

He paused on their trip to the door to look at his desk. The top was cleared off, as if he’d never been there.

“Your stuff’s in the drawers, locked up,” Hutch explained. “Something you want to get?”

“Nothing,” Starsky responded, and followed Hutch out of the noisy, crowded area.

* * * *

Hutch pulled away from the curb and drove determinedly back to the precinct. He was a little concerned at leaving Starsky, more so because Callahan was out running around loose. The thought of Starsky whisking open the door and getting a gut full of lead from another vengeful lunatic bothered Hutch. He had warned his convalescing partner to keep the door locked and look before he opened it—damn, did I really give him stupid instructions like that? Guess so, Hutch thought guiltily. Damn, I’m not even treating him like he’s a rational adult, let alone a cop. But damn it, if anything happened to him now, I couldn’t handle it, Hutch reflected. Just when I thought everything I could wish for was here...he thought about the candle on Starsky’s cake the night before. That moment of feeling on top of the world was fleeting. That feeling of peace and inner tranquility (in spite of the stiff neck) that came from sitting on the bed, reading his stupid poetry to the only other person in the world he’d share it with, seeing it transform Starsky from tense and shaken to a state of complete rest and security and peace…it was a moment to be savored because all that sense of peace was shattered now.

Starsky had followed Hutch’s directives and made sure the doors and windows were locked. He changed into his pajamas and robe, planning to take a nap. Suddenly he was uneasy, restless, and even the prospect of another painkiller didn’t appeal to him. He went to his desk and unlocked the top drawer with the small key he kept hidden on the bottom of one of the larger drawers. He knew Hutch had stored the Beretta and its ammo in there. He loaded the gun, and took it with him to his bedroom. Still, he hesitated to take the medication that would make him yet sleepier. He felt some strange instinct to stay alert…as if he knew something just wasn’t right, and that he would have to take some kind of action soon.

He lay on the bed and stared at the wall for a while. He could occasionally find a moment of comfort on his right side, and he was taking advantage of that. The gun was under the pillow, easy to reach. He pulled it out and held it. It gave him an odd chill. The power to kill and be killed by these things was so painfully predominant in his mind now, he wondered if he’d ever be able to draw it in a professional capacity again. If I really had a good reason, I could, he told himself. For Hutch, I would in a minute…hell, I’d get in the middle of another shooting match for that turkey, he thought with a slight smile.

* * * *

His own groan woke him up. Starsky opened his eyes and looked at the clock by the bed. It was dark in the apartment. The clock read eight o’clock. He was confused. He sat up, groaning again at the pain that was dancing freely inside of him, unrestrained by medication. He had missed at least two doses of the stuff that kept him comfortable, but stoned. Where the hell is Hutch? Starsky shivered a little. Hutch would have been in here and covered me, or more likely agitated me into taking one of those damn pills. Or eating something. God, I’m hungry, he thought, finally sitting up, holding his side for a moment.

“Hutch?” he called out hopefully. No response. The apartment was dark and silent. No reason to expect one. He was still alone here. He pulled his protesting body to its feet and wandered out to the living room, turning on a lamp by the couch. Poor old Hutch. Never did get to try this sofa bed contraption out, did ya? Wound up sitting up with me all night, he thought. Now a cold panic was washing over him. It wasn’t just the insecurity of suddenly being alone and not having someone fussing over him. There was an underlying sense of dread that had started to assert itself before he ever dozed off. He remembered his gun and went to retrieve it from under the pillow. Clutching the cold steel in his hand, he returned to the living room. He thought of reaching for a pain pill, but rejected the idea. Need a clear head, Starsky, he told himself. Damn, there’s something wrong here.

He sat on the couch and dialed the number of Dobey’s office. The captain barked an answer on the second ring.

“Cap, it’s Starsky. Is Hutch still over there?”

“Not that I know of. Hold on a minute.” Dobey left the phone, and Starsky could hear movement on the other end of the phone, as if Dobey were looking out of his office, which he probably was. The receiver was picked up again. “No sign of him around here, Starsky. We split up in the parking lot after we got back from talking to Stacy Sheridan. Anything wrong?”

“Well, yeah, kind of. Hutch isn’t here yet. When did he leave you?”

“Around four.”

“Captain, something’s really wrong. He wouldn’t take off and leave me here that long. I mean I’m all right and everything, but he just wouldn’t do that.”

“You’re right.” Dobey was silent a moment. “Damn it. I’ll put an APB out on Hutch right now.”

“God, you think it’s Callahan?”

“He got Sheridan, I wouldn’t put it past him to be crazy enough to hang around and go after the other cop who arrested him. My best guess is that he’d skip town as soon as he got loose, but then I’m not a psychopath. Who the hell knows how they think? Look, Starsky, I’ll put out the APB, and then I’ll get somebody over to your place.”

“I’m all right. I’ve still got a gun and I haven’t forgotten how to use it.”

“I’m still putting a man outside and offering to arrange a visiting nurse—”

“Just worry about Hutch. I’m accounted for. He isn’t, and right now that’s the only thing I care about.”

“Take it easy, Starsky. We’ll do everything we can.”

“I know. Call me if there’s…anything.”

“I will. Try to get some rest. You’ll have a guard outside so we can spot Callahan if he tries anything.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He hung up the phone. The darkness of the apartment was abnormally oppressive now, and he turned on every light in the place. He wanted to do something to ease the pain, but if he passed out into that dopey sleep and something happened…if Hutch needed him. If Hutch needs me, what the hell good am I? He fought the urge to sit on the couch and cry like a baby. The pain and the helplessness were unbearable in their combination. Either alone would be trying. Together, they were excruciating.

* * * *

When Hutch came to, his first thought was Starsky. How long have I been gone? Damn, how long have I been out cold? He looked around him now, frustrated not to be able to identify the place he was in. It was a storage facility of some sort. Looked like a damn warehouse. He squinted in the darkness. There were crates everywhere, big storage containers of various shapes and sizes. His hands were bound behind him, his feet bound at the ankles. Damn it, damn it! he cursed under his breath. He could vaguely remember the car rushing up behind him, running him off the road, and everything going black at some point.

Starsky. I dumped him off at home to go do my duty to some guy who was my partner for a few weeks. Warped idea of where my damn loyalties lie, he scolded himself. Enough self-deprecation, he decided. Time to start thinking like a cop instead of sitting here contemplating the meaning of life. He managed to push himself into a standing position against the heavy crates behind him. His moment of accomplishment was shattered when Gordon Callahan appeared, flipping a switch and flooding the large room with light. He held a .45 in Hutch’s direction. Same gun you killed Sheridan with, you S.0.B., Hutch thought.

“You’re awake.” Callahan was smiling his warped smile. He was an ugly man, really. Even aside from his insanity, his thick features and greasy black hair were not pleasing to the eye. He was a hulking big creature at 6’4″ and at least 265 plus pounds. And there was considerable muscle in that hulk. He had strangled one of his victims with one hand. She was a small girl, and he had grabbed her throat and held her well above the ground…and the things he did to some of the others…

“What the hell do you want, Callahan?” Hutch tried his best bravado routine. You’ve got no damn back up this time, a voice inside him taunted. No Starsky to ride in on his white horse—or his striped tomato.

“Well, I’ve been giving that some thought.” Callahan looked him up and down as if he were deciding just what activity would be suitable for Hutch. “Had a chat with your partner a little while ago. You know, the one who got his guts full of lead a few months back? Man, he talks a lot when you know where to hit him.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Hutch felt a cold panic wash over him, but he maintained a steady, arrogant tone to his voice.

“Guess your boy Starsky’s not as tough as he used to be. Paid him a little visit earlier. He wasn’t too friendly at first, but it doesn’t take much to knock him on his ass now.”

“You son of a bitch! Where is he?”

“Probably still on the floor of his apartment in his own puke.” Callahan moved closer. “Had a little fun with him after I got the information I wanted. I can see why you two stayed partners all these years.”

“Damn you!” Hutch lurched forward but fell to the ground. The images of what this psychopath would consider fun, and the insinuation of his remarks sent a horror through Hutch he couldn’t describe, or even coherently process.

“It wasn’t until I had him on the floor, with my knee in that sewed up belly of his that he’d tell me anything worthwhile. Mentioned something real helpful then.”

Hutch didn’t care what this animal thought he knew. He could only imagine the horrible pain Starsky had suffered to extract it from him, and he didn’t want to think of his pain and degradation and horror, dying alone on the floor, being subjected to Callahan’s sick perversities when he was too weak to even put up a good fight. And he was effectively restrained from expressing any of this mounting rage and grief and horror physically. He was reduced to asking what was the vital question.

“Did you kill him?”

“No, I left him there just like he was. “Course I don’t think there was much left of him to live…he was sort of breathing, but with all that blood running out of him, I don’t imagine he’s alive anymore.” Callahan got closer, and Hutch writhed into a sitting position against the crates, both to get away from his captor’s foul breath and to sustain himself with their support. Oh, God, Starsky, I’m sorry… Callahan resumed his monologue. “Yeah, my new buddy David mentioned a little substance that comes in a syringe that you have a special relationship with…”

* * * *

Starsky stirred, and the pain was there again, and when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. It wasn’t a nightmare. Hutch was still missing. He sat up on the couch and looked at the clock. Four a.m. The pain was worse without the medication, but his mind was clear again, for the first time in months. And the depression was better. He was in his right mind, and damn if that didn’t feel good. He headed for the bedroom, conscious of his pain but also realizing a level of energy he hadn’t felt since he’d been shot. Could those damn pills have made me the whimpering, shivering, weak basket case I’ve been all along? Starsky pondered the question as he got dressed. He’d had enough of this shit of letting others do what he could do better than any of them: find Hutch.

Starsky walked out into the silent night and approached the police car across the street from his apartment.

“Hey, Todd,” he greeted the young uniformed officer inside the car. “I need a lift.”

“Where to, Sergeant?” He straightened up, looking a little concerned. Starsky was his superior in rank, but he was under Dobey’s orders.

“Merl’s body shop—I’ll direct you. I need to get my car. I’ll take the heat from Dobey. I’ll tell him I pulled rank on you.” Starsky smiled and made it into a good-natured joke, but the young man knew the detective would do just that if he wasn’t met with instant cooperation.

* * * *

Callahan had taken a seat on one of the crates and was regarding Hutch with interest. He couldn’t tell if the reference to the detective’s well-concealed heroin addiction had brought about the trembling in his limbs, or if it was the vision of his partner being brutally tortured, assaulted and dying alone on the floor of his apartment. Damn, I’m good, Callahan praised himself. I got this pig right where it hurts. Two places where it hurts. Almost makes me wish I’d gone over to the other one’s apartment and had a little fun with him for real. I could tell Hutchinson some stories he’d never forget…Oh, well, there really hadn’t been time for fun and games with Starsky. He hadn’t been involved in the arrest, and he was a side issue in Callahan’s mind. Although, hauling him over here and letting the cop watch might be fun…

You’ve got a cop captive, idiot, a voice scolded. You don’t have time to luxuriate with him like you could with any other victim. Watching while I do things to his partner he couldn’t even picture in his worst nightmares…Callahan basked in the thought, having heard what a close team the detectives were, and having seen the obvious devastation in Hutchinson’s eyes at the thought of his Starsky being ripped up and tortured by this killer. I am a fearsome S.O.B., he praised himself silently. I’ve got this cop quivering in the corner like a sick dog, I mowed down that other cocky bastard right in front of his pig friends and I could just as easily deal with the other one. Well, maybe after I’m done here. Maybe I’ll still drop in on Starsky some dark night when the cops aren’t looking for me anymore…

“What the hell do you want from me?” Hutch demanded finally.

“I want you to think about a few things for a while. I want you to think about your last ride on the Horse. I want you to think about how your partner liked getting to know me better… and then we’re really gonna have a little bit of fun together. I’ve got a healthy dose of some really fine stuff, pig. We’ll get high together, and then maybe I’ll show you a few tricks I tried with Starsky. Think about that for a while. I’ll be back later.” He rose from his seat on the crates, turned out the light and disappeared.

“Callahan! You son of a bitch! Come back here! I’m gonna kill you, you sick bastard!” Hutch was venting now, and he knew it. Callahan was gone, or at least obscured in the shadows somewhere. He had to try to push all the horror of Starsky’s demise aside and figure a way out of this.

* * * *

“All right, all right, all right!” An angry voice came from the other side of the door to Merl’s apartment over the garage. The small black man swung open the door and was stunned to see Starsky standing there.

“Sorry to roust you so early, Merl, but I need my car.”

“Thought you were laid up, Starsky.”

“I was, but I’m back. I need my car. Please?”

“Sure thing.” Merl pulled a jacket on over his robe and followed Starsky’s slow descent of the wooden staircase.

“I’m all set now, Todd. Thanks!” Starsky waved the young officer away, and he started up his car and pulled back out onto the road.

“I kept your baby nice and safe. When’re you gonna let me do a real paint job on this tomato, anyway?” Merl pulled back the tarp covering the car. It had been restored to perfection. Starsky tried to swallow some of the horrifying memories seeing it sent flooding back. Then he smiled. Hutch’s voice was in his mind, soft and reassuring: “…dreams are only movies and memories only pictures…I have overcome and they are my prisoners, under my dominion.” Thanks, partner. Under my dominion. I’m in control again, thanks to you, pal. Now I’m gonna get you your life back too, and we’ll be okay. We have to be. We blew out that damn candle together, didn’t we?

“Starsky?” Merl’s voice brought him back to the shadowy garage.

“What do I owe you?”

“Nothin’. Hutch took care of it.”

“Great. Thanks, Merl. It looks great.” Starsky took the keys from the mechanic and slid in behind the wheel. Just like riding a bike, he thought happily, gunning the engine and speeding out of the garage into the feeble pre-dawn light.

Starsky rolled down the window and turned on the police radio. Nothing interesting coming over the waves. He picked up the speaker.

“Zebra Three to control. This is Starsky. Patch me through to Dobey.”

“Captain Dobey is not in his office.”

“Damn it. Forget it.” He hung up the speaker and kept driving toward the precinct. This might be just as well. Less interference about him working the case, and he needed the files on Callahan.

* * * *

Hutch was living a waking nightmare. How many hours had he been tied up here? The damn knots were impossible. He’d worked on it for hours, but all he’d gained were bloody wrists and sore arms.

Starsky. Oh, dear God, what did he do to you, Starsk? What did you think about while you were dying? I told you I wasn’t going anywhere…and even when we talked last night, I never said “I love you” right out. I sort of said it, but you had the courage to really say it, and you reached out to me so willingly and trustingly, and you depended on me. You were weak and you counted on me to be strong for you, and here I am hog-tied by this nut…and there you are, suffering and dying alone. I’m so sorry, Starsk.

* * * *

Starsky burst through the doors of the squad room and headed determinedly for his desk. He was in full-blown pain now, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t slow him down. He jerked the locked drawers of his desk. He had no keys.

“Anybody got the keys to this fucking desk?!” he demanded angrily. Time was precious, and these assholes were sitting around sipping coffee like this was a damn diner. Pain and fright were not making him a friendly man, and he had no use for niceties. Hal Stevens, a young detective, rose from his desk and came forward with a key from his own desk drawer.

“I think this one fits most of ’em in here, Starsky. Try it.”

“Thanks.” Starsky snatched the key and used it to release the lock. “Here. Thanks for your help.” he tried to sound civil, and it worked. The other detective smiled.

“A lot of us have been working on finding Hutch. You wanna know what we know?”

“Sure do.” Starsky sat in his chair, and motioned to Hal to do the same.

“Well, we don’t have much, but Hutch’s car was found in a ditch,” he opened a well-worn road map on one of the adjoining desks, “right about here.” He indicated an area that was not too far off the beaten path: a short cut between the precinct and Starsky’s apartment. “There was a small amount of blood on the steering wheel, which we assume is from Hutch hitting his head there when the car crashed. There are skid marks on the road, and a second set of skid marks and tracks indicating somebody helped him into that ditch.”

“Nice of somebody to call me.”

“Dobey said he’d call you when we had something definite.”

“Well, this’ll do for starters. So what’s been checked out so far?” Starsky was noticing a crescendo of pain building in his mid section, and it must have shown on his face.

“You okay, Starsky?” Stevens looked concerned. Everyone at the precinct knew the extent of his injuries, and that he was considered as good as dead for quite a while in the hospital. And this pain was bad. Real bad.

“I’m not sure yet. Give me a minute.” He closed his eyes and let it happen, feeling it and not running away from it. He had felt worse. Whatever this was, it would have to work itself out. If he could just last long enough to find Hutch, he could worry about falling apart then. “Okay, what’ve we go so far?”

“A bunch of us have been going out to talk to all the family, friends, known associates of Callahan that are listed in the file.” Stevens crossed the room to his own desk and located the folder. Starsky was still rifling the desk drawers. There were notes in there from one of his and Hutch’s all night, Chinese take-out brainstorming sessions that might help. “We’ve been to see his mother, his aunt and uncle, his old girlfriend, and a whole bunch of other degenerate weirdos he used to hang out with. So far we’ve drawn a blank.”

“Stevens, think like a psycho for a minute. You’re a perverted psycho nut that likes to torture your victims. What do you look for in a place to take them?” Starsky took the file for a moment and scanned through its contents. The things Callahan had done to some of his victims made Starsky’s skin crawl, even after all the years he’d been a cop. He thought nothing could shock him until this case. Needless mutilation, unthinkable torture—just for the pleasure of the killer. And now this man had Hutch… he pushed that thought aside and kept searching for something that would spark an inspiration.

“I’d want it secluded. Most of his murder sites were out in the country. I’d want to make my victim scream, and I’d want to be able to enjoy it without muffling it, without worrying about getting caught.”

“Good. Did anybody check out that farm—isn’t it his aunt and uncle that live on a farm out in the sticks? He killed one of the girls—Glenda Foster, I think—in the barn out there while the old folks were out of town.”

“I went out there myself about two hours ago with a black and white unit. The couple were real cooperative about letting us search. We came up empty.”

“Damn. Okay. You’ve got the cop that tried to put you away. You’re going to kill him, but you want to enjoy it first. What’s a good scene for that?” Starsky was pensive a moment.

“It’s gotta have an atmosphere, something that’ll spook him.”

“And it’s gotta mean something special…” Starsky ran a hand through his hair and then started sorting through the handwritten notes he and Hutch had made that night that seemed like a lifetime ago. It had only really been about four months. “Okay.” Starsky settled back in his chair, and winced at a spasm of pain. He was exhausted now, with or without medication, and after months of drug-regulated pain levels, the sudden withdrawal of all medicines was catching up with him. He forced his eyes to focus more sharply on the paper in front of him.

“We can follow up anything you think we should. You don’t look so hot, Starsky.”

“I don’t feel so hot. But I’ve gotta do this and do it right. We don’t have much time.” He scanned a list of the murder sites. “Hutch and I made a list of the murder sites, and we made notes about their characteristics and similarities.”

“Killing a cop at a murder site would be kind of a rush, if you were a psycho.”

“You’re pretty good at this, Stevens.”

“Thanks, I think.” he smiled uneasily.

“The most brutal of the murders took place right here—at an abandoned warehouse on the docks. Most of the buildings in that section are empty or condemned. When Hutch and I found that girl, all bets were off about not letting a crime scene get to you. We got through it without puking, but we stayed up all night, sitting at these desks, drinking coffee and trying to get the picture of that shredded girl out of our minds…I don’t think we ever totally got rid of that image.” Starsky’s mind was wandering back to it again, and he shied away from it, as if he were flinching away from something painful touching him. Pain… almost forgot that, he thought, grimacing a little at his constant discomfort. He needed something to take the sharp edge off. “Here,” he began, pulling out his car keys and handing them to Stevens. “You know what my car looks like?

“Everybody does, Starsky.”

“Smart ass,” he responded with a smirk. “Get it and bring it to the door, okay? I had to park a ways away and I don’t feel so hot right now. I need some back up. You available?”

“You got it.” Stevens took the keys and hurried out of the room.

* * * *

Hutch didn’t know if he had fallen asleep or passed out, but now there was daylight trying to filter through the filthy windows. It was a warehouse, and a chilling memory was coming into his mind. He wondered for a moment if Callahan had drugged him, but he would have never done so without taking plenty of time to enjoy Hutch’s panicked reaction.

Starsky is dead by now, a voice inside his mind told him. He has to be. He was weak to begin with, and if he was hurt badly and left for dead, he was probably finished by now. There was an odd peace in that thought. No more pain, now, buddy. You’re free…whatever he did, it’s over, and you’re flying free somewhere. Starsky always seemed to believe in something beyond death, and Hutch clung to that hope. Maybe he’d see Starsky again by the end of this day…

Instinct for survival kicked in, and he started trying to get a better look at his surroundings. He made it to his knees and finally struggled to his feet. Where the hell was Callahan? This place was familiar. In the cold light of day, it was familiar. Horribly familiar. He could almost see Starsky half-sitting on a crate across the room, taking notes from an overwrought vagrant who sometimes used the old warehouse for shelter during storms. It had been raining that day, torrential rains… “Good weather if you’re a damn duck,” Starsky had grumbled, pulling his jacket up over his head on the way into the building…Hutch dismissed this vision of his partner. Thinking about Starsky was too painful to cope with right now. Somehow letting himself lie here and die seemed like betraying his partner. Starsky had laid down his life readily how many times to save Hutch’s? And now to throw it out? You’d be plenty pissed at that, wouldn’t you, Starsk? Hutch found himself almost smiling. The upturn of his mouth was short-lived when he recalled the sight of the young woman who had been Callahan’s last victim. He had never seen such devastation of a human body at the hands of another…so that’s where I am, he thought. And I’m supposed to stay here long enough to remember. Now I remember. Now what, Callahan? he thought, scanning the empty silence around him.

* * * *

Dobey entered the squad room as Starsky was heading out, ready to hop in his car and head for the warehouse. The captain’s face registered no small degree of shock.

“Starsky! What do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed after the younger man, who was moving swiftly with a look of obvious discomfort on his pale, sweaty face.

“Finding my partner. I left you a note. I’ll be in touch.” Starsky kept moving despite protests from Dobey. “So fire me,” he muttered under his breath.

Stevens was waiting in the Torino, and Starsky slid into the passenger seat without attempting to take over driving. Stevens pulled away from the curb.

“You sure you’re up to this?”

“I need to stop by my place first. Need to take a pain pill.” He directed Stevens to his apartment, and then handed him his keys. “Will you go inside, get the prescription bottle off the night stand and bring it and a cup of water out here?”

“Sure. Be back in a flash.”

He watched Stevens bound up the steps and then enter the apartment. Starsky leaned back in the seat, exhausted and wracked with pain now. Something was wrong, and one pill wouldn’t cure it. Something was worse, pulled or damaged…and it hurt like hell. Probably nothing compared to what Callahan’s done to Hutch by now. The thought sobered him, and when Stevens returned to the car, Starsky took the pill and bolstered himself to continue.

* * * *

Hutch knew there was a warehouse that was in use about a block away. He started working on the ropes again, ignoring the pain as they chafed against his already raw wrists. I’ve gotta get out of here now, he thought desperately. Of course Callahan was probably watching from somewhere. But maybe not. Maybe that was paranoia.

“Good morning, Hutchinson. You’re up bright and early.” Callahan seated himself on a crate again. He had a small box with him. It was frighteningly familiar. A syringe and a small bottle inside. Dear God, not again, Hutch thought with a rush of fear. He had thought that nothing would matter if Starsky were dead, anything would be okay. Especially if he died at the end of it. But he wondered now if Callahan had any plans to kill him. Oh, God, he’s gonna get me hooked and leave me that way, without Starsky to bail me out, to cover for me…

“Time to ride the white horse, cop. You remember the rush, don’t you? You can fly high for a while, but then you’ll crash, and when you do, you’ll be hurting. Remember withdrawal? Lots of fun, huh?”

“How’d you find out?” Something in Hutch rejected the image of Starsky telling Callahan anything, let alone anything like this. No matter what kind of pain he was in, even if he thought he was dying—all the more reason he’d see no point in betraying Hutch. His life would be taken anyway. Whatever this bastard knew, he hadn’t gotten from Starsky. As a matter of fact, Hutch thought, I’ve got no proof he’s ever been near Starsky. He didn’t know why he was feeling bolstered by this spurt of hope, but he went with it. “You’re bluffing, Callahan.”

“Oh really? Want me to tell you a little more about the time I spent with your partner last night?”

“A bunch of horror stories doesn’t prove anything. You’re sick enough to make that up.” Hutch thought he read something in the madman’s eyes at that point. The fear of having been discovered, the frustration of his plan not working. Maybe he hadn’t really killed Starsky. Maybe he did, a voice mocked, and he’s just getting really mad at you for challenging him. But maybe he didn’t…

* * * *

The Torino pulled up a good distance from the warehouse. Starsky pointed in its general direction to a maroon Impala parked near the door.

“Damn,” he muttered. “He didn’t even trade off the freakin’ car and we still couldn’t find him ’til now.”

“Want me to call for back up?”

“Yeah, but tell them no sirens, real quiet and sneaky, and to stay back until you give them the signal.”

“I give them the signal?”

“Yeah, ’cause you’re going to stay here and wait for them.”

“You can’t go in there alone—damn it, that’s suicide, Starsky.”

“I know how Callahan thinks. He’s probably pretty preoccupied right about now. I know the layout of this place, and I can’t take any chances with Hutch’s life…if he’s still alive. Give me, say, fifteen minutes. If I don’t come out in that time, you come down on that place with every damn cop car you can reel in.” Starsky checked his weapon and then looked at the other detective briefly. “I know you think I’m nuts, but Hutch and I can work without a lot of signals between us, and we might need that to get through this, and I won’t have time to give anybody else directions.”

“This is your shootin’ match, Starsky. I’ll wait fifteen and we’ll flood the place.”

“Good deal.” Starsky got out of the car, reeled a little at the drowsiness the medication had brought on, combined with whatever it was he knew was not right inside himself. The pill had only numbed it a little, but that was what he needed to get through this. Just the sharp edge taken off the pain.

He slipped up to the side of the maroon Chevy, but there was nothing inside it. He continued to the door of the warehouse, but of course found it locked. He edged along the building to the nearest window, and finding a portion of it that would open that was just wide enough for him to shimmy through, made a difficult and painful climb inside. There were voices coming from the center of the large building. It sounded like Callahan’s deep, booming voice. Woulda made a great radio announcer if he wasn’t a lunatic, Starsky thought to himself, following the sound. Weird thoughts, courtesy of pain medication and no sleep. And then he froze in his cautious, slinky movement between the rows of empty old crates. Hutch’s voice. Something about Callahan bluffing, but what the voice said didn’t matter. It was Hutch, and he sounded strong. Starsky peered around a bank of crates and could see Hutch, bound at his hands and feet. There was a bloody lump on his forehead, but the steering wheel probably accounted for that.

Dear God, no. Callahan had a syringe, and the sight of it had Hutch mesmerized with fear. It could only be one thing.

Starsky rushed to the next bank of crates, and now he had a clear shot to Callahan. The syringe poised, he was reaching to turn Hutch, get a hold of his arm. Starsky couldn’t yell “freeze,” couldn’t hesitate. If that needle went in…He aimed his gun, his hands steadied by grim determination in spite of the pain, fatigue and fogging of his senses by the medication.

* * * *

Hutch wasn’t sure what he processed first. The sound of gunshots ringing out in the silent building or the fact Callahan’s body was too devastated with lead to inject him. The large man crumpled at his feet, blood oozing out of at least three bullet holes.

And then he saw him. Starsky was racing, a little raggedly, toward the spot where Hutch stood, feeling stupidly immobile in his restraints.

“Boy am I glad to see you, partner,” Hutch said honestly, wishing he could come up with something that would convey even a little of what he felt. There was Starsky, untouched by Callahan, working furiously at untying his ankles. He cursed and pulled out a pocket knife and sawed at the rope until it gave way. He did it like he did most things: with a single-minded determination that didn’t allow him to think of anything but his task.

“Turn around,” he ordered Hutch, who could see there was more to his brisk manner than determination. Starsky looked like he was about to collapse, and he was in pain. But somehow he got here. Starsky’s words from earlier replayed in his mind: “As long as I’m breathin’, I’d try to be your back up.”

With Hutch’s wrists freed, Starsky didn’t rise from the place where he knelt by his partner. Sensing he didn’t have the strength anymore, Hutch reached under his partner’s arms and pulled him to his feet. Starsky collapsed against him, holding on tightly.

“I thought he killed you,” Hutch murmured as he hugged his partner. Starsky was weak, and something was definitely wrong, but he was alive.

“Ditto,” Starsky whispered. They could hear the sound of other police rushing into the building.

“We’ve gotta get you to a hospital, pal.” Hutch broke free of the embrace but still supported Starsky with one arm around his waist.

“Damn. Just got out of that place,” he muttered with a crooked grin.

Hutch knew that a fatal shooting with no prior warning would raise questions as to the appropriateness of Starsky’s actions. Only they knew why avoiding that syringe was as imperative as it was, and while it could be argued that since he didn’t know what was in the syringe, Starsky would have been right to prevent the injection at all costs, there was no point in dragging a man who had recently nearly died through an inquest. Hutch’s report reflected the shout of a warning, which was ignored, prior to firing. It was born of a whispered pact in the back of an ambulance, and at least for the moment, the heroin in that syringe only meant something significant to Hutch, Starsky, and Dobey. And none of those three would be commenting on it anytime soon.

* * * *

Starsky’s setback had not been a major one, though it had confined him to the hospital for a few days. There was minor internal bleeding, which was controlled with rest and medication. Hutch found great solace in returning to the hospital after finishing his report to watch his partner sleep. It was a heavy, drug-aided stupor that would probably blast any dreams he might have out of the realm of his consciousness, but Hutch used it as a mental excuse to let himself sleep in the chair in Starsky’s hospital room, still more than a little shaken by the imagery he had conjured up of Callahan brutally torturing and murdering his partner. Callahan would be one of the immortal monsters, Hutch thought with an icy shiver, watching Starsky’s quiet, even respiration from where he sat in the shadows. People will write books, make movies, go on talk shows…and they’ll bump their gums for years about the perversions this one human monster inflicted on society. The death of Tony Sheridan would be a dull little footnote in the Callahan reign of terror. It wasn’t grisly enough for the bloodthirsty public. He just shot the guy. No sex crime, no prolonged torture, no dismemberment: just a dull old shooting, instant death, pure and simple.

Hutch remembered his reaction to Sheridan’s death. He felt an odd sense of loss, like a microscopic slide of what losing his long-time partner would be like. Tony was friendly, energetic, devoted to his job…and his boundless enthusiasm for life had made Hutch think of another young detective, before Gunther had shattered his body and traumatized his spirit. Hutch leaned back in the chair, tried to stretch.

Oh, Starsk, we’re both tired, aren’t we? I see guys like Sheridan, just like you six or seven years ago, and then I met Stevens—really got a chance to talk to this guy. I see myself a little in him. Quieter, more introverted, but taking an instant liking to you. Even unable to dazzle him with your usual confidence bordering on arrogance, you impressed the hell out of this new guy. He thinks you’re super cop. Hell, he’s right. Look what you did for me. You were ready to give your life, throw out all you fought for here for two months, just to rescue me yourself. You didn’t trust anybody else, did you? Well, I wouldn’t either, buddy.

Sometimes I wish you didn’t want to come back to this damn job so badly. I want out, but all you want is back in, no matter what the cost. You know I’ll never leave as long as you’re still in it. Hutch closed his tired eyes, realizing he had Tony Sheridan’s funeral to attend the next morning. Seeing that mop of dark hair against the beige crepe pillow in the funeral home earlier that day had hit too damn close to home. All the nightmare images of Starsky, murdered by Callahan, had come rushing over him, until he had rushed out of the room.

Mrs. Sheridan thought it was emotion for her dead husband, and if that comforted her to see what she thought was such grief, let her hang onto it. He did grieve for Tony Sheridan. He was a good cop and he could have been a good friend. Somebody you might watch football with or invite to your next house party. Burying him at such a young age was wrong. Cosmically wrong…unjust. Burying Starsky at any age, even if he’s old and bent and grey when it happens, was unthinkable. As if to answer a mental plea, blue eyes opened and regarded Hutch with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“Hey there, pal.” Hutch smiled, but he knew that he was the one now who wasn’t reflecting any humor in his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“About four, I think.”

“Damn it, Hutch, go home.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Starsk.”

“You look wasted, and I’m okay.”

“So why’re you awake if you’re so ‘okay’?”

“I probably felt your eyes boring two holes in me,” Starsky replied with feigned irritation. “What’s got you down? The funeral tomorrow?”

“Oh, yeah. Probably that’s all it is.”

“No it isn’t. You went to see Tony today. Pretty intense seeing somebody young and healthy you work with laid out dead.”

“It wasn’t just that. You never saw Tony Sheridan, did you?”

“Don’t think so, no.”

“He looks like you. I mean not exactly, but he has…had all this dark hair and this big silly grin you couldn’t help but respond to…I think that’s why I worked so easily with him. He reminded me of you.”

“Callahan played some nasty head games on you, didn’t he?”

“A few.”

“Like what? I know you thought he killed me, but he had to work that story for all it was worth.”

“He added some colorful details, yeah.”

“Damn.” Starsky’s gaze moved from Hutch to the ceiling. “I couldn’ta stood that if it had been reversed—knowing what he did to his victims.”

“The only reason I didn’t just lie there and wait for him to kill me was because I thought about how many times you had risked your butt to save mine. I thought it somehow invalidated all that if I just gave up. But I’ve gotta admit, Starsk, I can’t even put into words what it felt like.”

“Well, I’m dented but I’m not dead, so you’re not gonna have to find out anytime soon. Of course, I got a taste of working the street again, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get the right stamina back for that.”

“You were supposed to be at home, medicated, and in bed half the day. You pushed yourself to the edge, pal. When you’re recovered…”

“I know. I can go out and get shot again.” Starsky shook his head slightly on his pillow. “I dunno, Hutch.”

“What are you saying?”

“I would walk right in front of a firing squad for you, you know that.”

“I know,” Hutch smiled a little at the exaggerated imagery. Pure vintage Starsky. The sentiment touched him.

“But to risk all that for anybody else, I just don’t know anymore.” Starsky looked a little sheepishly at Hutch, almost flinching visibly away from what he thought might be angry or disappointed reprisals. None came. Hutch just smiled at his partner.

“You really mean that?” Hutch couldn’t hide his relief.

“You’re not mad?”

“Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“If I didn’t come back to the force, it would kinda mess things up for you, make you adjust to a new partner…I didn’t want to make you feel like Gunther won.”

“Starsk, you’re alive. You’re going to stay that way. We won, buddy. The rest of this stuff is just details.” Hutch leaned back in his chair. “I’m real tired, pal. I don’t know if I want to do this anymore either. I’m sick of worrying about you, worrying about me…and take this whole situation with Callahan and the heroin. I’ve had to live in fear of somebody finding out. If IA got a hold of it, they’d use it against me.” Hutch shook his head slowly. “All the stress we’ve handled in the last few years, I wonder if I want to give my life for it. I know I don’t want to give yours.”

“Why didn’t you say something to me about this—we’ve never had too many secrets before.”

“You were struggling so hard to recover, and you were in pain all the time and the only thing you kept talking about was getting back on the streets again, back in action. If I suggested not doing that, I’d be robbing you of motivation to get well.”

“So if we don’t stay cops, what’ll we do? Better yet, what’ll I do?” Starsky turned his head away from Hutch to stare at the ceiling again. “You’ve got a degree, you could probably get something. I’ve had a few classes here and there, but the only real experience and education I’ve had came through the academy and the force. I don’t have much choice but to recover and be a cop until I get shot once too often.”

“You could go back to college.”

“Yeah, right, Hutch. I can afford to be a professional student for two or three years with no job. And don’t forget I’d have to pay all my medical expenses and physical therapy expenses if I leave the force because I won’t have any insurance.”

“Don’t worry about that crap, Starsk. If you want out, you know I’ll help you.”

“Support me? Pay my bills? I don’t think so. I love ya like a brother, Hutch, but I’m nobody’s dependent. I’m not going to live like a lounge lizard off you while you work. If I’m not gonna be a cop anymore, I have to find something else to do to support myself.”

“Then we’ll have to figure something out.”

“We could start our own business.” Starsky turned back to have eye contact with his partner. “I’d like to still work with you doing something.”

“I wasn’t too crazy about breaking up our partnership, either, partner,” Hutch replied with a slight smile. “But what?”

“Well, there’s always the obvious—a PI business.”

“If we’re trying to avoid risk, you know what that would reduce us to.”

“Snapping photos of fat, middle-aged executives holed up in hotels with their secretaries? Looking for lost dogs? Snooping for lawyers in low-risk cases? Sounds pretty bad, doesn’t it?”

“And if we went for the big cases, we’d be taking the same risks without back up.” Hutch rubbed his eyes. “Nah, that’s not a good option.”

“You could be a singer. I could manage you.” Starsky’s serious tone on what Hutch considered an absurd idea startled him. He was prepared to be patronizingly kind to his drug-influenced partner.

“Well, I don’t think I’d hitch my wagon to that star, buddy.”

“Why not? You’ve won some amateur nights. I know you don’t believe me when I tell you you’re terrific. But all those people can’t be wrong.”

“Starsky, they were a bunch of drunks and the competition wasn’t all that stiff.”

“You’ve got a great voice, and you can write some good stuff. Why can’t we try it?”

“You’re serious about this?” Hutch was smiling a little at Starsky’s wide-eyed enthusiasm at the idea. He hadn’t seen that look on his partner’s tired visage since the shooting. He couldn’t bring himself to shoot him down with reality. “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll put me off about it then, too. I’m serious, Hutch. You have a real gift—maybe you’re finally ready to break away from all this ugliness and do something beautiful for a change.” Starsky took a deep but obviously uncomfortable breath. “I know I’m no Colonel Parker, but I could learn. I’ve had a couple of business classes, and I have a friend who’s friends with a couple of rock bands who could give me some pointers.”

“Starsky, you have a friend who has a friend…?”

“She’s real sharp, Hutch. She knows the business pretty well.”

“She?”

“Yeah, her name’s Rhiana Blake. She’s owns a boutique on Rodeo Drive—”

“Since when do you shop Rodeo Drive, Starsk? We couldn’t afford to buy a cup of coffee there let alone clothes.”

“I don’t shop there, dummy.” Starsky tried to shift to lie on his side but gave up and flopped on his back. Hutch pulled his chair into an easier line of vision for Starsky.

“Still hurts, huh?”

“Quite a bit. Only when I breathe,” Starsky responded with a smile. “Anyway, I met her and one of the bands at Huggy’s one night—about a year ago. I told you about her but you weren’t listening, as usual. We went out a couple of times, but our schedules are both pretty erratic, and she sometimes travels with one of the bands. She’s a shrewd businesswoman, Hutch. She could teach me what I needed to know to help you negotiate a deal.”

“I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”

“I can’t believe you’re not even willing to consider it.”

“It’s insanity, Starsk.”

“So is getting shot at on a regular basis, but we’ve done that for years. Why should the fact something’s not too rational or a little off-the-wall stop us from trying it now?”

“You still believe in magic, don’t you?” Hutch asked the question aloud, but it was something he really wanted to keep to himself. He didn’t know why it popped out.

“When I was shot, and I was lying there in the few seconds before it all went dark, I thought I was dying. And from what you said, and what I’ve been told, no one here thought I’d live. They wrote me off for dead. You believed in magic then, Hutch. You didn’t write me off. And here I am. I’m not everything I used to be, maybe, at least not yet, but I’m alive. That was a long shot. So is this. If one can work, why can’t another?”

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“You’re placating me.”

“No, I’m not.” Hutch was shocked to find himself actually picturing the rush he had felt at the last amateur night contest he’d played, and won. Starsky had been the agitator that made him sign up for the first one he ever tried, and he had cheered him on every subsequent time. Even when stage fright had made him falter and stumble through a song, Starsky had encouraged him. He had even jumped up on stage with him and sung along once. This idea was so damn crazy, so pie-in-the-sky. “I really mean I’ll think about it. We’ve got some time yet—I’ll be on a leave of absence while you’re recuperating, and you’ll be on a physical therapy program for a while yet. We don’t have to announce any big decisions anytime soon.”

“You sound serious,” Starsky said, his face displaying an expression of hope and disbelief.

“I am. I will really think about this. There’s just one amendment to your proposal.”

“What’s that?”

“How would you feel about performing with me? We should both know the business end of it, and we can do that together. I’ll need back up—I can’t be a one-man band. We’d eventually need other musicians, but with two guitars and two voices, we’d be more powerful to start.”

“I’m no musician, Hutch,” Starsky responded with a grin.

“The hell you aren’t. You can play the guitar. You have great voice—”

“I do?” It was a genuine question. Starsky looked too tired and uncomfortable to be playing games and fishing for compliments.

“You do. You know we sing well together. We’ve had enough practice singing along with the radio.”

“And at parties…” Starsky was smiling a little at the thought. “I do love to sing…”

“You look exhausted, buddy. Why don’t you get some rest? We don’t have to launch our world tour tonight.” Hutch rested his head on the back of the chair, and felt sleep creeping up on him.

“We won’t tell anybody about this, right? Just think about it for a while?” Starsky was regarding him under droopy lids.

“And sleep on it.” Hutch smiled as he felt himself dozing.

* * * *

Starsky was released from the hospital a couple of days later with firm orders to rest and stay off his feet and away from his workplace. He had no interest in disobeying these orders, as he had put Huggy on the secret mission of obtaining for him a veritable library of books on the music business. Hutch would probably be mad that Huggy knew what they’d discussed, but Starsky knew he could trust Huggy to keep it between the three of them. As soon as he felt more presentable, and more knowledgeable, he would call Rhiana.

Hutch was relieved to be on leave from work. The most strenuous and challenging job he faced during any given week was grocery shopping. He had the unenviable task of keeping his partner on a somewhat healthy diet and not incurring his considerable wrath regarding this point at the same time. Still, the quiet hours he spent reading or working on his music were restoring his soul. He had a renewed interest in song writing again, and there seemed to be some purpose in it. Starsky was burying himself in books on the music industry, and Hutch basked in the role of the artiste, letting his partner digest the technical information and relate it to him in capsule form. This was probably a silly kid’s fantasy, but it was brightening what would have been dark, depressing days while Starsky was still unable to start his regime of exercise and physical therapy that would put him back in shape. Starsky seemed to view his pain as a mere inconvenience to be endured while he prepared to launch their new career.

Hutch was amazed when he swung open the door one day to see a pretty redhead on the porch, dressed in a tailored dress and heels, carrying a briefcase.

“You must be Hutch,” she began, extending her hand. “Rhiana Blake.”

“Oh, yes, Starsky’s told me about you.” He shook her hand. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you. Is he in?”

“He’s in his room. Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Hutch tapped on Starsky’s door and entered, closing it behind him. His partner was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, which had become a sea of books and notes. Hutch couldn’t remember generating that much of a mess during his entire college experience.

“Is that Rhiana?’ Starsky asked, getting up slowly, but after three weeks of convalescence, moving more smoothly.

“Yeah. You didn’t mention calling her.”

“Didn’t I? Sorry about that. I want you to hang around. She’s going to give us some information on putting together a demo tape.”

“A demo tape? But we haven’t—”

“Hutch, how long have we been singing together?”

“About as long as we’ve known each other, but—”

“So, next time we do it, we’ll have a tape rolling, that’s all.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“It’s only as complicated as you wanna make it, partner.” He went for the door. “It’s rude to keep your company waiting.”

“Dave, you look great.” Rhiana hugged Starsky as soon as he emerged. They seemed to have the easy rapport of good friends.

“Still a little tired, huh?” She evaluated his face carefully.

“A little. But I’m feeling pretty good now.”

“I was so glad to hear from you. You know, after your shooting, I didn’t want to intrude, but I was worried.”

“Let’s sit down. Would you like anything—coffee, a soda?” Starsky asked as he and Rhiana sat on the couch while Hutch occupied a nearby chair.

“I’d kill for a pop. I’ve been running around all morning and it’s hot out there,” she responded, referring to the eighty-plus degree June weather outside.

“I’ll get it. Starsk?”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Starsky has been telling me you’re quite an expert on the music business,” Hutch said, returning to the room with three glasses of pop balanced in his two hands, which he set on the coffee table, handing one to Rhiana.

“Thanks,” she responded with a smile. She really was pretty, and something about her fine features and friendly manner reminded Hutch of Terry. She didn’t look like a groupie. “I have a few really good friends in the music business. I’ve always loved music, and I was fortunate enough to meet some really great guys while I was in college who are now in a band together. I dated WildChild’s guitarist for a few years, but we never made a commitment…I think he’s more in love with his guitar than any woman, but that’s another whole story it took Dave and me about three hours to wade through over pizza one night. The long and short of it is that I know quite a bit about the whole recording process, and at least about approaching record companies. I have to admit I don’t know too much about the business angle of handling a musician’s career, but I do run my own business, so I have a few ideas that might help there. Do you have anything on tape?”

“Nothing,” Hutch responded. Starsky was sitting back quietly, letting his partner build some rapport with a woman he felt would have knowledge and connections that would help them both.

“Well, that’s not a big thing. Ever been in a recording studio before?”

“Only to watch—briefly.” Hutch seemed to be feeling defeated by his own negative answers, but Rhiana wasn’t daunted.

“That’s one thing I can help with. Gary—Gary Olson, my old boyfriend—has a studio in his home. He’s on tour right now.” She took a small key out of her purse. “He said you two would be welcome to fiddle around in there a little and get used to the environment. He also said you should go ahead and do your demo there if you want. Now I know of a drummer who could probably help you out if you want. His name’s Eric March—he’s with Kingpin.”

“They’re pretty hard rock, aren’t they?” Hutch asked.

“Yes, but he’s wonderful. He can play anything. He’s not available this week.” She opened her briefcase and pulled out a small calendar book. “He’s going to be in town next week. I called him after I talked to Dave, and he said he’d be glad to sit in on your demo tape if you need accompaniment. He’s got a super voice, too, so if you need backing vocals, he can help there too.”

“Rhiana, what’s the good of getting somebody like that if they’re only in it temporarily? And we don’t have any material put together.”

“First off, Dave, all you need to do is impress one record company enough to sign you. Getting a drummer isn’t the end of the world. Once you’re a signed band, there’re plenty of good session musicians out there. As far as putting material together, you’re going to have to pull together the stuff you sing at amateur nights—songs you’ve written yourself are best. But if there’s one you love to do that’s not an original, the record company can usually take on the battle of getting you the rights to do it if they think it’s worthwhile. The most important thing is your sound. And the fact neither one of you is too hard to look at won’t hurt matters any.”

“I don’t want to be judged by something as shallow as how I look.” Hutch hadn’t meant the comment to sound cutting, and to a lesser personality, it might have been. Rhiana was a resilient creature, and very little ruffled her.

“Look, Hutch, I don’t mean to compromise your artistic integrity here, but sometimes you need to catch someone’s attention before they will bother to look any further. The music business is shallow and superficial in a lot of ways, but the lasting artists, the really fine musicians, make it on their talent in the end anyway. Any good-looking guy can make women swoon and buy albums and posters and t-shirts for a while, but if he’s an idiot with the IQ of a pea, he won’t last. I’ve heard Dave sing, and I know he’s got a great voice and a lot of feeling. I haven’t heard you yet, but he seems real impressed, so I figure you must be pretty good too.

“There are some realities of life in this business just like there are in your current line of work that you probably won’t like. But, Hutch, the rewards are great. And I’m not just talking about money. One thing I really learned while I was with Gary was what a high you get from the crowds, what an outpouring of love you get from your fans, and how great it feels to see something you create from an idea on a piece of paper or a melody you hum in the shower turn into a work of art that thousands, maybe millions, of people, possibly all over the world, sing and dance to. Fall in love to, get married to, remember the rest of their lives. It’s something miraculous, and as corny as it sounds, it is the universal language.

“I went to Japan on tour with Gary a few years ago, and it amazed me to see these reserved Japanese teenagers finally stand up—they always stay seated, not like the frenzy you see in the US—and actually sing songs in English, even though many of them didn’t speak a word of it. For that moment, it didn’t matter that Gary’s British-born, I was an American and they were all Japanese. We sang together just like there were no boundaries.”

Starsky was watching his partner’s reaction, and he was immensely grateful to Rhiana for giving Hutch an image that carried him away. Thoughts of universal understanding and creating works of lasting beauty would appeal to Hutch, and the whole concept of being musicians and traipsing around the country with Hutch and doing something that wouldn’t get them killed appealed to Starsky.

“So when can we go over and try out this studio?” Hutch asked.

“Right now. I have a free afternoon, and I can show you a few things. Gary’s sound guy will be available sometime tomorrow. I’ll call him and get a time. He could let you test-record one track, even if we don’t have Eric and you’re not ready to do the demo tape. Just to let you get a feel for it.”

“Thanks for doing all this, Rhiana. We don’t really have too much other way of starting out,” Starsky stated honestly.

“It’s my pleasure. Besides, I expect a thank you in the liner notes of your first album.”

* * * *

Gary Olson’s estate was impressive. Starsky and Hutch both found themselves gawking shamelessly at the elaborate landscaping and imposing Spanish architecture of the home. Rhiana looked right at home unlocking the big double doors and leading them through the huge entry. The tiled floor and winding staircase with the black iron filigree railing was dramatic to say the least.

“The studio is kind of a cave,” she explained, opening a heavy door to reveal a staircase into the basement of the house. “Gary likes the whole subterranean feel of it. Or something like that.” She smirked a little discussing her old flame and current friend. “I think he spent most of our relationship down here.” She unlocked the door to the studio, a shocking display of modern technology in a house that almost could carry one to old Spain with a little imagination. Suddenly, Hutch felt like the poor farm boy standing there with his guitar case in hand, and Starsky wasn’t sure how he felt, except intimidated by the control board in front of them.

“Do you know anything about…” He gestured toward the controls.

“Only what I learned looking over Gary’s shoulder. I can tape something for you if you want, but the sound quality might not be as good as it will with Ed behind the panel. You’ll be in there.” She turned on a light and opened a door which led into the artists’ area, visible through a window in the control booth. It was a big open room, with richly paneled walls displaying numerous works of art, all obviously expensive. “Gary loves collecting lithographs. He spends most of his time here, so his best stuff is hung in here where he can look at it all the time.” She looked back at her guests. “Well, if you want to practice a little while in private, go ahead. I’m going to run upstairs and call Ed and see what his schedule’s like for tomorrow. I also want to double check with Eric to get some definite time set for next week—do you want him to help out?”

“What do you think?” Starsky asked Rhiana.

“I think you should have a drummer, and he’s a really great guy. He’ll put you right at ease, and he’s got a lot of experience.”

“Get him if you can,” Hutch responded.

“Will do. Go ahead and play a little. I’ll be back in a half hour or so.” She headed up the stairs.

Starsky looked at Hutch. Hutch looked at Starsky. They both looked around the room, and then back at each other.

“What the hell are we doing here?” Hutch sat on a stool.

“Take that thing out of its case and let’s find out.” Starsky took out his own guitar and perched on the other stool.

“You’re still serious about this?”

“You’re the one that told her to go ahead and get the drummer.”

“Heat of the moment.”

“Come on, buddy, let’s live in the heat of the moment. Maybe we’ll mess around and find something great.”

And they did. They launched into a couple of Hutch’s own compositions they both knew, and before long, they had forgotten the surroundings, and were carried into the magic of the music. Hutch watched with a pleased amusement as his partner played along on his guitar, belting out the song with a strength and confidence in his voice that bode well for his recovery. Hutch was challenged by his enthusiastic partner to sing more loudly and strongly, to play with more passion and to feel the magic this new enterprise promised.

The expensive lithographs and rich paneling and intimidating controls disappeared. Suddenly it was just two friends doing something together they loved doing. And there were no shots being fired, no danger and no risk of loss. Starsky was strumming for all he was worth, his leg moving up and down a little with a beat that was missing except in their minds. Eric the drummer would fill that in next week. Hutch, for his part, was reveling in the moment, singing his heart out, playing the music he loved, and seeing the life blood returning to his partner in a way it hadn’t for months. Neither of them could wait until Rhiana made a tape so they could hear if the magic they were experiencing would translate into a recording. When they finished, Hutch was grinning from ear to ear, as was Starsky. He reached out and gave his partner a high five.

“You know what, Starsk?”

“That was great!” he responded excitedly.

“Yeah, it was. But you were right about believing in magic. Cause if that wasn’t magic, buddy, I don’t know what is.” Hutch took a deep breath and set his guitar aside. “I haven’t felt this good in years.”

“You look happy.” Starsky was smiling. “I haven’t seen any real happiness in your eyes in a long time, Hutch. When we were playing that music, we forgot about all the other stuff.”

“And let the music carry us…But I’ll feel better when somebody who knows something hears us and tells us we aren’t tone deaf.”

“Do I count?” Rhiana entered the room from the sound booth. Neither of them noticed her return, and she had been lurking behind the controls, tapping her toe to their last collaboration.

“Didn’t know you were here,” Starsky responded a little shyly.

“I just got here about halfway through the last song. You guys were great. And there was this…electricity when you sing together—a chemistry and a rapport that just made me feel good watching and listening. You were having so much fun that I had to have fun watching. Plus you’re really good. Your voices are both strong, by yourselves or when you sing together. I’m excited, guys. How about you?” She was beaming and even bouncing up and down a little on her heels as if she might burst from the enthusiasm.

“Yeah, we’re pretty psyched too,” Hutch looked at Starsky, whose big smile bordering on a laugh answered him eloquently.

“Yes!” Rhiana jumped a little off the floor and then tried to calm down. She was genuinely excited, and she had seen some of the industry’s best up close. “Okay. I called Ed, and he said he could work with you guys tomorrow afternoon, starting at about one. He has another commitment at six, so you’ll have to be fairly time-efficient. I told him you’d only probably try to do one song tomorrow because you’ll have to take some breaks so Dave doesn’t get too worn out. You’d be surprised, but going over and over a song until it sounds right is hard work. Ed has done some work as a producer, and he’s pretty ruthless. Unless you sound the best you possibly can, he’ll tell you in no uncertain terms that the performance stinks.”

“That’s something to look forward to,” Starsky rolled his eyes a little.

“I think you ought to figure on working on a ballad tomorrow. You sound pretty good right now, and if you do something that doesn’t require a drummer, you could lay down a final track tomorrow. I got a hold of Eric, and he’s going to be back in town Friday, but he said he’d have a whole day on Sunday, some time Tuesday and Wednesday, and next Saturday he could spend about three hours in the morning.”

“He’s doing all this for free?” Hutch asked, incredulous.

“He likes working with new talent, and he’s always open to do a guest spot here and there on other people’s albums, if they’re any good. He also does some song writing on his own, separate from Kingpin, so if you ever want to collaborate, just talk to him. He basically loves music and likes meeting new talent, so yeah, he won’t be billing you or anything.”

“Rhiana, you’re an angel.” Starsky caught her around the waist and kissed her cheek.

“Yeah? And you’re a devil, Dave Starsky. Don’t bat those big blue eyes at me. You know I’m not impressed.” She returned a little squeeze around his waist. “You know, you’d look really hot in a suit of leathers,” she said, stepping back a little and evaluating Starsky.

“Don’t encourage him,” Hutch spoke up.

“Well, it’s probably wrong for your image anyway. Of course, I can see you in a white leather suit. I saw a really great one I ordered from a distributor out of London last week—oh, it was amazing. All white leather with silver accents and a fringe. Maybe if you get rich and famous, you’ll both dress up that way once just to humor me.”

“I think I could see myself in leather,” Starsky responded, looking himself over.

“Oh, I can see you in this red and black leather outfit I have at the boutique right now. Oh, well, you guys did want to try a dry run at recording something, didn’t you? You’ll have to forgive me, but I’d love to have you two for human mannequins in my shop.”

“I’m flattered,” Hutch responded with a grin.

“Well, I’ll go get things ready in the booth. You two decide what you want to do and let me know when you’re ready. Then if I can find the right controls, we’ll try it.”

“Let us know when you’re ready,” Starsky called after her. She nodded as she took a seat at the control panel.

“Leathers, huh?” Hutch looked at his partner. “I don’t know about this, Starsk.”

“We wanted to do something different.”

“I guess we got our wish on that point.”

“Hey, Hutch—did you hear what you just said?”

“What?” Hutch was tuning his guitar again.

“You said ‘we got our wish’—what’d you wish for on the cake candle—you know when I first got out of the hospital?”

“It’s bad luck to tell.”

“Not if you already got it. I wished something would happen that would make us both happy again. I didn’t care what it was.”

“Then I guess I got mine, too, because right now, I’m about as happy as I’ve ever been. What’re we gonna play for her?”

“Are you suddenly real nervous?”

“I think all my vocal cords have constricted into a ball in the middle of my throat, but other than that, no.”

“Are we going to be recording studio-phobic?”

“Looks that way.” Hutch smiled uneasily at Rhiana, who was giving them the signal to go ahead anytime. “We gotta do something real easy, pal.”

“‘Black Bean Soup’?” Starsky suggested.

“It’s not our most impressive,” Hutch retorted.

“It’s the one we’ve done the most.”

“Good enough. Hit it.” They signaled Rhiana, and she started the tape rolling. Before long, they forgot the tape and Rhiana, and the same magic of the music was loosening them up again. When they finished, she decisively hit some control to stop the tape and applauded excitedly. She motioned to them to come into the booth.

“Now this is probably going to sound really raw, because I don’t have all the experience playing with all these controls to perfect the sound.” She rewound the tape, and they waited anxiously until she hit the play button. Once the music started, it was obvious the magic had translated well on tape. The sound was a little ragged in parts, as she warned it would be, but it sounded good, and she hadn’t lied about how good they sounded together. When it was over, she hit the stop button and smiled triumphantly. “Well, gentlemen, I think you’re on your way.”

“We’re on our way, you mean. You’re part of this too.” Hutch looked at Starsky, who nodded an answer to an unspoken question. “How would you feel about managing us?”

“Seriously?”

“Well, you may not even have a lot of experience, but we have less, and so far you haven’t steered us wrong,” Starsky spoke up. “I think we make a good team.”

“I’d love to.”

They sealed the alliance with a friendly three-way hug.

“So should we go out and celebrate? Huggy’s?” Starsky suggested.

“I’d like to, guys, but I have to get back to the boutique. My salesperson gets done at five, and I’m open until eight tonight.”

“We could pick you up after work.”

“Go home and get some rest, Dave. We need you in top form for tomorrow. We’ll have plenty of time to celebrate. Besides, I had a late night last night, and I’m a little wiped out myself. Raincheck—maybe tomorrow after the session?”

“It’s a date.” Hutch replied.

* * * *

Starsky was stretched out on the couch, yawning and looking only moments away from sleep when Hutch returned to the living room with a pizza and two bottles of beer.

“Some rock star you’re gonna make,” Hutch teased him, handing him a beer and settling in a chair he pulled closer to the coffee table. “Damn. Forgot plates.”

“Ah, who needs ’em.” Starsky reached into the pizza box and pulled out a piece, successfully getting the end of it in his mouth before disaster struck the upholstery of the rented couch. “Don’t worry. If I drop anything, it’ll land on me first,” he reasoned, chewing.

“If you eat lying down you’ll probably choke to death.”

“Thanks, Hutch.” Starsky glowered a little as he straightened to a sitting position against the arm of the couch. “Happy?”

“Overjoyed.” Hutch was eating his own piece of pizza now, having given up on the plates himself. “How are you feelin’, buddy?”

“Tired. But it’s a good tired—not that lethargic, too-many-pain-pills-tired.”

“Any pain?”

“A little. Not like it used to be. I’m stiff, and the scars feel tight—kind of weird. I get tired too fast to suit me, but not as fast as I did at first.” He was quiet a minute. “It’s been really great to have you around the last few weeks,” he said without looking up from his pizza.

“Might as well find out if we can stand each other as roomies before we take our show on the road,” Hutch answered lightly.

“Are you really excited about this? Sometimes I just can’t believe we’re trying it. I’m so excited I can’t even tell you.”

“Yeah, Starsk, I’m excited about it too.” Hutch had to smile at his partner’s unabashed, almost child-like enthusiasm that made it hard for him to sit still when he talked about the whole music venture.

“Man, I never thought you’d be willing to try it.” Starsky finished the first piece and reached under the lid for another.

“Me either. Can’t believe sometimes I am trying it.” Hutch took a couple gulps of his beer and leaned back in his chair. “Can you picture Dobey when we tell him? ‘Sorry, Cap, but we’re turning in our resignations because we just signed a recording contract, and we’re going to be big stars.”

“We’ll send him a framed copy the first time we’re on the cover of ‘Rolling Stone.'” Starsky laughed a little at the mental image. “I’ll miss Dobey.”

“He’s been really good to us.”

“Ever think we’re doing the wrong thing?”

“No…” Hutch wanted to continue, to say that the last time he had any doubts, Starsky had walked through the apartment shirtless, and the network of scars had shaken him back to the reality of what their old jobs had cost both of them. But he kept that observation to himself.

“No what?”

“Huh?” Hutch looked up from his pizza.

“You were going to say something else.”

“Just that it cost us too much.”

“Hutch, if you ever feel like you want to go back, I won’t be mad. Even if I can’t, I wouldn’t be mad at you if you did.”

“You’ll be able to eventually if you want to.”

“I don’t know that for a fact. I hope I’ll have all my old strength back, but I really still mean that I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

“All I know is that today wasn’t dragging me down. Today, you lifted me up with you. You made me do this, and it was the best thing I ever did—that we ever did.”

“I’m glad, but if you ever don’t feel that way, I don’t want to be the thing that ruins your life. I couldn’t stand that.” Starsky looked him in the eyes. “If I ruined your chances to do what you really want to do with your life, I couldn’t live with that. Even this music thing—if you don’t want to do it—”

“What makes you think you’re ruining my life?

“I don’t exactly, but I just wanna be sure.”

“I’m really happy right now, Starsk. I’m relaxed, I’m writing music again, and we’re both out of the line of fire. This is where I want to be. Even if you didn’t need me for anything, I’d still want to be doing this, and doing it together.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really, ya big dummy.”

“So what’d you think of Rhiana?”

“She’s something, isn’t she? What a lady.” Hutch smiled.

* * * *

Hutch tossed and turned on the sofa bed. The upcoming recording session was keeping him awake, with both a sense of anticipation and dread. He finally strained his ears to listen for the sounds of deep breathing and occasional snoring from his partner. With the bedroom door ajar, Hutch could usually hear him if he listened carefully enough, but there was little or no sound coming from the room. He finally had had enough insomnia and probed Starsky.

“You awake?”

“Yup.”

“Nervous about tomorrow?”

“Yup.”

“Me too.” Hutch stretched a little and entwined his fingers behind his head, lying on his back. “Excited?”

“Yup.”

“This has been a real profound conversation, Starsk. You’re really at the top of your form tonight.”

“Yup,” Starsky replied with a laugh. “I was just thinking about a lot of things. About how the shooting changed everything.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Both,” Starsky responded, the humor slipping out of his voice. “I love what we’re doing. I’m just tired of recuperating, ya know? I wanna be out there, doing things again. I can’t believe I even miss going for a run. I feel like a wet noodle.”

“You’ll be starting therapy next week.”

“Wow. If I’m in real good shape I can walk briskly around a track a time or two.”

“I’ll go with you. We can make plans…”

“Or write profound song lyrics? Right. It’s just a dose of night depression, Hutch. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.”

“I’m not worried that you aren’t okay. I wish you weren’t depressed though.”

“When I can’t sleep, all I can do is lie here and think. My mind keeps wandering over everything, back over what we’ve done…what we’d be doing right now if I hadn’t gotten shot—”

“But you did, and we aren’t in that situation. It’s not going to do you any good to keep over-analyzing what might have been.”

“Yeah, I know that. It’s just hard sometimes.”

“You seemed so happy about the music project. I guess I keep forgetting that you’ve got more to deal with here than I do.” Hutch got out of bed and wandered to the door of the bedroom. Starsky looked up at him and smiled.

“I’m really okay.”

“I’m hungry,” Hutch stated, surprising his partner. Night munchies were usually Starsky’s department. If Hutch was doing this for his benefit, it made him happy enough that he didn’t question it. He knew the actual physical need for Hutch to stay with him had passed some days ago, but with their new music project on the horizon, his partner hadn’t seemed inclined to go home. For his part, Starsky had been relieved to have someone with whom to share his occasional bouts of insomnia.

“So what’ll we have?” Starsky got up, pulled on his robe and followed his partner into the kitchen. Over cold chicken, they made plans for which song to do during their recording session the next day. Two hours and several pieces of chicken later, depression was replaced by indigestion, and they both crawled drowsily back to their beds, setting an alarm for nine o’clock, so they’d have time to rehearse.

PART TWO

“Do you believe in rock and roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?”

–“American Pie” By Don McClean

Rhiana was on the phone to her new artists by ten the next morning, calling from her boutique to see if they were suffering the pre-recording jitters yet. Both laughingly admitted they were, and she admitted to having slept the sum total of two hours the night before. She seemed boundlessly enthusiastic about the project, and the shared energy among the trio was good for chasing away nervousness. By the time she hung up, they had arranged to pick her up in the Torino at her boutique at noon.

The second phone call was totally unexpected, and shattered a little of the fantasy they had been living. Dobey’s voice brought Starsky back to a reality he had been running from since they launched their new project—eventually, they would have to face their old life, and sever themselves from it. That thought still hurt, as much as this new venture exhilarated him. Being a cop had been a lifetime goal, and a tradition started by his father; one he’d hoped to keep up, maybe even pass on someday to his own son. Giving up on all that was somehow bitterly a reality when he heard his superior’s voice.

“How’s the recovery going?” Dobey asked congenially. If he knew I had been planning to quit for almost a month now, he wouldn’t be so friendly, Starsky thought uneasily. He didn’t enjoy the charade, but with no other source of income and no health insurance to cover his medical expenses without the department, he had been hemmed in. Of course, he had given his insides for that department, so why should he concern himself if they supported him while he recovered from being shot in the line of duty?

“Pretty well. I’m supposed to start some light exercise next week.”

“Good. I have to get an idea of the time frame for Hutch’s leave. Is he there?”

“He just stepped out for a minute,” Starsky replied honestly, as Hutch was on a hasty run to a nearby music store to pick up guitar picks and a replacement string for Starsky’s guitar.

“Well, the chief’s on my back because we’re short-handed here, and if your recovery is coming along well enough that he isn’t needed with you full-time, I want to talk to him about coming back, at least part-time.”

“You’d probably better talk to Hutch,” Starsky replied nervously, knowing it was a stall tactic.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Starsky?”

“No—why?”

“You know if you need someone with you on a constant basis or not. What does the doctor say?”

“I’m okay by myself as long as I don’t overdo it.” There was no point in being cagey, because all Dobey had to do was make a phone call to get the information he wanted. “Hutch has been a lot of moral support, ya know?” Starsky tried the sentimental approach. Under that gruff exterior, Dobey had a heart of pure marshmallow. He hoped to tap into that.

“I know this has been a rough road back.”

“Real rough. I don’t think I’da made it without Hutch.” That much was pure truth, no embellishments.

“Well, I’m not going to put a lot of pressure on for him to come back full-time, but there are a few things he could help out with here even on a part-time basis, so when he gets in, have him give me a call.”

“I will.” Starsky hoped Dobey wouldn’t hear the sounds of Hutch opening the door and rattling his bag from the music store as he dug out the supplies. “Thanks, Captain.”

Hutch’s ears perked up at the name. They both had known they could only keep their career goals a secret for a limited time, but Hutch seemed as disconcerted as his partner that it was all coming down that specific morning.

“What’d he want?” Hutch asked.

“They’re short-handed. He wants you back at least part-time if I’m not a basket case anymore.”

“What’d you say?”

“What could I say? You know I can’t sell anybody that I need a full-time baby-sitter now.”

“I suppose not.” Hutch plopped on the couch. “I better go have a talk with the captain.”

“You could work part-time and not say anything for a little while yet.”

“Oh, get real, Starsk. You know how long part-time stays that way. I’ll get there, and one thing’ll lead to another… I can’t tell him I have to leave because I have a recording session and just take off. These two careers won’t coexist peacefully. You and I both know they both demand 100%.”

“I know.”

“Taking the official step is scary.” Hutch looked up at Starsky, who was fidgeting with the package containing the guitar string, not really thinking about it. He was standing behind the couch, making it hard for Hutch to read his expression without turning completely around backwards.

“Quitting is going to be hard. It wasn’t when we were mad at everything and just stormed in and quit—after we tossed our badges in the ocean.”

“We did do that, didn’t we?” Hutch answered with a smile.

“We were so bitter, it didn’t even occur to us that it wasn’t the right thing to do. Now I’m doing it because I’m tired and scared. If I could just be whole again, like I was before…”

“What if physical therapy and exercise puts you back on top? You wanna go back? We haven’t severed the ties yet. It isn’t too late.”

“No.” Starsky sat on the arm of the couch. “I wouldn’t trust myself on the street anymore. I’m scared, Hutch. Not really scared so much of getting shot again, though I can’t picture living through something like this again, but I’m scared of being scared. I’m afraid that I’m going to freeze up, be afraid to take a chance, and get you killed. Or get a victim killed. Or miss apprehending someone because I freeze up or don’t want him to shoot at me. You always should be a little scared to be a good cop, but not really frightened. It would only take one hesitation to get one of us or an innocent bystander killed. I can’t take that chance. I could wait for years to go back, and there’d always be that little thread of hesitation there.”

“Maybe if you saw a shrink, you know, talked it all out—”

“I’ve talked until I’m talked out. I’ve dumped all this on you since I regained consciousness in the hospital. You’ve been great. I couldn’t ask for more if I paid ten shrinks. It isn’t right anymore. I’m not dependable.”

“You did a pretty damn good job of getting me out of the mess with Callahan.”

“That was different. When the stakes were your life, it blasted all this little stuff out of the water. But if the stakes were catching a suspect, or saving someone else, I don’t know if I’d have the same fearlessness you have to have to really go for it.” Starsky took a deep breath, and Hutch enjoyed watching the smoothness of it, inhaled and exhaled without a grimace of pain or any shakiness. His partner was really healing up finally, but what he was saying made sense, and Hutch couldn’t argue with him if there was a part of his psyche that wouldn’t heal.

“I guess it’s time we bite the bullet then. We better go in and tell Dobey we’re all through.”

“You better plan to buy some books on physical therapy and rehabilitation then, because I won’t be going to any doctor for that program.”

“The hell you aren’t. That’s a business expense.”

“Come again?” Starsky was totally baffled by the term.

“You heard me. If we’re going to do this music project, try to get a deal, try to make an album, you’re going to have to be in good shape so we can make a go of it. Touring is hard work, and so is recording. You don’t have to be an expert in the music business to know that. If you’re only half recovered, we’ll never make it very far. We’re going to pool our savings and do the best we can until we can make some money. How do you feel about having a permanent roommate until we make some money?”

“You mean you moving in?”

“Yeah. I’m not crazy about the idea either, but we can’t pay for two places, and we can’t play around with part-time, low-paying jobs while we’re trying to get this project off the ground. And your medical expenses are number one priority here. And as much as I hate to admit it, you live in a safer neighborhood. You’re going to be starting to walk and maybe jog again, and the last thing you need is to get mugged while you’re doing it.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know that, but why take a chance? Getting punched in the guts right now wouldn’t do you a lot of good. One of the guys that lives in my building just got robbed about a week ago—three teenagers. They smacked him around pretty well. Normally I wouldn’t get paranoid about that, but it seems like a dumb chance to take while you’re still recovering.”

“This is weird.”

“Why?”

“Starting all over like this. We were secure, making decent livings, doin’ okay. All of a sudden we’re losing one of the apartments, counting our pennies, and unemployed.”

“We’re starving artists, Starsk. Soak up the atmosphere. They say angst is good grist for the song writing mill.”

“You’re really ready to do all this?”

“There’s no half-way with this. We can’t sort of be cops. We either are or we’re not. And to make a real go of this career, we either are musicians or we’re not. It’s time to jump out of the plane and hope our chutes open.”

“Thanks for that analogy, Hutch. I was looking for something to make me feel more secure.” Starsky rolled his eyes and then looked back at his partner. “You can still cut and run, pal. I won’t be mad. I can’t go back. I know I can’t do the job the way it has to be done, no matter what happens with my recovery. But there’s no reason you can’t.”

“Maybe I found something I like better, did that ever occur to you? I haven’t felt as alive as I do now in a long time. I actually look forward to getting up in the morning to see what’s going to happen next. That hasn’t been the case for quite awhile.” Hutch paused. “Maybe all this security is overrated. Besides, you told me once a long time ago that you’d rather sell Avon and stay partners than be a cop without me. Well, I feel the same way. I won’t be happy going back by myself. I thought about it. I had a chance to try it while you were in the hospital. And even with Tony Sheridan, who would have been a great partner for anybody, I wasn’t interested. That’s the best way I can describe it. It didn’t fit, and I wasn’t interested in making it fit. I was distracted and out of sync with Tony. He deserved better.”

“I was jealous.”

“What?” Hutch wasn’t sure he had caught the almost whispered phrase correctly.

“When you talked about working with Tony and how good he was, and how well the case came together, I was jealous. I know it was dumb, and now that he’s dead I feel real childish about it. I just couldn’t help it. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this now except that I feel stupid.” Starsky shook his head. “Really stupid.”

“I didn’t like it when you hit it off so well with Meredith either. I was mad at you for working that well with another partner. Part of me almost got a kick out of the fact that Dobey and I had to pull you guys out of a jam. How’s that for stupid?”

“At least we’re even,” Starsky said with a chuckle.

“Well, you ready to go quit?”

“Before the session?”

“We can walk in with clear minds.”

“Clear minds, Hutch? How do you figure?”

“Nothing else but the music. All our hopes hitched to that and nothing else. Might make it pretty intense.”

“Yeah, you can say that again.”

“Let’s go see Dobey. This isn’t going to get easier.”

“That I agree with.” Starsky slid off his seat on the arm of the couch and picked his car keys up off the coffee table.

“Hey, since when are you back to driving?”

“Since now. I’m sick of riding around. I’m ready to get back behind the wheel—of my car and my life.”

“That’s the spirit.” Hutch put on his shoulder holster and his jacket, while Starsky dug his gun out of the desk and tucked his ID in his pocket. This was the moment of truth. Truth and dare.

* * * *

Dobey was quietly reading a stack of reports when his two wayward detectives made their entrance. He was surprised to see them both, but seemed pleased by the visit and Starsky’s improved appearance.

“You’re looking healthy, Starsky. Better not let the chief see you or he’ll put you back to work.”

“That’s what we’re here to talk about.” Hutch seemed lost at how to launch into the rest of the encounter. This time, they weren’t storming out in anger and bitterness. Cutting the tie was almost physically painful to both of them.

“I was just kidding. He’s not ready for action yet,” Dobey commented good-naturedly. “So how about you coming back part-time, Hutch? It might not be real exciting work, but even if we could get some help with backed up paperwork—”

“Cap, we’re not coming back,” Starsky stated, his eyes darting nervously from Dobey to Hutch.

“What do you mean?” Dobey became serious.

“We’re resigning.” Hutch took out his gun and badge and laid them on the desk. Starsky did the same, though he lingered a moment before relinquishing the badge.

“You did this once before.” Dobey sat back, regarding them curiously.

“I know, but we were doing that hastily, for all the wrong reasons. We’ve given this a lot of thought.” Hutch shifted a little in his chair. “This isn’t something we take lightly.”

“You realize of course that we’ll give you as much time off as you need to resolve this situation with Starsky’s recovery.”

“It’s true that if Starsky hadn’t been shot, we probably wouldn’t have quit, but he was, and it’s made us analyze our lives pretty carefully to figure out what it is we want. I think there’s a part of both of us that’ll always want to be cops, but we’re not as dedicated to it as we need to be.”

“I’m not willing to take chances like I used to, Cap. And I can’t face a desk job.” Starsky looked down a minute. “This is the hardest thing, next to recovering from this damn shooting, I’ve ever had to do. But I don’t trust myself to jump into the action anymore.”

“And I’m not interested in working alone or with another partner. Aside from that, I can’t remember the last time I really felt a rush of satisfaction from this job that wasn’t outweighed by something bad…death, injury, risk…I want out.”

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed.” Dobey leaned on his elbows on the desk. “But I understand. You two are on leaves of absence for now. Starsky, you’re still on medical leave. Think long and hard about this. Think about it at least until Starsky is fully recovered.” Dobey cast a knowing look in Starsky’s direction. “Go through your physical therapy and when the doctors are finished with you, make your final decision. This is not an official resignation. Take your ID’s and guns back, and think about this again. If you’re still convinced, then I’ll accept them with letters of resignation.” Dobey had, in essence, given them the green light to stay on until Starsky’s recovery had been financed. From Dobey’s perspective, he seemed to feel it was the least the department could do, since Starsky had been the human sacrifice to bringing Gunther down.

“Thanks, Captain.” Starsky smiled a little uneasily and picked up his badge and gun. He was strangely relieved to have it back, a feeling that bothered him a little. Getting rid of it should have been the relief.

“Thank you.” Hutch picked up his things and tucked them away.

“Now get out of here. I have work to do,” Dobey announced, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.

* * * *

“I didn’t expect that,” Starsky said as he slid behind the wheel of the Torino. Shades of the past that felt pretty damn good. Maybe this was a mistake…

“Me either. At least that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about right away. I feel better coming clean with him, though.”

“Me too. We better get over to Rhiana’s. It’s almost noon.”

* * * *

Rhiana’s boutique was experiencing a lull in business when the car roared up to the curb. Starsky had been driving faster than necessary all morning, but the very act of maneuvering the car seemed to invigorate him.

“Let’s go in and have a look around. I wanna see that leather outfit I’d look so good in.” Starsky turned off the engine and was out of the car before Hutch could shower him with objections. He followed his partner through the glass doors into “Rhiana’s”.

There were numerous displays showcasing stage outfits for musicians of all genres. It was obvious this shop would not be the choice of the conservative Beverly Hills set, but would be a hit with the celebrities and the nouveau riche. Leather, satin, sparkle and dramatic color seemed to assault them from all sides. Rhiana was dressed in keeping with her boutique this day, not nearly the conservative businesswoman who had shown up at their door. Her hair was fuller and left to hang in its usual mane of shoulder-length curls, and she was wearing a pair of black satin slacks with a white sparkly poet’s blouse tucked into them. Her make up was darker and more dramatic, but she seemed as business-like as ever while she pored over cash register receipts, comparing them against her ledger.

“Hey, you’re early!” she proclaimed with a smile. “Good. It’ll give you time to shop. You know what we should do—dress you two up for your session today!”

“No way,” Hutch responded immediately, though he had spotted a fringed jacket he found interesting.

“Don’t be such a party pooper,” Starsky snapped at him, exploring the leather jackets thoroughly.

“You’re probably right. We’ll come in here after closing some night and pick out your image when we have more time to work on it.”

“Pick out our image?” Hutch seemed to bristle at the phrase.

“Sure. You can’t just wander around in your old clothes to dazzle record companies. And we’ll need a good photo taken to go with the materials we submit.”

“No photo. I want to make it on the music, nothing else.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, blondie.” Starsky pulled out a red and black leather jacket and eyed it admiringly. “What makes you think your photo is going to make our career?”

“I only meant…oh, never mind.”

“There’ll be time to argue about that later.” Rhiana laid her paperwork aside and smiled at Starsky’s choice of jackets. “That’s the one I had in mind for you. The pants are over here.” She pulled a pair off the rack. “Come on, you know you wanna try it on.”

“Oh for pete’s sake, Starsky.” Hutch rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly.

“You really think I should?” he asked Rhiana, ignoring his grumbling partner.

“Go for it. Fitting rooms are right back there.” She handed him the matching pants, and he made his way to the back of the store.

“You really think red and black leather are our image?” Hutch asked, evaluating the white fringed leather jacket with the silver accents.

“No, but I think it would look good on him and he’ll feel good about himself when he sees how good he looks in it. Scars can do some funny things to people,” Rhiana said quietly.

“But none of his show most of the time.”

“He knows they’re there. A friend of mine was in a car accident, and she was badly burned on her chest and upper arms. Now when she was dressed, no one would have known anything was wrong. But she was always a little self-conscious, and she didn’t feel quite as pretty as she should have, because she really is an attractive woman. Besides, he’s been slopping around the house feeling like a hospital patient long enough. This’ll give him a lift.”

“So you think it’ll improve his outlook?”

“It might. How about that jacket, Hutch? You’ve been eye-balling it since you got here. Try it on. You’d look great in it. Your coloring is perfect for white leather—I still have that one outfit I told you about on order.”

“I don’t know about an outfit…”

“Slip into the jacket. Come on.” She reached out to take his jacket while he tried on the white one. She hadn’t lied. It was perfect. “Well, hello there, Mr. Recording Artist. Hutch, it’s you. And you look great in it.”

“Really think so?” He was grinning a little, checking his reflection in the mirror. It did have a certain appeal—and a giant price tag.

“Well, it’s a little rich for my blood.”

“Wear it to the session. Come on, Hutch. Think of it as a free home trial.”

“How do I look?” Starsky emerged from the dressing room, looking a little sheepish, but at the same time slightly impressed with himself. The striking colors of the outfit were perfect with his coloring, and the fit left nothing to be desired.

“Come on, move in next to each other, you two.” Rhiana stood back as they followed her instructions, inspecting each other’s appearances.

“Nice jacket,” Starsky said genuinely, checking out his partner’s new look.

“Starsky, look at us,” Hutch said, with a little dismay.

“Good idea. Turn toward the mirror and look at yourselves. Tell me if you don’t see star material,” Rhiana urged.

It was amazing what different clothes could do. They didn’t look like plain clothes cops anymore. They actually didn’t look like they ever had before. These were two new people.

“You know, the contrasting images could be fun. How two opposites can come together and make such great, coordinated music?”

“Rhiana, this isn’t exactly me.” Starsky looked down at his leather-clad image.

“I don’t agree, but how about this? How about trading in the leather pants for black jeans and keeping the red and black jacket? We’ll add a black t-shirt under the jacket and you’ll look a lot less extreme.”

“That’d work,” he said, nodding.

“Hutch, you need different jeans and a t-shirt and boots to go with that.”

“So in other words I just have to completely change my clothes and I’ll look okay?”

“You look great in that jacket, but the shirt and the faded jeans and those shoes have to go if you’re going to make the right look. By the way, Dave, blue sneakers aren’t going to make it with this outfit either.”

“I don’t believe we’re going to be late for a recording session because we’re playing dress-up,” Hutch stated.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, and it won’t take long. T-shirts and jeans are right over there,” she directed, pointing to the racks, “and when you’re outfitted, we’ll go down the street to this really great shoe store and get the look completed.”

“A shoe store on Rodeo Drive? Do you have any concept of money?” Hutch asked, his ire growing with each new addition to his look.

“Yes, and you’re going to have plenty of it if you shut up and listen to your manager. The clothes are free—my official investment in the deal—so you ought to be able to spring for shoes. Besides, the people you’ll be meeting pretty soon will know if you’re wearing cheap knock-offs.”

Weary of arguing the point, Hutch followed his partner to the racks and selected the items he was told he needed. After changing in the dressing rooms, they rejoined Rhiana and took the short walk to the shoe store. Trying to ignore the price tags, they each found boots to their liking, and within a few minutes were back in the Torino, looking completely different from when they arrived.

“I think I could get used to these clothes,” Starsky announced happily.

“You both look great. Just like professional musicians.” Rhiana was seated between them in the front seat, and she looked from one to the other. “Hutch, will you smile? Don’t be such a grouch. I never told you we wouldn’t have to project some sort of image to make this marketable. Relax. I’ve seen plenty of pretty boys come and go if they couldn’t play a note. Your music is what’ll make you a success, but the look will get you noticed.”

“Pretty boys?” Hutch repeated, wide-eyed.

“Rhiana doesn’t mince words, pal.” Starsky was grinning a little from his place behind the wheel.

“Is that what we are?” he asked.

“Ooh, now you’re fishing, Hutchinson.” Rhiana laughed a little and leaned back in the seat. “You heard me the first time.”

When they arrived at Gary’s estate, a sleek sports car was parked just outside the gates. Apparently Ed Shannon, the sound man and sometime producer, didn’t have the privilege of opening them. Rhiana told Starsky what pass code to punch in, and the two vehicles made their way to the house. When the other man unfolded from his shiny black car, both Starsky and Hutch were a little relieved to have upgraded their images. His preference seemed to be black in everything, including his clothing. He was dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, boots not unlike the ones Starsky had picked out, and a couple of gold chains filled in the neck as he had opted to skip the t-shirt. His shoulder-length brown hair was styled neatly, and he wore other expensive but tasteful pieces of jewelry.

“Ed Shannon, this is Dave Starsky and Ken Hutchinson.”

“So these are your discoveries, eh, Rhiana? Glad to meet you,” he nodded toward the two former detectives, who returned the gesture.

“We appreciate you taking some time out to work with us on this project.” Starsky spoke up first.

“My pleasure. I’m interested in finding new talent to produce. If I like what you do, and if you can stand me, we might have a viable working relationship here.”

“Shall we go inside and give it a whirl, gentlemen?” Rhiana prodded, dangling her keys.

Returning to the studio again reinforced the reality of the situation. They were actually going to try this. Ed proved to be a patient man, able to cope with new artist jitters with great understanding. After hearing them run through one of their songs, he worked with each individually and both together, discussing the little idiosyncrasies in their styles he wanted to either play up or eliminate altogether. After two hours of preliminary work, and a half hour break to relax a little and stroll around the ornate gardens, they set about the business of recording. After three takes at Ed’s insistence, one at Starsky’s and two at Hutch’s, they finally ran through the song and hit on a take that made them all happy. Rhiana obviously respected Ed’s judgment, as she faded into the background, watching quietly from the sidelines.

After recording the song, they converged in the control booth, where Ed demonstrated how he could bring out some tracks and play down others, therefore tailoring the sound of the recording to what he considered perfection. By six that evening, Ed declared it a wrap, congratulated the new artists on a good first effort, and fled for his car to make his next commitment, for which he was already late. Left sitting with a finished tape and their new manager—and fashion consultant—the singing duo of Starsky and Hutch were worn out but happy.

“Ed really liked your style,” Rhiana said, smiling.

“He didn’t say much about it.” Starsky probed.

“He rarely does. But he wouldn’t have stayed this long and put this much effort into it if he didn’t like you. And I could tell he was pumped about this right away. He really seemed enthused. You couldn’t get anybody better to shape up your sound and get it translated on tape. He’s fantastic. A stickler, but fantastic.”

“This has been a real experience,” Hutch said, leaving his two companions unsure of what that meant. Starsky was not above asking.

“Meaning what?”

“It was hard work, but I have a real sense of accomplishment. How about you?” He looked at Starsky, who looked a little wilted but excited.

“Me too. I had a great time. I’m spent, but I had fun.”

“I think we should head home,” Hutch stood up.

“We’ve gotta celebrate. Come on, Hutch, let’s go over to Huggy’s.”

“Like this?” Hutch looked at himself and at Starsky.

“Why not? We look great, we have a beautiful woman with us—sounds like a good time to me.”

“I suppose you want to go to Huggy’s?” Hutch asked Rhiana.

“Where else?” She smiled at Starsky.

* * * *

The trio made their debut at Huggy’s as the bar reached its busiest time of the evening. It was the first nightlife Starsky had glimpsed since leaving the hospital, and he reveled in the normality of it. Once they were at a table, it wasn’t long before Huggy spotted them, in their not-too-subtle jackets, and headed over with a pitcher of beer and four glasses. Since he knew Rhiana, he felt completely at ease crashing the group.

“I see you finally got yourselves a good tailor,” he announced as he took the empty chair after serving the drinks. Rhiana chuckled a little at the comment, and Starsky simply flipped up the collar of his jacket.

“So you like new look, huh?”

“Sure beats the old look, but that’s not a hard act to follow.” Huggy leaned back in his chair with his beer.

“Thanks a lot, Hug,” Hutch responded, shaking his head with a slight smile.

“So how’s the music business?” Huggy opened the previously taboo subject, and despite a little uneasiness about word spreading, the trio updated him, with a stiff warning not to let it get back to anyone at the department.

“We’re still on leave, but we don’t want everyone to know we’re exploring other career options just yet,” Hutch explained.

“My lips are sealed,” Huggy answered, finishing off his beer and pouring another.

“Hey, Hutch, isn’t that Linda Williams? Remember the San Francisco cop we worked with when we were supposed to be transporting Andrew Mello’s daughter?” Starsky was craning his neck over the crowd to see a pair of women in a booth at the back of the restaurant.

“I haven’t forgotten her. Yeah, that is her. She’s with Tony Sheridan’s wife. I wonder what they’re doing here.” Hutch stood up. “Come on, let’s go say hello. Will you excuse us a moment?”

“We’ll hold down the table,” Rhiana answered with a smile, and she and Huggy launched into a conversation about the jukebox, unconcerned with the other pair’s departure.

“Oh my God, Starsky and Hutch!” Linda exclaimed with a broad smile. She stood up and hugged each one, and then turned back to Stacy Sheridan, who recognized Hutch and was smiling.

“Stacy, you met Ken, right?” Stacy nodded. “This is his partner, Dave Starsky.”

“Hi,” Starsky nodded and smiled. “I’m really sorry about Tony. I’ve heard a lot of good things about him, especially from my partner here.”

“Nice to meet you, Dave. Thanks. He really liked it here in LA. He said he had met some really good cops.”

“Could we talk you ladies into joining us?” Hutch asked.

“Stacy?” Linda looked back at her companion, who nodded immediately. The private visit with Linda, who had been partners with her husband, was pleasant for Stacy, but the prospect of a jovial large group appealed to her.

“Stacy Sheridan and Linda Williams, this is Rhiana Blake and the one and only Huggy Bear,” Starsky made the introductions, and everyone exchanged the usual niceties as they pulled another table up to theirs to expand the group.

“What are you ladies drinking?” Huggy sprang from his seat to get drinks for the two new additions to the party.

“White wine for both of us,” Stacy spoke up.

“So what brings you to LA?” Hutch asked Linda.

“Tony was my partner for about a year in San Francisco, before he relocated here. Stacy and I became friends, so when I got a little time off, I decided to come see her. I wasn’t able to come to the funeral thanks to an undercover assignment. Deep cover. I’m glad it’s over.”

“Can you discuss it now?” Starsky asked.

“I was supposed to be a fence for stolen art.” She nodded a thanks at Huggy as he set down the wine. “I did all kinds of research for this one, and then I went undercover. There was no way I could take a risk of being spotted here, and I was supposed to make a major deal about the same time. We busted the ring that had been ripping off some of the most affluent private collectors on the West Coast.”

“I read about that,” Starsky spoke up. “While I was in the hospital, there was a real rash of art thefts. I also read about the ring getting busted, but I don’t remember reading your name.”

“They might want to use the cover again. You see, the information came from me, but it can’t be traced back to me. It’s a long story, but I could still conceivably revive this same character again if necessary. Therefore, they didn’t want my name in the papers, and least of all my picture.”

“Stacy, are you from San Francisco?” Rhiana asked.

“No, actually I’m from LA. That’s part of why we came back here. I attended college in San Francisco, where I met Tony, and we stayed there for a few years after we graduated, but I wanted to be close to my folks here. We were planning to start a family. Tony didn’t have any family in San Francisco—he was from Oregon originally.”

“So you’ll probably stay in LA then?” Starsky asked.

“Oh, yes. My parents have been great—very supportive. And I have a job here now. I’m a teacher.”

“Oh really? High school or elementary?” he asked.

“Special education, elementary. I really love it.”

“My fiancée was a special-ed teacher too.”

“Was? What does she do now?”

“She was killed a couple of years ago. She was very good with the kids.”

“I’m sorry. Believe me, I know how that feels now.”

“I have to ask,” Linda spoke up. “What gives with the outfits? I mean, you two look great, but you aren’t the Starsky and Hutch team I remember.”

“We’re going into the music business,” Starsky blurted, gaining himself a sharp, reprimanding glare from Hutch. “Oh, they’re not gonna tell anybody, Hutch. He doesn’t want it to get out to anybody that we’re trying this out in case it doesn’t work.”

“It’ll work,” Rhiana chimed in. “They’re really good.”

* * * *

The evening progressed along pleasantly, through a couple of pizzas and good conversation. It was well after one in the morning when the guys finally made it back to Starsky’s apartment. The shot of nightlife hadn’t seemed to take any negative toll on Starsky, and Hutch was relieved to see him experiencing some of his old energy level again.

“You looked like you were having a pretty good time with Linda,” Starsky hollered at his partner from the bathroom.

“How about you and Rhiana?”

“We’re friends.” He emerged after brushing his teeth and plopped down in the chair near the opened sofa bed, where Hutch was tossing his pillows in place.

“Friends, huh?”

“That’s how it’s gonna stay if we’re all going to work together. Last thing I want is another Kira mess.”

“You don’t think that would happen now?” Hutch sat on the edge of the sofa bed.

“I don’t think it would but I don’t want to find out. I don’t ever want to play that game again.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you again, Starsk.”

“You didn’t do it alone. You didn’t exactly have to force yourself on her. Rhiana likes both of us, we both like her, and right now it’s uncomplicated. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Whatever you say, buddy.” Hutch slid under the covers and exhaled loudly.

“How do you think Stacy’s doing?”

“She’s pulled herself together a lot since Tony’s funeral. She had a lot of class, the way she made it through all that, but she’s come a long way. Tonight was the first time I ever saw her smile. You really drew her out, talking about the kids and her work.”

“I was interested. Terry used to tell me all about her progress with the kids, and you and I used to have some fun going over there and playing basketball with them.” Starsky looked reflective as a sad smile spread over his face. “We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?”

“Plenty. We’ll have more. Today and tonight were good examples.”

“Yeah, they were.” Starsky stood up a little slowly. “Well, I think I’ll turn in.”

“Still feelin’ okay?”

“Fine. Tired. G’night, Hutch.” He walked into his bedroom.

“See you tomorrow, buddy.”

Hutch reached up and turned off the lamp near the couch. He should really move out soon. Starsky wasn’t really convalescing, and Hutch was tired of no social life. Maybe he could have talked Linda into a night cap…he chided himself for the selfish thought. Starsky hadn’t made any attempt to encourage him to go, and he seemed to more and more come and perch in the living room for these late night heart-to-hearts. This man who would never go to a therapist if his life depended on it was using Hutch as his sounding board, trying to work through what had to be a panorama of emotions and fears and doubts about the future, and the past. Starsky was only now physically healed enough to concentrate on healing his mind and spirit. And now I’m ready to bail out because he depresses me. You really are an ass, Hutchinson, he berated himself.

Starsky stared at the ceiling for the better part of an hour. He was remembering. He could see Terry laughing and encouraging one of her students to cheer on the basketball game. Terry. I’d like you to meet my wife, Terry. Starsky almost mouthed the sentence. That would have sounded so right. And these are our kids…What if…Why should passing his mid-30’s be scary? It isn’t really old, he told himself. You thought you were losing your youth when you turned 30, he snickered to himself. No gray hair yet, old man. I did look pretty good in that leather suit. Maybe I’ve still got it…but so much has passed. Quitting the force hurts, damn it. I don’t want to go, he found himself protesting. I want to be a cop. I always wanted to be a cop. This is fun but it isn’t being a cop. I want to be like you, Dad. I want to stand for something and I want to do something that means something. Damn you, Gunther, for taking everything away from me! Gunther, you son of a bitch, you killed me! You took away my life! Damn you! I hate you, you bastard! Do you hear me? I hate you!

“Starsky! Starsk, come on, snap out of it!” Hutch was shaking him, and Starsky didn’t realize for a moment that he had been vocalizing much of what was going through his mind. He wasn’t sure if he had been asleep or dreaming or just conscious and hysterical. He looked at Hutch through glazed eyes. “You’ve been crying.” It was a statement, but there was a certain question in it, a search for a cause.

“Have I?” Starsky reached up and touched his own face, shocked at the moisture there. “I guess I was pretty noisy, huh?”

“Something about Gunther. I couldn’t make out the rest of it. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.” Hutch squeezed his partner’s arm.

“I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t asleep yet anyway. Besides, doesn’t matter if I was. You wanna tell me about it?” he prodded gently.

“It doesn’t make much sense. I was just thinking about Gunther and everything he’s cost me…and Terry, and my father, and the past. Weird thoughts. Sad ones.”

“Sometimes I get so angry that I want to lash out. Destroy something. I think about Gunther and I want to go to his cell wherever he is and just take a gun and shoot him until there’s no flesh holding together to shoot at anymore. Just turn him into mush. That’s my revenge fantasy. I hate myself for it, but that’s what I want to do. Not too sure I wouldn’t do it, given the chance.”

“You wouldn’t. You’re one of the good guys, remember?” Starsky forced a slight smile.

“Let’s go out to a shooting range tomorrow. We’ll pick a target and pretend it’s Gunther and shoot the hell out of it.”

“Think that’s healthy?” Starsky asked, sniffing and calming considerably.

“Probably not. But I think we both have had to lie down and take this, and I think we’re both so damned angry we’re ready to tear something in half. I need to release that, and I think you do too. Getting it out is healthy.” Hutch looked at his partner.

“I’m really angry at what he took away from me. I’m mad at having to sit back and smile while everything that matters is taken away from me. It isn’t fair.”

“We’ve had to survive a lot together, pal. Believe it or not, we’ll survive this. We still have the music.” Hutch looked hopefully at Starsky, whose face broke into a more genuine smile.

“And we’re pretty good at it, aren’t we?”

“Damn good. And we’re going to make it. We’re going to make a go of this music thing. Not only are we going to tell Gunther to fuck off by you surviving and us putting the SOB in prison, but we’re going to have an incredibly successful career that we never would have had if we’d stayed cops. Now that’s sweet revenge, my best friend.”

* * * *

By eleven a.m. on Sunday morning, the musical duo of Starsky and Hutch were in Gary Olson’s studio, playing a variety of songs and generally warming up before the arrival of Eric March. The professional drummer was expected at noon, and Rhiana had deserted them to meet with him in on their own. There was a method to her madness, hoping that by stepping aside for a while, the three musicians would establish their own rapport and chemistry without using her as a middle person. Knowing that Eric had been making noises for months about being creatively stifled with Kingpin, she hoped he might be seduced into the excitement and energy of joining a new project. None of this did she share with her singing detectives, because Eric had confided his discontent to her in a weak moment, then sworn her to secrecy.

Hutch was at the vocal helm, and Starsky was contentedly strumming on the guitar, tapping his toe along with the beat when they noticed a man enter the control booth and take a look at the panel. He was of average height, dressed in jeans, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a denim jacket. The only thing that distinguished him as a rock star was his full mane of black curly hair that rested on his shoulders. When he looked up to see he had been discovered, he smiled easily and waved through the window. Opening the door that separated them, he walked toward them and extended his hand. Hutch shook it first, followed by Starsky.

“Hi, I’m Eric March, Rhiana’s friend.”

“I’m Ken Hutchinson, this is my partner, Dave Starsky.”

“You guys sounded pretty good there.”

“Thanks. We didn’t know anybody was here,” Starsky admitted nervously.

“If you get stage fright, you gotta block ’em all out. At least until you get used to it. Then you start getting high on the crowd. Besides, fans are a forgiving lot—if they like you, they’ll forgive you even on your bad nights.” He grinned a little wickedly. “Of course, the better the night, the more bras they throw on the stage.”

“There’s something to shoot for,” Hutch retorted, smiling.

“Well, as you can see, I sent my drum tech over here yesterday to set up my gear,” he explained, approaching the elaborate drum set. “Given any thought to what you wanna play?”

“Rhiana said you’re pretty versatile in terms of style—I know you’re playing hard rock now,” Hutch probed.

“Yeah, that’s my favorite, but I can play all sorts of stuff. You like ‘American Pie’ by Don McClean?”

Both nodded.

“Well, let’s start with that as a warm up, and then we’ll fiddle around with a few more—see how things work.”

“Are we taping anything today?” Starsky asked.

“Rhiana couldn’t get Ed over here today, so I guess we’re just going to run through some stuff, see how your sound is with a drummer. Ron Adams, one of our sound technicians, is going to stop by later in case we want to roll the tape for awhile informally to check out our own sound. I gotta ask you something,” Eric paused, smiling a devilish smile, “Rhiana said you used to be cops. What in the hell makes a cop turn into a musician?”

“Getting four bullets in the guts,” Hutch answered, sounding more defensive than the question merited.

“Hutch, take it easy. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You were shot? Man, I’m really sorry. I guess I stuck my foot in my mouth on that one.”

“Not him, me. I was shot,” Starsky explained. “And I almost died, and I don’t want to go back out on the street, and Hutch agreed with me, so we had to figure out what else we’d do if we weren’t cops. Hutch has always been a musician. I’m pretty new to it. I usually just sing along.”

“I didn’t mean to say anything wrong. It’s just that the last cop I ran into was waving a night stick at me. I never expected to be in a recording studio with two of them. Cops never seem to exactly have the souls of artistes. Just a personal observation.” Eric sat on his drum stool and picked up his sticks. “I hope you’re not offended.”

“Not really. I’m just a little touchy, I guess,” Hutch responded.

“Understandable. Man, surviving four bullets,” he said, looking at Starsky. “God must have really been saving you for something important.” Eric didn’t act as if the remark was terribly significant, but it had an impact on Starsky. He had never exactly put it in that perspective before, as he had struggled through his recovery. He instantly liked the energetic young drummer who was starting to thump out a beat with his foot on the big bass drum. “Are we ready to rock and roll?” He started to laugh. “God, I oughtta have about ten thousand screaming kids in front of me for that one, shouldn’t I?”

“And at least two flying bras,” Hutch added.

“Okay, let’s hit it,” Eric said with a smile.

The song flowed reasonably well, with only a few stumbles, which didn’t seem to concern Eric or Starsky or Hutch, and they all agreed at the end it had been a good warm up and a lot of fun. Hearing their sound rounded out with a back beat made the whole project seem a lot more real for the new musicians. Eric slid out from behind his drums and approached them.

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Sure,” Starsky responded readily.

“Let’s do the song again, but this time, you two rotate singing. You’ve both got strong voices, and if you switch off and then come together on the refrain, I think it’ll make your sound more distinct. This way it’s just a glob of voices.”

“You start.” Starsky pointed at Hutch. “He’s the singer.”

“You fight that one out amongst yourselves.” Eric climbed behind his drums again. “Ready?” Both nodded. This time, he cued Hutch to start the song, as a vocal and guitar introduction preceded the drums. Eric’s suggestion proved to be a good one, and the more unique sound the duo was capable of was evident at last. Eric had joined them on the refrain, adding a little more power to their combined singing.

“You were right,” Hutch confirmed. “That wasn’t bad.”

“Ready to try a little Zeppelin?” Eric twirled a drumstick easily in his fingers, like a majorette twirls a baton. He cackled a little evilly. “Just kidding.”

“‘Stairway to Heaven’?” Starsky asked hopefully.

“Seriously?” Eric looked startled and pleasantly surprised.

“I’m definitely bowing out to backing vocals on that.” Hutch shook his head.

“Nah, maybe later,” Eric retorted with a grin. “We’ll just sit around and jam later—maybe import a little refreshment and company,” Eric flexed his brows and his companions returned his conspiratory smile.

“Where’s Rhiana anyway?” Starsky asked.

“She’s back at her boutique I s’pose. She’s gonna pick up one of my new stage outfits and bring it back out here. Okay, back to work.”

The afternoon passed quickly, with Ron Adams showing up about three o’clock to tape a few collaborations. Starsky and Hutch were feeling more at ease in the studio, and less and less concerned with what was going on in the control booth, thanks largely to watching Eric’s complete lack of awe for the setting. He was calm and relaxed, as if he’d been born in a studio, and nothing fazed him very much, including making mistakes on tape. He’d just stop, make a more exaggerated error, make a horrible face of some sort at the control booth, and they’d all take it from the top again. Not that he made many mistakes. He was a competent musician, and a congenial person to work with. His natural cheeriness and energy rubbed off on his fellow musicians, and by the time Rhiana returned to see how things were going, she found the three of them sprawled in the overstuffed leather furniture which was grouped on one side of the room, kept company by a few bottles of wine and a couple of girls Eric had summoned by phone after consulting a genuine little black book.

“Well, you guys look like real live rock stars,” she announced, pouring herself a glass of wine and settling on the couch next to Eric. “Corrupting them already, eh?” She poked him gently in the stomach.

“It’s not like it was a hard job.” Eric polished off the rest of the wine in his glass. “I’ll be damned if we don’t have three luscious back up singers here. Wanna jam on something?” he asked his two new friends, who after a brief exchanged glance, agreed. “Ron still back there?” Eric craned his neck toward the booth.

“He had to leave. Said he had a date,” Rhiana replied. “I can run the tape.”

“Okay.” He stood up, feigning a little drunkenness, which two glasses of wine hadn’t really accomplished. “Who moved the drums?”

“What’re we doing?” Hutch asked, not in any hurry to move away from the attentive blonde who had situated herself under his arm that extended along the back of the couch.

“Dave and I are gonna get our Zeppelin fix here. Hey, are any of Gary’s old axes around here anywhere?”

“Sure.” Rhiana opened a closet and pulled out an electric guitar she knew Gary had no objections to others playing.

“Tina—do your thing, baby,” Eric directed as Rhiana handed her the guitar. The brunette who had been on the other couch between Eric and Starsky stood up and took the instrument, moving into the area of the drum set. “She’s not Jimmy Paige, but she’ll give us the twang we need.”

“I’ll remember that, Eric. You’re no John Bonham, either, hot lips,” she retorted with a smile.

“Think you can handle the acoustic parts?” Eric asked Starsky.

“Sort of,” he responded, taking a seat on the stool he had occupied earlier.

“You start off with the vocals, and I’ll jump in somewhere along the line.” Nothing was difficult or intimidating working with this man. You could falteringly feel your way through something you loved to listen to but never played before, and he treated you with the same enthusiasm and professional courtesy as if he were working with the best in the business. And with that kind of a relaxed atmosphere, it wouldn’t be hard to become one of the best in the business. There was an odd sense of security in working with Eric. He knew the ins and outs of the business and the studio, almost nothing rattled him, and he was like a ray of sunshine in their venture, as both former detectives tended to have their dark days and nights, even though they had turned a certain corner that night in Starsky’s apartment, vowing to make this venture a success.

On the way home from the studio, they stopped at a restaurant for a steak dinner. For some reason, both felt like celebrating. The rented women had left with Eric, stuffed somehow in his low-flung red sports car. Rhiana had opted to go home and balance her books, so left on their own again, they chose food as a companion.

“Too bad Eric’s just a loner,” Hutch finally spoke up as he carved a large piece of meat.

“That was amazing today. I think we really have ‘a sound’ now.” Starsky was grinning broadly, and Hutch noticed the usual enthusiasm seeping back into his partner’s being, as if it had been injected with a syringe. “So, did you get what’s-her-name’s phone number? The blonde?”

“No. You get Tina’s?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Starsky teased, chewing contentedly.

“I’ve got a date with Linda tomorrow night,” Hutch announced.

“She’s still in town, huh?” Starsky asked.

“For a few more days. But I think we’re going to keep in touch even after she goes back. I really like her.”

“You two hit it off right from the start. Hope it works for ya.”

“Meaning what?”

“Huh? Just what I said.”

“We’re just going out—this is really going to be the first time we’ve actually gone anywhere together,” Hutch retorted defensively.

“Okay. Don’t get so touchy, partner.” Starsky paused. “Hutch, I’ll be okay if you’re ready to move back to your apartment. All that’s left of my recovery is just going to the gym and following the program the physical therapist has me on.”

“I’m not going to run out on you, pal.” Hutch took another drink of his beer and leaned back in the padded booth.

“You wouldn’t be. You should have a life of your own, with a few hours out of the day where you aren’t worrying about me. I will be okay now. I couldn’t have ever made it back without you, but you’ve done your thing now, and done it well, and I will be okay.”

“I’ll postpone things with Linda.”

“What? Come on, Hutch, this is silly. I’m in one piece, more or less, thanks to some string and krazy glue inside—”

“How can you joke about a thing like that?” Hutch demanded angrily. “Damn it, Starsky, you almost died—hell, you did die.”

“I don’t think everybody in here needs to know that, pal. Tone it down a little, will ya?” Starsky flushed a little at the attention directed their way by a couple of neighboring tables. “Let’s get out of here and talk this out.” He pulled out his wallet and hastily threw an approximation of the cost on the table and stood up. Hutch reluctantly followed his lead, and neither of them spoke until they were sitting in the Torino.

“You wanna tell me what this is all about?” Starsky asked. There was no trace of anger in his voice, only puzzlement.

“Sometimes it sweeps over me that you actually died, Starsk. Not a close call, a curtain call. If the doctors had given up a little sooner…” Hutch shook his head and looked out the window.

“And you’ve never told me any of this was bothering you because you thought I’d go over the edge if you mentioned the cardiac arrest?” Starsky looked away from his partner and out the windshield. “There, I’ve said it. I had a cardiac arrest and was clinically dead until they brought me back. But like Eric said, God must have had something important in mind for me because here I am. I’m alive, Hutch. I’m recovering, I’m getting stronger all the time. I’ll keep getting stronger, and pretty soon I’ll beat your sorry butt on the tennis court or jogging—just like before.”

“Hey, wait a minute, turkey. You don’t beat my sorry butt jogging, so don’t pass that one off. I can run circles around you and you know it.”

“Maybe in your dreams. You haven’t exactly been a paragon of fitness in the last few months, either.”

“Can’t argue with that, I suppose.” Hutch was quiet a moment. “The reality of how close we came, it just startles me.”

“I know. Me too.” Starsky ran a hand through his hair and then looked back at his partner. “Don’t you dare postpone anything with Linda. Let nature take its course, and if you don’t make it back to my place, que serà, buddy. I’ll be fine.”

“So I’m not evicted just yet?”

“Hell no.” Starsky laughed a little. “I don’t know what’s wrong with us—are we that scared to launch into something new that we’re hanging onto this living arrangement like a security blanket?”

“That one psychology class you took last year was a good investment,” Hutch responded.

“Picture this. You’re getting romantic with Linda in the living room, and I suddenly walk out of the bedroom, belching and scratching and stretching and going to the kitchen for a late night snack. I think we both know we’re ready to break up this little party and get our lives back.”

“What about the nightmares, Starsk?”

“We’ve got phones. If I get too fruity, I’ll call you. If you have one of your bouts of sleepless soul-searching, you call me. We’ve always done it before.

“True. Time for life to go on, eh?”

“Thank God I’ve got one to go on with. I’m ready to take my life back, in whatever form I can have it, and live it myself. I can’t lean on you forever. I need to take the training wheels off my bike and ride in the fast lane again.” He smiled. “And I really love this music thing—I had a great time today, didn’t you?”

“Sure did. Maybe we’ll make it in this business after all.”

“Eric seems to think so.”

“Well, now we’ve got Eric and Rhiana convinced.” Hutch looked at Starsky. “It may be we’re onto something here.”

* * * *

Hutch made his permanent return to Venice Place the next day. It seemed foreign, as if it weren’t really home anymore. He had gotten used to the sounds of life from another person moving around, and Starsky had really been a pretty easy roommate. Going back to living alone again was a little lonely, but Hutch figured he’d adjust pretty quickly. He had always found the quiet peaceful, and there was plenty of that now, so he should be able to get his head together and write something profound in the line of song lyrics. They needed more original material. Their latest had come from an impromptu brainstorming session at three in the morning, leading to some profound lyrics from Hutch, and a melody that seemed to take shape in both his and Starsky’s minds as they hummed and strummed and constructed it together. Well, song writing doesn’t have to happen at three in the morning.

Starsky surveyed his newly neat living room. Hutch had happily camped there, keeping his personal effects stashed in various spots, usually under the couch, but occasionally strewn here and there around the room. Well, the life support system is really turned off now, Starsky, he said to himself. Time for you to take the reigns again. No machines, nurses, doctors or Hutch to do it for you. This is your life back, time to take it back again.

At Starsky’s insistence, Hutch would not be joining him for his session at the gym. His partner needed some space, and Starsky was capable of taking care of himself now. He had a new career, so now it was time to go get his tired body back in shape to face the rigors of all night recording sessions and touring…if all that came to pass.

He caught a glimpse of the photo of his father on the bedroom wall as he was getting ready to leave for the gym. In his dress blues, looking very official…Starsky remembered when he first saw that photo. Developed two weeks after the funeral. Mike Starsky had won a commendation shortly before his death, and the family had celebrated. His mother suggested having a formal portrait taken to commemorate the occasion, and so there it was, frozen in time. Damn it, Dad, I wanted to make you proud. Being a cop would have done that. I don’t want to give my badge back, Dad. He found himself mentally talking to the face in the photo. That face had always softened for him, the usually serious countenance broken by a smile. He was gentle, understanding, and he thought the sun rose and set in his eldest son, who was his image and likeness. Maybe if you had been afraid like I am now, you’d still be here, Dad. He lingered, looking at the photo for a moment, and then picked up his gym bag and left the apartment.

* * * *

Hutch picked Linda up at seven, and drove to the expensive French restaurant where he had made reservations. She was easy to be with; an attractive woman who knew their strange occupation well and was an interesting conversationalist. Their strange occupation. Not our occupation anymore, he thought a little sadly. Her occupation. I’m a musician now. Why doesn’t that make me happy? he queried to himself. Starsky’s alive, getting healthier and stronger everyday, we’re out of the line of fire, we’re still partners doing something we both enjoy, and I’m finally rid of the career that’s been making me so miserable. Why am I so damn depressed?

“…my cover. So I figured I should just lay low. I think that was the right thing to do under the circumstances,” Linda concluded. Hutch panicked. A conversational land mine, and he had stepped squarely on top of it. She was waiting for a response, and whatever he said would sound detached and meaningless. “Hutch?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, opting for the truth as he pulled up in front of the restaurant, where the parking valet was appraising the battered LTD with a look of horror in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to, but I guess I was distracted.”

“Is everything okay with you? Is there anything wrong with Starsky?”

“No, he’s doing very well, actually. We’ve got a lot of stuff to work through before we go back on the street again. I guess it just has me a little stressed,” he lied smoothly.

“I think he wants to park this,” she indicated the antsy valet.

“I don’t think he particularly wants to. I think he wants to get it over with,” Hutch joked as he got out, leaving the engine running to open Linda’s door. The dismayed valet took the driver’s seat and disappeared around a corner to the parking lot.

The restaurant was quiet, dimly lit and very elegant. Linda was a little surprised at the extravagance of the evening, but always felt that under the tough cop exterior there was a man who appreciated the finer things in life. She was both amused and impressed as her escort debated the wine choices with the waiter, and made a suitable production out of tasting the one he brought to the table before it was served to both of them.

Months of take out food and pizza in Starsky’s living room had left Hutch yearning for something expensive, delicate and tasteful for dinner. Going to a restaurant this expensive was a little much for a first date with a fellow cop who was also a friend, and he hoped she wouldn’t think he was using it to soften her up for later. Of course, if it had that effect, he wouldn’t consider the evening exactly a failure, either.

Hutch did manage to rein in his over-active brain and direct its attention to his date. All this self-analysis was getting him down, and he finally had some intelligent female company to enjoy. She updated him on a few of her more memorable cases, and she wanted all the details on the Gunther case, which Hutch dutifully provided, though he felt it curdling his escargot with each sentence. The Gunther case had made national headlines, so he didn’t really blame her for wanting to know more. If the situation were reversed, he knew he’d want all the particulars from her. It was a generally enjoyable evening, and Hutch found himself wondering if Starsky’s first solo evening in months was going well for him. He thought of calling him, just to check on him, but refrained. I’ll be damned if I start acting like an overprotective parent and calling home from my dates.

* * * *

Starsky finished his take out burger and fries and settled in front of the TV with his milk shake. The gym is supposed to be building my cardiovascular stamina, not reducing my weight, he reasoned as he continued to eat everything that was not healthy. His stint at the gym had gone pretty well considering. He was surprised at how much he was capable of doing already, his first time there. It was true he was winded in about the third of his usual time, but it was a good start. He was relishing the fact that this new exertion hadn’t brought about any undue bouts of pain. Maybe things were finally healing up for real.

The doorbell rang. A good TV show, a strawberry shake and an old sweatsuit. Heaven interrupted by a damn doorbell. He grudgingly got up and went to the door. Upon looking out the little window, he saw Rhiana waiting there. Relieved it was someone he actually wanted to see, he swung open the door and welcomed her with his best host’s smile.

“I’m sorry to drop in like this, but I wanted to talk something over with you guys. Is Hutch around?” she asked as he stood aside for her to enter the apartment.

“Hutch moved back to his place today. It’s just you an’ me, kid,” he said in his best Bogie voice. Rhiana laughed a little and settled on the couch.

“Oh, a ‘Streets of San Francisco’ re-run. I like that show.”

“Want anything to drink or eat? Can’t watch TV without snacks.” Starsky returned to his seat on the couch.

“Thanks. I just ate dinner.”

“So did I,” he responded, resuming his attack on the milkshake. “So what?”

“Let’s just see the show. We can talk when it’s done. Nothing that can’t wait.” She shifted comfortably on the couch until they were shoulder to shoulder and settled in to watch. Starsky suddenly remembered why he liked Rhiana so much. She was at ease in almost any situation, and she didn’t make more of anything than what it was. She was dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater tonight, no glitter or satin or leather. Just comfortable old clothes you’d wear to go visit a friend. And this lady who travels with rock stars and owns a Rodeo Drive boutique is spending her evening in her old clothes watching TV reruns with me. He smiled a little at the situation and relaxed, finishing his shake and watching the show.

“You had something to tell me,” he spoke up as the ending credits rolled. Stone and Keller had solved yet another complex on-screen case, and driven off into the sunset in their brown Ford Galaxy. He finally extricated himself from the comfort of the couch and turned off the set. He quickly resumed his seat in close proximity to his TV companion.

“I probably should wait until Hutch is here.”

“You’ll have a long wait. He’s on a date with Linda.”

“Well, I got a call from Eric this morning. He was pretty upset.”

“About what?”

“He had a big run-in with one of the other guys in Kingpin—artistic difference, I guess you’d say. They got in each other’s faces and I guess it came to blows until one of the other band members pulled them off each other. The long and short of it is he’s quit the band.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s a great guy—good musician too.”

“Well, I’m glad you feel that way, because he’s really interested in joining up with your project on a permanent basis.”

“You’re not serious? He could probably get a gig with any number of big name acts.”

“He could, but Eric’s been feeling a little burned out, Dave. He’s been touring since he was eighteen years old. He’s thirty now. Kingpin made it fast and big, and they’ve never slowed down. I think the guys are growing up and realizing they aren’t as compatible as they were when they were teenagers. And Eric’s been through the hype and the fame and the screaming fans for his whole adult life. I’ve never seen him as relaxed and happy as he was working with you two.”

“We had a great time working with him. I think it would be like an answer to a prayer to get somebody that good to hook up with us permanently.”

“Well, I know you’ll want to run all this by Hutch, but let me know what your answer is as soon as you decide.”

“I don’t see it as a tough decision, but you’re right, I can’t say anything final without Hutch.”

“You doing anything special tonight?” she asked.

“Yeah—sittin’ here with you trying to figure out what to watch next.”

“Ooh, you are a charmer, David Starsky.”

“I do my best.” He put an arm behind her on the couch, and she happily rested her head on his shoulder and started flipping through the TV listings.

* * * *

Hutch had thoroughly enjoyed Linda’s company, and remembered now what a good rapport they had developed instantly on that undercover assignment four years ago. She looked even prettier tonight, of course, than she had then. Her long brown hair was swirled on top of her head, and she was wearing a simple black dress with a little sparkle to it. He had warned her they were going somewhere fancy, and she had dressed the part perfectly. He was ready to head for a nightclub that offered live music and dancing, when Linda spoke up, breaking a peaceful but friendly silence.

“I think I should be getting back to Stacy’s. I told her wouldn’t be late.”

“How is she doing?” Hutch had thought of asking after Tony Sheridan’s widow earlier in the evening, but he had selfishly wanted to avoid the topic of shootings, death, and Gordon Callahan.

“Not well. She’s very depressed. I worry about going back to San Francisco and leaving her, but I have to get back at the end of this week. No more vacation time left.”

“Tony’s death was really horrible and meaningless. It was a big shock to all of us.”

“He was a great guy. A good partner too.”

“I know. I worked with him only a few times, but he was sharp, and very dedicated.”

“That he was. You’re very lucky Starsky recovered. Losing a partner is hard. Even though we couldn’t work together anymore, and there was never anything more than friendship between us, there’s that bond of watching each other’s backs, and a companionship—but then I don’t have to describe that to you.”

“Not really,” Hutch answered with a smile.

“Mind taking me home now?”

“Yes, but I will,” he answered with a good-natured grin.

“You know, I’m still trying to decide.”

“What?” Hutch asked as he drove toward the Sheridan house.

“About this,” she said, playfully tugging at his mustache with her thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, that. Guess I wanted a change of look.” He smiled again, not having a better answer than that. “Well?”

“I’ll let you know,” she replied, leaning back in her seat.

* * * *

The phone was ringing. Starsky noticed immediately that he was stiff, and there was something weighing him down. He forced open his eyes and looked down at Rhiana, sleeping soundly on his shoulder. The TV was still gibbering on in the background, some early morning talk show having replaced the old movie they had fallen asleep watching the night before. As he attempted to move, she started a little and sat up, blinking herself into consciousness while he answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Morning, partner.” Hutch’s cheerful voice came over the line, annoying Starsky with its buoyancy at seven in the morning.

“What do you want? It’s seven a.m.,” he grumbled. He looked at Rhiana, who looked as bleary-eyed and disheveled as he did, and smiled brightly. She returned it following a long yawn.

“You’re in a good mood. How’d things go at the gym?”

“Really good. I’m not my old self yet, but I held up better than I expected. I’m a little stiff this morning, but I think I slept funny.” He winked at Rhiana, who chuckled a little as she wandered into the bathroom to freshen up a bit. “Oh, listen, can you come over? Rhiana has some news for us.”

“She’s there? And you’re grumbling about me waking you up. Let me do some simple deductive reasoning here…”

“It’s nothing like that. She came over last night and we fell asleep in front of the TV.”

“Watch out, Starsk. Sounds like a couple of old married people.”

“Or a couple of good friends. I’ve fallen asleep watching TV with you a few times too and I haven’t proposed yet, have I?”

“Guess you just don’t have very good taste, then,” Hutch responded with a smirk in his voice. “I’ll be over in about half an hour.”

“How’d things go with Linda last night?”

“We had a nice evening.”

“A ‘nice’ evening? Hutch, when I go out to eat with my aunt and uncle, we have a ‘nice’ evening.”

“She’s pretty special. But she went home early to be with Stacy.”

“When’s she going home?”

“End of this week.”

“Hey, you’ve still got time to dazzle her, blondie.” He heard the bathroom door open, and turned his conversation in a decidedly less chauvinistic direction. “I’m glad you had a nice time,” he concluded.

“Rhiana’s back in the room, eh? I’ll be there in a little while.”

“See ya.” Starsky hung up the phone.

“Want some breakfast? After falling asleep on you the least I can do is feed you,” Rhiana said as she inspected the refrigerator.

“Sounds good. Whatever you come up with. Hutch is coming over.”

“I’ll make some scrambled eggs. Enough for everybody.”

Like she did everything else, Rhiana made eggs with flair. They weren’t just yellow gobs of egg, but she added cheese, ham, onions and any other seasoning or ingredient she thought might be appreciated. While Starsky showered and shaved, she created a feast, and by the time Hutch arrived, even his healthier instincts didn’t prevent him from agreeing to join them in their cholesterol binge.

“Rhiana has some news for us,” Starsky announced as they started passing around the eggs, and reaching for toast off the plate piled with it in the middle of the small table.

“Good news or bad news?” Hutch asked, starting the bacon plate around. This woman must have cooked everything in the refrigerator, he thought to himself. Of course, he wasn’t complaining.

“Well, the bad news is that Eric had a fist fight with Kingpin’s lead singer. He has a fat lip. The good news is that he quit his old band, and he wants to work with the two of you on a more permanent basis.”

“With us?” Hutch echoed Starsky’s earlier surprise.

“With you,” Rhiana confirmed. “‘He really enjoyed himself, and he’d like to be involved with something new and fresh and totally different. Of course, you and Dave have to agree it’s what you want. I’m sure he’ll understand if there’s some reason you’d prefer to find someone else.”

“Why would we do something stupid like that?” Hutch answered immediately, with a little difficulty through a mouthful of eggs.

“Rhiana, would we be paying Eric like a session musician?” Starsky voiced a concern that had only just occurred to him.

“Oh no. He’d be part of the band. He’d share in the royalties, anything you guys made—it would get divided up equally. And he’d like the chance to do some song writing with you.” She took a sip of orange juice and continued. “This wouldn’t be a big contractual thing right away, being you’re not signed yet. You could all test drive the arrangement for a while, and if it doesn’t work, then you go your separate ways.”

“I think we’d be nuts to pass this up.”

“I’m with Hutch. I say go for it.”

“I’ll call Eric—better yet, why don’t one of you call him? When we get together again Tuesday, the three of you can really collaborate.”

* * * *

The continued collaboration with Eric March yielded some new and exciting material. Not only did having a drummer help round out their sound, but Eric had some very original ideas for melodies and lyrics that, coupled with their own ideas and partially finished songs, produced some memorable material. Rhiana rented a small upright piano which was delivered to the studio during their first week as a trio. Hutch could handle the keyboard work in the studio, but they would need a keyboardist if they were ever planning to appear live.

Ed Shannon returned to the project by mid-week, and two more songs were added to the one-song demo tape. One was a ballad, relying predominantly on acoustic guitar and the other was a more up-tempo song for which Eric had written the music and all three had collaborated on the lyrics. It included the rounded out sound of piano, drums and guitars. There seemed to be light at the end of the tunnel, as Rhiana stated she would be satisfied with a five-song demo to circulate.

Gary Olson made a rare appearance at his estate in a break in his tour, finding his studio completely inhabited by this new pet project of his former girlfriend. The tall, sandy-blond guitarist didn’t appear to object to the situation, as Rhiana had kept him apprised of their progress. Starsky and Hutch were beyond being intimidated by famous spectators, having a famous musician as part of their band, and having endured the jitters of having at least a half dozen of his friends dropping in to wish him well and check out his new project.

Rhiana seemed concerned that their group would turn into just that—Eric’s project—but he assured her he had no interest in the spotlight. He further encouraged her to market the demo without using his name. His involvement was kept among a few of his closest friends, and he made no effort to outshine the two front men. He didn’t feel it was an illogical concern to let these two new musicians build a reputation before they were judged on the basis of which musicians they had been able to recruit to round out their band line-up.

Gary took up quiet residence in the control booth with Ed, collaborating with him on the producing duties. The former detectives found the community of musicians to be something like the community of cops, oddly enough: clannish, collaborative and generous toward one another. Their occupation seemed to be their connection, and Gary treated them much like old friends after he had only spent a few hours in their company. He was a quieter sort than Eric, more reserved and straight-faced, but his talent was enormous and his ear for perfection relentless. He was the perfect foil for Ed, who fancied himself the most brilliant sound man and producer around. Gary could give him a run for his money behind the controls, and could nit-pick even more minutely than Ed.

Proving to be a good friend in terms of sharing his studio and sound equipment, Gary was “vacationing” himself and therefore raised no objections to their use of his facilities. His only interference in the project was teaching Starsky some of the fundamentals of the electric guitar, as he had watched Gary play a couple of solos with such rapt fascination that the musician couldn’t resist sharing a few pointers with an obvious fan. Starsky was a quick study, and to Hutch’s slight chagrin, spent some of their rehearsal time working on mastering a number of chords on one of Gary’s old electrics.

Starsky’s rehabilitation was progressing without a hitch, and he wasn’t sure if it was his enthusiasm about this new project or just the willingness of a body whose strength he’d underestimated that was moving him along so smoothly. Or maybe it was Rhiana, who was making it more and more of a habit to spend long evenings with him. With his old pep and stamina returning, they spent less time dozing in front of his TV and more time in restaurants, movie theaters and nightclubs.

Hutch’s relationship with Linda had taken a definite turn for the better. They had gone out twice during her week’s vacation, and she applied for a detective’s job at the LAPD. She was making the move largely to be moral support for Stacy Sheridan, who still was not recovering well from Tony’s death, but her friend was not the only motivation for the move. A certain blond former detective, whose mustache she hadn’t committed to liking just yet, figured heavily in her thinking. Hutch delighted in being able to communicate so easily with her, and the fact there was a substance beneath her beauty. She had brains, street-smarts and a wealth of life experience.

With some coercing on both sides, they all managed to arrange a triple-date, with Hutch and Linda, Starsky and Rhiana, and Eric and Stacy. Eric was fiercely leery of blind dates, and considering her grief, Stacy was uninterested in any type of date at all. With the evening billed as simply a “gathering of friends,” Stacy had been convinced, and Linda was relieved to get her out of the house for a change.

The group attended a symphony concert. Much to their surprise, Eric turned out to be a fan, and managed to get them six tickets. The entire group seemed to enjoy the music, and it was a good excuse to get dressed up and then follow the concert with dinner at a fancy restaurant. Stacy seemed uncomfortable with the fact she was having a good time, but she actually smiled and laughed a few times, and knowing what she had been through, Eric made cheering her up his personal crusade. It was a task that came easily to his friendly nature. Rhiana and Linda seemed to get along well together, which was always a good omen for Starsky and Hutch, who had a propensity for winding up on double dates on a regular basis.

After three weeks of work on the demo tape, it was considered finished, and Rhiana went about the task of marketing it. She had the unenviable task of convincing Hutch the band really should pose together for a publicity shot to accompany the tape, but he finally relented, and an outdoor shot was taken of Starsky and Hutch, standing against the backdrop of a desert sunset, dressed in jeans and the leather jackets they had chosen at Rhiana’s boutique. Eric refused to pose for the photo, saying he feared his notoriety would be the thing record company execs focused on, rather than the music the band was capable of. He steadfastly remained the “phantom drummer,” at least until the band was signed.

With the publicity shot taken, the demo completed, and the process about to begin, a full night was spent sitting among discarded pizza boxes and beer and pop cans in Eric’s living room trying to come up with a name. Both former detectives had rejected billing the project as “Starsky & Hutch,” since they had no desire to officially exclude the for-now-covert third member of their trio. Various police terms were tossed around, musical terminology, street slang, weather elements, natural disaster terms, household objects…anything and everything that might be construed as a band name. By one that morning, Starsky stood up and stretched ostentatiously.

“I’m gonna call over to The Pits and see if Huggy’ll toss another pizza together for us if I run over there and get it.”

“Dave—wait a minute—” Rhiana’s whole slouched demeanor straightened. “The Pits.”

“Thanks, pal,” Eric laughed and fell backwards on the couch, kicking off his sneakers and putting his feet up on the cushions.

“A little self-deprecation never hurt—besides, it’ll convey a kind of dangerous, grungy image.”

“Hutch couldn’t look dangerous and grungy if his life depended on it,” Starsky sat on the arm of the couch near where his partner sat. He playfully messed his friend’s hair and was rewarded with having his hand shoved away with no small amount of rancor. The needling had worked, he thought with a snicker.

“How about ‘The Anchovies’?” Eric added.

“The ‘Pepper Rings,'” Starsky continued.

“Oh, all right, forget ‘The Pits.’ It was just a thought.” Rhiana laughed a little at the difficult group that were getting silly as the long night wore on.

“Wait—wait! I’ve got it!” Starsky looked as if he wanted to say a name but couldn’t get it out. “Hutch, that poem, the one about the boat—you know, the one when I was sick—”

“‘Passages’?”

“That’s it! ‘Passages.'” He looked hopefully at Eric, who was quietly rolling the thought around in his mind, then nodded.

Hutch was a little surprised his partner ever gave the poem a passing thought anymore.

“I like it,” she responded simply. “‘Passages.’ It’s unique, very cryptic—doesn’t limit you to any particular style.”

“Hutch?” Starsky looked back at his partner, who hadn’t joined in the conversation one way or the other.

“It might work.” He nodded, then smiled. “I like it too.”

“Gentlemen, we have a winner!” Rhiana slumped back in her chair in a mixture of joy and relief. “Okay, ‘Passages,’ let’s go down and party at The Pits. We’ve got almost an hour before closing.”

“Huggy’ll never throw us out anyway—he’ll just join the party when he gets rid of everyone else.” Starsky stood up and grabbed his jacket from the spot on the floor where he had tossed it earlier. “Hey, let’s go pick up Linda and Stacy.”

“Starsky, it’s one in the morning,” Hutch protested.

“So? It’s Saturday night. They could use a little excitement in their lives. Come on.”

“Stacy, huh?” Eric smiled. “I kind of liked her, but she never would return my calls. I don’t know as she’ll want to see me again.”

“One way to find out.” Starsky led the procession out of the house, and after piling into Hutch’s LTD, the only vehicle that would carry all four of them plus two more, they headed for the Sheridan house.

Hutch went to the door, slightly relieved the lights were still on in the living room. Before long, Linda looked out and then opened the front door.

* * * *

“Ken, what’re you doing here?’ she asked with a slight smile. She was in her robe and slippers.

“We picked a name for the band, and we’re going over to The Pits to celebrate. Thought you and Stacy might want to come along.”

“What is it?”

“Are you coming?” he teased.

“Give us about fifteen minutes. I’ll drag Stacy by the hair if I have to.”

“Eric’s with us, so if you need help, maybe he can do it. She might go for that whole caveman image.”

“The poor guy’s called here about six times,” Linda whispered. “I think Stacy’s a little nervous about starting anything.”

“I’ll tell him to be on his good behavior.”

“We’ll be right out.” She closed the door as Hutch returned to the car.

“They’re going to get ready and be out in about fifteen,” Hutch informed the group as he got back in the car.

“Man, I thought my car was messy,” Eric commented from the backseat he shared with Rhiana. “Mine’s mostly take out bags. I think your whole life’s in here, man.”

“Oh, great. Another one with a smart mouth about my car,” he said, shooting an accusatory look at Starsky, who simply smiled, knowing he was way too guilty to protest.

“Is Stacy coming?” Eric asked. It seemed redundant, since Hutch had said “they,” but he humored the question.

“Yeah. Linda said Stacy’s a little skittish about dating anyone—that’s why she hasn’t called back.”

“I’ll back off. No hurry. I don’t wanna get married or anything. I just liked her company.”

Before long, both women emerged from the house and Starsky got out to let them in the front, and then joined Eric and Rhiana in the back. The old car made its way laboriously toward The Pits, and Huggy was not at all unhappy to see the party goers make their debut as the night’s crowd was fizzling.

“Hey, it’s the wandering minstrels. What it is?” Huggy greeted cheerily as the group approached the bar, where only a few stragglers remained, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

“We’re celebrating, Hug.” Starsky began. “Hey, this is Eric March—the official keeper of the beat for our little project.”

“Eric, my man,” Huggy said as he reached across to shake hands.

“Eric, this is the infamous Huggy Bear.”

“Creator of the Huggy Double or Nothing pizza? I’m impressed,” Eric responded, laughing.

“At last, a man of taste. So what are we celebrating?”

“We have a name,” Rhiana spoke up. “These guys are finally official enough to have a name.”

“And what might that be?”

“Passages,” Hutch spoke up.

“Passages,” Huggy repeated, mulling over the name. “I like it.”

“Then it’s unanimous,” Starsky announced.

“We’re going to shove a few tables together over here,” Hutch stated as he and Eric began moving tables and chairs to accommodate the six, soon to be seven, person group.

As soon as the bar was officially closed, Huggy joined his friends for a pizza and a pitcher of beer. Starsky and Hutch couldn’t help looking around the bar, remembering how many cases they’d worked on over one of the small tables, or how many calls they’d answered here because Huggy had a tip or was in some sort of scrape. It seemed fitting to celebrate a new beginning here…as if it gave life some strange sense of continuity.

“So how’s the workout program coming?” Huggy asked Starsky as the noise level of the other five people rose over a joke Rhiana was telling.

“Great. I’m back up to running now, instead of just walking. I’m not as fast yet, and my stamina isn’t what it used to be yet, but it keeps getting better. I won’t be working with a physical therapist anymore after this week, because the doctor said I’m beyond having to worry about any relapse from my injuries. He said it’s just a matter of getting back in the shape I wanna be in again.”

“So that means it’s about time to make that resignation official, huh?”

“Just about.” Starsky took another gulp of his beer.

“You don’t look happy about that.”

“I’m not. But I think it’s the best thing to do.”

“I thought you were all excited about this music thing.”

“I am.” Starsky eyed the others carefully to be sure they were still enraptured by their conversation, and that the noise level stayed high enough for him to finish. “I always wanted to be a cop, and it was something I shared with my dad. He died when I was so young, and it seemed like this way, there was something I was doing with him, for him—if that makes any sense. I wouldn’t have walked away from it for anything.”

“Except this?”

“Except I don’t think I’ll have the nerve anymore. And that’s not something you can experiment with on the street. Maybe I would, but on the chance that I wouldn’t, I won’t risk it.”

“You two look way too serious over there,” Hutch probed his partner. Starsky felt an odd void when he looked up at him. This project seemed to divide them up, put them in this group atmosphere all the time. He hadn’t had a real talk with Hutch in a long time.

Things were heating up between Hutch and Linda, so what time was spent away from the band was usually spent with her. Starsky had found himself spending many hours with Rhiana, which wasn’t at all unpleasant, and their relationship had deepened considerably during that time. What was only a casual friendship was taking a decidedly romantic turn, and that was wonderful. But it still left that gaping void…

“Just soul searching,” Starsky finally responded with a little grin.

“Well, lighten up, this is a party.”

These words from Hutch? Starsky smiled back at his partner and followed the directive. If this career move had inspired Hutch to adopt such phrases as “lighten up” and put him in this kind of a cheery frame of mind, it was worth it. He had been grouchy and sullen in their last months on the force, so maybe this change was for the best anyway, regardless of Starsky’s own situation.

Stacy was laughing and visiting happily with Eric. He seemed to have a good effect on her, and it was a source of curiosity to the group why she wouldn’t return his calls. They seemed to have a natural rapport.

Hutch was hoping he could lure Linda away from her friend to spend a little quality time together after the party broke up. She was less and less committed to being constantly by Stacy’s side, as the young woman seemed to be coming out of her initial severe depression. This had allowed Linda the latitude to spend more time with her new love interest, and also made her transition into the LAPD less stressful. She had been hired shortly after applying, as she had made a favorable impression on Dobey and other police administrators during her work on the Andrew Mello case. Since then, she had built herself a solid reputation in undercover work with the SFPD.

Starsky had no idea how his partner’s evening turned out, but he was pleased with himself that Rhiana had agreed to be dropped off at his apartment with him for a “nightcap.” It was almost four-thirty in the morning, so inviting her in for breakfast would have made more sense.

Rhiana walked in as he opened the door and then closed and locked it behind him. She flopped on the couch and exhaled loudly.

“I had a lot of fun tonight, but I’m really wiped out. How about you?”

“I don’t think it’s even exactly night anymore, is it?” Starsky moved her legs long enough to sit down and then brought them back up on his lap. He leaned back into the cushions and yawned. Not exactly his sexiest move, he suddenly realized he was so comfortable with Rhiana that it hadn’t occurred to him to play games with her.

“So why did you invite me over here if you’re so winded?”

“I thought we could be winded together. More fun than doing it by yourself.” He looked over at her and smiled. That smile always had melted her heart from the first time she saw it, and though up to this point they’d only been friends, it had the same effect every time. She shifted positions to sit next to him, resting her entwined hands on his shoulder.

“You have a beautiful smile.”

“You make me smile,” he answered honestly, leaning down to kiss her. And one led to another before he slowly, and somewhat hesitantly pulled back. She was just as beautiful as he thought she was, even in their present tired-eyed state. She reached up and rested her hand on his face for a brief moment before encouraging him to lean toward her again. He slid his arms around her, pulling her close and leaning back on the cushions of the couch. He could feel her fingers working on the buttons of his shirt, and he froze.

“Dave—what’s wrong?” She looked into his eyes across the inches that divided their faces.

“I think maybe this is moving too fast.” He leaned back on the couch, and she straightened up to face him. He was reaching to close the part of his shirt she had opened. She reached over and took a hold of his hand, gently stopping him in his task.

“What is this really about? I’m not going to be shocked by a few scars, David.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he responded with a characteristic grin.

“I’m sure. You trust me, don’t you?”

“It’s not that. There hasn’t been anybody since…”

“It’s like riding a bike, Dave. You don’t forget how to do it.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” he said, laughing a little.

“At least you’re laughing. That’s a start.”

“Only we could consider that a start to a night of passion.”

“That’s because we’re always friends first.” She smiled. “Why don’t you let me see the scars? Once that’s out of the way, we can both relax,” she said quietly.

“I guess I never thought too much about the fact I never showed them to anybody. I mean Hutch saw them, but I sort of wondered what I’d feel like…maybe more how someone else…would react.”

“Try me?” She smiled a little, moving his hand gently away from the partially opened shirt. He offered no resistance to her opening it the rest of the way and exposing what he considered an unsightly network of scars. No shock or dismay registered on her face. “Can you tell me what they mean?” She looked up, her clear green eyes meeting his.

“What do you mean?”

“How you got them—what each one is from specifically?”

“I guess.” He looked down, and began explaining which ones were entry wounds, which ones were surgical scars, and before long had forgotten to be self-conscious about them. He was even pointing out a couple of exit wounds on his back.

“I’m going to tell you what they mean to me now,” she began, gently resting her hand on an entry wound scar. “This is a bullet that you were strong enough to survive,” she moved her hand to an incision scar, “and this is a surgery that saved your life.” She moved to another scar on his chest. “And this means your lung is all right because it could be repaired in surgery—so you have the breath you need to sing or talk or laugh or yawn or run or dance. And all of these together mean that your life is a miracle, David Starsky. These all mean that you overcame insurmountable odds and you survived. And you know what?” He just looked at her, too choked up to say much of anything. “For that reason, I think they’re beautiful, just like you, just like your heart and soul.”

Unable to say anything that would even begin to describe what her words had meant, he just pulled her close, holding her tightly. He felt her wind her arms around him and settle against him contentedly.

“I think I love you,” he finally murmured into the soft red curls that were just under his chin.

“Took you long enough to figure that out. I knew I loved you a long time ago. First time I saw that silly big grin of yours.” She laughed softly against his chest. “I was so…horrified when I heard what happened to you, I wanted to come and see you, come and tell you how I felt, and tell you to come back to me, so we could have a chance…I thought you’d die and I never would have told you.”

“Why didn’t you come to see me? Or call?”

“Well, you would have been at an unfair disadvantage to know how you felt. I didn’t want to show up, help take care of you and have you mistake gratitude or dependence for love. Though it was the hardest thing I ever did not to come and dote on you non-stop while you were recovering.”

“And then I called you.”

“Think maybe it was fate?” She looked up to meet his eyes, and he kissed the end of her nose.

“I’d bet on it, Rhi.”

“Do you know how much I love to listen to this heartbeat? It’s so healthy and strong.”

“A lot of that strength came from you. You helped Hutch and me get something started we could believe in again. It was an incentive to keep getting better. Just when I thought I had lost everything…”

“You miss being a cop, don’t you?”

“More than you’ll ever know. I loved it and hated it at the same time, but it was what I was—part of me. I just don’t trust myself out there anymore. And I don’t want to get shot again. I’m afraid.”

“Me too. I don’t want you to get shot again either. Not much chance of that happening in a recording studio.”

“Guess not,” he replied with a soft laugh.

“Unless you and Eric go off on another Zeppelin tangent. I think Hutch’ll shoot you himself.”

“I think you’re right,” he said, laughing again, thinking of Hutch’s irritation at his and Eric’s occasional digressions from the tasks at hand.

The phone rang. Starsky debated whether or not to acknowledge it, but Rhiana moved away from him immediately, as if she expected he would answer it. He got up and with a groan picked up the phone.

* * * *

“Starsky,” he barked, sometimes forgetting he wasn’t at his desk at the precinct.

“It’s Eric, Dave. I’m in big trouble.” The other man’s voice was shaking, and it was obvious he wasn’t exaggerating that the situation was serious.

“Okay, just take it easy, pal. What’s wrong?”

“I got arrested…they think I killed Matt Armstrong.”

“Who? Isn’t that the singer from your old band?”

“Yeah. I went over to talk to him, and I found him. He was dead—murdered…I called the cops, and they arrested me. I don’t know what to do…”

“Okay, just stay calm. I’m your phone call, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’m going to call a damn good lawyer for you, and we’ll be there as soon as we can. Rhiana, Hutch, the lawyer, and me. Your cavalry’s on the way, buddy, so just hang in there. Who arrested you—was it a detective?”

“Yeah, some guy named…Stevens, I think.”

“I know Hal. I’ll get a hold of him and see what’s going on. Don’t worry. Arrested ain’t convicted, Eric. We have a lot of suspects dragged in who get out before anything goes to court, so don’t panic. We’ll be there as fast as we can.”

“Thanks, Dave.”

“See ya later.” Starsky hung up and looked back at Rhiana’s concerned expression. “Somebody killed Matt Armstrong and they think Eric did it.”

“Oh my God.” Rhiana was off the couch and heading for her purse immediately to go out the door.

“Hold up a second.” Starsky was flipping through the phone book. “Aldon Andrews. He’s the best damn defense attorney in town. He’s the one we all hate to see on the other side of the courtroom. I’ve got to get a hold of him for Eric. If they hauled him in this fast, they must have one hell of a circumstantial case.”

Starsky finally reached the lawyer at his home number, and he agreed to meet them downtown. Then he placed a call to Hutch.

* * * *

The ringing of the phone startled Hutch out of a moment he had worked on creating for the better part of an hour. Linda was in his arms, they had kissed, and they were basking in a moment of eye contact that spoke volumes. More from habit than anything else, Hutch grudgingly reached for the phone. He was used to living like a cop, accepting interruptions at any time. Hard to remember that wasn’t the case anymore…

“Hutch, it’s me. We’ve got big trouble, buddy.” Starsky sounded upset.

“What’s wrong?” Hutch seemed to snap back to reality at the concerned tone of his partner’s voice.

“Eric’s been arrested. They think he killed Matt Armstrong.”

“Who’s he?”

“Kingpin’s lead singer.”

“The one he had the fight with? Oh, great.”

“I already got Aldon Andrews meeting us down there. Can you meet us there ASAP? Hutch?”

“Yeah. What?”

“I think we should ask to end our leave. It’s the only way we can help him.”

“You’re assuming he didn’t do it.”

“You’re damn right I am.”

“We’ll talk when I see you.” Hutch hung up the phone, and Starsky did the same.

“They arrested Eric March for murder.” Hutch disentangled himself from Linda and went for his shoulder holster, badge and jacket.

“I’m coming with you. Who’s on the case?” Linda straightened her rumpled clothing and checked her hair in the bathroom mirror.

“I don’t know that much yet. Just that he’s been taken in.”

* * * *

One of the first people Starsky looked for when he arrived at the precinct was Hal Stevens. The young detective was busily jabbering on the phone to someone, discussing blood evidence sent to the lab. He smiled when he saw Starsky, and after he hung up, greeted him enthusiastically.

“Hey, Starsky, you’re lookin’ good, man,” he said happily, extending a hand, which Starsky shook with a faint smile.

“What’s going on with the Eric March arrest?”

“You heard about that, huh?” Stevens looked pleased with himself. “We got a report of a disturbance of some kind, something that sounded like a fight, going on over at Matt Armstrong’s apartment–he’s the lead—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know who he is. And?”

“When we got there, here’s March standing over him with a knife in his hand, blood all over him, all over the knife, his hands…”

“So you arrested him?”

“Yeah. Short of watching him do it ourselves, we got about as much as we can get. Plus Armstrong’s girlfriend, who was in the bedroom at the time, says he and March have been fighting on and off for quite a while now.”

“She was in the apartment when it happened?”

“She was a little stoned. She isn’t too clear on what went down tonight. She was still upstairs when we got there, babbling about noises downstairs. It’s one of those big fancy penthouse deals.” Stevens wrinkled his brow. “You know these people, Starsky?”

“Eric March is a friend of mine. And he’s no killer, Hal.” Starsky looked around, and as he did, spotted Aldon Andrews making purposeful strides across the squad room. He was a tall man with receding white hair and a booming, imposing voice. Dressed in a dark business suit, even being summoned out of bed at five in the morning didn’t prevent him from looking the part of a top-flight attorney.

“Sergeant Starsky,” he greeted, shaking hands with Starsky. “You’re Stevens?” He nodded toward the younger detective.

“That’s right.”

“Eric March is my client. I’d like to see him now.”

“Right this way. He’s still in an interrogation room.”

“Apprised of his rights, I hope,” Andrews stated curtly.

“We do understand the Miranda Law here, counselor,” Stevens retorted, ruffled.

Starsky entered the interrogation room with Andrews, and Stevens briefly debated, then decided against, reminding the other detective he was still on leave. Eric sat at the long table, dressed in jail blues, looking jittery, tense and sad.

“Will you excuse us, Detective Stevens?” Andrews asked curtly. The other man left the room with a shrug, and when he did, Eric’s face broke into a smile of pure relief.

“God, am I glad to see you, Dave.”

“Be glad to see this guy too. He’s had a few of our best cases for lunch. Aldon Andrews, this is Eric March. Eric, this is one hell of a lawyer.”

“Thank you for the introduction, Starsky,” Andrews responded, smiling and shaking hands with Eric.

“Listen, I can’t stay in here while you talk with your lawyer. I’m only on leave. I’m still a cop.”

“I don’t have anything to hide—from you or anybody else.”

“I know that, but it’s in your best interest to talk with him in private. Then I’ll come back in and we can talk if you want. But as of now, I’m still part of this department, and what you say in front of me could get you in trouble later if they call me to testify, if it comes to that.”

“Okay. But I want to talk to you.”

“I know. I’ll be back, and Hutch’ll probably be here by then.” Starsky smiled. “You’re in good hands, so just try to stay calm, okay?” Eric nodded, and Starsky took his leave.

The lawyer’s brisk demeanor vanished, and he sat across from his client and looked him in the eyes.

“This is where we level. I don’t care if you’re Charles Manson. My job is to get you off the hook. So let’s not play games. Did you kill this guy?”

“No!” Eric shot back, as if he took the question as a personal affront.

“Had to ask. Okay, since you’re innocent then, who do you think did it?”

“I don’t know. Matt could be kind of a jerk sometimes, and he could get people mad at him pretty easily, but I don’t know anybody who wants him dead.”

“Starsky said you had a big blow-up with him a while back, came to blows, with witnesses.”

“That’s true. I left the band a few days ago. Up ’til then, Matt and I were best friends for the whole time we were in Kingpin, way before we made it big—back when we were kids. As the years went by, we grew up differently. We handled fame differently. Matt was all glitter and women and drugs and sex and booze and cars—not that I’m finding fault with glitter, women, sex, and cars, but the drugs and booze made him kind of an asshole at times. But he was my friend, so we got past that most of the time. Lately, he’s been getting heavily into heroin, going through pot like there’s no tomorrow…I know he’s been killing himself slowly for the last several months. I tried everything to get through to him, but that kind of made me the enemy as far as he was concerned, and it spilled over into us fighting about the music, which we never fought about before. I finally decided to get out because I couldn’t watch him commit suicide, and we couldn’t work together anymore.”

“So what happened last night? What were you doing there?” Andrews asked.

“I wanted to resolve things with Matt. When we picked the name for the band, it seemed so final, and that was okay, because I wanted out, but I knew it was permanently over. I just felt bad to let the friendship die. I wanted to talk it out with him.”

“A name for the band?” Andrews asked. Eric was in a spot now, and explained himself, despite his companions’ pleas for secrecy.

“I’m in a band with Starsky and Hutch. It’s just an informal thing, for fun,” he lied, attempting a little damage control. “But we just picked a name last night, and I wanted to tell Matt about it. I know it’s nuts, because we were at each other’s throats, but he was always the first person I shared everything with since I was about ten years old. I wanted to fix things between us…” He shook his head and fought back a couple of tears. “Guess that isn’t going to happen now. I’ve been so wrapped up in being arrested I guess it’s just sinking in…”

“Well, I need to find out all the particulars on what the cops have. You’ve got an alibi of any kind?”

“Not really. I mean I was dropped off at my place about four-twenty—I was with Starsky and Hutch, Rhiana Blake, Linda Williams, and a guy named Huggy Bear—at his bar. We were celebrating picking the name. After that, I just felt like talking to Matt.”

“At dawn?”

“We’ve always kept weird schedules, so it’s not unusual that he’d be up all night and sleep all day—me either for that matter.”

“So no one saw you after four-twenty?”

“Right.”

“Okay. I’m going to talk to the cops. I don’t have too many concerns that we can’t get you out on bond—any priors?”

“Nothing big. A couple of disturbing the peace things from about six years ago, but since then I’ve kept my nose clean even when we’re on the road.”

“No sixteen year old statutory rape groupies?”

“I’m not stupid, Mr. Andrews.”

“I’m not implying you are. Just want to be sure we won’t have any nasty surprises at your arraignment, which I’ll try to see happens by this afternoon at the latest.”

“I really don’t want to spend the night in this place.”

“We’ll do our best to avoid that.”

* * * *

While Eric met with his lawyer, Starsky looked around for Hutch. He found him waiting impatiently in the hall, not looking any too happy. Rhiana was sitting next to him on a bench, and both stood anxiously when Starsky rounded the corner.

“You’ve seen Eric?” Rhiana asked Starsky.

“Yeah. He’s pretty shaken up, but he seems okay.”

“This is great. You’re never gonna guess who’s on the case.”

“Stevens, right?” Starsky responded to Hutch’s cryptic remark.

“Yeah, and his new partner—Linda.”

“Oh, terrific.” Starsky threw his hands in the air. “Nothing like a little conflict of interest.”

“She’s in there getting briefed by her partner. Dobey’s been called, and is due here any minute. They’re expecting a press nightmare on this one.”

“Shit,” Starsky muttered, pacing back and forth. “Well, maybe this’ll work out for the best. Linda’s met Eric, she knows—”

“She knows what? That he’s a good conversationalist? She’s in there right now hearing what a great case they have on this famous guy, who killed another famous guy—a real career-maker. I’ve already been chided because you called a lawyer for him. She thinks we were out of line getting involved in that since we’re still cops.”

“Maybe she’d rather just lynch him and get it over with,” Rhiana added angrily.

“I think we should wait to talk to Dobey. I’m going to ask him to let us back on duty, and to let us have a shot at this case. We’ve got seniority—we could probably blast those two out of the water.”

“I don’t know,” Hutch responded hesitantly. “Dobey’ll see it as a conflict of interest. Unless of course he thinks Stevens and Williams are too preoccupied with a conviction to properly handle the case…” Hutch looked knowingly at his partner. It frightened Rhiana a little that the woman Hutch had probably either already or almost been sleeping with was suddenly spoken of by her last name. There was something in the exchanged look between these two men that left her feeling utterly shut out. The silent communication, the sense of unity…the closing of the ranks between Starsky and Hutch. They had a mission in sight, and suddenly the mellow musician Rhiana had almost made love with had disappeared.

Captain Dobey came striding down the hall toward the squad room and his office, and stopped short when he saw his favorite team of prodigal detectives waiting for him in the hall. Rhiana slipped away from the group and took a seat on another bench, some distance away. David Starsky was back in his world, and out of hers.

“What’re you two doing here?”

“We need to talk to you about the Armstrong murder. We know the guy that’s been hauled in, and this kind of a crime really doesn’t fit with his nature,” Hutch tried to make the vote of confidence for Eric sound as well-thought-out as possible.

“My office.” Dobey motioned them to follow him. The team of Stevens and Williams were on their feet instantly, but he waved them away for the moment to meet with his senior detectives. The other team looked understandably angry, and Linda shot a look at Hutch that would have killed if possible. “I know the details on the case, so get to the point. Why do you think we’ve got the wrong guy?”

“Well,” Starsky began, “I guess we should tell you something first. While we’ve been on leave, Hutch and I have been fiddling around with music—we even went into a recording studio for a while. Eric March, the guy who was arrested, has been playing the drums on our little project. I realize that we haven’t known him for years, but we’re pretty good judges of character after all the years we’ve had on the force. He’s no killer, Captain.”

“Well, it’s a strong circumstantial case. Armstrong was stabbed to death—about six times. March’s prints were on the murder weapon, the victim’s blood was on his hands and his clothing, and the body was still warm when Stevens got there. If he didn’t do it, I’m damn surprised he didn’t bump into whoever did on the way in.” Dobey wrinkled his brow. “A recording studio?”

“If you walked in and found a friend lying on the floor in a pool of blood, wouldn’t you go to him, touch him somehow? He could have gotten blood on his hands and clothing just by going near the victim,” Hutch argued, hoping he had successfully dodged the probe.

“And that’s why they call it circumstantial evidence. I’m not saying it’s conclusive proof. But that coupled with their current hostile relationship…”

“They were friends who had a big fight. It happens.” Starsky looked knowingly at his partner. “We oughtta know. We’ve fought hard and dirty with each other in the past few years, but it’s safe to say one of us would cut off his own arm before seriously injuring the other. I’d never be able to find the desire in myself to kill Hutch, even if I was so damn mad at him that I had to slug him.” Starsky paced back and forth. “Eric March was mad at his friend, and his friend was mad at him, and they fought. Big deal.”

“Look, Starsky, all this psycho babble is well and good, but this is a strong case.”

“But it’s no good if it’s against the wrong guy. Let us have this,” Hutch made the plea.

“It’s already assigned to Stevens and Williams.”

“So un-assign it,” Starsky shot back, then thought better of the insubordinate remark. “I mean, assignments can be changed if necessary, can’t they?”

“So you two can work to get your friend out of trouble?”

“We’ve had to haul in a friend before.” Hutch spoke up. “If March is guilty, he deserves to pay for it. But isn’t it better to be a little less convinced that those two out there are? Stevens has practically got the guy in the gas chamber and he just arrested him an hour or so ago. Furthermore, I think arresting anybody this fast was a little hasty and irresponsible. He saw a big name case, a couple of rock stars—he assumed the worst about Eric March—I think you’ll find the guy drug-free. We oughtta know the signs of addiction when we see it, and he seems clean.” Hutch paused, then continued. “I hate to say this, but I see a sort of glint in the eyes of that team out there that I don’t like.”

“Wait outside. I have to talk to Stevens and Williams. I’ll let you know what my decision is. Furthermore, I can’t put you back on active street duty without an okay from the department’s physician, Starsky.”

“So put me on desk duty. I can still work the case if I’m at least off leave—you know that as well as I do. Nobody’s gonna watch whether I’m at my desk or in my car.”

“Get out of here, both of you. I’ll let you know.”

As Starsky and Hutch walked out of the Captain’s office, Linda grabbed Hutch by the arm.

“You bastard.”

“Linda—”

“Don’t Linda-me, Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson. You two arrogant S.O.B.’s just pulled rank on us in there, didn’t you? You pulled your damn rank so you could have this case.”

“Dobey wants to see you, Linda.” Starsky spoke up, and Linda looked over her shoulder to see Dobey standing in his doorway, eyeing the situation with great interest.

“This isn’t over,” she muttered to Hutch as she and her partner filed in to Dobey’s office.

“I sure hope Eric appreciates this.” Hutch dropped into his chair, and Starsky took his old seat at his desk across from him.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?” The other man looked up, still rubbing his eyes from a sleepless night.

“This feels pretty damn good, doesn’t it?” Starsky’s hands were laid on his desk, palms down. “Kinda like home?”

“Oh, God, Starsk. What’re we doing?” Hutch shook his head. “We just ran in here without a thought and asked to go back to work.”

“We’re trying to save Eric’s butt.”

“If he’s innocent.”

“He’s innocent. You didn’t see him, Hutch. It was the look in his eyes. He was scared and grieving and angry—all at the same time. He was too damn jittery to be guilty.”

“Meaning what?”

“You and I both know guilty suspects are never as terrified as the ones who’ve been dragged in here who haven’t done anything. He’s petrified.”

“You’re glad to be back?” Hutch probed.

“It feels right—I’m sorry, Hutch, but I’ve felt lousy ever since we decided to quit.” He looked across the desk hesitantly to meet his partner’s eyes.

“That makes two of us, partner.” Hutch walked over to the familiar coffee pot and poured two cups of the semi-drinkable liquid and handed one to Starsky. “This just feels natural. Like we belong here.”

“What if I flunk the physical?” Starsky looked up at him as Hutch stood next to him, and there was a horrible fear in his dark blue eyes. Hutch rested a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re not going to flunk it, buddy.” He moved back to his own chair. “But if you do, we’ve still got our demo tape.”

“What about you? You’re saying you want to come back too. Why wouldn’t you still want to?”

“I said it felt like we belong here. That’s what I meant. You and me,” Hutch sipped his coffee and grimaced at the taste.

“Me and thee, huh?”

“Same as always,” Hutch said, the grimace turning into a smile.

“Same as always,” Starsky echoed, smiling. “What about the demo tape—oh, God, I forgot Rhiana.” He got up and hurried into the hall. The bench she had occupied was empty. He stood alone in the sparsely traveled hall, never busy in the early dawn hours. Rhiana was gone…and suddenly the big dreams of being musicians, and all the good times they had in the studio, and the love that was growing…it all seemed to spiral out of sight. Why did everything always have to cost so much?

“She left?” Hutch asked.

“I guess.” Starsky shrugged. “It’s my fault. I left her out here. Hell, she probably looked in and saw us sittin’ there drinking coffee while she sat in the hall. God I can be an asshole, sometimes.”

“Won’t argue with that,” Hutch retorted, smiling.

“This is probably the end of things for you and Linda.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But right is right. I can’t let them railroad an innocent guy into a murder rap.”

“Wonder what Dobey’ll come up with.” Starsky led the way back into the squad room, and they returned to their desks as the team of Stevens and Williams emerged from the captain’s office.

“Thanks a lot for pulling rank and getting us ousted,” Stevens barked at Starsky. “I never woulda figured you for the type.”

Dobey came to the door of his own office. The younger team of detectives headed for the door of the squad room, not due on duty for another couple of hours, and relieved of what they thought would be their landmark case.

“You two get in here.” He stood aside while Starsky and Hutch entered the office. “Hutch, you’re back on active duty and officially assigned to the Armstrong murder investigation. Starsky, you’re back on desk duty pending approval from your doctor and the department’s doctor’s okay for you to go back on street duty. You are also assigned to the Armstrong case, but officially you’re supposed to handle the paperwork, keep up with the lab tests, do the desk stuff. Make sure that base is covered because I don’t plan to give you a lot of supervision on this.” (Translation: “Do what you have to do but keep your butt covered. I’m not responsible if you screw up.”) Starsky smirked at the real meaning of the orders.

“Thanks, Captain. I know this was a sticky situation.”

“Hmph. To say the least. But I didn’t like their attitude,” he added, in a rare moment of candor. “All the notes and crime scene information are in this file,” he said, handing it to Starsky, since he was the official keeper of the paperwork. “So go dazzle us with your professed brilliance.”

The two detectives left the office, feeling lighter and more at ease than they had in weeks. A major, complicated, high-profile murder investigation, a famous victim, a famous suspect, a couple of sticky personal situations…felt like business as usual.

“There’s Andrews,” Hutch announced the obvious as the attorney made his way down the hall toward them.

“I need to talk to the detectives on my client’s case.”

“You’re looking at them,” Hutch responded.

“I thought it was Stevens.”

“Change of plans,” Starsky answered.

“My client is pleading not guilty, but I’ve advised him to make a statement in my presence. Of course, it goes without saying he will not answer any questions without my approval.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else,” Starsky retorted, and they walked toward the interrogation room.

Eric’s statement revealed that he had arrived at Matt Armstrong’s penthouse about 4:50 a.m., knocked, but got no answer. He tried the knob and found it unlocked, so he went inside. He couldn’t explain fully why he went in at all, but said he and Matt never used to stand on ceremony about knocking at all, so he didn’t hesitate.

When he walked into the living room, Matt was lying in a pool of blood in front of the marble fireplace. There was a knife sticking out of his chest. Eric recalled rushing over to check for a pulse, trying to rouse his friend, taking a hold of the knife to pull it out but then remembering that he had heard somewhere that it is more dangerous to do that than to leave it in place. He called the police, and also an ambulance, though he believed his friend was already dead.

He did not see anyone coming in or out of the front entrance to the apartment complex, nor was he aware that Matt’s girlfriend was upstairs.

“Do you know of anyone else who would have a motive for killing Matt?” Hutch asked.

“No. There were plenty of people who didn’t like the guy, but I don’t think anybody was that mad at him. I know I wasn’t.”

“What do you know about the girlfriend—Lynne Cooke?” Starsky referred back to the file.

“Lynne is the reason Matt got into heroin at all. He always smoked pot—since we were kids. I tried it a couple of times but got off it. But with Matt, he was always looking for some new thrill, and Lynne was a rich girl gone bad with a $150-a-day habit, and it was a match made in heaven. I think our friendship went downhill after she entered the picture, because Matt changed. He turned into a drug addict with a nasty attitude toward everybody.”

“Who was Lynne’s supplier—do you know?” Starsky asked.

“Uh-uh.” Eric waved away a cautionary look from his lawyer. “I know what Matt turned into, and I saw him shoot up once, but I didn’t ask any questions. I don’t know where the stuff came from and I didn’t want to know. I just wanted him to stop.” Eric looked down sadly at his folded hands that rested on the table. “I guess he did.”

“Eric, your statement is finished,” Andrews directed his client. “That’s all we have to say for the record, gentlemen.”

“Anything else you’d like to add before we get this typed up?” Hutch concluded.

“No, that’s pretty much all of it,” Eric agreed.

“Okay. We’ll type it up and you can review it with Mr. Andrews here and sign it. I’m going to check on the arraignment time. Hopefully we have something in motion by now.” Hutch left the room, followed by his partner.

“Well?” Starsky probed as they started down the hall.

“He didn’t do it. That puts us to who did. I mean this guy doesn’t have a motive, even if we didn’t know him personally. There’s no reason for him to kill Armstrong. Nothing to gain.”

“The girlfriend couldn’t have done it according to the crime scene information. She was upstairs, there was no blood on her, no blood between the living room and the bedroom where she was, no other bloody clothes found at the scene. I think a few of the lab boys are still over there. Think we should go check it out?”

“Yeah, right away.” Hutch led the way downstairs, and they headed for Starsky’s car. Taking off out of the police lot toward the crime scene felt like old times. And it felt right…

* * * *

Matt Armstrong’s penthouse apartment was as lavish and overstated as they imagined it would be. Decorated in predominantly black and white, the black marble fireplace was the centerpiece of the huge living room, which boasted floor to ceiling windows with a stunning view of the city. The drying blood had oozed into a large mass on the white shag carpeting.

“Can you picture walking in like nothing’s wrong and finding your friend chopped up like that? Eric’s gotta be really torn up.” Starsky squatted by the darkened area.

“Well, they were right about the girl—white carpeting on the stairs over here. We’d know if she’d gone up after doing this.”

“Damn. There’s somebody out there somewhere that wanted this guy dead. What about an obsessed fan?”

“Possible,” Hutch granted, though he felt it unlikely.

“Maybe Rhiana would have some ideas. If she knows Eric this well, she probably knows the rest of the band.” Starsky straightened up and walked over to the mantel. There were a couple of music awards there, and the walls boasted numerous gold and platinum records. “This guy’ll be a saint before the day’s out,” Starsky observed, thinking of the millions of fans who would mourn the singer’s passing, glossing over his flaws and considering him some type of divinity because he was dead.

“Let’s have a look around upstairs.” Hutch started up the spiral staircase to the second floor. A couple of crime scene specialists were just picking up their supplies as the two detectives entered the master bedroom. Mirrored ceilings, animal skin rugs—Eric had been right about the glitter. Armstrong was a cliched glitzy celebrity if he was nothing else.

“Find anything?” Starsky asked, recognizing one of the lab guys from a prior case.

“Nothing up here. The first detectives who were here confiscated some dope.”

“Yeah, that’s in the report,” Hutch responded.

“Other than that, pretty standard stuff. Looks like somebody walked in, killed the guy and walked back out. Nothing appears to be disturbed. There’s a wall safe over there with about ten grand in cash and some jewelry in it, and a lot of loose jewelry and money on the dresser. Nothing missing.” The stocky middle-aged man continued his journey downstairs, followed by a younger companion.

“Thanks, Mike,” Hutch called after him.

“Since I’ve been here, I’ve seen about four of these.” Starsky held up a photo of Eric and Matt together, the tall, yellow-blond Armstrong having his slightly shorter companion in a feigned wrestling headlock. Both were dressed in flashy stage outfits. “That’s really sad.” Starsky set the photo back on the dresser. “How do you s’pose a friendship falls apart like that?”

“Don’t know.” Hutch sat on the corner of the unmade bed.

“Here are two guys who grow up together, are really close, and then all of a sudden it just starts to disintegrate.” Starsky shook his head. “Scary. There were times last year…”

“What?” Hutch probed for the end to the unfinished comment.

“Nothin’.”

“You had something in mind. What were you going to say?”

“There were times last year when I thought that was happening to us. Something changed, Hutch. I don’t know what it was exactly, or if I did something that made you mad, but there were times last year I really felt like you’d just as soon have another partner.”

“That’s ridiculous, Starsky.” Hutch stood up and started pacing.

“Is it? Did I do something that made you angry?”

“No more than usual, buddy,” Hutch retorted with a snicker.

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to start here, but it’s getting on my nerves, Starsky.”

“Well it got on mine for months, so maybe we’re even. It just seemed like all of a sudden the only time I saw you laugh was when you were making fun of me or pulling one of your clever little mind games and making me look like an idiot.”

“That’s a bunch of crap and you know it. I think you better shut your trap before you say something you’ll regret.”

“I’m not saying things aren’t better between us now, but maybe that’s just because you feel bad that I almost died. I want to know what changed, Hutch. I’m not gonna lie to you—it hurt like hell to be shut out like that. And then the thing with Kira…nobody ever hurt me like that, Hutch. Maybe because I never cared that much…”

“So this whole damn thing is about Kira?”

“She was a symptom, not a cause.”

“Now you’re talking in riddles. This is stupid. Standing around in a dead man’s apartment analyzing something that was said or done months ago.”

“But why? What did I do? Why didn’t you want me around anymore? Why was my friendship suddenly so unimportant to you that you’d go to bed with somebody I told you I loved?”

“Is that what you thought? That I didn’t want you around?”

“Oh, not exactly. I was a good scapegoat for your jokes.”

“You’re being melodramatic. We’ve always teased each other.”

“Yeah, but not all the time—and not like that. It really hurt me sometimes, the way you treated me. I didn’t understand it. Maybe it was less that you were giving me a hard time than the fact that you weren’t really there for me anymore the way you used to be.” Starsky paused, as if trying to gather his thoughts. “If I have to spell it out for you, I needed you…I needed the friend who pulled me through Terry’s death, the one who kept me going when I got poisoned—the one who loved me and valued my friendship and showed me once in awhile. It seemed like you were almost…indifferent.”

“All the stuff we went through with Rigger, I thought that brought us pretty close together.”

“It did, but that was because you needed somebody too. We got through that together, but then as soon as the pressure was off, the Kira thing happened.”

“Will you please drop the damn ‘Kira thing’? Okay, I slept with her. Big deal. Are you gonna carry that around for the rest of your life and throw it in my face every time we have an argument?”

“I’ve never thrown it in your face, Hutch.”

“Until now.”

“Well it hurt!” Starsky shouted back at him, his voice breaking. “It was the only time you betrayed my trust, and it hurt more than I could ever tell you. The only thing that would have hurt me more was giving up on our friendship permanently, so I got over it.”

“Apparently you didn’t.”

“Damn it, Hutch, is there a heart in there somewhere? I used to feel like you really cared about me. But there’s something I can’t get under the surface and touch anymore. It’s under so damn many layers of insulation I can’t even see it. A spray of bullets from Gunther’s hit men cut through it for a while, but once I was out of the woods, and we were working on the music, and everything was okay, I could see you retreating again, and I was getting the same impersonal treatment I was getting before.” Starsky sniffed a couple of times and pulled his emotions back in check. What he said next cut Hutch deeply. “I love you, Hutch. I always will. You’re my best friend. You’re the only person I ever really cared about who stuck around—who didn’t die or leave or let me down. When you decided somewhere along the line that you were going to change the rules, shut me out, it hurt…a lot. Why?”

“I don’t think we should be talking about this here.”

“Why not? Who’s going to listen in? Armstrong? He’s dead, Hutch. The girlfriend isn’t here—this is a dead man’s home. It doesn’t get anymore private than that. Talk to me. Talk to me like you used to.”

Hutch returned to his perch on the end of the bed. Starsky plopped down next to him, waiting for something profound to be said.

“I was burned out a long time ago, Starsky. Long before anything happened with Gunther. I wanted out. I wanted to get out of this business, out of the department, do something like we started to do with the music.”

“But now that we’re doing it you wanna come back?”

“Let me finish.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“It’s okay. Didn’t mean to snap at you, buddy.” Hutch squeezed Starsky’s arm briefly and then released it. “I wanted to leave, but I knew being a cop was everything to you—a family tradition. Something almost sacred because of your father. We’re a team, and I knew if I left, you’d leave, and then you’d be miserable. I knew I wanted out, so I tried to put some distance between us. I thought maybe it would make it easier for you if we weren’t so close anymore, so if I left, you’d go ahead and stay on and be what you wanted to be.”

Hutch shook his head. “Then I felt so rotten about that whole Rigger thing that I couldn’t stand it anymore. And I felt so damn rotten about myself. I had pushed you away for so long, given you the cold treatment, withheld so much of my friendship from you…sometimes I couldn’t help myself. Like when I showed up just in time—remember Monique?”

“How could I forget her and her alter ego, the fun-loving Harry the killer?”

“When I first saw you lying there and thought you were dead…I just had to sit there and hold onto you because I was so glad you were alive. But most of the time, I was building a wall so I could quit. Quitting became some kind of a goal I promised myself with each passing case. Then Rigger was killed, and I made the commitment to quit…threw my badge into the ocean. Dear God, after all the distance I had tried to put between us, you were right by my side quitting with me anyway.”

“Not easy getting rid of me, is it?” Starsky asked with a slight grin.

“Thank God,” Hutch muttered, almost under his breath. “When Kira came along, I just got into this self-destructive game with you, and I don’t know why I did it. I stopped looking at your feelings or your trust for what they were, but as sources of weakness—holes in your armor, I guess. I had so much hostility inside of me from the last four or five years we’d both been through—and being on the right side of the law, always bringing the bad guy to justice. Letting someone torture you or me or some innocent victim and then just arresting them and giving them due process and humane treatment when I just wanted to lash out and…I don’t know…”

“Like your revenge fantasy with Gunther? Where you go to his cell and shoot him full of lead?”

“Yeah, just like that. But I can’t do that to the criminal slime because they have rights. I don’t really in my heart want to intentionally torment and kill other human beings.”

“I know that, Hutch.”

“I just had all this hostility inside and nowhere to put it. When I took it out on somebody I was seeing romantically, they’d end the relationship. But there was one person I could blast it all out on who kept coming back for more and still loved me no matter how many rotten things I said, no matter how many times I let you hurt by yourself when you counted on me to be there…I could take it all out on you, and you’d still stay. You’d be the receiver. You’d take it all, take me as I was, and you loved me unconditionally.”

“There shouldn’t be a set of conditions on love, partner. You either do or you don’t.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re the only person I ever met who felt that way. So when Kira came along, I just went for it. And I forgot how bad I was gonna feel if you ever did get pushed too far…I don’t know exactly what I was working for—I thought I wanted out of the police force, and that would be best for me because I wouldn’t keep getting in all these violent, ugly situations that were feeding this…discontent inside. And while I felt trapped in the job, I just kept taking it all out on you, like I did with that target at the shooting range that day you and I went out there.”

“You mean when we picked our paper Gunthers and let him have it?”

“Right. You were my target, because you kept taking it.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Starsky answered honestly.

“How would you? You’re so damn loyal it wouldn’t occur to you to tell me to fuck off.”

“It occurred to me,” Starsky said with a smile. “I just didn’t want you to take me up on it. I knew something wasn’t right, and I kept hoping that you’d let me in on it eventually. After we got through the Kira thing, it seemed like things got better.”

“They did. I almost blew it. Almost got what I wanted. You were so hurt and angry and betrayed when you walked into her house and I was there…I still didn’t want to stay on the force, but I also didn’t want to lose you. The two things seemed incompatible, and I didn’t know what the hell to do but hope I’d get over hating my job. I knew I couldn’t risk using you for an emotional target anymore.”

“So you thought if you quit—”

“You’d quit too. Just like you did.”

“Ya know, Hutch, I can think for myself. Just like we talked about this morning…doing all this seems right when we do it. Yeah, I became a cop for my dad, and I love it. It’s part of me, and I feel like what I’m doing is important…people’s lives sometimes depend on what we do, and that’s a meaning like no other job has. The music is wonderful, and if I can’t be a cop anymore, I’ll be the best damn singing ex-cop I can be, but this is my life. But everything about this job is us, not me. I feel like I’m hopping around on one leg working alone. I could get used to it, just like an amputee gets used to a wooden leg. I could get a new partner, and probably do the job and get some satisfaction out of it. But if I was ready to walk away from that, it’s because I made a choice. Neither one would be good—being a cop without you or quitting with you…but I chose the lesser of the evils. It still makes me laugh a little when I think about us job-hunting together. I mean how many times do they hire two people at once at the same place?”

“We were determined to find one if it existed,” Hutch smiled at the memory. “When you said you wanted out—that night in the hospital—I was so relieved. I thought that’s what I wanted. And the music project was amazing. We were working together, no death, risk, ugliness, violence—just working on something we loved to do together. But I think maybe I saw what you’re talking about—how sometimes even people’s lives depend on what we do in this job. Like right now with Eric—his life is depending on our investigation, and maybe the lives of other potential victims if we don’t find this killer and get him off the street. I’d hear Linda’s stories and I’d feel left out. I wanted to be back in the action again. This job is so contrary to my nature, but yet it’s in my blood, and I can’t leave it, anymore than I could, in the end, break up our friendship. I found that out after we tried leaving it. When you said you wanted to go back…”

“But both times you waited for me…you were willing to stay miserable so I could be happy. No one’s ever given me that much before…so don’t sell yourself short, pal. I just didn’t know why things changed…and knowing what I know now, I don’t blame you for any of it. I just wish you’d talked to me.”

“And told you what? I’m so damned angry and frustrated with all the ugliness and the pain and the dying that I want to put my fist through a wall, but I’m going to make a few cheap jokes at your expense instead?”

“I was there when Gillian died, remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget that, Starsk.”

“I know how much anger was inside of you, so much that you lashed out at me, and I don’t blame you for that. I never have. We all react to pain in different ways. I should have known that you just couldn’t hide your anger that time, and it came out—and that all the times you were so level-headed in a crisis situation, it was still there. But the rest of the time, you swallowed it. Kept swallowing it down, pushing it down until it backed up and choked you. You were always the cool-headed one. While I was ranting and raving and ready to take a swing at somebody, you were expected to be the voice of reason. And you always were. You balanced me at the expense of keeping all of it inside yourself, hidden under a cool exterior.

“So we didn’t get in trouble the way we would have if you had let yours rip at the same time mine did. It’s no wonder when we turned on each other it was deadly. And it’s no wonder you felt some hostility toward me, even if you still cared about me.” Starsky paused. “I’ve grown up a lot in the last few months, Hutch. I know there were a lot of times you had to take more responsibility, or be a watchdog for my behavior. It isn’t going to be that way anymore. I’m not the same man I was before the shooting, and in some ways that’s bad, but in other ways, it made me grow up and get serious, and lose a little of my idealism. I needed to do that.”

“I never expected this to make sense to someone else.”

“I’m not just someone else, Hutch.”

“I know that.”

“Thanks for telling me. I know it wasn’t easy. It just makes me feel a lot better to know that there was something else going on in your head. I felt there was, but I didn’t know.”

“I really am sorry.”

“I think we can call it even, pal.”

“Sometimes I wonder what I ever did to deserve you, buddy.”

“Musta been something pretty bad, huh?” Starsky joked, but Hutch remained serious.

“I wonder what I ever did that was good enough that I was blessed with a friend like you.” Hutch watched his partner’s smile fade a little, and his adam’s apple bobbed a time or two before he responded.

“I think that’s probably the most special thing anybody ever said to me,” he said in a slightly wavering voice.

“I really do love you, you know that, don’t you?”

“I know.” Starsky smiled. “But did ya have to tell me in a room with a mirror on the ceiling?” Hutch laughed a little. “Think we oughtta figure out who killed this guy?” The sentimentalism was getting a little heavy for both of them, and while it needed to be said, they were ready to change the subject.

“Sounds like a plan to me, partner.”

* * * *

Eric was arraigned late that afternoon, and released on a $1 million bond. The prosecution justified the high sum on the basis of the brutality of the crime and the considerable financial means of the accused. Any lower amount, they argued, would be considered pocket change to Eric March. That position, of course, was accurate. Even the $100,000 he had to actually produce for his release was the simple matter of writing a check.

The district attorney on the case, Raymond Morgan, cornered Starsky and Hutch by the end of the business day, demanding some answers as to why they were investigating every other avenue but strengthening the case against Eric March. They replied simply that they did not believe the case was strong enough to make it an exclusive investigation, and that they further felt the arrest had been irresponsibly and hastily made by an inexperienced detective whose head was turned by the possibility of a quick resolution to a high profile case. None of these observations gained them any popularity, as the DA had been bragging to the press what a fine case they had and how convinced they were they had the right man in custody.

When Morgan threw this argument at Starsky and Hutch, Hutch simply replied with one of his oh-so-innocent smiles: “Nobody asked us if we thought you had the right guy.” Their meeting ended with Starsky accusing Morgan of being no better than Stevens, grandstanding and using Eric March as a vehicle of upward mobility whether he was actually guilty of anything or not, and Morgan threatening that Dobey would hear from him about their conduct.

This didn’t faze either detective. It wouldn’t be the first time they had sent some city official raving, cursing and demanding disciplinary action into their captain’s office. They were both willing to bet it wouldn’t be the last time, either.

The bulk of day one of the Armstrong investigation consisted of routine research—the visit to the crime scene, background research on Armstrong himself as well as his “known associates,” such as Eric, Lynne Cook, the remaining three members of Kingpin, and assorted friends and business associates Eric and Lynne Cooke had listed as significant. Lab and coroner’s test results trickled in during the day, and by seven that evening, Starsky and Hutch were back at their desks, buried under a mountain of papers, folders, and forms, trying to keep the sweet and sour sauce off the papers and on the eggrolls and other Chinese delicacies they had imported from their favorite take-out place for dinner.

“Looks like Armstrong was just about broke,” Starsky announced, flipping through information on Matt Armstrong’s bank records and other business dealings. “I guess the ten grand in the wall safe was about the extent of his accessible cash.”

“How was he maintaining that apartment?”

“He wasn’t. Behind two months on the rent.” Starsky took a break to devour another half of an eggroll. “So what’d the coroner have to say?” he asked, voice muffled under shredded cabbage.

“Is Eric right or left-handed?”

“Who knows? He’s a drummer.”

“Think back—when he signed his statement…I didn’t watch him.”

“Right-handed,” Starsky responded. “I also saw him sign a form to get his personal effects back when he was released.”

“Okay. According to the coroner’s report, the wounds were made by a downward motion, and most likely by someone left-handed, based on the angles.”

“The DA’ll argue that’s not conclusive proof he didn’t do it.”

“Fortunately our system doesn’t work that way. Also, if you’re right-handed, and you’re attacking someone using your left hand, for whatever reason, you’d probably have less strength and agility in that hand. Now according to the coroner’s report, Armstrong had some drugs in his system, but nothing that would put him under or make him sluggish. He was a good size guy–6’3″, it says here. He’d be fighting his assailant. You wouldn’t use your less capable hand to strike out with the weapon, and you’d have some battle scars too. Eric didn’t have a mark on him—not a bruise, a scratch—hell, he should have looked like something the cat dragged in after that fight.” Hutch shook his head. “There was skin and blood under Armstrong’s nails on his left hand, his knuckles were bruised—the only reason the living room wasn’t trashed from the struggle is because it’s so damn big there isn’t that much furniture near the fireplace to get overturned.” Hutch paused. “How tall is Eric?”

“I don’t know exactly, but he’s not quite as tall as I am, so probably about 5’10”.”

“With or without the hair?”

“With it, I s’pose,” Starsky replied, laughing a little.

“Huh.” Hutch took time out to poke around in a container of Szechwan pork. “So we’ve got a bigger victim, killed by wounds inflicted with the left hand, who has blood and skin under his nails and bruised knuckles. We have a smaller suspect, right-handed, without a mark on him.”

“And Stevens would have known that if he’d, A) waited for the test results, and, B) let Eric wash up before arresting him to see that the blood was all Armstrong’s, and none of it Eric’s.” Starsky rubbed his forehead. It amused Hutch that the gesture was not unlike one of Dobey’s distress signals. “I think the DA should drop the charges against Eric before we all look like a bunch of bozos.”

“Too late,” Hutch retorted through a mouthful. “We already look like a bunch of bozos. But at least we’d be admitting our mistake early in the game instead of hanging onto a bad arrest. And I’m not just saying that because it’s Eric.”

“No, I agree with you because he’s the wrong guy.”

“Tell me about Armstrong’s financial set up.” Hutch pushed the coroner’s report aside, figuring morning would be early enough to argue with the DA about dropping the charges.

“Well, he was in debt up to his spiky little hairdo and he had sold everything that wasn’t nailed down in terms of his assets. He had a couple pieces of rental property handled by an investment company up in Santa Rosa, but even one of those is on the market. I understand it’s a pricey little contemporary overlooking a vineyard.”

“We’re not talking slum rentals here, then.”

“Not by a long shot. But he obviously was going through money faster than he was making it. Even the rents on these places must not have been off-setting his debts. Now here’s the interesting thing. The guy doesn’t have any major purchases accounted for anywhere in the last year, but his financial picture has fallen apart in that time. Must be one hell of a drug habit.”

“What did we get on Lynne Cooke?”

“Only what I could get through her social security number. She’s not exactly cooperating. Guess I’ll have to work on getting a court order in the morning.” Starsky made a note on a pad on the desk. He was planning to indeed cover himself in keeping up with the paperwork. “Anyway, she’s got cash advances out to the limits on all her credit cards, only negligible balances in the bank, and a trust fund that has been cut off.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“The girl at the bank? She’s a friend of Huggy’s.”

“Huggy’s got a friend working in a bank? There’s a scary thought ”

“Well, when we got talking about Huggy, she loosened up, and told me Lynne used to get a monstrous check every month from a trust fund set up by her grandmother. The old lady’s lawyer is authorized to cut off the payments to Lynne, and just accumulate the money, if Lynne is doing something ‘unsuitable’ with her life. So he cut it off about six months ago.”

“Shortly after she hooked up with Armstrong.”

“You got it.” Starsky closed yet another folder. “So as I see it, we’ve got two junkies living the good life off Armstrong’s assets. Two pricey drug habits eating their way through his loot.”

“But doesn’t it seem like an awful lot of money to be going through just on the drugs alone? I mean we’re talking millions here.”

“I thought about that. Guess we need to talk to Eric again.”

“Think he knows something?” Hutch queried, finishing off his container of pork.

“He might.”

“What about those other turkeys Armstrong hung out with?”

“Well, there’s Tim Drew, the bass player. He’s been hauled in for a couple of drunk and disorderlies, slugged a cop once and spent a couple weeks in jail…not really huge stuff. His financial picture is pretty good, from what information I could get.”

“Drugs?”

“A pot bust in ’78, but nothing since then. The other guys are cleaner than that. They aren’t a group with a real bad reputation. Armstrong has a few drunk and disorderlies, and a statutory rape charge pending against him in Texas. The others don’t have anything pending, and the worst were a few hotel fights back at the time Eric was hauled in for the drunk and disorderly charges. Their real wild days seem to be over.”

“They’re over now, anyway.”

“Well, if it’s not the girlfriend, and it’s not Eric, who out of this group would be a possible?”

“Anybody’s possible, but I’m not seeing it. There’s something big missing out of the puzzle, Starsk.”

“Yeah, probably.” Starsky chased his mouthful with the last of gulp of his Coca-Cola. “Armstrong has an ex-wife and kid.”

“Ex-wife, huh? Maybe we should go after that angle next.”

“A woman couldn’t have done this.”

“I agree, but if she thought there was something to gain—if she didn’t know Armstrong was broke, and the kid’s in his will, and his ex has somebody new…maybe she’s in on it with someone. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“True. I’ve gotta get a hold of his lawyer tomorrow and get my hands on a copy of that will. That might be fun.”

“Murdered for his money and there isn’t any? I can appreciate the irony…” Hutch leaned back in his chair, the whisper of an evil grin on his face.

“Well, whadd’ya say we call it a night? Everything I go to do, the offices are closed by now anyway.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot—you’re the paperwork guy this time,” Hutch reminded, sneering just a little, thinking of the times Starsky had sloughed the paperwork off on him.

“You’ll be laughing out of the other side of your face when I pass that physical.”

“So when is that supposed to happen?”

“I see the department doctor next week. I’m going in to see my doctor…oh, damn it, I’m supposed to go in the morning.” Starsky flipped a page on the desk calendar. “I thought it was the day after tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with tomorrow?”

“I guess I wanted more time to get mentally prepared. I called in to get an appointment after Dobey let us on the case, and she worked me in for tomorrow morning.”

“You could be getting good news, buddy.”

“I know. But he could take one look at me and tell me to forget it, too.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’m really scared about this, Hutch. There’s so much riding on it…coming back on the force, this case…us being partners. I really don’t want to lose all this now that I know it’s what I want.”

“The only thing working yourself up over this is going to do is make your blood pressure look high.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, pal,” Starsky snickered a little.

“Seriously, think positively. You’re feeling okay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I feel good. I’m working out longer at the gym, my stamina’s better.”

“Not 100% yet though, right?”

“Right.”

“‘Course they let guys on the street who are in a lot worse shape than you ever thought of being.”

“Because nothing’s happened to challenge them. They’re going to be going over me with a fine-tooth comb.”

“I think we oughtta get out of here so you can go home and get a good night’s sleep. You want some company to go to the doctor’s tomorrow?”

“I’d like some company to watch some TV tonight, too, if you’re free.”

“You have to ask?”

“I thought maybe you’d want to work out things with Linda.”

“You know any other good jokes, partner?” Hutch laughed a little, shaking his head. “I think you and I both know we both made choices this morning. Me with Linda and you with Rhiana.”

“You made a choice. I forgot Rhiana, for pete’s sake. Left her sitting in the hall.”

“I think we have to concentrate on these doctors’ appointments and this case right now. If Rhiana really cares about you, she’ll come around. We had a lot on our minds this morning.”

“True. Let’s head home,” Starsky suggested, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and leading the way.

PART THREE

“It took all the strength I had
Not to fall apart,
Just trying hard to mend the pieces
Of my broken heart,
But then I spent so many nights
Thinkin’ how you did me wrong,
And I grew strong,
And I learned how to get along…”

— “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor
Words & Music by Fekaris & Perren

The next morning’s wait in the doctor’s office was nothing out of the ordinary. It is rare to actually go in at one’s appointment time, so it should have been routine to Starsky to sit and flip through magazines and make small talk with his partner for the better part of an hour. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been there before, waited sometimes as long as two hours if things were backed up. But today was different, and every moment seemed to drag painfully. He was glad to have Hutch there for moral support, but talking with another person became more of a strain than his nerves would handle. He finally lapsed into a jittery silence which he knew his partner would understand. When the nurse finally called his name, Hutch only made one quiet remark.

“Remember, whichever way this goes, we’ll be okay.”

“Thanks.” Starsky smiled slightly and followed the nurse.

Hutch resumed reading his article, which he had been working on finishing for the past hour. Considering it was only two pages long, it was safe to say he was as nervous as Starsky. He finally tossed the magazine aside and just sat there and waited. The casual reading act had been for his shaky partner’s benefit, and now he could luxuriate in a full blown attack of stress. They finally had their heads on straight again, knew what they wanted, and it could all be blown out of the water in one word from the doctor. Starsky had been doing very well with his rehabilitation. He was in good shape physically, and the physical therapist had been quite positive about his achievements in the relatively short span of time since being released from the hospital. Maybe all this panic was useless…a waste of stomach acids, Hutch thought as he felt his breakfast churning again.

A half hour passed like an eternity. And then Hutch barely caught sight of Starsky as he raced through the waiting room and out to the parking lot. Instinctively Hutch leapt to his feet and followed him, but he was too late to catch either Starsky or the Torino as it roared out of the lot onto the street.

With no car, Hutch stormed angrily back into the office to call a taxi. He had to get home, get his car, and go looking for Starsky. All manner of possibilities ran through his mind, but the most obvious one was that the verdict had been the one they had feared and dreaded and tried to tell themselves wouldn’t happen. What could Starsky be thinking, and were would he go? How in hell could he even be responsible behind the wheel with what must be going through his head right now?

Setting out in the LTD, Hutch stopped first at his friend’s apartment, which he found empty, and then started out for any familiar haunts that came to mind. Huggy’s and a couple of greasy little restaurants yielded nothing, the park was a total zero, and the beach wasn’t even an option. There was no way Starsky would be wandering around amidst the din and merriment of summer beach-goers. That left only one other place Hutch could think of—a quiet spot on a hillside road that overlooked a ravine, where Starsky seemed to like to go and think, or take the occasional special lady. Desperate for any lead as the morning grew old, he drove toward the spot determinedly.

He almost didn’t see the solitary figure sitting on the edge of the bluff over the ravine. There was no sign of the Torino anywhere. He pulled up near the spot where his partner sat, and got out of his car. He just stared at Starsky for a minute, noticing that the other man had made no acknowledgment of even hearing the sound of a car pulling up behind him.

“Starsk?” Hutch hesitantly took a seat on the edge with his friend. “Starsky?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he responded, staring straight ahead.

“Not good news, eh?”

“‘Bout the worst it could be.”

“How’d you get here? Where’s the car?”

“Down there.” Starsky nodded toward the valley below, and Hutch saw the crumpled mass of red and white metal on its side.

“Dear God, what happened? Are you all right?” Hutch was just focusing now on the dirt on Starsky’s red shirt, the dust in his hair and the scrape that had bloodied his knee and torn his jeans.

“I came out here to think…but when I started to pull over, and I saw the edge, I stepped on the accelerator instead of the brakes.”

“You were upset, distracted…”

“I wasn’t distracted, Hutch. I put the pedal to the metal on purpose. I wanted to fly right off the edge. Changed my mind at the last minute…thought I was too late…it was kinda like James Dean, ya know? Remember ‘Rebel Without A Cause’? The race scene? James Dean gets out of his car but the other guy goes over the side? Well, I got out just before it went over.”

“You tried to kill yourself?” Hutch felt his chest constrict at the concept.

“If I’d followed through on tryin’, I wouldn’t be here, pal.”

“Tell me what happened,” he responded, resolving to stay calm.

“The long and short of it is the doctor told me if the department offers me a desk job I should take it because I’ll never be fit to work any job that demands any significant level of physical exertion.” Starsky’s gaze remained fixed on the open space in front of him.

“He said it that way?”

“Those were more or less his exact words. When I bolted out of that office, I wanted to self-destruct.” Starsky stared down at the mess that used to be his car. “At that last minute, I couldn’t do it.”

“Thank God. But why not, pal? What changed your mind?” Hutch asked gently.

“I remembered what it felt like when I found you under your car at the bottom of that ravine a few years ago, and I couldn’t do that to you. That made me jump out of the car. Since I’ve been sittin’ here, a lot of things have gone through my mind. My mother…the case—I won’t work a desk job, Hutch. Not after this case is finished. But we owe something to Eric…it’s unfinished business.”

“When I think about how close you came…”

“Don’t think about it. If the car wasn’t down there I wouldn’ta told ya at all because it doesn’t do any good. You’re just gonna worry yourself to death that I’m going to jump off the next bridge we cross. I won’t. I looked death in the face and I didn’t want it. But I don’t wanna live right now either. And it hurts so bad I can’t even cry or scream or throw things…I’ve just been sitting here…letting it…throb inside me.” Starsky turned to face his partner. “We almost had it all again, Hutch. Now it’s all gone…down there with the car.”

“We’re still here. We’ve still got the music. We’ll finish this case and then we’ll go back to what we started. You know what the Stones said— ‘you can’t always get what you want’—and then something, something, but ‘you can get what you need.'”

“Something, something?” Starsky grinned a little.

“I don’t remember all the words, okay. But you know what I’m driving at.” Hutch stared out at the open space in front of him. The gravity of this situation baffled even his deepest thinking capabilities. He was so shocked by Starsky’s short-lived suicide attempt that he found himself at a loss for anything profound or meaningful to say. “Maybe the department’s doctor will have a different opinion.”

“Nah. My doctor would’ve been the easy one. He was always real upbeat about my recovery. The department’s doctor isn’t going to go against the recommendation of a specialist who’s been treating me for months. I’m dead in the water, pal. It’s over.”

“I don’t know what to say, buddy. I want to make this better for you somehow,” Hutch said honestly, putting an arm around his partner. Starsky leaned against him, resting his head on Hutch’s shoulder.

“I’ve gotta tell Dobey.”

“We’ve gotta tell Dobey. Me and thee, remember?” He squeezed Starsky’s shoulder a little. “We’ll be okay. We made it past the big obstacle—twice, thanks to that stupid stunt you pulled a few minutes ago. You survived. We survived.”

“Well,” Starsky straightened up, “guess I better go home and change my clothes. Can’t go in lookin’ like this.”

“You need some time to pull yourself together before we go back into the station? We could go somewhere—”

“We’ve got a murder investigation just starting, and Eric’s depending on us to get to the bottom of this mess. As much as I’d like to, I can’t seem to fall apart. It’s like when a cut is so deep it won’t bleed? ‘Course when it does, it can hemorrhage and kill you. I don’t know when my hemorrhage is gonna come over this, but it ain’t now.”

“Did he give you any specific reasons why you couldn’t go back?”

“He said something about the EKG results showing that my heart wasn’t strong enough to sustain me through prolonged, extreme physical exertion like I might get into with a foot chase, or a lot of climbing. At the gym, I’d only push myself to a point, but I wasn’t chasing anybody, so when my heart rate got as high as I was comfortable with, I stopped. But you can’t do that on the street. He said it looks like the cardiac arrest did some permanent damage. He also said he didn’t expect my lung or my liver, where a lot of the original repair work was done, would be salvageable following some other severe trauma. Nice, clinical, tidy little explanation that translates into ‘you’re a cream puff.'”

“A cream puff would have died on the ground next to the Torino that day. If you weren’t such a tough, stubborn bastard you’d be dead now.”

“Sure. That all sounds good, but all I really need now to make the picture complete is the lap robe and the rocker.”

“I really am sorry, buddy.”

“I know you are. Give me a ride back to my place?”

“You got it. How about I give Merl a call to send somebody out to fish that out of the pit?” Hutch indicated the Torino.

“Whatever. It’s totaled anyway.”

“You don’t sound upset about that.”

“It’s minor compared to everything else. Ever since I got shot I kinda hated that car anyway…and now it would just be a worse reminder of what used to be. To hell with it. Leave it there to rot.” Starsky stalked off toward the LTD and got in the passenger side before Hutch could say anything else. They rode to Starsky’s apartment in silence.

Hutch waited in the living room while his partner showered and changed his clothes. Starsky committing suicide. The thought nagged and tormented Hutch’s mind. If he hadn’t changed his mind, or the door had jammed, or he had realized too late that he didn’t want to die…and a damn doctor with all the finesse of a wrecking ball. With one or two phrases you shatter a man’s whole life, and it’s all in a day’s work. “If the department offers you a desk job you better take it, because you aren’t fit to do anything else.” Well, maybe it wasn’t said that cruelly, but Starsky was no liar and he wasn’t in the habit of misquoting people, so it must have been pretty close. Starsky didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to live either…where does that leave you? Hutch queried.

“Ready?” Starsky asked, emerging from the bedroom in clean clothes.

“Starsk,” Hutch began, standing up. “Promise me you won’t ever try anything like you did this morning. Not ever again.”

“I’m not going to kill myself, Hutch.”

“Promise me. I want you to say it, because I know you’ve never broken a promise to me, no matter how impossible it seemed to keep it.” Hutch watched as Starsky’s expression softened greatly.

“I promise,” he replied with a slight smile.

“Good. Now I’m ready to go.”

* * * *

It seemed to Starsky that the desks loomed at him like fanged monsters as they made their way through the building to their own work area. Desk duty. Fat old cops with beer bellies and bald spots who either “took one in the back” or “the old ticker went bad,” boring younger detectives with tales of past glory days. Suddenly he saw a portly version of himself eating a beef burrito and explaining to some new guy how he used to kick some serious butt on the streets until Gunther took him out of the game…nope, won’t happen, he vowed. I’ll quit before I’ll do that.

“You ready to face Dobey?” Hutch asked as they reached their desks.

“Won’t get any easier.” Starsky led the way to knock on their superior’s door.

“Come in,” a voice barked from the other side. Starsky pushed the door open, and when he and Hutch were inside, and the door was closed again, it seemed like his throat constricted. “Well, what’s the verdict?” Dobey asked, appearing to assume that it was a good one.

“I’m all done.” Starsky sunk into one of the chairs, and Hutch took the one next to him.

“Meaning what?” Dobey probed.

“The doctor told me all I could ever handle would be a desk job because my heart won’t take the possible exertion of street action and my lung and liver will never survive another trauma.” Starsky could feel a little emotional blood seeping out of the wound now, but he made up his mind his ultimate explosion would not take place in his captain’s office.

“Dear God.” Dobey slumped back in his chair, as if reacting to a verbal bullet. “That wasn’t what we expected.”

“I know I’m not 100% yet, but I’ve felt so much better, and I thought my stamina was coming back…guess I was wrong.”

“Well, you still have to see Dr. Schneider next Tuesday.”

“Starsky was right about one thing,” Hutch spoke up. “Schneider isn’t going to go against the recommendation of Starsky’s doctor. The man’s one of the best in his field, and I doubt the department’s physician is going to go against him.”

“We’ll see. Meantime, it’s not official yet.” Dobey looked at Starsky, wishing he could find some small encouragement to offer him, but this little refusal to give in until after the final medical opinion was garnered was the best show of support he knew how to give. “Don’t you two have some work to do on this case?”

“Plenty of it,” Hutch responded, standing. Starsky followed suit, and the two of them left the office without further comment.

“He doesn’t want to accept defeat,” Starsky concluded, sitting at his desk , looking over his list of calls and paperwork assignments. There was plenty of desk work to this case.

“Give me half of those and let’s rip through ’em so we can go talk to some folks.” Hutch reached across toward Starsky, who unceremoniously ripped the list in half and handed part of it to his partner. The activities they were engaging in now would provide them with another sea of paper to swim through by that evening.

* * * *

By mid-afternoon, they set out to visit Misty Armstrong, Matt’s ex-wife and mother of his two-year-old son, Wesley. A call to Eric had given them a little fast and dirty background information on the situation. Misty was a groupie who had traveled with the band for the better part of a year, wound up marrying Matt, and then having the baby. Their marriage had been rocky at best, and there had been some question as to whether either one of them would be a fit parent for the child. Eventually traditional wisdom prevailed, and the mother won, though there was some suspicion she had a significant cocaine habit.

She was looking a bit the worse for wear when the detectives arrived, lounging by the pool in an expensive one floor contemporary house. She had wrung a pretty settlement out of her famous ex, and she appeared to be enjoying it to the fullest. She might have even been pretty prior to too many drugs and too much booze. Her frizzy blonde hair contrasted with a tan that verged on leathery, and she was nursing a bottle of vodka to a certain death when she greeted the visitors her housekeeper led to the poolside.

“Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson,” Hutch flashed his ID and made the introduction. “We’re investigating the murder of your ex-husband, Matthew Armstrong.”

“Sit down,” she waved a lazy hand toward a couple of patio chairs nearby. “So you’re trying to find out who killed Matt? Bet you’ve got a lot of possibilities.”

“Meaning what?” Starsky probed.

“Meaning he was a creep. To know him was to want to kill him.”

“You had a hostile relationship following your divorce?” Hutch asked.

“Ooh, you’re a sharp one. No wonder you made detective.” She took another gulp of her drink. “He tried to get Wes away from me, but I kicked his ass in court. He was cheating on me a few weeks after we got married, and my lawyer proved it, so here I am.” she made a grand gesture at her surroundings with her hand. “He really fed me a line of crap—he was gonna love me forever, not even see all those other women…yeah, right.”

“Where were you—”

“The night he was killed?” She cut off Hutch’s question, and there was a laugh in her voice as she continued. “I was in the sack with my boyfriend. Trust me, he can back me up on that.”

“And your boyfriend is?” Starsky had his pen poised on his notepad.

“Buck Dunston.”

“Come again?” Hutch thought the name was a bad joke, but she repeated, and spelled it, as Starsky took it down with a slight quiver of the corners of his mouth.

“How long have you known this Buck Dunston?” Starsky asked.

“About six months or so.”

“Wesley is the sole beneficiary of most of your husband’s life insurance, and is the most significant heir in his will. Were you aware of that?” Hutch probed, thinking back on the estate information they had garnered that day from Armstrong’s lawyer.

“No shit?” She shook her head and laughed. “Hell, I got most of his money from the divorce. Guess Wes’ll get whatever’s left. How much?”

“I’m sure the lawyer will be in touch with you,” Starsky replied. “Were you aware your husband was having financial problems?”

“That’s the second time one of you has called him my husband. We’re divorced, remember?”

“Sorry,” Starsky apologized without the slightest sincerity. “Were you—”

“I heard you the first time. I didn’t know what his set up was exactly, though my lawyer keeps a pretty good eye on him. I know he shoots most of his money in his arm or snorts it up his nose or smokes it, so I’m not surprised.”

“But you never shared his drug habit?” Hutch asked.

“There’s something about a 5th Amendment…no comment,” she responded, looking triumphant, as if she had managed a major strategic coup. “He gambled too, did you know that? Got hooked on it in Vegas, and he was into some leg-breaker for I-don’t-know-how-much. Started whining to me how he couldn’t make his alimony payments…asshole.”

“Well, he won’t be making ’em anymore,” Starsky retorted, flipping his notebook shut. The thought seemed to be a new one to her. “His estate’s close to broke, and what’s there goes to the boy…something about trust funds supervised by the lawyer… Well, I can’t remember exactly.” Starsky left the implication of poverty hanging in the air, and she was sufficiently unsettled.

“Well, we appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Armstrong. Oh—and where could we get a hold of Mr. Dunston—to corroborate your alibi?” Hutch asked innocently.

“He’s not here right now, but he lives here. Should be back tomorrow. He’s a sound man.”

“We’ll be in touch then,” Hutch concluded, leading the way off the property.

“Suddenly I feel sorry for Armstrong,” Starsky commented as he got in the car.

“Kind of a gutter-variety Vanessa,” Hutch responded.

“Well, who’s next?” Starsky looked at his list.

“I’d like to know who the leg breaker was he was into. Eric never mentioned that.” Hutch started up the car on the second try. No snippy remarks from Starsky about the laboring engine. “We gotta find you another car, partner.”

“I s’pose,” Starsky responded absent-mindedly, staring out the window. It seemed like the doctor’s verdict had sent his state of mind back to what it was when he was first released from the hospital: quiet, depressed and withdrawn.

“Think there’s any point in asking Eric about the loan shark?”

“I think we’re relying on the state’s key suspect for all our leads, and even though I firmly believe he’s innocent, that’s not solid police work. I think we ought to track down the rest of the band, see what they have to say.”

“How about Tim Drew?”

“The one that got hauled in for punching out a cop? That could be fun,” Starsky responded, grinning a little.

* * * *

The Drew estate was unusually elegant and tasteful, considering the young and somewhat wild inhabitant. They identified themselves to a security guard at the gate, and were flagged through electronic gates. The sprawling Tudor-style mansion was highlighted by an elaborate fountain opposite the main entrance. This guy had taste, if nothing else. A Jaguar and a Lamborghini were parked in the circular drive.

The strains of electric guitar-generated live music was wafting on the summer breeze…and it was pretty good. A little melancholy, perhaps, but technically brilliant. The two detectives looked at each other, shrugging in agreement that this wasn’t a bad way to live.

“Gosh, Starsk, it’d be a shame if giving up this job meant we wound up living like this, wouldn’t it?” Hutch queried. He feared at first that a reference to their job situation would be too painful for his partner, but Starsky smiled back and responded by stopping to peer in the window of the Lamborghini. A voice startled him back to an upright position, and Hutch moved to join him where he stood, faced by an honest-to-God black-clad butler.

“The guard at the gate informed me you wish to speak to Mr. Drew?” He was a tall, imposing figure with a thick mop of white hair carefully styled.

“I’m Detective Starsky, this is my partner, Detective Hutchinson, LAPD. We need to speak to Mr. Drew regarding the murder of Matthew Armstrong.”

“It’s okay, Wells, I’ll take it from here,” a voice called from the shadows of the entry hall.

“Very well, sir.” The butler disappeared, and a tall man with a shaggy mane of reddish-brown hair replaced him. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, Tim Drew was a wild contrast to his employee.

“Come on in, guys. I’ve got some food out back on the patio. We’re working on a song for Matt’s funeral.” He extended a hand and smiled. “I’m Tim Drew, by the way. I already heard your names—which is which?”

“I’m Starsky, he’s Hutch,” Starsky responded, not quite sure why he liked this guy. There was just something unusually friendly in his demeanor, much like Eric.

“Okay, Starsky and Hutch, follow me.” He led the way through a large entry hall, past an elaborate open staircase, and out a set of patio doors. Another musician was generating the music they had heard when they pulled up. Tim made a throat-cutting gesture to his companion, who ceased playing and set the instrument aside. Also dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, the shorter of the two men had long blond hair and a mustache, and a less personable demeanor. He took a long drink out of a can of beer before approaching the group for introductions. “Mick, this is Starsky and this one’s Hutch. They’re cops—about Matt’s case.”

“So whadd’you want from us?” A cloud of beer breath enveloped them.

“Well, we’d like to ask you a few questions about Matt’s life. We have to understand that before we have a clear picture of why someone wanted him dead.” Starsky waited for the effect of his explanation. Mick stared for a long moment, as if he were processing the information through a booze cloud.

“Eric March offed him…what’re you trying to prove?” Mick returned to his chair near the pool.

“You wanna sit down?” Tim asked. “There’s cheese and crackers and beer on the table. Dig in. My cook thinks she’s gotta make a tray for twenty every time I have a snack.” Tim led the way, piling a small plate from the large tray, and plopped in a chaise lounge. Figuring they had at least one friendly prospect from whom to draw information, and having missed lunch, both detectives took him up on the food, but passed on the beer. “Oh, shit, you guys are on duty. Wells!” he bellowed in the general direction of the house.

“That’s not necessary,” Hutch interrupted.

“It’s hot out here,” Tim protested. “Hey, Wells, these guys need something dull to drink. How about a couple Cokes?” The butler nodded, a little chagrined, and returned to the interior of the house. “So what can we tell you?”

“Do you think Eric killed Matt?” Starsky asked.

“Hey, you’re the guys who are in Eric’s new project. I knew the Starsky and Hutch part sounded familiar.”

“I think he did,” Mick spoke up from his slouched position in a patio chair.

“Why?” Hutch probed.

“He was there, he had blood all over him, and they were at each other’s throats right before. Eric wasn’t too happy about getting knocked on his ass when he had that fight with Matt.”

“Did he fight back?” Starsky asked.

“He started, but we broke it up before he got a swing in. I s’pose fair woulda been to let him have his shot and then break it up, but before they killed each other…guess he just waited for a better chance.”

The Cokes were served and the butler slipped back inside the house.

“Why would he kill Matt? What would be the motive?” Hutch asked.

“There wouldn’t be one,” Tim spoke up. “Eric loved Matt. He was mad as hell at him, but he loved him. They were like brothers. They could be fighting like crazy, and if anybody attacked one of them, the other one would stick up for him. Eric couldn’t have done it. He’s getting fucked by the system because he’s in this business.”

“You think he’s guilty?” Starsky continued to probe Mick. “Why?”

“I told you.”

“That’s old news.” Starsky took a drink of his Coke and ate another piece of cheese. “Everybody’s heard the DA’s party line. I wanna know why you think he did it.”

“If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a freaking duck. He had the blood on his hands, and he’s got no alibi, and before he left the studio that day they had their big blow up? He told Matt it wasn’t over, and he’d pay him back.”

“If we assumed for a minute that Eric didn’t do it, is there anybody else who would have a motive you know of?” Starsky asked Tim, who shook his head through a swallow of beer.

“Not any one specific person. Matt was a pain in the ass, and most people didn’t like him. He was heavy into drugs…I remember what he was like before, and he had enormous talent, and I suppose that’s why it hurts like hell that he’s dead. We used to be real good friends.”

“Misty told us he had some heavy debts—that he gambled,” Hutch stated. Tim shrugged.

“Oh, he gambled. We all did when we stopped in Vegas. I was ready to mortgage the family jewels to keep playing Roulette myself,” he remembered with a snicker. “But, yeah, Matt kept it up and I know he was running short on money. ‘Course that bitch he was married to got most of it.”

“Did you know of anyone who was loaning him money—either of you?” Hutch probed.

“Nobody but an idiot would loan him anything,” Tim replied with a laugh. “He maxed out his credit cards, ran through his money like there was no tomorrow, and he never could balance his checkbook. I loved the guy, but he was a flake when it came to money. Mismanaged the hell out of it, and what he didn’t gamble or spend or give to Misty, his accountants probably stole, ’cause I swear he wouldn’t know the difference.”

“Matt said he took out a loan,” Mick spoke up. “He told me a couple of months before he died that he was going broke—bankrupt. I told him to see a friend of mine who gave out high interest loans.”

“A legit friend?” Starsky prodded.

“Sort of. You didn’t get this from me. T.L. Marcovitz is his name. He’s got a really cool car dealership just outside of Beverly Hills, all the hot foreign models…he sometimes loans money for about 25% interest to guys who need it quick and without credit checks. I borrowed a little myself to get out of a sticky situation with this girl in—anyway, I told Matt about him, so I figure that’s where he got the loan.”

“What’s the name of the dealership?” Hutch asked, ready to jot it down.

“Wheels,” Mick replied. “Look, I think Eric did it. I just didn’t want to not be straight with the cops.”

“We appreciate that, Mick,” Starsky responded.

“Say, you guys finished a demo together, didn’t you?” Tim asked.

“That we did,” Hutch answered, with a slight smile.

“I’ve got some acoustic guitars in the house—wanna jam?”

“Thanks, but we really should get going.” Starsky smiled as he stood up, and Hutch followed suit. “Hey—Mick—was that you playing before we came out here?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re good, man. Real good.”

“Thanks. We’re trying to come up with something real special for Matt’s funeral. Hard job…writing a song for a friend’s funeral. It sucks.”

“No argument to that,” Hutch answered, thinking how close he came to making funeral arrangements that very day. “I’m sorry to ask this, but it’s routine, you understand—”

“Where were we when Matt was killed?” Tim anticipated. “I was at a lady’s apartment in Malibu—I can get you her name and number. Mick?”

“I was home, with my wife. We were asleep, but I didn’t go out or anything.”

“Thanks,” Hutch jotted down the responses. “The lady’s name?”

“Jamie Henderson. She’s a secretary at our record company—Goldmine. You can get a hold of her there during business hours.”

“That’ll do,” Hutch concluded.

“Thanks for the refreshments,” Starsky said to Tim. “This is quite a place.”

“Thanks. I’ll walk you out. I had the house built—patterned after one I saw in England on one of our tours about five years ago. That fountain was moved from an old estate just outside London,” Tim explained as they arrived back at the front of the house.

“Exceptional,” Hutch moved closer to get a better look at it.

“If you need any more info from us, feel free to call or stop by. Mick’s real wiped out about Matt…I am too. We might fight a little but we were a pretty close group.”

“There’s one more band member—”

“Adam Kelly,” Tim responded, cutting off Starsky’s probe. “He’s in New York—his dad’s been real sick, so he wasn’t even in town when Matt died. He’ll be back for the funeral in a few days. Whenever you guys release the body to Matt’s family.”

“I could ask the M.E. and give you a call,” Starsky volunteered.

“Thanks, man. Just seems like he deserved to get buried pretty soon.”

“You’re right. Thanks for your time,” Hutch led the way toward the LTD.

“Quite a car you got there, detective,” Tim teased, leaning on his Jag.

“Hey, we’re not famous yet,” Starsky responded with a grin.

“Tell Eric I said ‘keep the faith,’ okay?”

“Will do.” Starsky joined Hutch in the car and they made their way back down the long driveway.

“If you hadn’t made fun of Belle until I felt like I had to get rid of her, we might not have been so embarrassed driving in here,” Hutch chided Starsky bitterly, referring to the compact convertible he had owned briefly following the destruction of his previous LTD. He had purposely chosen this horrid-looking grey sedan, which bore sores of rust down both sides to get revenge on his partner for ridiculing the little car which he himself had to admit was too small and not very practical…of course that admission had never been vocalized to Starsky.

“I wouldn’ta been riding in that car up anybody’s driveway, pal. I’ve seen three-year-olds riding down the sidewalk in cars bigger than that one.” Starsky’s teasing brought a grin only marginally visible under Hutch’s mustache. Mission accomplished. He had his partner bantering about something as trivial as a car after feeling suicidal a few hours earlier.

“Where to? Wheels?” Hutch asked.

“Wheels,” Starsky agreed.

* * * *

The Beverly Hills car dealership was all it should have been. Three posh showrooms displayed cars which often boasted six-figure price tags, and expensively-dressed salesmen made their presence subtly felt. As Starsky made a careful inspection of the leather upholstery on a Mercedes convertible, a light-suited man approached them.

“May I be of service?”

“We need to speak to Mr. Marcovitz.” Hutch flashed his ID.

“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting at the moment. May I refer you to his secretary for an appointment, gentlemen?”

“No, but you can get him out of his meeting,” Starsky responded. “We have a few questions about one of his clients. It would be in his best interest to cooperate at this point.”

“Please have a seat in the lobby. I’ll tell Mr. Marcovitz you’re here.” He turned and headed for the back of the building.

“I was thinkin’,” Starsky began, sinking into a white leather couch, “about takin’ that guy out in the old beat up used Caddy to find out where Fifth Avenue was—remember that? Man, I’d love to do that with that Mercedes over there.”

“Can you picture this guy sitting still while I drove us into a pile of crates?”

“Maybe we can try that on Marcovitz if he won’t cooperate,” Starsky suggested with a devilish grin.

A tall man in a light blue three-piece suit approached them. His receding grey hair matched his mustache. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties.

“You gentlemen are police? T.L. Marcovitz.” He extended his hand as both detectives stood, and each shook hands.

“I’m Detective Hutchinson, this is my partner, Detective Starsky. We’d like to ask you a few questions about a client of yours, Matthew Armstrong.”

“Armstrong…” he muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Isn’t that the singer that was recently murdered?”

“One in the same,” Starsky retorted.

“Mr. Armstrong took out a loan from me,” he stated, shocking both detectives with his candor. “It was all very legal, I assure you. You would be most welcome to review the terms of the agreement if you like. I have a signed document on file in my office.”

“You’re in the banking business?” Hutch probed.

“Not really. Occasionally I will make personal loans to individuals referred to me by other clients who appear to be good credit risks. They provide me with some type of collateral, an agreement is signed, and installment payments begin. Please, allow me to show you,” he said, gesturing toward his office, which was apparently located at the back of the building.

“You see,” he continued as they walked toward the office, “part of our service here at Wheels is providing a very liberal financing program for individuals who wish to…reach a bit for their new vehicle. Any loans I make are written along similar guidelines, the only difference being that they receive cash instead of a vehicle.” He opened a glass door and waited while the detectives passed through it into a poshly appointed waiting area, and not pausing at his secretary’s desk, led them into his own inner office.

“Of course, this is hardly a business for me. I am not in the habit of making large numbers of loans. I only do it as favors to personal acquaintances. Being my liquid assets are tied up, you can certainly understand it is necessary for me to require some interest.” He waved a hand toward a pair of leather chairs across from his desk. Everything was white leather and chrome and glass, the white carpeting almost like fur and thickly padded from beneath. They sat as invited, and waited while he pulled a number of manila folders from a file cabinet. “This is Mr. Armstrong’s agreement. There are a few others here if you’re interested. I have only about four loans actively out now. As I said, this is more a favor for friends than a business.”

“$1 million? Hell of a favor.” Starsky handed the folder to Hutch. “I see you only require 10% interest. Quite reasonable.”

“On large sums such as Mr. Armstrong’s, it is adequate to offset any loss I might experience by not having the money invested, at least for the most part.”

“Payment record here looks pretty spotty.” Hutch looked up. “What are your collection procedures?”

“If you’re implying I send out thugs to beat it out of my clients, I assure you I do not. Fortunately I am not faced with many defaults. Mr. Armstrong had fallen on some hard times…I was told later he had a propensity for gambling.” Marcovitz sat behind his desk. “I was planning to initiate legal action against him soon.”

“We appreciate your openness, Mr. Marcovitz,” Hutch concluded, handing the man his pile of folders across the desk and standing.

“I don’t have anything to hide from the authorities. It was no trouble. Now, I really should get back to my meeting.”

“Of course. Thank you again.” Hutch led the way out the door Marcovitz opened.

“Deanne will show you out, gentlemen. Best of luck with your investigation.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Starsky responded as the man left the room.

“Right this way.” Deanne, a tall brunette in a light business suit, stood and led them back the way they had come.

When she had returned to her office and they were standing just outside the doors of the building, Starsky’s attention was caught by a flash of red hair in a white Porsche convertible that made a hasty turn into the lot and pulled up in front of the showroom window. Rhiana jumped out, not having spotted them yet, and headed toward the door. He noticed a hesitation in her step when she saw him, but she recovered quickly.

“Rhiana, I’m so sorry about—”

“Save it, Detective.” She tried to push past him but he grasped her by both shoulders and pulled her back.

“Just hang on a minute.”

“I’ll wait in the car,” Hutch offered, hurrying to give his partner some privacy to settle what was obviously to be a significant problem with his new girlfriend.

“Rhiana, look, I’m so sorry for the way I acted at the precinct. I had no right to ignore you that way. I didn’t really mean to—we were so intent on getting the case, helping Eric…and it was pretty intense for me to be back there again after all this time. I just messed up, and I’m really sorry. Can you forgive me?”

“You’re a cop again?”

“Well, yes, but not—” he was going to explain what had happened with the doctor, but she cut him off.

“Look, what happened between us was a big mistake on my part. I was mistaking the rush of the project for something else.”

“What are you saying?” Starsky certainly was getting the point of her words, but he didn’t want to accept the meaning of them.

“It was a heat of the moment thing, Dave. Nothing more. And let me tell you the reason I didn’t want anything more than friendship from you before: look at me, look at this,” she said, gesturing toward her car and the dealership. “This is the kind of world I live in, and I thought you wanted to be a part of that—”

“I still want to be a part of your world. What difference does it make what I do for a living?” Starsky knew the answer, but again, he didn’t want to accept it, and so made her spell it out.

“Get real, Dave. Do I strike you as the type of woman who wants a station wagon, a house in the suburbs, kids and a bunch of belching cops lying around my living room watching Monday Night Football? I thought you were headed somewhere, and I thought you were an artiste at heart. I saw you and Hutch click into your ‘cop mode’ at the station. No one and nothing mattered except your cryptic little communications with each other, and whether or not you could get some other detectives bounced off the case. You make me sick.” She turned back toward her car.

“Rhi, please, don’t do this,” he pleaded with her, keeping pace with her brisk walk back to the car. “What we said to each other…at the apartment…it had to mean more to you than what kind of job I do.”

“Just because you showed me your scars doesn’t mean I have to marry you.” She got into the convertible and slammed the door.

“I love you,” he said helplessly, not wanting to say it or feel it, and too wounded by what she had said to be as angry as he knew he should have been.

“Get a little dignity, Dave. Don’t beg. It doesn’t flatter you.” She started the engine.

“Rhiana, you can’t be this angry with me because of what happened at the station.”

“Look, I don’t love you. I was infatuated with an image I created myself with a leather jacket and a pricey recording studio. That isn’t you, and quite frankly, you aren’t what I’m looking for. Now please get away from my car.” She gunned the engine and raced out of the lot, leaving him standing there in a daze.

The LTD pulled up closer to where he stood. Hutch. One person I can count on, he thought, the pain of what Rhiana had said, and the betrayal by the only person he had let that close to him since the shooting, being almost as intense as the bullets from Gunther’s hit men ripping through him. When he didn’t move from where he stood, Hutch finally got out of the car and walked over to him.

“Starsk? What happened?”

“I just got dumped.”

“She’s probably just angry. She’ll get over it.”

“She’s already over it, Hutch. She’s over me, that’s for damn sure. Can we get out of here, please? I don’t belong here,” he said with a catch in his voice. While Hutch didn’t understand the remark, he didn’t make an issue of it.

“Sure thing, partner.” Hutch squeezed his arm briefly as he passed him to go back to the driver’s side. Starsky climbed into the car and they rode in silence back to Starsky’s apartment. Hutch wasn’t sure of where to take his partner, but home seemed logical. Whatever happened, it had capped a day of horrors that had to be stopped. It was getting late, and it was time to set the investigation aside for a few hours to let Starsky recover a little from what the day had brought him.

Once inside the apartment, Starsky tossed his jacket on a chair and dropped into a corner seat of the couch. Hutch went to the refrigerator.

“Want a beer?” he asked his partner, who only shrugged in response. Not sure how to interpret that, he pulled out two bottles, opened them and joined Starsky on the couch, occupying the middle cushion. He wouldn’t have ordinarily plopped down so close to his friend, but it was the only thing he could think of to show some moral support. He handed Starsky one of the bottles.

“I really thought she loved me. She said she did. The morning Eric was arrested, we came up here, and we were on the couch, and one thing led to another. She wanted to see the scars,” Starsky explained, his voice trailing off a little. “I was real nervous about it…you’re the only person besides the medical people to see them. I didn’t know how a lady would react to it. She talked me into it, and she said all these really beautiful things about it—about how they all were symbols of some kind of healing…she said it better, but that was the gist of it.” Hutch watched a tear slide down his friend’s cheek slowly, and Starsky took a gulp of the beer. “She told me she loved me, I said I loved her—I did love her…God, even after what she said to me, I still do.”

“What happened today, buddy? What did she say?” Hutch asked softly.

“We would have probably been lovers if Eric hadn’t called right then…” Starsky rubbed his eyes with one hand and looked at Hutch. The infinite sadness in his face both moved and unnerved Hutch. Starsky had tried to drive off a cliff once that day, and that was before Rhiana took her shots at him. “She claims now she was never in love with me, only with what she created with ‘a leather jacket and a pricey recording studio.'” He made quote marks in the air with his fingers. “She more or less told me I wasn’t good enough as a cop, that I should take a look around at her world, and she said some stuff about not wanting a station wagon and belching cops in her living room…”

“What?” Hutch was trying to just let Starsky pour it all out, but he couldn’t help asking for clarification.

“She said all I could give her was a station wagon, kids, a house in the suburbs, and ‘belching cops in the living room watching Monday Night Football’…or something like that.” He paused, then looking away, said, “She told me that just because I showed her my scars she didn’t have to marry me.”

Hutch reeled at the cruelty of the remark, and having set the beer aside, Starsky leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Hutch watched a moment as his partner’s whole body trembled with sobs that seemed to emanate from the pit of his soul. Only after Terry died could Hutch remember seeing such complete devastation in his usually resilient partner. How many cruelties can life push on you in one day before you snap? Hutch wondered.

“Starsk, come on,” he put his arm around the other’s shoulders. “Come here.” He waited while his partner hesitated a little, and then turned to him, clinging to him tightly and crying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, buddy. I’m so sorry you had to get hurt like this. Damn it, you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve any more. You’re the last person who ever deserved to be hurt at all.” Hutch could feel tears stinging his own eyes.

After all the months of waiting and praying and watching and hovering and protecting his partner while he healed up from Gunther’s murder attempt, seeing him come alive again in the recording studio, but then so much more in working on this case…to see him crushed so mercilessly again was almost unbearable pain. In one day, he’d lost a career and a woman he loved, the first woman who had so deeply infiltrated his heart since Terry…and had been treated so heartlessly. If Starsky loved you, he was the most loyal, gentle, kind person in the world…God, how he didn’t deserve to be betrayed this way.

Hutch patted the shaking back gently. “I’m right here, buddy. I know it hurts…but we’ll get through all of it, one thing at a time. Nobody thought we’d come this far, but we fooled ’em all. Damn her.” Hutch couldn’t help the remark as he felt no lessening in his partner’s crying. “You’ve come too far to let her drag you down, buddy.”

“For what?” Starsky asked in a broken voice.

“For me.” He tightened his hold on his friend. “Because I don’t ever want to lose you. You hear me?” Starsky nodded a little. “Your life is precious to me, Starsk. I count on you—you know that. You’re my best friend…all the stuff I do, it’s no fun without you…well, okay, a few things I do are more fun without you,” Hutch paused when he heard a muffled chuckle from Starsky. “But even picking out that damn gray car wasn’t any fun until you started needling me about it.”

“I can’t be a cop anymore, Hutch. And I can’t go back in a recording studio again…ever,” Starsky emphasized the last word, a new little shudder of tears coming from it.

“So we’ll be unemployed for a while. Hell, after we’ve laughed in the face of death, I think we can handle job-hunting.” He detected a calming in his partner, and he continued. “Maybe we’ll even open that PI office after all. So what if we follow guys around who cheat on their wives? They probably deserve to get caught, and we can charge big hourly rates to sit and do what we do now—all night stake outs, except the client’ll pay for your burritos.”

Starsky laughed out loud that time, and straightened up, moving back a little from Hutch, stunned to see tears on his face as well. Kind of like looking in some sort of weird mirror, Starsky thought, a little smile lingering on his face.

“Hey, what’re you cryin’ about, Blondie? I’m the one who got dumped here.” Starsky looked away a moment. “I’m sorry flipped out like that. It’s just the doctor and Rhi…Rhiana, and it all just piled up. I guess I shoulda gone with my first instinct and kept my shirt on.”

“This has nothing to do with scars, Starsk. I know you love her, but she’s a shallow bitch who doesn’t deserve you. I know what I’m talking about. I was married to one, remember?”

“Not nice to speak ill of the dead, or so my mother says.”

“Your mother never met Vanessa. And if she met Rhiana, she’d probably chop her up in little pieces.”

“Yeah, probably.” Starsky had broken the embrace, but had stayed under one arm that rested around his shoulders. “This has been a real bad day, Hutch.” He paused. “The damn car didn’t even blow up.”

“What?”

“Well, when I made the stupid decision to head for the cliff at warp speed, I thought I’d rather go out in one big blaze of glory than rot away at a desk. When I saw the car hit bottom, I expected this big impressive explosion. The damn thing just fell on its side like a dead bug. I’da probably lived and just spent two more months in the hospital anyway. I swear to God, Hutch, there are some days you can’t get anything right.” Starsky had an ironic smirk on his face, and Hutch couldn’t help but smile at the horrid dark humor.

“At least you knew enough to bail out.”

“Yeah. Ruined a new pair of jeans too.”

“Like you said, pal, one of those days.” Hutch took another swig of his beer. “Starsk, we never thought all those wounds were going to heal from the shooting, and they did. This wound from Rhiana—it will too.”

“Oh I know that. This day has just been like a one-two punch. For a couple days I felt like I had my whole life back—not just part of it. I had my job back, a great lady in my life, I felt really good about things…it was just a big body blow. After Terry died, all this stuff with getting dumped or breaking up with girlfriends—it looked like a walk in the park. Nothing’ll ever be that hard again…well, almost nothing. You and Terry have been the two most important people in my life. Losing either one of you is big stuff…all the rest of it, I’ll get past it eventually. I’m just tired, ya know what I mean?”

“I sure do, buddy.”

“Thanks for always being there for me…you never let me down.” Starsky had been staring straight ahead when he said it, but he finally looked Hutch in the eyes. “I can always count on you.”

“Don’t you forget it either.” Hutch smiled and squeezed Starsky’s shoulder a little and then withdrew his arm. “Hey, you getting hungry at all?”

“I feel like I have a lead weight in my stomach. I don’t know if I can eat anything.”

“Not even something big and greasy and toxic at Pancho Villa’s?”

“You’re volunteering to go there?”

“I’ll even treat. Come on, partner. It’ll cheer us both up a little. Maybe we can even go see one of those God-awful movies you’re always trying to drag me to.”

“They’re running ‘Psycho’ at that little theater not too far from here.”

“If we get a move on, we can grab dinner and still make it for the show.” Hutch stood up. “Look, I know it’s like tossing a grain of sand into the ocean to expect dinner and a movie to fix everything that’s wrong, but there’s no law against us having a little fun once in awhile. We’ll get back on the case full tilt tomorrow.”

“Until Schneider sidelines me permanently.”

“Then you’re going to come down with the flu, take a week off, and ride around with me while I work on the case. Hell, we’ve snuck around worse restrictions in our lives. We’ll get around this. Go wash your face. You look like hell.”

“Thanks a lot.” Starsky stood up with a slight grin and disappeared into the bathroom.

* * * *

The spicy Mexican dinner and the movie did seem to have a positive effect on both of them. By the midpoint of the meal, they were recalling an old case they had worked on to bring down a crime boss named Amboy, and remembering their experience eating his caviar and sampling his expensive champagne made them both snicker. Of course, busting a prostitution ring working out of a funeral home was one of their more amusing experiences. Amboy was a dirtbag, but he was a colorful dirtbag.

“Remember Anton—the old guy we thought was killing the strippers?” Starsky asked, savoring a mouthful of a cheese enchilada drowned in hot sauce.

“Oh, yeah…the girls weren’t bad either.” Hutch chased a bite of tostada with some wine. “Remember playing that phone trick on Dobey?”

“‘Is this Starsky or Hutch?”‘ Starsky mimicked Dobey’s frustrated gruff tone. “Whatever happened to Anton anyway?”

“I think he’s in a retirement home…his office is shut down now.” Hutch shook his head. “You meet so many people, lose touch with them…”

“Remember Sugar?”

“The transvestite lounge singer? Who could forget her—him—whatever,” Hutch finished with a laugh.

“And that crazy ballet dancer who thought he was a vampire? We’ve had some weird cases, Hutch.” Starsky shook his head, smiling.

* * * *

“Psycho” provided the kind of mental release they both needed, each having seen the classic thriller more than once. Hutch remembered with a smile the first time they had seen the movie centering on gruesome slayings in a roadside motel, launched by a horrific scene of carnage in a shower. They were staying in a motel (of all places) and Starsky had waited until Hutch was in the shower, turned out the lights, and called “Oh, Norman…” in his best Mother Bates voice, mimicking the killer to startling perfection. Hutch had maintained his composure and verbally chastised his companion sufficiently once he ventured out to turn the lights back on, but the stunt had been a chilling one. He had to admit as practical jokes went, it was one of Starsky’s more inspired moments.

For his part, Starsky was munching popcorn almost in tempo with the music as the killer stalked the next victim. You’d never know this guy tried to drive off a cliff earlier, Hutch thought. Maybe that old resiliency was still there after all. Hutch watched his partner for a couple minutes, happy to see that he seemed transported to the Bates Motel for awhile, and then turned his attention back to the screen. Maybe he really could dismiss the cliff incident as a moment of temporary insanity.

It was around midnight when they returned to Starsky’s apartment.

“Any chance I could crash on the sofa bed tonight? Otherwise I’m gonna have to double back and pick you up in the morning anyway.” Hutch had gone back to his own apartment for much lesser spans of nighttime hours, but he thought Starsky might be glad for the company, and he was.

“Anytime,” he responded, getting out of the passenger side of the car. They were both surprised to see a red Ferrari parked nearby. “Hey, that’s Eric, isn’t it?” Starsky asked Hutch, who was now out of the car and part way around the front of it. The interior lights of the Ferrari confirmed that it was, and Eric got out of his car and headed toward them.

“Anything wrong?” Starsky asked.

“Nothin’ new,” Eric responded. “Just wondered what was going on with the case. I know I’ve probably got the plague as far as the cops are concerned to give me any information, but I’m really goin’ nuts.”

“Come in.” Starsky led the way up the steps and unlocked the door. When all three were settled in seats, and it was established no one wanted anything from the kitchen, Eric continued to elaborate on his reason for being there.

“I saw Rhiana earlier,” he began.

“Bet she had plenty to say,” Starsky leaned back in his seat on the couch and rested his feet on the coffee table.

“She said she broke it off with you, that you were going back to being a cop, so she wasn’t going to waste her time anymore—man, that really sucks. I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a lousy day, Eric. Get to the point, will you?” Starsky snapped, leaving the other man a little at a loss for words. “I’m sorry. I’m taking it out on you.”

“Hey, what’re friends for? I just wanted to tell you that there might be more to why she doesn’t want to date a cop than just wanting you to have a fancier job.”

“Meaning what?” Hutch interjected.

“Meaning Rhiana was Matt’s supplier.”

“What?” Starsky straightened up suddenly.

“The boutique is a front—it’s the best-known high-class drug pick-up in the entertainment industry. She could buy and sell me about four times. Anything you can shoot in your arm, snort up your nose or smoke, you can get from Rhiana.”

“Oh my God.” Starsky ran his hands through his hair and looked back at Eric. “You’re positive about this?”

“That’s why I wouldn’t name Matt’s supplier in my statement. I knew you two were starting something. And I like Rhiana—she’s been a good friend to me.”

“So why are you turning her in now?”

“Because I see a path of destruction ahead for a lot of people in my life. Matt died because he was into a bunch of stuff that was dangerous—dope, booze, gambling…and Rhiana was part of that problem. She’s part of that world of suppliers and crooks.”

“And that’s why you didn’t belong in her world,” Hutch said to Starsky. “Why a cop didn’t belong in her world.”

“Look, I’ll testify—anything you need. I went with Matt once when he picked up his stuff. And I heard Rhiana tell him he was late with his payments, and that she wasn’t a charity.” Eric sighed. “I was afraid to do anything about it at the time. I was afraid to go to the cops, because I didn’t want some drug lord to show up and blow my brains out for turning his front lady in. But Matt’s dead, and he was my best friend, for better or worse, and all bets are off. If nailing Rhiana will do anything to get his killer, then I’m all yours.”

“We’ve gotta do some thinking, strategizing.” Hutch stood up and started pacing. “We can’t just rush in and bust her if there’s a way to get to something bigger through her.”

“She deals in a huge volume, you can be sure of that. And it’s top quality stuff, ’cause her customers can really pay.” Eric looked up at Hutch. “I’m not doing this to get myself off the hook. But if somebody killed Dave, would you care what it cost you to nail them?”

“Not for a minute. But there’s no guarantee he was killed due to something related to the drug situation.”

“He was in debt, he was a junkie, and there was pressure on him to pay up. I didn’t want to say all this in my statement because I didn’t want to trash what was left of Matt’s reputation. He was a brilliant songwriter, a gifted singer…he deserves to be remembered for some of the good things he did. Not chalked off as another dope fiend who met his maker and deserved it. When this all comes out, all anybody’ll see is the negative stuff. Damn it, I didn’t want to do that to him.”

“Letting his killer go free would be worse, wouldn’t it?” Starsky asked.

“That’s what I figured. That’s why I’m here now.”

“Do you know anything else about Rhiana’s connections?” Hutch asked.

“No. I just know she’s a supplier, and a big one. She also seemed pretty confident she could make threats about him paying some back debts to her, so I assume she either had big connections or some significant muscle she could call on.”

“You ever heard of a guy named Marcovitz?” Hutch ventured, feeling he could trust Eric, even if he was the prime suspect in the DA’s case.

“I bought a car from him about six years ago.”

“And that’s all you know about him?”

“I know as soon as I established some bank credit I paid him off. That bastard charged me 25% interest and told me somebody’d break my arms if I missed more than two payments. I wanted the car and the image, and a friend of mine told me I should go for it…that everything’d be fine as long as I made the payments on time. I did, and then I paid him off early, with the interest I would have had to pay anyway, because that’s how the deal goes, and that was that.”

“How’d he operate? Did you sign anything?” Starsky asked.

“A dummy loan agreement for something like 10% interest, and was told to pay those payments by check. The balance was paid in cash, based on a verbal agreement. Why do you ask?”

“Because that was the same deal Matt had,” Starsky responded. Having decided Eric was the least likely suspect in the case, both detectives were ready to trust him. “Matt owed Marcovitz big money, and the agreement he signed was similar to what you’re describing, and based on information from another source—”

“Mick? He was into Marcovitz for $100,000 for about six months while he was having a cash flow problem. He needed to buy off this sixteen-year-old girl who was making noises about a paternity suit. Truth is, I don’t think Mick did it. He had just gotten married, and his big worry was that his wife wouldn’t believe he hadn’t done it. So he paid off the girl and as soon as we got some royalties in, paid off Marcovitz $125,000 in cash. That way, his wife never had to see evidence of a bank loan, and most importantly, didn’t hear about Tina or Tiffany or whatever the hell her name was.”

“Only problem I have with loan sharks as killers is that dead men can’t repay—especially if they’re broke,” Hutch stated, sitting on the arm of the couch.

“If Marcovitz has a signed loan agreement, he could make a claim against the estate. Over time, there’s no question the estate will be paid that and more from royalties, plus the usual hype sales that take place after a death.” Eric yawned and stretched in the chair he occupied. “Of course that’s assuming he wants to be brought into this at all.”

“For small stuff, he probably wouldn’t chance it. For a million bucks, he might show up with his legit-looking loan agreement and give it a whirl,” Starsky commented. “Eric, what do you know specifically about Rhiana’s operation—anything?

“Just her code name system.”

“Oh, is that all?” Hutch asked sarcastically. Eric had casually tossed out what could be the key to nailing her like it was an incidental piece of trivia.

“She names her drug orders like outfits. For example, coke is white leather, heroin is brown suede, pot is green lame. The size of the order determines what kind of clothing it is. Matt’s order was for a ‘brown suede jacket,’ ‘white leather boots’ and a ‘green lame shirt.'”

“So he got mostly heroin, a moderate amount of coke and a smaller batch of pot?” Starsky asked.

“Exactly. And she brought out three softly wrapped packages, about the right size for what she was saying was in them, loaded them into a couple of those flashy gold shopping bags she uses and hands them out right in front of a store full of customers. Matt walked out of there looking like any other shopper.”

“Clever lady.” Starsky shook his head. “What a system.”

“It’s late. I think we all need to sleep on this for a while, and we’ll start following up on it first thing in the morning,” Hutch suggested.

“Yeah, I’m beat,” Eric agreed, standing up.

“We don’t think you did it, Eric. This whole thing is a mess right now, but your lawyer’s probably filled you in on the implications of the coroner’s report,” Starsky walked with him toward the door.

“Oh, yeah. He keeps telling me I shouldn’t worry. Little tough when you’re up for a murder rap. He’d lay an egg if he knew I was here. He told me not to say anything to anybody without him present. But somebody has to break the chain here.”

“Look, Eric, neither one of us thinks you did it. We’re going to take what we have to the DA and try to get him to drop the charges. I think it’s just going to save him from looking like a bigger idiot when the case really breaks.” Starsky sighed.

“Matt’s body was released from the morgue this afternoon. I called and asked. Gave me the creeps, thinking about him just lying there in a drawer. Doesn’t seem right.”

“Any word on when the funeral is?” Starsky asked.

“He’ll be at the funeral home day after tomorrow, the funeral’s the day after that.”

“How’s the situation with the band?”

“Tim’s at least speaking to me, but Mick thinks I’m guilty as hell. I haven’t talked to Adam yet, so I don’t know how he feels about it. Matt’s parents won’t return my calls…”

“If you’d like some company to go to the funeral home or the funeral, just give us a call, okay?”

“That means a lot. Thanks. I’m going to head home.”

“Eric—we will get this thing resolved, maybe at least get your charges dropped before the funeral.”

“I’d really like to walk in there and sit up front with the band, you know? Can’t very well do that when I’m the accused murderer.”

“We’ll do everything we can. I promise.”

“Thanks, man. I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Maybe we could get together and jam a little sometime—I mean, I know you’re back on the force and everything—”

“Not for long.”

“Why? Oh, wait, you saw your doctor this week didn’t you?”

“This morning. I’m all done. Best I can have is a desk job, so after this case, I’ll be hanging up my badge and doing something else. I don’t know after Rhiana if I really want to go back to music.”

“Hey—don’t let what happened with her derail you. I think her breaking up with you had more to do with being afraid of getting busted than it did with you personally. Rhiana’ll go up for a long time if she ever gets caught.”

“I suppose. But I don’t think Gary’ll let us in his studio anytime soon without her.”

“I’ve got a studio at my house. It’s not as fancy and posh as Gary’s, but there’s enough room for us to all fit in there and bang away for a while. Might be fun.”

“Sounds like it. I’ll give you a call as soon as we know anything new, or if we get some time we could jam for a while.”

“Okay. I’m sorry about the doctor thing. Are you gonna get a second opinion?”

“Yeah, the department doctor will look me over next week, but he won’t go against my doctor’s opinion. He’s considered one of the best internists and surgeons in the area, and he’s been on my case since they brought me in from the shooting.” Starsky looked up at the panorama of stars in the clear summer night sky as they walked out to Eric’s car. “I think I’ve just gotta accept this.”

“Like hell you do. If somebody told me I couldn’t play the drums anymore, I sure as hell wouldn’t take one guy’s word for it. What’s supposed to be wrong with you, anyway? You look healthy.”

“Thanks,” Starsky responded with a faint smile. “My heart won’t take the ‘possible extreme exertion street action may lead to, i.e., extended foot chases, climbing, etc.’, and my lung and my liver, where most of the repair work was done, won’t survive another trauma.”

“So go see a cardiologist and see what he says about your heart. Then go see another internist and find out what he thinks about the rest of your guts.”

“My doctor has been with me every step of the way—he oughtta know.”

“He’s only human, Dave. God knows we all make mistakes.” Eric paused, leaning on the open door of the Ferrari. “Selfishly, it wouldn’t break my heart to see you guys stick with the music, because I think Passages would be a hell of a band, with or without Rhiana. She wasn’t our sound. We did that by ourselves.” Eric exhaled loudly. “But you know, living your whole life feeling like you’re missing out on the one thing you love to do the most isn’t going to make you a good musician. It’s going to turn you into a drunk or a junkie—or at best, a bitter old jerk who whines about the good old days.”

“You think I should see another doctor?”

“Why not? See ten more if you think it’ll help. Don’t let one guy’s opinion ruin your life. He’s not God.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Do that.” He got into the car. “Hey—you like cars, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“You and Hutch should come over sometime when I’m not under suspicion for anything. I’ve got a Porsche and a ‘Vette at home, plus this baby. We could give Sunday drive a whole new meaning.”

“We’ll do that. Same day we jam, huh?”

“Okay. Talk to ya later.” Eric gunned the engine and roared out of the driveway onto the road.

Must be hard to lose most of your friends, Starsky thought to himself. One’s dead and most of the others ostracize you because they think you did it. It’s easy to get smug and complacent when you have one friend you can always count on, he thought as he mounted the steps back to his apartment.

Hutch was in the shower when Starsky got back inside, so he sat at the kitchen table with the yellow pages and looked for cardiologists. Eric was right. His doctor was only one man, and the diagnosis was one man’s opinion…one expert’s opinion…based on months of evaluation and testing…still, Eric’s conviction that he owed himself a second opinion made Starsky flip through the directory.

“Eric gone?” Hutch came out toweling off his hair, wearing an old pair of sweats he had left at Starsky’s from his prolonged stay.

“Yeah.” Starsky looked up from the directory. “He thinks I should get a second opinion.”

“That’s probably not a bad idea. I’m not trying to negative here, buddy, but I’d hate to see you get your hopes up again…”

“I know I’m probably washed up, but just in case…I just don’t know who to go to.”

“It’s gotta be somebody good—tops in their field.”

“Eric thought I should see both a cardiologist and an internist.”

“He’s right. If your heart is the big problem, you should be seeing a cardiologist anyway. Maybe Dobey knows somebody.”

“He’s healthy as a horse.” Starsky flipped the pages.

“Well you’re not going blindly to somebody out of the yellow pages. We’ll do some checking…find the top in the field. If we have to get on a plane and go out of state…” Hutch seemed to drift in thought for a minute.

“What?”

“Mayo Clinic. We should go there, get you taken through the paces. If they say you can’t work the streets anymore, we know it’s true. But if they say you can…”

“Schneider sure as hell wouldn’t argue with them.”

“Bingo. I’ll call my mother—it’s in Minnesota. We might be able to stay with them.”

“Hutch, it’s gonna be after midnight there.”

“Oh, right. Well, first thing in the morning then.”

“Ah, it’s probably useless anyway. Besides, who’s gonna pay for it? My insurance isn’t going to cover it—”

“Unless we can get Schneider to order it.”

“Why would he do that when he’s got Dr. Dennison’s opinion?” Starsky asked, referring to his own doctor.

“Because Dobey doesn’t want to give up on you, and he’s pretty good friends with Schneider.”

“I guess it’s worth a shot.”

“Anything we have to do for this is worth a shot. We don’t need to roll over and die.”

“I guess I’m real glad Eric came by tonight.”

“Me too. Rhiana a dealer—now there’s a shocker.”

“Kinda puts a whole new spin on the break up.” Starsky slouched back in the chair. “But then maybe I’m just reaching for a different spin on it. I don’t want to think she just dumped me because she wasn’t interested.”

“I think she isn’t interested in going to prison for the rest of her crooked little life.”

“Maybe. I think I’ll turn in.”

“Good idea. I’m ready to get some sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow. All these new leads on the case, checking into the Mayo Clinic option…”

“Getting the DA to drop the charges against Eric.”

“I thought we were going to let that ride until we had an alternate suspect.”

“Hutch, the funeral home and funeral services are coming up in the next couple of days. I think Eric deserves to attend his friend’s funeral without being ostracized as the killer. I told him we’d go with him, but we’re a sorry substitute for his band and Matt’s family.”

“I guess that’s one more thing for the ‘to do’ list then.”

“Quite a list we’ve got going.” Starsky stood up and headed toward the bedroom. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“I watched Eric leave here tonight, and it dawned on me that it would be real rough to go through what he’s going through all by himself, and I guess even as lousy as things are right now, I still feel pretty lucky. He invited us over twice—he seems pretty lonely.”

“This has been rough on him.”

“Maybe we oughtta take him to Pancho Villa’s one of these nights, pal.”

“I thought you wanted to help the guy, not poison him,” Hutch retorted, laughing a little.

* * * *

First thing the next morning, Hutch was on the phone to his mother in Duluth, in hopes she could fill in a few blanks about the Mayo Clinic. All she was able to tell him was that it was located in Rochester, which was in southeastern Minnesota, and a pretty long drive from the Hutchinson household. She did grace him with several mind-numbing stories of friends who had gone through the battery of tests there for everything from heart problems to hemorrhoids, and the primary thing he gleaned from the conversation was that it was a busy place, you were far better off to have the tests prescribed for you rather than elective, and that it was too far a drive to be practical for them to land in Duluth. Hutch related all this information to Starsky as he moved around the kitchen, gathering various unseemly things for his breakfast.

“I guess we’re back to depending on Schneider then.”

“Well, it would be a lot easier if he’d prescribe the tests.”

“I won’t go anywhere until we get Eric off the hook, and I wanna be here for Armstrong’s funeral.”

“Let’s see if we can meet with Dobey and catch him up on the investigation so far. At the same time, maybe we can get him to work on Schneider to prescribe the Mayo tests.”

“Okay. You hungry?” Starsky asked through a mouthful of cold pizza.

“No thanks. I’ll get something from the cafeteria at work.”

“I didn’t mean you had to eat pizza.” Starsky maneuvered into his shoulder holster and pulled on his jacket.

“You’re in good spirits this morning.” Hutch grabbed his own jacket and followed his partner out the door.

“Well, I’ve got some stuff in perspective this morning. Yesterday I was just way too shocked to get a grip on anything.”

“Starsk—I hope you’re not counting too much on different test results. I mean nothing would make me happier, but I just don’t want you to go through the letdown all over again if things don’t change.”

“I crashed yesterday. Today I’m coping. If things change about my status as a cop, I’ll be thrilled. If they don’t, well, my life isn’t over. Incidentally, I probably should call Merl about my car.”

“I kind of ignored you and did that anyway yesterday.”

“Thanks, pal. I don’t know as I want it back, but I need the paperwork out of it if nothing else. Maybe if something changes, and I can go back…I dunno. Haven’t thought that far yet.”

* * * *

Dobey was finishing off a substantial jelly donut when the two detectives arrived at his office with their mountain of paperwork and information on the case to share with him. They described their experiences interviewing the remaining band members and the charming ex-wife, Misty. They filled him in on Marcovitz’s car dealership and creative financing services. They also shared with him everything Eric had told them about Matt, Marcovitz, and Rhiana. Hutch added that they had seen Rhiana at the dealership the day before, and that because she thought Starsky was a cop again, she ended their relationship. He also posed the question of why exactly Rhiana was there in the first place, and wouldn’t a connection between Rhiana and her drug operation and Marcovitz and his loan-sharking activities be logical?

Dobey processed all this information in silence, for the most part, nodding and taking a few notes. When they finished, he looked up from the papers in front of him.

“I’m calling the DA and advising him to drop the charges against Eric March. We’ve got insufficient evidence against him, and everything we’re gathering is pointing away from him. We can always reinstate charges at a later date if we find more evidence. I think we’re letting ourselves in for a press disaster if we keep him on the hook much longer. He’s famous, just like the victim, so the whole damn country’s focused on us.”

“That’s great news, Cap. We were kinda hoping you’d say that,” Starsky responded, smiling.

“There’s something else, Captain.” Hutch began, and then proceeded to explain their desire to put Starsky through the paces at the best medical facility in the country just in case there was any chance that Dennison’s opinion was incorrect. He also said the only sure fire way for Starsky to get in, and for his insurance to pay for it, would be for Schneider to prescribe it. Dobey seemed a little hesitant at first, but then picked up the phone and dialed Schneider’s office. After a few moments, he was connected with the doctor.

“Phil? This is Harold Dobey…fine, and yourself?…Listen, I’m calling about Dave Starsky’s case. You’ve got him down to see you next week sometime…right…he’s waiting for a verdict on whether or not he’s going to be going back to street duty…yes, he did, and the news wasn’t good…right, a desk job at most. I’m not ready to accept that so easily. Starsky’s one of my best, and I think given what he’s been through related to the Gunther case, he deserves the best shot he can get at getting his old job back. I want to send him out to Mayo Clinic for a second opinion…I certainly respect your evaluation, Phil, but you and I both know a treadmill, an EKG machine and a stethoscope are no match for the facilities they have at Mayo. Doesn’t matter how good you are—you don’t have the kind of equipment to work with, or the support staff…That’s right—I’m asking you to prescribe the Mayo tests…I think so…I understand that, but we’re talking about the career of a fine young officer here, and I’m not about to toss him on the scrap pile without a damn good reason.”

Dobey looked perplexed, and rubbed his forehead as the other man elaborated on something he obviously considered a valid point. Dobey rolled his eyes, and then tackled a response. “Well, the bottom line is this: we’re sending Starsky out there. If we don’t get your OK, the only difference is that we’ll all be tossing some money in a hat to pay for it. I’d like to see the insurance company cover it…Fine. I’ll send him right down. Thanks, Phil.” Dobey hung up.

“Well?” Starsky asked hesitantly.

“Go down there and let him listen to your heart. Then he’ll write up the necessary forms, and help you make the arrangements. He said he has a friend out there, so he thinks he can slide you in ASAP.”

“Thanks, Capt’n. I don’t know what to say.”

“You must be sick,” Dobey retorted with a little snort of a laugh.

* * * *

Dr. Schneider was a short, slightly-built man in his late fifties. He had bristled considerably at his opinion being passed over completely in the transition between the well-known local “expert,” Martin Dennison, and the Mayo Clinic. He was aware, however, that Harold had a point about their facilities. There had been times he had rendered a verdict of desk duty for a recovering officer and had to live with some plaguing doubts about the decision.

David Michael Starsky was an interesting case to say the least. A healthy young man in his mid-thirties, in excellent physical condition, who had survived multiple bullet wounds. A cardiac arrest had left him clinically dead for over a minute, but he had been revived. His left lung and his liver had been in real jeopardy of being destroyed by the automatic weapon turned on him at close range, but the wizard of the local medical scene, the renowned Dr. Dennison, had led a surgical team in working some sort of magic with this man. But their magic was nothing without his will to live, which had become almost legendary among the medical personnel who dealt with him. His partner, Hutchinson, had joked that he was just too damned ornery to die, and while that wasn’t terribly clinical, it was pretty accurate. That he could make a complete recovery wouldn’t have surprised Phil Schneider even a little. Of course, Starsky was human, and sometimes no matter how indomitable the spirit, the flesh succumbs. He gathered up the paperwork and went into the examining area to see his patient.

Starsky was sitting on the examining table in his jeans and a hospital gown, looking generally unconcerned about the whole encounter. Well, how much worse could anything I say be than what Dennison told him? Schneider reasoned. He had only seen the young detective twice previously: once when his partner dragged him in with a high fever and the flu, insisting he should see a doctor, and once to evaluate his fitness to return to work after being shot during a hostage situation in an Italian restaurant. This Starsky was a little older, perhaps a little more world-weary than the almost playful personality he had had to deal with previously, but he certainly didn’t give off a sickly appearance.

“Good morning, David,” Dr. Schneider greeted, shaking hands with his patient. Starsky smiled in response.

“Morning, Doc.”

“Captain Dobey told me you got some bad news yesterday,” he stated, reviewing the notes he had made after Dobey’s phone call.

“According to Dennison, I’m about as good as useless except behind a desk.”

“Well, I’ve got his reports here. His office sent over your files. Let’s have a listen to the old ticker. Deep breath,” he instructed, and as they repeated the procedure, checked the heartbeat and respiration on both Starsky’s back and chest. “Any discomfort, trouble breathing?”

“No. Not anymore. Not even at the gym.”

“Okay, a big deep breath—deep as you can,” the doctor instructed, listening carefully. He followed this procedure by checking blood pressure and pulses. He finally set his stethoscope aside and made a few notes on the chart. “I feel perfectly comfortable sending you to Mayo Clinic, David.”

“Meaning what?” Starsky looked at him worriedly.

“Meaning your heart sounds strong and the heartbeat is very regular. Your blood pressure is right on target, there’re no irregularities in your pulses. Your respiration is strong…I quite frankly don’t agree with Dr. Dennison’s assessment. If your heart was as badly damaged as his reports imply, I don’t believe you’d feel as good or sound as normal as you do. But then I wouldn’t presume to override the opinion of someone like Dennison on my own. He’s a damn fine specialist, and he could be seeing something I don’t. But I will tell you that these physical therapy evaluations and his findings would indicate a much worse level of cardiovascular fitness than just this preliminary exam would indicate to me.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had all year,” Starsky responded with a wide smile.

“Well, don’t get your hopes up until you get your test results from the clinic, but I wouldn’t think of myself as a lost cause either, if I were you.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Look, you’ve made a remarkable recovery from your injuries. Please be aware of how fortunate you are—”

“I know, ‘to be alive.'” Starsky smiled a little to soften having cut the doctor off mid-sentence. “Everybody tells me that: my mother, Hutch, Dobey—I guess I want more than that.”

“Understandable. Now, let’s see if we can get you set up at Mayo for the first part of next week.”

* * * *

Starsky had the usual bounce in step when he met Hutch in the parking lot near the battered gray car. He even had his old sarcasm back in action at the sight of his partner leaning against the rusted carcass of a vehicle.

“Don’t lean on that thing. It’ll probably tip over.”

“What’d Schneider say?”

“That he doesn’t agree with Dennison, because he thinks my heart should sound a lot worse than it does if I’m really in as bad a shape as the physical therapy evaluations and Dennison’s opinion claim I am. But he also made about twelve disclaimers about how wonderful Dennison is, and that he would be glad to send me to Mayo Clinic because he wouldn’t dispute someone like Dennison without extensive testing.”

“Maybe we’re onto something here.”

“If they get those charges dropped, I think we oughtta round up a few girls and take Eric out someplace and celebrate. The second opinion was his idea.”

“Girls? You’re ready to take on the female race again after Rhiana?”

“Rhiana was a bad mistake. My guard was down, and for a while yesterday, I really thought what she did was going to kill me, it hurt so much. But once I took a look at everything good I had to be happy about, she just wasn’t worth the misery anymore. Like that Gloria Gaynor song says, ‘I Will Survive.’ Let’s get going. Busting her would be a nice cherry on top of my sundae today.”

They made a trip to Mick Bradley’s house. Eric had already agreed to testify, and if Mick would corroborate the charges against Marcovitz, that portion of their case would be on solid ground. The next step would be busting Rhiana, which would involve a little undercover skullduggery, which the angry part of Starsky was relishing with a salivating delight.

Mick was quick in answering the door, looking considerably less inebriated than he had the first time they’d met. He was dressed in a blue dress shirt and a pair of dark jeans. His demeanor was also considerably more cordial.

“I’m going to have to make this short and sweet because I’m supposed to meet the Armstrongs and Tim over at the funeral home. Matt was an only child, so we’re gonna help his folks make the arrangements. Have a seat.” He led them into an attractively decorated room, furnished with very traditional, conservative items. “My wife the decorator,” he explained. “That’s the career du jour,” he said with great affection. “So what’s up?”

“We expect the charges against Eric to be dropped by the end of the day. I hope you’ll pass that on to the Armstrong family. He didn’t kill Matt—the evidence all points away from him,” Starsky explained, raising Hutch’s ire a little that he was more concerned about playing peacemaker among the members of Kingpin than questioning a potential witness.

“I hope the evidence is right. I never liked thinking Eric did it. But things looked so bad…”

“And he was arrested too damn fast based on how things looked at first glance.”

“Off the subject of Eric a moment,” Hutch interjected, “you made some allegations against T.L. Marcovitz yesterday. I realize the problem that led you to use his services was a… sensitive situation in terms of your marriage, but it would be very helpful to us to be able to count on your testimony if we press charges against him.”

“God, I don’t know. I’ve been through two bad marriages already, and I really love Ellie—my wife. She’s pregnant, you know. Just found out a couple weeks ago. This could destroy my life.”

“Don’t you think she’d trust you enough by now to believe that you weren’t responsible for that girl’s…problem?” Starsky probed.

“I’ve been living a lie ever since then. I didn’t tell her the truth then, and I’ve never come clean with it. She’d probably never trust me again.” He looked down at the floor, seeming to contemplate the pattern in the carpeting for a long moment before continuing. “If Marcovitz is somehow responsible for Matt’s death, I’ll testify. If it’s just a loan-sharking thing, that’s not worth trashing my marriage, so please don’t blow my cover with Ellie for that, okay?”

“Okay,” Starsky responded before Hutch could get his mouth open. “So what do you guys want?”

“Huh?” Mick looked puzzled.

“A boy or a girl?” Starsky clarified. The other man’s face broke into a huge smile, uncharacteristic of his usual straight-faced demeanor.

“Well, you’re supposed to say it doesn’t matter, and it really doesn’t, but I’d kind of like a girl—you know, spoil her rotten and beat off the boyfriends ’til she’s about thirty? Besides, Ellie’s so pretty I’d love to see another pretty little version of her.”

“Mick, we won’t use you as a witness unless it’s absolutely necessary, and then only if it involves Matt’s murder.”

“Thanks—Starsky, right?”

“That’s me.”

“I’ll give Eric a call later, and I’ll let the Armstrongs know the charges are being dropped. This has to be tough for him going through Matt’s death on his own.”

“I think it has been,” Starsky agreed. “Well, we’ll be on our way so you can get going.” He stood, and Hutch followed suit.

Once in the car, it was obvious to Starsky that something had his partner out of sorts. Finally, after about five minutes of the silent treatment and a couple of monosyllabic answers to complex questions, Starsky prodded him for the cause of his surliness.

“I just wondered when you started making decisions on your own, partner,” he queried, putting an unpleasant emphasis on the final word.

“What? You mean about Marcovitz? What the hell should we do? Trash the guy’s life to bust a loan shark? Eric’s testimony would probably cover that. I mean if his wife doesn’t believe him, we could be breaking up his family.”

“We never hesitated to expose some guy who couldn’t keep his pants on with sixteen-year-old girls before.”

“You’re just automatically assuming he did it.”

“The guy drinks like a fish and has burned his way through two marriages. How are we supposed to believe he’s a choirboy?”

“Why do we have to assume he’s a pervert? You know, Hutch, while you’re looking down your nose at these guys and their lifestyle, you almost were one of them—we have a demo tape, remember? Does that mean that if we got a record deal, we’d automatically turn into statutory rapists with no morals?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Enlighten me, oh great master,” Starsky shot back.

“You don’t have to be a smart ass.”

“Hey, if you want to start something about this, fine. I’m getting a little sick of your superior attitude where these guys are concerned. Even with Eric, you’ve got this sort of self-righteous attitude.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is. If he’s an informant, you think that’s fine. And as a back up musician, he’s okay, but you’ve never really acted like you thought too much of him as a friend.”

“Look, everything I’ve got, I’ve worked for. And damn hard. I’ve spent most of my adult life getting shot at, working sixteen hour days—and here’re these lounge lizards lying around poolside, screwing teenage girls in their spare time, making more money than I’ll ever see. Quite frankly to see a sleazebag like Armstrong, with his statutory rape charges and drug habit have his lifestyle catch up with him is no great surprise—or loss.”

“I don’t believe you.” Starsky sat back in the seat and looked out the window. “What makes you so damn self-righteous? Like you’ve never made a mistake in your life? What about—”

“Don’t go there, buddy.” Hutch shook his head. “We start using what we’ve got in our arsenal on each other, neither one of us is going to be left standing.” Hutch’s admonition sentenced Starsky to silence, because he knew it was the truth. When you open up your very soul to another person, it can create a beautiful friendship, but it’s also dangerous as hell.

“Hutch, I don’t want to fight with you about this. But I don’t understand you sometimes.”

“I see all this glitz and glamour, and then I see what jumping into it and trusting it does. You trusted Rhiana, and so did I. Granted, you got hurt a hell of a lot worse than I did by her betrayal, but she took one of my dreams with her too. And so now I look at these guys, who are 95% flashy clothes and hairspray, and wonder what the hell we’re altering our usual m.o. for.”

“Maybe because while Rhiana trashed my faith in women one more time—not that I intend to swear them off or anything—Eric has been a good friend to me—to both of us. He showed us a very human side to all the flash and phoniness of the whole music business. He’s ethical, he’s sincere, and I think of him as a good friend. When it mattered, he came forward and offered to testify and gave us the leads we needed to go after Rhiana.”

“Okay, so Eric’s an exception.”

“And Eric cares a lot about Mick and Tim and even Matt, degenerate that he was toward the end. Hutch, it wouldn’t matter what you did or how life changed you…I’d still care what happened to you. I can understand what Eric’s going through over Matt’s death. These guys are human beings just like anybody else. Some of ’em are creeps just like the rest of the people out there, but some of them are good people, and they deserve to be respected just like anybody else. I don’t think we can lump them all together.”

“Okay, I give up. Let’s just drop the whole damn thing. We’ll play it your way.”

“You’re still mad at me, though.”

“No I’m not,” Hutch snapped back.

“Could’a fooled me,” Starsky needled. “You look mad,” he persisted, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got those lines in your forehead and your jaw’s real set and—”

“Oh, Starsky, shut up, will you?!” he snapped angrily. Having gotten the rise he was looking for, Starsky smirked triumphantly.

“Told ya you were still mad,” he ventured, and then fell silent following a homicidal glare from his partner, who was at the end of his rope. When Hutch’s gaze returned to the road, Starsky couldn’t suppress a grin. That’ll teach ya to shut me up so I lose an argument, Starsky thought to himself.

“We got a tail.” Hutch was watching the rearview mirror.

“How long?”

“Since about a mile ago.”

“I’d suggest trying to lose him, but in this car…”

“For God’s sake, Starsky, give it a rest before I shove you out the door at the next bus stop.”

“I’m a convalescent yet, remember?” Starsky snuck a peek over the back seat at their pursuer. “You can’t rough me up.”

“Yeah? Well after you get a clean bill of health at Mayo, I just might beat the hell out of you for all the shit you’ve gotten away with hiding behind this ‘convalescent’ thing.”

“You’re assuming I’m just gonna lie there and take it. I might kick your ass, partner.”

“That’ll be the day, burrito boy.” Hutch was sparring good-naturedly with his partner now, even throwing in teasing him about his eating habits. The angry tension was passing quickly, but the problem of the tail wasn’t. “Well, I’ve had enough of this.” Hutch hit the accelerator and started weaving through the traffic. The car’s big V-8 engine was noisy and at times not too pleased to start in the morning, but once it was rolling, it was capable of some pretty good speeds. The blue Chevy sedan behind them kept good track of them as the two cars moved through traffic.

“We wanna lose ’em or confront ’em?” Starsky asked.

“Loose ’em.”

“Since when?”

“Since until we get test results on you, I don’t want you getting killed in the middle of a mess you can’t handle.”

“You just worry about yourself. I can’t take care of myself.” Starsky realized as he said this that his old confidence was there, and the fear and apprehension of getting in the action again was gone. “I wanna know what they’re tailing us for. Now let’s figure out how to trap these turkeys.”

“Damn.”

“They turned off!” Starsky looked behind them. “Damn it!”

“Somebody must’ve called ’em off. A confrontation must not be in the cards just yet.” Hutch hit the steering wheel with his hand angrily as he slowed the old car down to a more reasonable speed. “Well, we better get something set up for Rhiana,” Hutch stated.

“Dobey said he had a guy in vice that has just the right look—long hair, dresses the part.”

“She knows everybody, so we better have a damn good cover story. Damn, if Matt Armstrong were alive—”

“We wouldn’t be in the middle of any of this and we’d still think Rhiana was a great gal.”

“True, but we need someone to nail her. Eric’s testimony will be vital, but it might not hold up by itself. Besides, I’d still like to establish that link between Rhiana and Marcovitz.”

“We could be talking about months in an undercover operation.” Starsky shook his head. “There’s gotta be something better—faster. I might not have much longer on the force, pal.”

“We need to nail Rhiana as a supplier, and we want to nail Marcovitz as a loan shark, but we want to tie both of them in to Matt Armstrong’s murder.” Hutch was quiet a minute. “We need someone with an established connection to her—or to Marcovitz. I hate to keep relying on Eric for every source of information in this.”

“Well, we can trust him, and if he knows someone else who’s a user…”

“If Rhiana ever finds out he’s feeding us information—”

“He’s as good as dead,” Starsky finished the sentence.

“Maybe tailing Rhiana is the answer. After all, she did show up at Marcovitz’s dealership while we were there.”

“She bought her car there. Just her going in and out wouldn’t prove anything.” Starsky sighed loudly. “We know she’s dealing. I just don’t see a fast, easy way in.”

“We need somebody to make a buy, and also to express money problems and see if she’ll refer him to Marcovitz.”

“But who? She knows everybody in the business. It can’t be Eric because she knows he isn’t a user.”

“Tim?” Hutch suggested.

“He was busted for possession of marijuana a year ago. Wonder if he got it from Rhiana?” Starsky queried.

“Yeah, and if we can trust him the way we can trust Eric.”

“If he tipped her off…”

“Well, maybe Eric can tell us his thoughts on Tim as a player in this little escapade.” Hutch pulled the battered gray car into a parking spot near the station.

“Hey, that looks like Dennison’s car up there,” Starsky said, pointing to a black Mercedes coupe.

“Wonder what he’s doing here,” Hutch responded, getting out of the car.

“Let’s go find out,” Starsky said, bounding up the front steps to the door.

* * * *

When they arrived in the squad room, Dobey flagged them into his office. The doctor was seated there, dressed in a grey business suit, fidgeting nervously with the tip of his tie. His usually cool countenance was definitely rattled.

“Dr. Dennison was informed by Dr. Schneider that you would be going to the Mayo Clinic for testing next week, Starsky. He has some information to share with us that may make that unnecessary,” Dobey explained, as the detectives were seated.

“Meaning what?” Starsky asked eagerly.

“Meaning I falsified my records and gave you an inaccurate diagnosis,” the doctor responded, looking up to meet his patient’s incredulous expression. This tall man with his striking dark hair and usually imposing demeanor, seemed smaller than usual, slumped slightly in his seat.

“But why?” The betrayal was obvious in Starsky’s voice. This man had pulled him back from the brink of death and had managed his recovery every step of the way. “What verdict should I have gotten?”

“You’ve made a full recovery, David. You should be able to go back to your old job anytime you like. Your heart was not damaged by the cardiac arrest and the surgical repair done to your lung and your liver was successful. While it is true that I can’t predict what another trauma would do to either of those organs, and how the fact you had previous repair surgery done on them would affect you if you were injured again, there’s no positive evidence that your risk of death would be a great deal higher because of it…it would all depend on the circumstances and the injury. There’s no question there’s some increased risk, but that becomes your area of decision-making, not mine.

“So you lied to him?” Hutch demanded. “You let him leave your office thinking his career was over? Do you have any idea what you almost—”

“Hutch, take it easy. Let’s just get an explanation, okay?” Starsky knew his partner was thinking about the Torino heading for the edge of the ravine, and the thought had chilled Starsky to the bone himself. Would have been a stupid enough thing to kill myself, but then to do it for nothing…whoa, talk about really stupid, he thought to himself. “Why did you do it?” Starsky asked the doctor.

“I have a wife and two young daughters. About two days before your appointment, I was contacted by a young woman who strongly suggested I should give you a negative evaluation.”

“Contacted how?” Hutch asked.

“She came to see me. She told me it would be in my best interest to cooperate on this point, or my family would suffer serious consequences. Of course, I told her threats were pointless, and that I was a physician, and I had no intention of having her dictate my course of treatment with a patient. I also told her I would report her to the police. She told me that would be unwise, and then proceeded to describe in detail the daily schedules of my wife and daughters. She said if I made contact with the police, they would pay the price.”

He rubbed his chin nervously and then continued. “I needed time to think. I didn’t know what to do. My family’s never been threatened before…and I wasn’t about to compromise my ethics, but she seemed to know my family so intimately. I kept a close eye on my wife and the girls, but they got to us anyway. We had a dog, a big old mutt the girls adopted at the pound a couple years ago. He disappeared from the yard the next afternoon, and by that night, a package was delivered to my door, addressed to my youngest daughter. When she opened it, the dog’s severed head was inside. There was also a note explaining that I would be given one more opportunity to cooperate before I received another box, which would be addressed to me and would contain a head, but not of a dog.” He shook his head wearily. “I panicked. Your appointment was the next morning, and it seemed so simple to alter the records and tell you what they wanted me to tell you and get them off my back.”

“And ruin his life,” Hutch interjected. “Make Starsky the sacrificial lamb to save yourself.”

“Hutchinson, that’s enough. Let him finish,” Dobey intervened.

“Can you describe the woman who came to see you?” Starsky asked.

“She was average height, long straight dark hair, dark glasses…pretty, I suppose. She didn’t seem very pretty to me, but from an objective standpoint, I guess she was.” He was quiet a moment. “My daughter was very traumatized by what happened. She’s only seven years old. It was a knee-jerk reaction for me to go along with it. I guess my instincts as a father overrode my instincts as a doctor…even as a rational adult, for that matter. I should have known it couldn’t work.”

“So why did you come forward now?” Hutch asked.

“I was notified by Dr. Schneider that he did not concur with my opinion and was sending David to Mayo Clinic for a full battery of tests. I never assumed the department’s doctor would dispute my opinion, and I further didn’t anticipate he’d refer you to the Mayo Clinic. I knew it would only be a matter of time before the truth came out anyway.”

“So you’re clearing your conscience? You’d have let my life go down the drain if you hadn’t figured it would catch up with you?” Starsky shook his head. “‘Course, if my kid opened up that box, I don’t know what I’d do either.”

“Thank you for that, anyway. I don’t know what kind of charges you want to pursue against me, but I wanted you to be aware of the situation.”

“Would you recognize the woman again?” Hutch probed.

“Well, she was wearing dark glasses, like I said, but possibly. I did see her up close for about ten minutes while we talked.”

“Think you’d recognize the voice?” Hutch asked.

“Most likely.”

“I’ll be right back.” Starsky got up and hurried out to his desk. He didn’t have time to think about the news he had just received about his condition. He needed a photo of Rhiana, and a couple others of other women, so as not to be accused of biasing the doctor’s ID. He found a few other shots in his desk drawers from various other cases, and shuffled in the one of Rhiana, taken during the publicity photo session. She had agreed to pose for one photo, and Starsky had been so stupidly happy to have a small one for his wallet…what an idiot, he chided himself. He returned to the office and handed the stack of photos to the doctor. “Do any of these women resemble the woman you saw at your office?” The doctor took the photos and sorted through them, lingering on the one of Rhiana.

“This one. This is her. The hair’s different, but I’d know that smile anywhere. She looked a little more sadistic and self-satisfied when I saw her, but this is her.” He handed Rhiana’s photo to Starsky.

“Did anyone else in your office see her?” Hutch asked.

“Only my receptionist, but I don’t think she saw her up close for very long. I’m sure she’ll be willing to look at the photo. I saw her in my examining room, which has very bright lights as you know, and I could see quite well through the dark glasses.”

“Okay. Captain, we need to talk,” Starsky said to Dobey.

“Dr. Dennison, we will provide protection for your family, and the case will be reviewed. My assumption would be that your most serious threat of charges will come in a professional capacity, rather than from us. However, all this information will be reviewed with the district attorney.”

“If you need to reach me, I’ll be at home.” The doctor stood.

“Thank you for coming forward, Doctor.” Dobey nodded in his direction, and the man left the office with no further comment from either detective.

“He ID’d Rhiana Blake.” Starsky handed Hutch the photo.

“The drug dealer?” Dobey asked.

“Right on,” Starsky responded. “Hutch and I were tossing around an idea.” Starsky didn’t know how Dobey would react to dragging a civilian in as an undercover operator, but there didn’t seem to be a lot of choice in the matter. “We’re going to run into one serious problem with nailing Rhiana via any kind of routine undercover operation. Most all of her clients are celebrities or tied in somehow to the entertainment industry. Now if we send in a phony, she’s going to know it right away. Our best bet would be to use someone genuine…a real celebrity.”

“I suppose this is heading somewhere specific?” Dobey prodded.

“Well, Eric March gave us the tip off on Rhiana in the first place, so we can’t use him. Furthermore. he’s not a user and she’d know that. But we do know of someone who used to be, and if he’s willing…”

“Starsky, get to the point.”

“We want to approach Tim Drew, the bass player from Matt Armstrong’s band. He’s stayed out of trouble for over a year now, but he did have a pot arrest in ’78. I don’t know yet if Rhiana was his supplier, but I would guess she was. He would probably be able to get her to sell to him without too much trouble. We’d also like her to refer him to Marcovitz for a loan—you know, he could use the old story that his money’s tied up in investments, he needs some quick cash to make another buy…”

“You’ve been awfully quiet over there, Hutch.” Dobey addressed the silent half of the duo, who had been watching his partner and his captain as if he were a spectator at a local tennis match. “Do you concur with your partner on this?”

“I concur that we’re in a bad place with a woman as well-connected as Rhiana, and that if we want to bust her, we’re going to have to throw out the rule book and use someone she can’t discredit as a phony.”

“I don’t like the idea of expanding our circle of civilians in the know about this,” Dobey stated, fidgeting with a pen and then tossing it on his desk. “I think this is known as building your house on sand—one misjudgment in trust here and we could blow the whole operation, or worse yet, get someone killed.”

“We can trust Eric,” Starsky spoke up. “He used to be friends with Rhiana, even when he knew about her activities, but his ultimate loyalty is to Matt Armstrong—living or dead. It’s his fear that she’s tied into Matt’s death that made him turn her in.”

“What we’re proposing to do is have a talk with Eric about the feasibility of using Tim,” Hutch explained.

“I wasn’t aware that Eric March was Captain of Detectives here.” Dobey was not pleased at his men’s newest circle of trusted confidantes, and his ire was coming through now. “You expect me to approve this operation based on the word of the DA’s favorite murder suspect that one of his pals, a former and possibly current user who punches out cops from time to time is a trustworthy undercover agent to bust a major drug operation?”

“You’ve read Tim’s file,” Starsky stated a little sheepishly.

“Hell yes, I’ve read his file.”

“Look, Capt’n, I know this is pretty irregular—”

“Starsky, this case gives new definition to the term irregular. I should’ve never allowed you two on this when you were such close friends with March.”

“But Eric didn’t do it—you said yourself the evidence—”

“Starsky! Don’t start telling me what I said. I know perfectly well what I said. And now I’m not saying that he is the killer, but I am saying this investigation is getting out of hand, and I get the feeling you two don’t have a clue what to do about it, because quite frankly, basing it on Tim Drew is nothing short of absurd!”

“We have to use someone with a reputation. Someone she probably won’t even suspect of working with the cops.” Hutch believed in their plan of action, even if he wasn’t as comfortable trusting the musicians as Starsky was.

“Captain, this is a matter of loyalties. This band was formed on some very strong ties of friendship, and there’s no question when you talk to these guys that they loved Matt Armstrong like a brother.” Starsky paused. “They’re really torn up over his death, and now that the shock is wearing off, they seem to be willing to do whatever we want them to do to bring his killer to justice.”

“And you’re convinced that loyalty is genuine and that we should base an undercover operation on it?”

“One of the guys in the band is willing to testify for us against Marcovitz as a loan shark if the guy had something to do with Matt’s murder. Testifying will probably wreck the guy’s marriage because the loan he took out was to take care of a situation with a girl who was making a paternity claim against him shortly after he was married. He says he didn’t do it, but was afraid his new wife wouldn’t believe it. Now they’ve been married a while and she’s pregnant, and he doesn’t want to blow it to nail a loan shark, but when it comes to nailing the person who killed Matt, he’s ready to do what it takes. And with Eric, he blew the whistle on a friend when he turned in Rhiana, but again, his loyalty was to Matt. I think Tim would be the same way.”

“You two are convinced about this?” Dobey asked, still not happy, but seeing less and less point in arguing. The men had a point about the type of undercover operation that was necessary, and refusing to take a chance on it would only prolong the investigation and possibly ruin their chances to make a major bust out of the whole thing.

Both detectives simply nodded.

“All right then. But don’t take any foolish chances on this. And keep me posted.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Hutch replied, standing to join his already pacing partner.

“Oh, by the way, Starsky,” Dobey began, “welcome back to active duty. We were only waiting on the medical opinion to reinstate you.”

“You mean I’m official?” Starsky asked through a big grin.

“Of course that’s what I mean! Now get your butts out there and put this operation together!” Dobey retorted.

“Thanks, Cap.” Starsky reached out to shake hands with Dobey, who smiled broadly and shook the extended hand. “Thanks for not giving up on me so fast.”

“Just doing my job. Now get moving,” Dobey ordered, not doing terribly well at erasing the pleased look off his face. Things seemed truly to be set right now, as he watched his best team head out the door of his office to launch what was one of the shakiest undercover plots the captain had ever allowed.

“Hey, buddy, how’s it feel to be official again?” Hutch asked, as close to gleeful as his reserved demeanor ever came. He was jangling the keys to his jalopy, and suddenly Starsky was pining for his dismembered car.

“It feels TERRIFIC!” Starsky yelled at the top of his lungs, attracting the attention of a few cops moving through the parking lot toward their cars. “YES!” He bounded up over the trunk and stood on the roof of Hutch s car. “HEY EVERYBODY, DAVE STARSKY’S BACK!” he shouted again, raising both arms in the air. Hutch was almost too amused with the gesture to yell at him for jumping on the roof of his car. Starsky looked down at him with a little laugh, still standing on the roof of the battered LTD, with his arms finally back at his sides now.

“Will you get off my car now?” Hutch asked, smiling himself.

“Like you’re gonna even be able to tell if there’s another dent,” Starsky needled, bouncing back down a little more roughly than necessary.

“I was going to do something to celebrate, but if you’re going to berate my car…”

“Like what?” Even after all these years, and everything we’ve both been through, Hutch thought, I can still get an almost child-like reaction out of him by dangling the promise of some sort of surprise in front of him.

“Nah, we’ve got work to do anyway. It can wait.” Hutch got into the car, trying to hide the smirk on his face. Poor Starsk, he’s still such an easy mark.

“Come on, Hutch,” he goaded, getting into the passenger side. “That’s playing dirty and you know it. What were you gonna do?”

“We should get over to Tim’s place and—”

“Hutch.” The word was as close to a whine as Starsky’s adult dignity would allow.

“Oh, all right.” He started up the car.

“Where’re we going?” Satisfied now, Starsky was settled into the seat with a big grin on his face.

“You probably won’t like it.” Hutch was wondering if he had done the right thing, and hoped his assumption of how well he knew his partner’s feelings about things was accurate. As they pulled into Merl’s, he felt a little surge of trepidation.

“Merl’s?” Starsky looked crestfallen. He had obviously been expecting some exotic eatery or maybe even a store that would hold some coveted piece of merchandise that would be his. Merl’s garage wasn’t on the list of hoped for destinations.

“Just follow me.” Hutch led the way through one of the open doors into the work area, and spotted Merl instructing one of his young mechanics on the finer points of tuning the engine on an expensive sports car. “Hey, Merl,” Hutch greeted. The other man looked up and smiled.

“Didn’t expect to see you ’til tomorrow, Hutch. You either.” He nodded toward Starsky.

“Are we too early?” Hutch asked worriedly.

“Just finished her up ’bout an hour ago.” Merl led the way.

“How did you plan something if you didn’t know—?” Starsky looked at Hutch quizzically.

“This wasn’t really a ‘welcome back’ present. It was just something I was doing that it seemed you ought to find out about now.”

“Your partner told me to use my imagination,” Merl announced to Starsky, which sent shivers of dread down both men’s spines. Merl approached a tarp covered vehicle, and with the flair of a showman, snatched the fabric away. Starsky was left dumbfounded at what he saw.

It was the Torino, painted a solid shiny black with the same Mag wheels, with the back tires being slightly larger than before, giving the car an even more souped-up look.

“Now, aside from the amazing reconstructive surgery on the body of this little gem, you are now boasting a brand new, customized engine, conforming to the specs of your original engine, with a few upgrades chosen by yours truly,” Merl explained proudly, popping the hood. “You’ve also got some hydraulics, my man.”

“Oh, God, no,” Hutch rolled his eyes and turned away momentarily. “Merl.” It was his turn to whine now. The last thing Starsky, the perpetual overgrown kid, needed was a toy that would make the front end of his car bob up and down. Oh well, the horse was out of the barn now, and the kid was in the candy store. Hutch could only stand back and smile with a mixture of friendly affection and apprehensive dread of the future as Merl taught Starsky the fine art of bouncing the front end of the Torino. Great. Next time we chase someone we can challenge them to a race at the stoplight first, Hutch thought to himself.

“Hey, Merl, phone call!” The younger mechanic yelled to his boss, and Merl left his position crouched by the open driver’s door to take the call.

“Well, what do you think, buddy?” Hutch leaned on the roof of the car and looked in at his partner, who seemed totally enraptured by the vehicle.

“I don’t know what to say.” He looked up at Hutch. “This has to have cost you a small fortune. I can’t let you pay for this.”

“I wanted to do it, Starsk. We worked a lot of overtime on the Callahan case. I saved some money.”

“You said you were gonna invest that money, Hutch.”

“I played around with a couple of stocks, and starting out with about $1,000, I ended up with more like $5,000. It was a great fluke—some high risk stuff a friend of mine suggested that paid off.”

“And you spent it all on this?”

“Why not?”

“I can’t accept this, Hutch.”

“What do you wanna do? It’s not like Merl can scrape the paint back off it and rip the engine out and give me a refund. Come on, buddy, I want to do this. Call it a get well present. Now if you don’t take it, I’m going to be insulted.”

“Can’t have that happen, can we?” Starsky got out of the car. He put an arm around Hutch’s shoulders and squeezed quickly. “I’ll follow you to your place—”

“Yes, Starsky, and I’ll dump my car there and we’ll take yours.” Hutch started for the entrance of the garage. “But don’t you dare bounce the front end of that car—you hear me, Starsk?”

“Sure, I hear ya,” Starsky replied devilishly, jumping back in the car and gunning the engine. Even more power than before, he thought delightedly.

Starsky followed Hutch in his new toy, irritated by his partner’s deliberately slow and cautious driving. He couldn’t resist pulling up alongside his car at the first stoplight, rolling down the window, and bouncing the front end. Hutch rewarded him with an unpleasant hand gesture, and laughing, Starsky blasted away from the intersection at the first sign of green.

It amazed Starsky that his partner knew him quite this well. He had regretted totaling the Torino, because it held so many good memories. But at the same time, every time he saw that red and white vehicle, it brought back nightmarish memories of the shooting that he couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard he tried. Somehow, this was the perfect solution. He knew the same metal was around him, but it looked new and different, more powerful, stronger…kind of like he felt himself. The engine and paint job were new, so he could look forward to a long, happy love affair with the car he thought was approaching its twilight years. With all the parts of his life seemingly back in place, Dave Starsky felt on top of the world again as he pulled up behind Hutch’s car at Venice Place and waited for him to get in the passenger seat. Everything is the way it should be…finally!

“Think Tim and Mick would be done at the funeral home by now?” Starsky asked, resisting the urge to tear away from the curb in a squeal of tires. He would show Hutch that his newfound maturity did indeed extend to being able to pull away from a curb quietly.

“Probably. But I want to talk to Eric first. Let’s take a ride out there.”

* * * *

Eric March’s estate was similar to Tim Drew’s with its automatic gates and long, winding drive. The intercom allowed them to call the house from the gates, and Eric himself answered on the second ring.

“Hey, come on back. I’ll release the gates.” Eric sounded upbeat, but then he usually managed to, even in his current state of tension. He was standing on the front porch of his sprawling contemporary house when they pulled up near the entrance. The home was a huge two-story conglomeration of wood and glass, a complete antithesis of the traditional flavor of Tim Drew’s mansion. “Cool car!” Eric exclaimed as he approached the open driver’s window. Starsky demonstrated the bouncing front end. “Now I know I never saw a cop car do that before! When’d you get it?” Eric was backing away from the side of it to get a better look.

“Today. Hutch got my old car fixed up for me—it was in an…accident. Totaled.”

“Wow. Hey, how do I get on your Christmas list, man?” he asked Hutch, who had joined Starsky in getting out of the car.

“I’m really thrilled with the mechanic who fixed up that front end,” Hutch shot an accusatory look at Starsky, who had tried out the new feature several times too often for Hutch’s taste.

“Wait’ll you see the engine, man.” Starsky was about to pop the hood when Hutch interrupted.

“I hate to bring up something vulgar like police business here, but—”

“Oh, I gotta tell you guys—I just heard from my lawyer—they’re dropping the charges.”

“That’s great news, Eric,” Starsky responded.

“And Tim called me a little while ago and invited me to come over tonight to work on the song we’re gonna do—together as a band—at Matt’s funeral.”

“Tim’s who we need to talk to you about,” Hutch responded. “Can we talk somewhere?”

“Sure. Come on in.” Eric led the way into the house. The last time they had been sprawled in his living room, they had been picking a name for the band. This time Eric led them upstairs to a recreation room that boasted a full wall of windows overlooking an elaborately landscaped garden. “My mom designed the garden, if you can believe it. She’s pretty good with that stuff, so I turned her loose. She had a blast putting it together.”

“Quite a view,” Hutch commented, lingering over the sight of the ornamental trees and myriad of roses.

“So what about Tim?” Eric asked, plopping down in a beige leather couch. The two detectives occupied matching chairs across from him.

“First, I’ve got some news. And I have you to thank for a big part of it,” Starsky began. “I’m back on active duty.”

“What?” Eric’s face broke into one of his usual big smiles. Starsky explained all that had happened that morning, and how the fact he was seeking a second opinion had been the catalyst to the doctor admitting what he had done.

“I guess this a day for miracles, huh?” Eric asked, genuinely delighted at such a double dip of good luck for himself and one of his new good friends. Me and a couple of cops, pals. Who’da thought? Eric queried to himself.

“We want to send Tim undercover to bust Rhiana. We wanted to know how feasible you thought that was. Was she his supplier before?”

“Yup.”

“Think she’d sell to him again?” Starsky asked.

“I’m sure of it. Tim’s been clean about six months now, but he could just as easily slip off the wagon. And he has had a couple of girlfriends who were into coke, and he got some from Rhiana before. You’re not going to bust him for that, are you?”

“Not if he helps us out with this,” Hutch responded. “We’re building one hell of a case against Marcovitz: we’ve got you, Mick and Matt’s loan agreement. But over here,” Hutch gestured a distance of separation between his hands, “we’ve got Rhiana. Now Matt was tangled up with both of them.”

“And you want someone alive to be tangled up with both of them so you can bust both of them.”

“Once we bust both of them, we can go through their bank records, you name it, and probably find the link between them. I just don’t want to see one of them tip the other one off. If one or the other goes down first…”

“The one left standing’ll run for the hills,” Eric completed Hutch’s thought.

“I know it’s probably hard for you to be objective, but do you think we could trust Tim not to tip off Rhiana?” Starsky asked.

“If he knows why, he’ll cooperate. If I tell him it could be about Matt, he’ll do it.”

“You willing to go out to his place with us now and talk it over?” Hutch asked.

“Sure. Only thing is, I think Mick should know too. If all of us know, we can stick together and cover each other. I don’t want Mick to give it away that Tim’s still clean—or anything like that.”

“When’re you supposed to meet them anyway?” Starsky asked.

“In about an hour. Why don’t you guys come and we’ll talk this out?”

“Good idea,” Hutch responded.

“Hey, Dave, show me how to do the thing with the shocks in the front of your car, will ya? We’ve got a while.”

* * * *

Tim and Mick were more than willing to cooperate with any plot the detectives could hatch to nail Rhiana if there was the slightest possibility that she and Marcovitz were responsible for Matt’s death. Tim would go to Rhiana’s boutique and enact the old code, telling her he needed to place a special order for an important personal appearance. That was the lead-in to a drug order, which allowed Rhiana to talk to her customers openly at any time, even with others milling around the boutique. He would order a green lame shirt and scarf (a moderate amount of marijuana) and a pair of white leather boots (a smaller amount of cocaine).

Upon picking up the order, he would pay for it, but would express concern about his financial situation, friend to friend, and hopefully, this would motivate Rhiana to refer him, since getting him hooked up with Marcovitz would give him more drug money and also turn a profit for the loan shark. Everyone would benefit, and Starsky and Hutch would be there for all of it, with a wire on Tim and stakeouts in the new black car, which Rhiana would never recognize as theirs. It was unanimously agreed that nothing would happen until after Matt’s funeral, since the bandmembers all stated they were in no moods to play-act convincingly until they had completed the grim task of burying their lead singer and good friend.

Starsky and Hutch’s friendship with Eric was a well-known fact to Rhiana as well as several other musicians, so they did not hesitate to show up at the funeral home to pay their respects and show their moral support. Eric seemed like a fish back in water surrounded by his bandmates again, and the detectives were finally introduced to Adam Kelly, the band’s keyboardist. Adam was a bit on the quiet side, but under the circumstances, that wasn’t unusual. He was another tall blond, resembling Matt more closely that the rest of the group. Having him informed of the operation was a scary prospect, since they had to rely fully on Eric’s instincts, but they didn’t argue this point. These guys were willing to get in the middle of this mess to bring Rhiana and Marcovitz down, and the detectives could hardly refuse every request they made.

* * * *

During the next two days of inactivity on the undercover operation, Starsky and Hutch filled out reports and filed paperwork on this and other cases. Hutch had a backlog of unfinished work from before Matt Armstrong was killed, and even before his leave to take care of Starsky during his recovery. There had been a few filing details he had managed to let slide until now, and these dull days were the best time to catch up.

The news that the doctor’s verdict on Starsky had been reversed was not without its shockwaves. Dr. Dennison’s family was moved into protective custody after shots were fired into their home as they ate dinner one evening. Thankfully, no one was injured, and the family was taken to a safe house pending completion of the investigation.

The swiftness of the information reaching the enemy made the police nervous, and made Starsky and Hutch a little jittery about the outsiders who knew the inside information. Then an interesting tidbit showed up in an old set of notes on Gordon Callahan.

“Starsk, take a look at this,” Hutch said, laying a pile of handwritten notes in front of Starsky, who was just finishing up a phone call. He followed his partner’s instructions and noticed a notation of Callahan’s work history. One of his jobs had been a mechanic’s job at Wheels.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Starsky asked, standing up.

“Callahan did more than tinker with engines for Marcovitz?”

“And the connection he had to get him sprung and armed with a .45 the day he escaped had to be a damn good one—better than that dirtbag could have managed on his own.” Starsky headed for the file cabinet and started to pull all the folders on Callahan. There were several, one ceasing to be enough many months earlier.

“Callahan only had two male victims.” Hutch took half the pile and started hunting. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“Well, he was a sicko, so who knows? Maybe he was half-and-half—liked it both ways.” Starsky found information on one of the male victims. “Allen Kendall.”

“Here’s the other one. Mark Baxter.”

“Baxter was a rich kid, wasn’t he?” Starsky asked.

“Umm, 23 years old, parents were old money…Mark was into girls, cars, drugs—perfect client for our friends Rhiana and Marcovitz, huh?”

“Allen Kendall was pretty much the same. He was 26, but he was living high on the hog on a trust fund from rich grandparents. A real nothing except for the family money.”

“You know if claims were made against either of these estates by Marcovitz…”

“Hutch, if Callahan did this for Marcovitz, and he was arrested, Marcovitz may have paid to spring him before the connection was made.”

“Which means Marcovitz made a connection in the department—”

“We gotta talk to Dobey. This operation has to be top secret, even here. If there’s a contact in the department, that would explain why Dennison’s family was attacked so fast.” Starsky ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes. They had been poring over paperwork all morning and into the afternoon, and what they were finding was as frustrating as it was enlightening. They still needed a little thing called evidence.

After meeting with Dobey and explaining the new and bizarre twist in this already badly convoluted case, the detectives set out to visit the family attorneys for the Baxters and the Kendalls.

* * * *

Starsky and Hutch stood out vibrantly against the heavily padded, dark plush carpeting and rich wood walls of the attorney’s office. Everyone milling around this law firm was in some form of a dark business suit, until a visitor almost felt as if he were in some sort of military establishment. Jeans, leather jackets and sneakers were definitely not regular visitors inside these walls.

“Mr. Garner will see you now,” the secretary announced, after letting them cool their heels in the waiting room for a good half hour. “Mr. Garner, Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson,” she introduced, backing out of the office and closing the door behind them.

“Please have a seat, gentlemen.” The somewhat elderly attorney rose long enough to shake hands with the detectives and glance at their ID. “How can I be of help?”

“I’m sure your secretary must have mentioned that we were here about Allen Kendall,” Hutch began.

“Yes. You were interested in claims made against his estate.” He thumbed through a substantial folder on his desk. “Mr. Kendall did not have an extensive estate in his own right, but his family has made it a point to preserve his good name by meeting any outstanding commitments.” He scanned the folders.

“May we?” Starsky asked, reaching across the desk from where he sat. The older man hesitated, then passed the information to him. “Hutch,” he said, holding the folder where his partner could see the paperwork involving a $500,000 claim from Wheels, Inc., T.L. Marcovitz, President. It was listed as a personal loan, and there was a copy of the same type of dummy loan agreement, plus a payment record showing the man was in arrears on his payments by several months. Loan-sharking was always an enigma to Starsky. It’s bound to end in the leg-breaking—or killing. Desperate people who don’t have the money they need borrow it at some phenomenal rate of interest and somehow have to keep paying for it with money they don’t have. They inevitably default, and we pick up the pieces, he thought.

“Thank you, Mr. Garner,” Hutch was the first to stand, handing the file back to the attorney.

* * * *

Back in the Torino again, they headed toward the attorney for the Baxter family. This case seemed to keep offering them little teasers of what could be a phenomenal bust, but never quite gave them all they needed. They had a proven connection between Callahan, one of his victims, and Marcovitz, but the connection at the department would be a major missing link, and busting Rhiana might lead to catching yet a bigger fish. The thought of cutting her any slack at all wounded the vengeful streak in Starsky, but perhaps Marcovitz was the worst of the crime organization that appeared to exist here, and if so, maybe Rhiana would do more good losing a few years off her sentence but fingering him. Fingering, Starsky thought bitterly. She’s good at that, he pondered with a resentful snort, thinking of her tracing his scars, using the one area where he was the most vulnerable to hurt him when she broke it off. How could I be such a damned idiot? he asked himself. And why did she suddenly hate him so much…well, I’m just a dumb cop.

“What’s the matter?” Hutch was studying his partner’s odd expression carefully.

“I was just thinking about Rhiana.”

“That explains it.”

“I was thinking that maybe she could finger Marcovitz to save her own neck.”

“You want her neck saved?” Hutch asked.

“No. I want her to rot her ass in prison until she’s so damned old and ugly… Reality is that if she’s a dealer, even an important one, she’s not as big as a killer, and not as dangerous as the connection in the department could be.”

“So you’re thinking if we bust her, we should let her cut a deal?” Hutch probed further.

“I guess. If it’s gonna tell us something for sure we can’t find out otherwise. I don’t want to do her any favors, but I won’t let my bruised pride screw up this bust either.”

“That’s a good attitude, buddy.”

“I told ya I grew up a little.” Starsky was watching for a stoplight to change, and bounced the front end of the car.

“Not a hell of a lot, but a little,” Hutch responded.

“Ah, you wouldn’t like me anymore if I was predictable.”

“You could never be predictable, partner,” Hutch retorted with a laugh. “I gave up on that about a week after I met you.”

* * * *

The office of the law firm housing Arnold Mellen, the Baxter’s attorney, was not as intimidating as Garner’s office, but it was still elegant. Another annoying wait in a sitting room which boasted such periodicals as The Wall Street Journal and Business Today ensued, but they were finally “worked in” to Mr. Mellen’s schedule.

“I understand you are interested in information regarding Mark Baxter’s estate,” the stout, middle aged man began.

“Specifically, any claims against that estate,” Hutch clarified.

“Well, I have some misgivings about discussing—”

“Mr. Baxter was a murder victim, Mr. Mellen. Certainly you recall that,” Starsky interjected. “We can get a court order to go through all his financial records. But our goal here is to catch a killer—”

“It was my understanding that Gordon Callahan was dead.”

“He is, but like you, we have certain limits as to what we can discuss,” Hutch explained. “However, we have reason to believe Mr. Callahan may not have acted alone.”

“Very well.” He opened a folder on his desk and began explaining various claims against the young man’s credit. Unable to stand the mind-numbing boredom of the list, Starsky cut to the chase.

“May we see that for a moment? We know what we’re looking for.” The man grimaced a little, but handed Starsky the information. Hunching over the folder together, Starsky and Hutch scanned it for any reference to Wheels. They were not disappointed. Mark Baxter owed Wheels, Inc. $700,000. The identical loan agreement was there, again showing considerable default on payments. After thanking the attorney for his time, the two detectives left the office.

“So now we have Gordon Callahan working for Wheels, two of their debtors showing up as his victims, Matt Armstrong connected to both Rhiana and Marcovitz, and he’s dead,” Hutch summarized. “Dennison identified Rhiana as the woman who threatened him, and then someone took pot shots at his house when he went against the threat…and of course the leak in the department is our missing link there.”

“It has to be someone with good inside information, who can move around the jail and the precinct at will.”

“Sounds like another cop,” Hutch suggested.

“Nothing is scarier than that thought. At least we tipped Dobey off not to discuss this undercover project with anybody else.”

“It was lucky that the guys in the band were willing to put up the money for the buy. Otherwise, we’d have had to open this up to more people at the department.”

“You know, it’s weird when you think about how we wouldn’t have ever gotten involved in all this if we hadn’t tried our hand at being musicians,” Starsky reflected.

“Yeah, and Eric would probably be headed for a murder trial at warp speed right now.”

“And Rhiana and Marcovitz would be free and clear.”

“Of course that’s what they wanted to happen, so much so that they were probably trying to do anything to derail us from this case, including falsifying your diagnosis.” Hutch shook his head. “When I think about what almost happened…”

“Hutch, please don’t get all bogged down thinking about that. I won’t ever pull that stunt again. I don’t want to. I was upset, so upset I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew, but I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to think through what it really meant.”

“When all this is over, I hope you’re planning to go after that guy…get him out of the profession.”

“Because he lied to protect his family or because I almost killed myself?” Starsky looked away from the road a moment at his passenger. “I was responsible for that bone-headed move, not him. If somebody sent my kid her dog’s head in a box, I’d probably lie, cheat, steal, or kill to protect her from anything else happening. Yeah, I’m plenty mad at him for what he put me through, but I don’t know as I want to ruin the guy. He did have a reason.”

“I guess.” Hutch exhaled loudly and stared out the passenger window. “I think we should take a look at the files on the people Dobey investigated for being Callahan’s contact. I’d feel a lot better if we knew.”

“Good thinking.”

* * * *

Back at the precinct, they began going over the list, which was extensive. Dobey had investigated anyone that had access to the prisoner or the facility itself. There were dozens of people, including maintenance people, clericals, guards and several detectives and uniformed officers.

While Hutch waded through the data on each person, Starsky was studying the reports regarding the actual escape. Feeling his partner would not be too fond of reliving Tony Sheridan’s murder several times over that day, he volunteered to dissect this set of information.

One question nagged at Dave Starsky’s mind almost painfully. Where were the other cops while Callahan was breaking loose, shooting Sheridan? Sure, the guy was brandishing a .45 around, and some level of self-preservation was excusable. But there should have been someone…some attempt to do something… Tony was killed almost instantly, and another uniformed officer injured. That other officer, Craig Miller, had drawn his weapon and aimed at Callahan but wasn’t fast enough. The prison guard had been behind Callahan, but had protected himself from injury rather than attempting to disarm the prisoner. He hadn’t been reprimanded, but certainly hadn’t earned himself any commendations. Miller, on the other hand, had won a commendation for his attempt to stop Callahan. Wonder of Tony got one for dying? Starsky pondered.

Mitch Daniels: the detective who had worked with Tony Sheridan once Hutch had officially taken his leave to stay with Starsky. Who was this guy, and where the hell was he when his new partner was shot? If that had been Hutch, I’da been all over that bastard no matter how many times he shot me, if I had to crawl on my hands and knees…Starsky thought to himself. Of course, these guys had only been together a few days. But still, there was a responsibility, a loyalty in being a man’s partner, even if you didn’t know the guy very well, or like him, for that matter. Mitch Daniels had leapt for cover behind the open door of the waiting police car, and only fired on Callahan from this relatively protected position. He had to be close enough to see the weapon, realize the prisoner was breaking free…

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?” Hutch looked up from his own research.

“You got Daniels’ file handy?”

“Mitch Daniels? Right here.” He handed it to Starsky.

“Read it yet?”

“Not yet. I was going through the prison guard’s stuff.”

“Yeah, he wasn’t exactly a hero, was he?” Starsky started perusing Daniels’ records. His face drained of most of its color, and he looked back up at Hutch, who had returned to his reading. “Hutch?”

“What?” He looked up at his partner, a little concerned. The tone of that one word had contained something fearful and shocked.

“Mitch Daniels was head of security for Wheels, Inc. before he came here. He was a cop in San Diego, then moved here and couldn’t get a position on the force right away, so he worked for Wheels. Then he applied again, and got in because we had those two retirements about six months ago.”

“I guess we don’t need to look any further for our leak.” Hutch shook his head. “Poor Tony. He walked right into the middle of that one, didn’t he?”

“Don’t start looking for a way to blame yourself for this.”

“It just seems like this one really fine cop kept getting short-changed in the partner department.”

“He got you for a while. That’s not short-changed in my book.”

“Thanks, buddy, but it was. I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. Then he gets Daniels. Poor bastard never stood a chance.”

“We better fill Dobey in on this one.” Starsky picked up the file and headed for his superior’s office, with his partner on his heels. “We found him,” he announced, tossing the file on Dobey’s desk.

“Who?” Dobey seemed a little irritated, interrupted from a form he had been laboriously filling out.

“The leak.” Starsky waited until Dobey’s eyes met his, and then went to the folder on his desk.

“Daniels? Starsky, he came highly recommended from San Diego. He has a flawless record—”

“Not exactly. Note his previous employer—in the six months he lived in LA and there were no openings on the force.” Starsky waited while Dobey scanned the file.

“Marcovitz’s outfit?”

“One in the same. Guess who worked as a mechanic there a while back?” Hutch asked.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me?” Dobey retorted, in no mood for guessing games.

“Callahan.”

“At the same time?”

“Possibly. We still have to pull Callahan’s file and compare, but it looks like they overlapped by a month or so, if memory serves,” Hutch responded. “Besides, the connection would be Marcovitz. There have been some new developments…” Hutch proceeded to explain the fact that two of Callahan’s wealthy male victims had been in debt to Marcovitz, and that this led them to believe that Callahan had been a hatchet man for Marcovitz. Obviously not wanting to risk being exposed, Marcovitz activated his contact at the department, Daniels, who arranged the escape. “…so to turn all this conjecture into fact, I think we should bust Rhiana and lean on her real hard for information on Marcovitz. If we have to let her off a little easy, it would be worth it to nail him. And if she’s a major player, she can probably do just that.”

“Proceed with your undercover plan, and I agree with you about the woman. If she can give us Marcovitz, we’ll work something out with the DA. Not immunity, but a decent reduction in her sentence, anyway.” Dobey was silent until they were almost out of the room. “By the way, good work.”

* * * *

Matthew Armstrong’s funeral was one of the LA music scene’s biggest events in years. The large church where it was held was packed to its capacity with family, friends and music business insiders. Crowds of fans, held back by police, stood in relative order watching for the hearse to arrive, many holding candles, some holding roses or other pieces of memorabilia.

The hearse arrived, and sounds came from the crowd, though they could hardly be interpreted as cheers. Some roses flew in the general direction of the hearse, while the funeral directors transported the casket inside the church.

Starsky and Hutch had been required to flash their police ID to even be allowed to squeeze into a couple of end seats in a back pew. Both feeling considerably out of place among the jet set, they continued scanning the room for Rhiana. She arrived late, and joined a crowd of people who were most likely record company execs, standing in the back of the church.

“Rhiana in basic black and pearls. Hypocritical bitch,” Starsky muttered to his partner. “I can’t believe she showed up here.”

“It’d look more suspicious if she didn’t under the circumstances.” Hutch looked up to the front of the church. Eric was slipping out of the pew where he sat with his bandmates and hurried toward the back of the church. He stopped at their pew.

“Thanks for coming.” He greeted them with a slight smile, but in the grim atmosphere of the church, he had obviously been crying. Starsky stood up and hugged him.

“How’re you holding up, pal?” he asked, stepping back.

“Not as good as I wanted to, but I’m makin’ it. I see Rhiana’s here.”

“Isn’t that nice of her?” Starsky asked sarcastically.

“I better go play the role. Look, don’t let security brush you off. Stick with us for the graveside service, huh?”

“Wouldn’t do anything else,” Hutch spoke up.

“Thanks.” Eric left them and wove his way back to Rhiana. They embraced, and she was obviously offering her usual soft-voiced, consoling niceties. She was good at that, Starsky thought bitterly.

The funeral was impressive, not only from the huge crowd, but the genuine outpouring of sorrow from family and friends. Matt Armstrong had fallen from grace in recent months, due to a downward spiral of drugs and the wild life, but he had obviously once been very special to a large number of people. The song the band wrote and performed just before the casket was removed was a soft acoustic ballad that left most of the mourners in tears. The bandmembers themselves were in very little better shape.

Joining his bandmates as a pall bearer, Eric made brief eye contact with Starsky and Hutch as the procession made its way through the church. The huge crowd was very orderly in exiting the church, and after navigating a nearly impossible jumble, the newly renovated black Torino was in the funeral procession, which wound around the church for blocks.

The group at the cemetery was smaller than the church crowd, though not by much. The green hills were blanketed with people in all directions. The fans had been excluded from even spectating at this stage, and perhaps that was as it should be. The Armstrongs and the band needed a few moments to not be in the spotlight.

Matt’s parents led the procession of mourners who each placed a single red rose on the already flower-laden casket that waited to be lowered into the grave. The band went up, as a group, and in unison laid their roses on the casket, as if to demonstrate their strength as a unit that still included Matt. All four laid their hands on the casket and lingered a moment. It was a dramatic gesture, to say the least, and one that conveyed a deep sense of love and loss.

Hutch was tiring quickly of funerals. Though Tony Sheridan had been laid to rest better than a month ago, it was still too damn fast to be back in a cemetery feeling lousy. Starsky’s aborted suicide attempt had jangled his nerves, and caskets and cemeteries were not his favorite things. There were times going back in the business seemed absurd, but neither he nor his partner had felt this alive in years. They were cops, like it or not, no matter how hard they tried to be something else.

As the group of mourners dispersed, the band was mingling with Matt’s family, planning to ride with them and be seated with them at the funeral dinner, which was being held at an elegant banquet room of a local hotel. Eric was very solicitous about roping his two new friends into the group, though they found themselves feeling a bit awkward in the midst of all this grief. Not knowing Matt personally, it wasn’t a terribly emotional time for either one of them. Of course, once the Armstrongs learned they were the detectives on the murder case, they were more than willing to welcome the new additions to the family table.

Several long banquet tables were filled easily, and uniformed wait staff served salads, followed by filet mignon and lobster, which Matt’s father announced was his son’s favorite combination of foods.

“You see Rhiana at all?” Eric asked Starsky as the hum of the conversation was adequately loud to cover their exchange.

“No. I saw she was there, but I avoided her.” Starsky took a sip of the red wine that accompanied lunch. To hell with being on duty later. Rhiana required large quantities of some substance to even think about for very long.

“So when do we get started on the operation?”

“There’s more I have to tell you about later. I think we should have a strategy session with everybody involved tonight around seven. Think everybody’s free?”

“Probably. None of us are exactly in the mood to go out and party. Where’s a safe place?”

“Don’t know for sure,” Starsky responded, pondering the question. Maybe this guy should be a cop…he thought of most everything.

“There’s always my place. It’s pretty remote, and since I’m still officially a suspect, I don’t suppose it would be all that weird for you guys to show up there.”

“Okay. Your place it is. We want to get this thing going. There’s more going on here than I’ve had a chance to fill you in on.”

* * * *

The group that gathered at Eric’s house was a grim-faced lot at best. The detectives were sobered by the potential danger of all the tentacles this case seemed to have, and the musicians were still in the post-funeral stupor. Starsky and Hutch shared the duty of explaining all the details to their civilian “operatives.” It was important that they be aware of what they were getting themselves into, but none of them seemed the least deterred, even by the thought that Marcovitz employed people the caliber of Gordon Callahan. They already knew he was employing someone who was willing to stab Matt Armstrong to death, and that was the only catalyst they seemed to need.

Tim was to approach Rhiana at noon the next day, in her boutique, wired for sound, and propose to make a buy. He would say that all the pressure over Matt’s death, plus the habit of a new lady in his life for the white stuff was propelling him to fall off the wagon. It usually took a day or two for the goods to come in, but when he made the pick up, he would pay Rhiana without complaint, but say that he wanted to make another buy. They’d discuss his “wish list,” but then he’d drop the hint that he was very low on ready cash. Hopefully, she would feel the desire to be of help, and make the right referral. Tim would then go to Marcovitz, take out a loan, sign the dummy agreement, and again wired for sound, would be advised of the real terms of the deal. When all this was complete, and money and drugs had all changed hands, Rhiana and Marcovitz would both be arrested. Then Rhiana would be leaned on heavily to provide additional evidence on Marcovitz in return for lenient sentencing.

Tim seemed to be anxious to get the show on the road, and the two detectives almost thought they picked up on a little spring in his step as they watched him go into the boutique right on schedule.

“Hey, think the department would spring for a new leather jacket if this works out?” he whispered into his wire. Starsky and Hutch couldn’t help but snicker. These guys were going after this case with all the enthusiasm of little kids playing cops and robbers, and all the cool and finesse of experienced agents.

It seemed Tim had missed his vocation. Acting might have been more suited to him, as he chatted casually with Rhiana, charmed her, and ultimately set up a buy from her, pushing it to include some heroin as well. Once he saw she trusted him, he opted to push the envelope, and it worked. Though he had no history of heroin use, and had never purchased it from her, she agreed to supply him with the small quantity—brown suede gloves—he requested. He left the boutique with a satisfied smile on his face. And now the detectives would watch Rhiana and wait. A tap on her phone line was providing their audio entertainment. Getting the big supplier at the same time they brought her down would be a real boon.

An hour after Tim left, Rhiana made a phone call.

“Hello,” a male voice answered the ring.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she replied. “Got a special order for you.” She proceeded to list off the clothing items which camouflaged the drug order. No names were exchanged between her and her source, and the call was too brief to trace.

“Stake-outs.” Starsky yawned loudly and looked over at his partner, who was slouched in the seat reading a magazine. Something about current events. “This is the one thing about this job I hate. Well, this and getting shot.”

“Don’t joke about that, Starsk. It’s not funny.” Hutch’s response reminded Starsky of the tone he used to get from his parents when they were vaguely annoyed with what he was saying but not enough so to take action. Hutch’s eyes never left the page.

“Aren’t you sick of that yet?” He tapped the cover of the magazine, and finally an irritated Hutch looked over the top of it at him.

“Not especially, no. You know it wouldn’t hurt you to be a little better informed about what’s going on in the world.” Hutch returned his eyes to the page. “Says here disco’s on its way out.”

“Now there’s something I wouldn’t want to have missed hearing about.” Starsky yawned again. “Come on, Hutch, I’m bored.”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t bring anything to read.”

“How can I read and watch the boutique at the same time?”

“It isn’t that hard. You just need a trained eye, that’s all,” Hutch retorted, continuing to ignore his partner’s pleas for company.

“So read to me, then, and I’ll watch the boutique.” Starsky was quiet a moment, and Hutch made no response. “Hey, whatever happened to that book you had—the one when I first got home from the hospital? You read me some poetry, remember?”

“If you think I’m going to read you poetry on this stakeout, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“I just wondered who wrote it.”

“Nobody important.”

“They must have a name. I liked it. I never told you, but it really helped me get back in this car again and come after you when Callahan had you. And the one about the boat—”

“‘Passages,’ Starsky. It has a title,” Hutch snapped.

“Okay, ‘Passages’ then. I really liked those. Why won’t you tell me who the poet is?”

“I wrote it, okay?” Hutch finally responded, keeping his eyes riveted on his magazine.

“You did?” Starsky hooked his forefinger over the magazine and pulled it down so his partner had no choice but to look him in the eyes. “Why wouldn’t you just say so?”

“It isn’t very good, Starsk.”

“I know I’m no great literary critic, but I liked it. I liked it because it meant something. Just to read somebody’s meditation on the ripple in a lake or how many veins are on a leaf doesn’t do much for me. But that poetry meant something, and for the first time, I actually thought about a poem when I was in a bad situation and needed to think my way out of it. Don’t sell yourself so short, Hutch. I liked it.”

“You said yourself you weren’t a great critic.” Hutch mildly regretted the put-down, but he didn’t retract it. “It was just some stuff I wrote a few years ago.

“What made you write it? Where’d you get your ideas?”

“Starsky, why do you care about my stupid poetry?”

“Well, I’m beginning to ask myself that very question, but I’m still curious.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s very personal. I wouldn’t have read it to you at all, but I thought maybe it would help at the time.”

“It did. What’d you think I’d do, laugh at it?”

“No, I thought you’d do what you always do when I perform anything—tell me how good it is, cheer for it—regardless of what it sounds like.”

“There’s a difference between giving a friend some moral support and encouragement, and really liking something. I liked this stuff. It made me feel better. I was in real bad shape for a while there, Hutch.” Starsky stared back at Rhiana’s storefront briefly. There was a black and white watching the back entrance, but they hadn’t radioed with any news.

“I was actually afraid to go outside that day you came to get me from the hospital. I was scared of the parking lot…it made me think about the last parking lot I was in, and I was really afraid. I was afraid of this car. Maybe that’s why I drove it off a cliff—to kill it, not me. And this is great now, because what freaked me out about it was remembering what the side of it looked like while I was being shot. Now that it looks different, I’m thrilled to have it back.”

Starsky paused and looked down for a moment. “Those nightmares, about the shooting, and just the thought of going to sleep because I might have one, scared me to death…I was actually afraid I’d have another cardiac arrest and die in my sleep having one of those dreams. But that poem—’Passages’—when you read it to me that afternoon, and I fell asleep listening to it, I didn’t have a nightmare. And when you read me that other one—don’t get mad, but I don’t remember the title, but the one about having dominion over your dreams and memories? It gave me courage. It helped me face this car again and get in it and drive it, and it helped me to understand that the dreams were just that—they were harmless. They couldn’t kill me. They couldn’t shoot me again just because I dreamed about it.” Starsky looked up at his partner a little hesitantly. “It means so much to me to know why you wrote those, because they reached right into my soul and healed it—and a whole team of specialists couldn’t seem to accomplish that.”

“The heroin.”

“What?”

“Right after I went through the withdrawal, or I should say we went through it, I still had a lot of nightmares—”

“You never said anything.”

“Starsk, at a point, I had to take some responsibility for myself again, take a hold of my own life. You couldn’t be watching me 24 hours a day. I wrote ‘Passages’ less about nightmares than about the withdrawal itself. There were so many awful visions and thoughts and fears and pain to go through. Do you remember that first night, when you were trying to get me to go to sleep, what you talked about?”

“I was just rattling on, like always. Something about camp when I was a kid. Man, that was a rotten experience.” Starsky laughed a little at the memory of the somewhat cheesy camp his parents had saved up to send him to one summer. He had griped and complained for a solid week until he was allowed to go home early.

“You had one good experience while you were there, remember?”

“Vaguely. I stole a canoe and went up this stream by myself…”

“And you told me that story. You told me how peaceful it was and about the water rocking the canoe gently, and I just drifted for a little while. That story gave me a few minutes’ break from all the pain and the horror I was going through, and I could drift. But all through it, there was this one anchor I held onto, and that was your voice. It was like a mental anchor I could hold onto and feel free to let go of the pain for awhile and just lie in that canoe and feel the breeze and the motion of the water…” Hutch seemed almost transported for a moment.

“And later that night, when I was having a real rough time, you told me I should think of all the stuff I was seeing as just part of a horror movie—you were joking about how I was always hating the movies you dragged me to see—and you said I should think of whatever it was that I was seeing that was scaring me right at that moment as one of those cheap horror movies, and that all the stuff with Forest was just bad memories, and that I was alive and safe and had overcome all of it, and that they couldn’t hurt me. I don’t know as I was mentally capable of fully believing that, but it pulled me through. And those were some of the thoughts that went into the poetry.”

“I didn’t think anything was really registering with you while all that was going on,” Starsky responded. “I thought you were pretty much out of it.”

“I was, but a few things got through. You never told me you were worried about having another cardiac arrest.”

“I’m not—not now, anyway. And I really wasn’t when I was awake and in my right mind. That pain medication was powerful stuff. The first time I realized I wasn’t an emotional, jittery basket case was when I stopped taking it for a while to look for you. It hurt like hell but I had my mind back, and I had some emotional strength. Those pills were like some kind of truth serum…they just seemed to open up my emotions and fears and just leave them exposed. When I had those nightmares, they were so real…I could feel the pain all over again. Knowing my heart had stopped for a period of time in the hospital, I was scared that maybe it still wasn’t as strong as it should be, and that if I got as upset as I did during the dreams, it’d kill me. I’d wake up and my heart would be pounding so hard I could hardly breathe.”

“I know they were pretty intense. The first night you were home from the hospital, it worried me, too, because when I was close to you, your heart felt just like this little fist beating on my chest.”

“I’m not sorry all that stuff’s over. We’ve had a lot of good times, pal, but we’ve had our share of garbage, too.” Starsky looked back at the boutique. “Speak of the devil.” Both watched while Rhiana exited the boutique and walked to her car.

“This oughtta be interesting.” Hutch settled in for the ride as Starsky waited to start up the engine until Rhiana was on her way slowly down the street.

The white Porsche was in no particular hurry, and Rhiana seemed to be enjoying the breeze toying with her hair in the little convertible. Starsky’s larger black vehicle stayed a discreet distance behind. Talk about opposites, he thought with a slight smile. The newly redone Torino looked like it could positively devour the smaller car. This mental imagery appealed to Starsky, but he tried to dismiss such petty and childish fantasies.

Rhiana stopped her car at the curb in front of a small outdoor cafe. No sleazy alley swaps for this lady. She met a well-dressed young man and was seated at his table. Drinks were ordered and they seemed to be visiting congenially.

“Maybe it’s just a lunch date,” Hutch suggested.

“Maybe.”

“You still upset about her?”

“Busting her will make me real happy. I don’t like her tactics. Dumping somebody is one thing, but inflicting intentional cruelty on them by taking advantage of some little weakness or vulnerability and then throwing it back at them—that’s a trashy trick. It’s as much as saying that humiliating the person by dumping them isn’t enough. You have to remind them of everything they shared with you in a weak moment.”

“If it’s any consolation, I misjudged her pretty badly too. She reminded me of Terry at first.”

“God help me, me too,” Starsky responded, watching his old girlfriend laughing and leaning close to this other man to talk with him. Finally, she was fumbling with her purse.

“Maybe he’s making her pay for lunch,” Hutch quipped, and Starsky had to snicker. Rhiana was probably wealthier from her side business than most any poor stupid bastard she’d wind up dating.

“Oh, isn’t that interesting. Wonder what’s in the sample book?” Starsky took out the camera with the telephoto lens and focused it on the exchange of a fat envelope from Rhiana and a couple of small parcels she tucked into her large purse. The book the man had, which was ostensibly a book of some kind of fabric samples, obviously contained a very large hollowed-out area. Starsky patted himself on the back mentally for his photography skills as he snapped shots of the trade, and Hutch watched through binoculars from the passenger seat.

“Somebody should trail Romeo,” Hutch suggested, radioing for another unmarked car ASAP. Rhiana’s male companion hadn’t budged yet, and they were being served some type of lunch. When he left, hopefully he’d return to the supply source. It was infinitely frustrating not to simply take them both in right there and then, but there was more to be gained by waiting. When this bust did come down, it would be airtight and comprehensive. Murder, drug-dealing, loan-sharking, and maybe even drug manufacturing might be part of the ultimate picture.

The team of Stevens and Williams appeared in a generic-looking blue Ford sedan. The car actually did stand out against the backdrop of expensive luxury vehicles in the area. While the Torino didn’t exactly blend with the atmosphere, it could have been mistaken for the whim of some rich kid, with its souped-up appearance. Somehow this blatantly moderate car in the midst of all this wealth was not too discreet. Starsky radioed the other team, figuring Hutch would just as soon avoid discussing anything with Linda. His partner made no move for the radio to dissuade him.

“Zebra Three to Zebra Seven, come in.” Starsky waited, and Linda’s voice returned his call. The mating call of the zebras, he thought absurdly.

“This is Zebra Seven, go ahead, Zebra Three.”

“It’s the preppy guy with the redhead at that corner table. The one with the white sweater tied around his neck?” Starsky described Zebra Seven’s assignment. “When he leaves, tail him. He’s the supplier, or at least a high-class runner.”

“10-4, Zebra Three,” Linda retorted with no further comment.

“Of all the plainclothes teams…” Hutch grumbled.

“Maybe you oughtta talk to her again.”

“I don’t think she’s in any mood to hear from me right now.”

“I didn’t mean during this stakeout, dummy. I meant over wine and candlelight—something to soften her up a little.”

“That’s like softening up a lead pipe, Starsk. Then she’ll watch us bust this big operation and walk away with all this praise, and she and Stevens’ll be just as pissed off as they were at the beginning, probably more.”

“She and Stevens wouldn’t be here right now. They’d probably be driving a couple more shaky circumstantial nails into Eric’s coffin.”

“True.”

“She might just someday see that this was all for the best—us getting the case instead of them. They would’ve mishandled it badly, and it was a high profile case.”

“I guess thoughts of commendations sort of pushed all other logic aside for those two. Scary how ambitious some of these new people can get. We let our cases happen the way we were supposed to, and if we brought down somebody big, it was because they deserved it.”

“Be careful, Hutch. You’re sounding dangerously like those old guys did at their retirement parties. And you’re making us sound infallible.”

“I didn’t mean to do that, because God knows we aren’t. Ask Rigger.”

“I wondered if you’d been thinking about him a lot lately. It scares me that I think of him in connection to Eric. While Rigger wasn’t a friend the way Eric is, he still trusted us with his life to give us major evidence, and we let him down. It scares me we’ll do the same thing to Eric.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

* * * *

After an additional half hour of lingering over lunch and each other, Rhiana took her leave of the cafe, and drove off toward the boutique. Zebra Three left Zebra Seven to do its duty with her male companion and followed the white Porsche back to Rodeo Drive.

“That probably isn’t Tim’s order,” Hutch complained as they watched Rhiana re-enter her boutique. “Doesn’t it usually take a couple of days?”

“That’s what Tim said. But he never said there were no variations on the pattern. Wonder where her boyfriend went?”

“Well, I suppose we’ll hear back from Zebra Seven soon enough.”

“Why don’t you take the call? Don’t you want to break the ice with Linda?”

“Yes and no. There was something happening between us, but her professional attitude isn’t too good. She was ready to hop on the ‘crucify Eric March’ bandwagon along with her partner before they even knew what in hell they were talking about. The arrest he made was an ill-advised one. Eric should have been brought in for questioning, maybe held overnight if they really suspected him, but he should never have been officially arrested and booked. Linda’s experienced enough to realize that, even if her partner’s too wet behind the ears to understand the concept of building a strong case before running out half-cocked and arresting the first guy with blood on his hands.” Hutch sighed. “She wanted another big case, like the one in San Francisco. This case would have put Stevens on the map as a detective, and would have put Linda on the map here in LA. She was getting to be kind of a hot-shot at the SFPD, getting high level cases and handling them well. Now she comes here, they assign her to a new guy, and she saw a chance to skip through proving herself the hard way by using this case.”

“Sounds like more ‘no’ than ‘yes.'”

“I just know that we’ll spend most of our time disagreeing about our work. The only way I could be romantically involved with another cop–and wrestle all the policy complications involved in that—would be if our attitudes were similar, if we thought alike. There’s a point at which Linda and I don’t, obviously.”

“I guess I hadn’t thought too much about the rules.”

“Well, I don’t know what Dobey’d do about it. I really don’t want to find out. When Linda made the move to the PD here, we were planning to quit. So whether or not she was a cop wasn’t an issue in our relationship. Then we rushed right in and asked for our badges back and bumped her and her partner off the case. Let’s face it: that morning, I left Linda and you left Rhiana. Rhiana was just taking some verbal revenge out on you—we made our choices then and there.”

“I forgot Rhiana was there. That’s not the same as breaking up with her.”

“You still love her?”

“I don’t know. I love the person I thought she was. It’s more like a death. Like that person died after we left my apartment that morning. She was replaced by what’s there now, which isn’t the woman I fell in love with. Plus I’m angry. I couldn’t love her now even if she wasn’t involved in any of this.”

“Zebra Seven to Zebra Three, come in, please,” a female voice came over the radio. Starsky looked at Hutch, who made no move to answer it. He picked it up instead.

“This is Zebra Three, go ahead.”

“Subject went into the Wheels Auto Dealership in Beverly Hills.”

“Is he still there?”

“Has been for about ten minutes.”

“Stay on him, okay?” Starsky asked.

“Roger, Zebra Three. Will do.” She broke the connection. Women seem to be doing that to both of us a lot lately, Starsky thought with a snicker.

“Looks like things are fitting together nicely,” Hutch commented.

“Well, all we have to do now is wait for Tim to get a phone call.”

* * * *

Tim didn’t get a phone call the rest of that day. Unwilling to relinquish their position in the case, both detectives resigned themselves to sleeping in the car, listening to the bug on Rhiana’s phone and alternately watching her boutique, and then her apartment building. At close to midnight, Rhiana made a call to Tim Drew’s home.

“Tim, this is Rhiana. Just wanted to let you know we got a shipment in today, and by coincidence, I happened to get just the items you special ordered.”

“Seriously? Man, that’s what I call service,” Tim responded. “When can I pick it up?”

“The boutique opens at noon tomorrow. Come by anytime after that, and your order will be ready for you.”

“Great, Thanks, Rhiana.”

And thus the conversation ended. Satisfied Rhiana was on her good behavior and in for the night, they finally relinquished their stakeout to Stevens and Williams. As a consolation prize, Dobey had assigned them to assist with the case. Whether this was truly consolation or his form of rubbing their noses in their original mistake, Starsky and Hutch weren’t sure. Dobey could be a man of complex motives.

After dropping Hutch off at his apartment, Starsky made his way back to his own place, revving the new engine and taking the long way home. About a block away from his place, he opted to take another turn and go for a ride. Hutch was always so damn conservative about taking a little joyride. He turned his lights on bright to dispel the gloom of the country road he finally found himself on, rolled down his windows and turned up the stereo. Merl had thrown in a wicked pair of speakers, and when you had to listen for that damn police radio all day, there was no chance to really cut loose and have some fun.

Hutch settled into bed with a good book. Not that he considered that the most exciting way to spend the night, but it was nice to relax a little. They were both back on the force, back on active duty, Starsky was healthy as a horse again and all seemed reasonably right with the world. Even this screwball case appeared to be taking shape. Within a few minutes, he had dozed off to sleep.

Eric turned on the tape machine, and leaned back in the chair in front of the control panel. Closing his eyes, he heard Matt’s voice filling the room. It was spooky, listening to the vocal track by itself like this. It always had a ghostly, almost other-worldly sound when you separated it from the instrumental track. Now, it was positively chilling. Something about the singular experience of hearing his best friend’s voice again was what he wanted. Matt wasn’t really on tape talking anywhere that he could remember, so this ghostly singing would have to do. Working with the police was scary. Being in debt to Marcovitz for just a little while and knowing the consequences of defaulting had been unnerving. Being the one responsible for tipping off the cops to his and Rhiana’s operation was downright terrifying…but he was doing it for the ghost singing in the shadows of the empty studio. How many times had Eric sat here, in this seat, working the controls, and watching Matt do what he did best in front of the microphone in the other room? His home studio wasn’t complex or perfect, but he and Matt had had some really great times here…

Dave promised this whole mess would be over soon. That was good and bad. Once it was over, Matt would be forgotten. A murder solved. The press have had a field day ripping him apart so far…wait ’till they have all this material to work with. Eric sighed into the emptiness of the room. Matt was no choirboy, people were saying. That struck Eric funny, because in reality, he actually had been. When they were children, Matt had sung in a children’s choir at his church. He had always been singing, all the time. Anything. He just loved to sing. And Eric loved to listen…and pound on things. Always a frantically energetic kid, Eric had found the drums to be an amazing release. So Kingpin was born, once the sixteen-year-old Matt and fifteen-year-old Eric had rounded up Tim, Mick and Adam to complete their line-up.

Eric’s mother had said something about this line of work using people up and spitting them out at young ages. She was right. He felt spit out, and Matt sure as hell was used up. He turned off the tape machine and walked slowly down the hall and went to bed.

* * * *

The doorbell. Starsky was vaguely aware of the sound, but he was trying his best to ignore it. Now there was pounding. If it was Hutch, he could damn well let himself in. It was too early…more pounding. Starsky looked at the clock. It was seven-thirty. Oh. Not as early as it feels, he thought wearily. Two hours racing around in his new toy hadn’t left him much time to sleep the previous night, and now he was going to pay for that privilege.

“Yeah, all right, keep your shirt on.” Pulling his robe on haphazardly and blinking himself into consciousness, he opened the door.

“You’re not dressed,” Hutch whizzed past him, carrying breakfast take outs.

“Congratulations, detective.” Starsky slammed the door and wandered back toward his bathroom.

“And you’re in a good mood, too,” Hutch needled, setting his wares out on the small kitchen table. He had brought coffee and breakfast sandwiches from the nearest fast food place. “Late night?”

“Went for a drive,” Starsky called over the sound of the shower starting up. “Hell of a car, partner.”

“Called Tim this morning. He’s going over to Rhiana’s about 12:30. Dobey’s making the arrangements for the back-up we’ll need.”

“Hope Daniels isn’t listening in on all this,” Starsky responded, emerging from the bathroom in his robe, toweling off his hair. “Real food. Thanks.” He picked up one of the sandwiches and started eating as he returned to the bedroom to get dressed.

“Is that supposed to be a slur about my usual eating habits? You know I’m going to live longer than you, Starsk.”

“Nah. It’ll just feel like it,” the ever-obstinate voice called from the bedroom.

Dobey was busily on the telephone when the two detectives entered his office. He finished his call and then motioned to them to sit.

“Everything’s in place. We’ll have two vice people inside the boutique when your friend makes the buy. And don’t worry, they look the parts. McDougal’s got the long hair, and he can dress the part. He’s taking another detective, Janet Ashford, with him. They’ll blend right in. I want on the-scene eyewitnesses for this exchange.”

“And hopefully Tim’ll get a referral to Marcovitz,” Hutch spoke up.

“Hopefully,” Dobey echoed.

“If he does, we’ve got this thing sewn up.” Starsky paused, then continued. “Captain, how do we know Daniels won’t hear about this?”

“That’s my job to take care of Daniels.”

“But how?”

“He’s on a stake out with two detectives who know the score about him. IA knows what’s going down. He won’t get anywhere near this operation, and he’s been isolated enough not to hear about it.”

“I’m sorry, Cap, but after what happened with Rigger…”

“That was never my choice, Starsky. You know that.”

“I know, but it still happened, and I don’t want to see Eric and the rest of the band end up the same way. They’ve become friends, and they’ve put their lives on the line to make this bust a reality.”

“Daniels won’t be a problem.” Dobey looked down at his desk to make a couple of notes on a file he had been reading.

“Are we going to have back-up ready if we need to move in?” Hutch asked.

“No question about that. You’ll have full back-up standing by at Rhiana’s and at the car dealership. They’ll be in place just in case things move fast and your friend gets a quick referral and goes over there. Once he gets the goods on Marcovitz, we’ll arrest Rhiana Blake and Marcovitz, hopefully simultaneously.”

“My biggest concern is getting Tim out of there without a half-dozen bullet holes in him,” Hutch spoke up. “We’ll have to get him out first before we move in.”

“You two will be in charge of calling the first move. I’ll be standing by. I plan to be there if anything comes down. This is going to be a big one.”

“So where do Stevens and Williams fit into this plan?” Hutch asked.

“They’re going to be in charge of the team at Marcovitz’s while things are going down at Rhiana’s. When the action shifts, so do they. They’re the back-up team. We anticipate the biggest challenge will be with Marcovitz’s people, so I want you two in charge of that portion of the actual arrests. And I want you both in vests.”

“Probably a good idea,” Starsky said, with the voice of experience.

* * * *

By noon, they met briefly with Tim at his home to check the sound equipment and make sure his wire was in place. They hadn’t anticipated Eric being there, but he said he wanted to at least have some part in the action. He was more than pleased when Starsky pulled a third bullet-proof vest out of the bag he had brought in and told Tim to wear something sloppy enough to hide it. Since he would be in the center of the operation, they didn’t want to take a chance of him getting caught in a crossfire.

Tim Drew walked confidently into Rhiana’s at 12:30, right on schedule. McDougal and Ashford had entered the boutique about fifteen minutes earlier and had begun browsing. Rhiana hadn’t suspected them of being anything but customers, and had cheerfully pointed out some of her more exceptional new items.

“Hey, Rhiana, how’s it goin’?” Tim walked in, greeting her casually, just like always. He was thinking how sweet it was going to be to nail the woman who had fed Matt’s drug habit and then lured him into debt and led him to his death.

“Let me get your order. It’s in back.” She went to the back room but returned quickly with a pile of softly-wrapped packages, which she was placing in one of her flashy gold shopping bags as she spoke. “That was a pair of white leather boots, a green lame shirt and scarf, and brown suede gloves, right?” she concluded cheerfully.

“That’s it.” Tim dug deep into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. Discreetly counting them, he looked up at Rhiana. “Say, is my credit good around here? I mean, I wanna make another order, but this is all the loose cash I’ve got.” His voice was barely a whisper. Rhiana looked pensive for a moment. She counted the money he paid her for the current order.

“I’m not a charity, Tim,” she whispered back. “Cash on delivery. You know that by now.”

“Yeah, I know, and it’s not like I haven’t got the money, but it’s all tied up, and I borrowed some stuff from a friend of mine to tide me over ’til this came, and by the time I pay him back out of this order, I’m gonna need more.” Tim had the jittery demeanor of a fading high down pat, and his dark glasses made it impossible for her to analyze his eyes for signs of use. Starsky and Hutch exchanged looks in the car across the street as they listened. Drew was cool as a cucumber in this situation, and he was smooth. Would’ve made a hell of a narc if he weren’t a musician.

“I don’t take orders on credit, or even on your good looks, sweetie.” She patted Tim’s face almost affectionately. Nice she could be such good buddies with her customers, Tim thought bitterly.

“What am I supposed to do then?” He ran an appropriately shaky hand through his shaggy auburn hair. “Come on, baby, you know I’m good for it. I can’t wait for my accountants to play with my damn stocks.”

“I’m going to give you an address,” she said quietly, writing on a piece of paper. “Short-term loans.” She handed him the paper, which simply said “Wheels, Beverly Hills.”

“I don’t need a new car, Rhiana. I need—”

“I know what you need, and you’ll get it there. Tell the secretary you need to see T.L. about a credit problem. When you get in to see him, tell him I sent you. He’ll take care of you. When you’re done there, come back and see me.”

“Okay…Look, can’t you just take the order from me now? I mean I don’t wanna have to wait—”

Starsky and Hutch were snickering at the shaky junkie act Tim was laying on in just the right doses. Rhiana was buying this hook, line and sinker.

“Sorry, pal. Go see T.L., and then come see me. I have other customers to wait on,” she murmured, turning her attention to another pair who entered the boutique to join McDougal and Ashford in their browsing.

Tim walked out with his shopping bag, and Starsky and Hutch prepared to tail him.

“She wrote down ‘Wheels, Beverly Hills’ on the paper she gave me,” he reported into his wire, wishing he could hear a response from the two detectives. It was scary, wondering if they were hearing all this. He saw the black Torino a ways up the street, but there was no way to know if the occupants heard him. Hopefully, they’d tail him as planned in his gold Jaguar. He pulled away from the curb.

Starsky had radioed the back up, directed them to be on notice, and pulled away from the curb to tail Tim car. He also directed Stevens and Williams to take over the operation at Rhiana’s.

Tim pulled up in front of the dealership and headed inside. Starsky and Hutch were parked in a parking lot across the street, armed with binoculars, which they were trading back and forth to get a look inside at Tim, talking to a salesman, most likely trying to get through to Marcovitz’s secretary.

Then things started to crumble. A small grey car pulled up next to Tim’s and a casually dressed man in his mid-thirties got out of it. As Tim was disappearing into the back of the dealership, Mitch Daniels walked right in the front door.

“Shit! That’s Daniels! Where the hell did he come from?” Hutch handed the binoculars to Starsky and snatched up the radio, frantically trying to get through to Dobey. Visions of Rigger were dancing in his head as he waited until the Captain’s voice came over the speaker.

“Daniels slipped away from his partners just a short time ago, we don’t know how he found out yet.”

“We’re going in there, right now,” Hutch stated.

“Shh!” Starsky motioned to his partner to listen to what was coming from the wire. Tim was making arrangements for the loan with Marcovitz. Tapes were rolling, and the loan shark was outlining the real terms of the deal. Tim was goading him to hurry things along, hoping to be presented with the loan agreement to sign. And for some reason, he was really getting jittery now. He hadn’t missed his old drug habit until this moment, experiencing jangled nerves only a shot of some illegal substance could settle. Then some guy just waltzed into the office like he owned the place, and for a moment, Tim thought the bust was going down right then, but it was just this one guy…

“He’s a phony. He’s a plant from the cops!” the intruder, Daniels, informed Marcovitz, who turned and glared accusingly at Tim.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Tim asked, trying to maintain his act, and doing very well under the circumstances. “You think I’m working with the pigs? Give me a break, man. I need a fix, I just want the money.”

“I’ll give you a fix, you bastard.” Daniels drew his gun, and as Tim rose, panicking, fired it twice into the other man’s mid-section. At the impact, Tim remembered Starsky’s coaching. Show the impact, but whatever you do, fall on your stomach so they won’t notice right away you’re not bleeding…

The Torino galloped across the street and screeched to a halt in front of the dealership. Back-up units surrounded it on all sides. Tim had already been shot, hopefully somewhere the vest would protect, and there was nothing to be lost now by storming the place S.W.A.T. team-style. Starsky, Hutch, and a pair of uniformed officers rushed into the posh showroom and ordered the startled salespeople face down on the floor. The uniformed police stayed out front while the detectives raced back to Marcovitz’s office. Other officers were swarming in at the same time, and to everyone’s surprise, Marcovitz’s secretary pulled a gun out of her desk drawer and fired at Starsky, who returned the fire without hesitation, leaving the woman clutching a shoulder wound, dropping her gun to the floor. Shooting was echoing from Marcovitz’s plush office, and Hutch was the first through the door with his gun drawn. Daniels spun around and aimed, but he never fired. The Magnum erupted and sent him sprawling back across Marcovitz’s desk, where the head of the whole operation was cowering for cover. Starsky and Hutch took great delight in cuffing him and handing him off to two uniformed officers who had followed them inside.

Starsky rushed to Tim’s sprawled, motionless form while Hutch joined other police in tending to two wounded officers near the back entrance.

“Tim, hey, can ya hear me?” Starsky pulled back a section of the long hair that obscured the other man’s face. One eye opened and a smile curled the side of Tim’s mouth.

“Pretty effective, huh?” he quipped at Starsky, who laughed with relief and let the hair fall back over the other man’s face. Tim pushed himself into a sitting position and pushed his own shaggy hair hack, snickering. “Hey, that was kinda fun—a little scary, but a real rush. Now I see why you guys get off on this.”

“You’re all right?” Starsky confirmed.

“I’ll probably have a couple bruises—man, those guns pack a wallop, even with this flak jacket on. But I’m fine. Did we nail ’em?”

“Let’s go find out.” Starsky stood and offered Tim a hand to pull him up. “Damn good job, man. You’re a natural.”

“I didn’t get him to bring out the loan agreement.”

“I think we can overcome that detail,” Starsky responded, grinning.

“What happened, anyway? I thought this was a top secret operation.”

“The leak at the department got away from us. I still don’t know all the details, but I’m damn well gonna find out.”

A radio report to Dobey from Stevens and Williams confirmed that Rhiana was in custody, along with a fairly decent supply of pot and pills from her back room. The expensive stuff, like cocaine and heroin, were obviously brought in by special order. The teams converged back on the precinct, and confusion seemed to reign for a time while Marcovitz’s personnel were sorted out for arrest or questioning, depending on their role in the little shootout. The two officers who had been hit in the exchange of gunfire were in the hospital, but both were expected to survive. Daniels had died en route to the hospital, as the blast of a .357 Magnum to the chest is rarely survived. For the moment, how he learned of the operation seemed to be lost information. How he got away from his two partners on the stake-out was providing those detectives with some tense moments.

Amidst all the confusion, Starsky found out which interrogation room Rhiana had been taken to pending questioning. The plan was to let her sit there and stew awhile, contemplating life in prison. He knew he’d have some time, and he needed some answers.

* * * *

Rhiana sat calmly at the end of a long table, dressed in the blue cotton jail garb. Even like this, she was pretty. Starsky fought down memories of laughing with her, watching TV with her, sharing what he thought were almost magical moments with her.

“Well, David, did you remember to bring the rubber hoses?” she asked lightly.

“This isn’t funny, Rhi.”

“Rhi? It’s a little late for pet names, Sergeant,” she shot back.

“All right, Miss Blake.” Starsky sat in the chair at the opposite end of the table.

“So what do you want from me?”

“Some answers.” Starsky looked down at his own hands, fingers entwined as they rested on the table. He suddenly felt pathetic to be here at the mercy of his own prisoner. All his revenge fantasies about Rhiana were reduced to this: him here, hat in hand, asking her for explanations. When he looked up to meet her gaze, the pain in his eyes was obvious to her. “I swore I wouldn’t do this…go down this road again with you. But I have to know…”

“Does it matter, David? Really matter? If I tell you that I meant everything I said to you at your apartment, that I loved you…would it change anything?”

“Not now,” Starsky answered honestly. “It’s out of my hands now, Rhi.”

“And that morning out in the hall, I knew it was out of your hands then too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, David.” Her face softened immeasurably, and the expression tore at Starsky’s heart. “You big idiot. I fell in love with you months ago, but I’ve been in this business quite a while now. I couldn’t have an affair with a cop. Then you stopped being a cop, and when you called me and said you wanted to be a musician…and I knew you could do it. It was like a dream come true.”

“Did you think I could turn my head to all of this, even if I quit the force?”

“I entertained silly thoughts of you loving me enough that you would. That you’d enjoy what it could provide us both—that you’d share it all with me.”

“That I’d be a drug dealer with you?”

“I think you’re the one missing the point here now. I was lulled into the false notion that you could love me enough to be loyal to me, to at least not turn me into the narcs when you found out.” She shook her head slowly. “I realized that morning that I could never hope to break into that circle of loyalty between you and your partner. I knew you and Hutch were best friends, and when you were musicians, it was great creative chemistry, and it was obvious you cared about each other, but it changed when you went back to being cops. You opened up that door and let other people in when you were playing the music. But when you went back to your cop mode, the little exchanged glances, unspoken understandings and cryptic remarks started. Even Linda became the enemy because she was outside your unit. And I knew Hutch would never turn his head to a drug operation. And you’d never turn away from Hutch.”

“And you thought I would turn my head to it?” Starsky asked, slighted.

“I think that when you love someone, you love them with all your heart and soul, and I thought that would be strong enough to overcome some sense of duty you might have about reporting what I was doing. ‘Course there was always the chance you wouldn’t find out, but that wasn’t a practical thought, either. But when I saw you two back together as cops, I knew it was over. It had to be. For both our sakes.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning Marcovitz wanted you both hit when you got the Armstrong case, because it was obvious you weren’t going to go after Eric.”

“He thought you were a friend.”

“Well, I have to choose my friends carefully. As you can tell, as soon as I get careless, things fall apart. Marcovitz wanted you two dead, but I double-talked him that I thought we’d be worse off with two more dead cops to our credit. I talked him into sabotaging your medical diagnosis. I figured you’d be off the force, and as close as you and Hutch are, he’d be right behind you. He took off all that time to take care of you while you recovered, and you were trying a different line of work together, so I convinced Marcovitz that ruining your career would take Hutch down with you. I honestly thought you would be able to handle the news—that you liked the music business, and like an idiot, I thought we might all live happily ever after.”

“You sent that dog’s head to the doctor’s little girl? That’s damn perverted, even for you.”

“That wasn’t my idea,” she retorted, stung by his insult. “That was something one of Marcovitz’s guys came up with. I was just the front woman. I went to see Dennison, to lay out the rules for him. They did the muscle work.”

“And what about Matt Armstrong?”

“Dear God, poor Matt.” Rhiana shook her head, and Starsky thought he saw a sign of tears in her eyes. Crocodile tears, he reminded himself. She wasn’t going to stomp on his heart again. “He was into Marcovitz for major money. I never knew he was so broke when he asked to start buying from me on credit. I assumed, like I did with Tim, that he had investments—that he just needed a fix fast. He couldn’t pay off the loan, or even make a payment. He was making noises about going to the cops, and I was getting scared. I told Marcovitz. I thought he’d just throw a scare into him to shut him up. I never dreamed…”

“You mean if he worked him over or cut him a little, that would be okay as long as he didn’t kill him?”

“This isn’t a normal business, David.” Rhiana suddenly looked cold and calculating again. “Do you know what I was doing when I came to LA? I was working in a dress shop, living in a cramped apartment in a neighborhood I couldn’t go out in at night. I made some good connections though. Yes, I was what you’d call a groupie for a while. But it served me well. When I wanted to go into business for myself, one of the guys I was seeing told me about Wheels, and the loans. I felt sure I could make a go of the boutique with the right backing, but no bank would have done it. So I signed up with Marcovitz. I made money, paid him on time, and he was impressed. He asked me if I was interested in carrying a new product line that most of my clientele would pay big prices for. I said yes, and the rest is history.” She paused, smiling. “I’m twenty-six years old, David. Do you know what my estate is worth right now? A cool eight million dollars.”

“Congratulations. You’re made a real meteoric rise, Rhiana. Now you’re going back to living in cramped quarters you can’t leave at night. Guess it came full circle.”

“It came full circle because I fell in love with the wrong person. And for once in my life I didn’t watch my back.”

“Why were you so shocked to see Matt Armstrong turn up dead? It’s not like it was the first time. What about Baxter and Kendall? How could you sit back, knowing what Marcovitz was doing and live with yourself?”

“There’s one thing I learned very early in this business. You only concern yourself with your own narrow individual role in the operation, and you live longer.” She looked up at Starsky, who wore an expression somewhere between anger and disillusionment. “You know, it’s funny. You and your partner. You’re both seasoned cops, you’ve seen it all. One thing I’ll say for Hutch, he’s street smart. He’s cynical. But you. Poor David, you’re still so naive, so innocent on the inside. You only want to see the best in people, and after everything you’ve been through, you still think people are basically good, until they use that to get close to you and hit you where it hurts.”

“Is this your turn to gloat now? You did get close to me, and I left myself wide open for what I got from you. Maybe the people in my life, like Hutch, or Terry, gave me this silly notion that the people you love can be trusted. Congratulations, Rhiana. You taught me not to trust, not to love too easily, and to be afraid of taking that leap of faith with somebody. Now I’m not the same ignorant, naive idiot that walked right into your trap.”

“It wasn’t a trap!” she retorted angrily, tears filling her eyes. “I loved you. I meant what I said that day, about you, about the scars, about everything…when I found out you were still working the case the very day the doctor gave you the bad news, I didn’t have any choice. I had to get away from you, and keep you away from Marcovitz if I could. I’m too far down this road to turn back now.” She paused to wipe at her eyes. Starsky handed her his handkerchief across the table, almost without thinking. “Chivalry is not dead, huh?”

She smiled slightly at him. “I’m not going to tell you a tired old story of unpleasant childhoods, wicked stepfathers and runaways. I will tell you that I pulled myself out of a bad situation when I was eighteen and ran as far away from home as I could, and there are only two ways to make it big in LA for a girl that age: come to LA as a star, discovered in your hometown by some roving talent scout—you know, the fairy tale approach, or hook up with a real good pimp. I’m no celebrity, David, and I sure as hell didn’t plan to sell it for $20 a shot on the wrong side of the tracks. That left me with very few options. Being a glorified hooker to rock stars is a better way than you’d think to survive. Most of these guys treat you pretty well, buy you nice things, pay your way to a whole panorama of different places…and if you have a little ambition, sometimes you can make something out of your life—like I did.

“I made contacts, some of the guys found I had a real flair for putting together stage outfits, and pretty soon I was working as a wardrobe person for Gary’s band. I met Kingpin during the groupie years. Matt and I were lovers for a little while, nothing special or long-term. And they were all friends to me. But none of them were very astute businessmen, and they didn’t want to talk investments. They just wanted a party girl to put together some flashy outfits for them. When one of the guys suggested I talk to Marcovitz, I felt like I had nothing to lose. And I rose like crazy through his organization. I had brains and talent, and I had discretion. I knew enough to play my part and keep my mouth shut. I’m his second in command, you know? Isn’t that a trip? Marcovitz is what, 50-something? Big crime lord. I’m his next-in-line.”

“Rhiana, I have to get out of here. I don’t know what else to say to you.” Starsky stood up, and so did Rhiana.

“How about leveling with me? You’ve heard all I have to say. God knows I could have made a good deal with the DA if had waited to say it.”

“You still can. Do you see a stenographer anywhere? This was between us…because of what…we almost had.” He looked back sadly into her eyes. “God how I loved you, for just that little span of time. You were in my soul, Rhi. I’d have done anything for you.”

“Anything but turn your head to what I was doing? Did it feel good to bust me? Did you like hurting me back?”

“I loved the woman who made my silly dream of Hutch and me being stars come true for just a little while, the one who could raise me out of all the pain I had been through just by smiling at me, the woman I thought you were…not a drug dealer, not someone who could work side by side with someone like Gordon Callahan and not bat an eye.”

“I never worked with Callahan. I know he did some muscle jobs for the organization, but I never gave those orders.”

“But you knew they were being given.”

“Yes, I knew.” She nodded a little defeatedly.

“Hutch always seemed to think you were too good to be true. He liked you, but there was something in him that never fully trusted how easy this all was.”

“Good old St. Hutch.” Rhiana’s tone was bitter. “If he told you to jump, you’d ask how high. I had to laugh at you two in my boutique that day. It was like dressing some kind of two-headed monster. You were all excited about that leather outfit until Hutch did his number on you, and all of a sudden you were all full of apprehension about leaving the store in a pair of leather pants. Hutch was all set to eschew the whole thing until you got excited about it, and he agreed to that jacket. You and I might have had a shot, even with all this going on. If I had gotten to you, told you everything—today I could even see a little relenting in your eyes, even when you know it’s too late for us. But as soon as Hutch enters the picture, Dudley Do-Right, you’d have let him chide you and shame you into turning me in, because you sure as hell wouldn’t have been loyal to me over him and kept your mouth shut.”

“Since when did this turn into an argument about Hutch?”

“It really isn’t, you’re right. But don’t you have to admit, if you didn’t have to face Hutch, you might have been tempted to cover for me?”

“It didn’t happen that way. We had someone come forward—”

“Eric? That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Does Marcovitz know?” Starsky forgot to play games with her. Eric was wandering around unprotected somewhere, and if Marcovitz knew…

“Why should I tell you that?”

“Because he doesn’t deserve to die, Rhiana.”

“Nobody knows about Eric. I wasn’t even positive, and I didn’t want to see him hurt. I didn’t say anything, even when I had suspicions about him and his closeness to you. You two are a lot alike. When Eric makes a friend, it’s for real, forever, and he’ll move heaven and earth for you. I saw him at a restaurant after I broke it off with you, and I was upset. I told him I’d ended it, that you guys would need a new manager if you and Hutch ever stopped playing cops and robbers. I also told him I could do better than a dumb cop, and he looked horrified and asked me if I’d told you off that way, and I said I had, and he proceeded to tell me off, and tossed in a veiled threat or two—something to the effect that people who make a habit out of destroying other people’s lives had to pay for it eventually. Then he left. I put two and two together when I was arrested. I was a little concerned at how he reacted to you at the funeral, and how close you two seemed to be.”

“So why didn’t you turn him in to your boss?”

“I’m not a murderess, David. I didn’t want to see him killed, or you for that matter. So I hoped I was wrong and took my chances. Tim did well, though. I never suspected him for a second, sneaky little twit that he is,” she said, almost laughing.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Life is funny, my love.” She reached up and touched his face. “Kiss me good bye?” She looked up at him hopefully for a minute, but he took her hand and gently removed it from his face and stepped back.

“I already did that, baby. Just ’cause I showed you my scars doesn’t mean I have to marry you.” He turned away and started for the door after parroting her own words back to her. “Tell the DA what you know, but negotiate first. You can get a hell of deal with all this information.” His hand was on the doorknob.

“David, wait, please.” Her voice was shaking, and he held the knob and would not turn around to face her. “I love you. I know it won’t gain me anything, so you have to believe it. I don’t know why my life is so far from what it should be, but if things were different, you’d be everything…I meant what I said to you—I love you.” She was crying now, and Starsky was fighting tears of his own.

“If things were different…” His voice was shaking as he spoke, still not willing to turn back and face her. “…but things are the way they are, and all the pretty words in the world can’t change that, Rhi.”

“Do you still love me?” she asked suddenly, just as he turned the knob. He looked back at her with a tear-stained face.

“I never stopped, but that’s as irrelevant to me now as all those murder and assault victims were to you. It’s something I have to turn my head and ignore. Remember? Concentrate on my own narrow role in the operation? My narrow role with you is over, unless I have to testify against you at a trial. Life is bizarre, and it’s not fair, but we’re in our roles now, and we have to play them out. You know, what might’ve happened if you’d come to me, and been an informant against Marcovitz…but my life is filled to its capacity with what might have been, and I don’t want more of it. So if I love you, I’ll just have to get over it and move on. If you love me, I suggest you do the same thing.”

He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him. If Rhiana cried or called after him, he didn’t hear her. He was rushing down the corridor, down the steps and out to the parking lot. He needed physical distance between himself and the woman he had fallen so hopelessly in love with, the only one since Terry to make such a big hole in his heart. One more second in that room, and he’d have grabbed her, kissed her—but not good-bye, and thrown everything away just to stand by her. But in the final analysis, what had propelled him out the door was no sense of duty. As he leaned against his car, breathing heavily, regaining control over his emotions, he knew the underlying poison that killed his willingness to love Rhiana was a lack of trust. Talking to her in that horrible bland room was like watching “The Exorcist” all over again. Like the little girl possessed by demons in that horror film, Rhiana swung between frightened innocence, complete sincerity, and pure cold evil. Where one ended and the other began was almost impossible at times to tell.

“Starsky!” Hutch’s voice shook him out of his reverie. “The silent alarm at Eric’s just went off. Let’s roll!”

“Damn it!” Starsky jumped into the driver’s seat and the Torino sped out of the lot and onto the road.

“There are probably already black and whites there, but I came out as soon as Dobey got the notice.”

“We should’ve taken him into protective custody. Damn!” Starsky gunned the engine, and with its new power, they careened through traffic at insane speeds.

* * * *

Starsky cut the siren and Hutch pulled the mars light off the top of the car before they approached the gates, their speed reduced to normal. The black and white units were a considerable distance away from the front gates.

“What’s happening in there?” Starsky approached one of the officers who was standing inside the open door of his car, talking on the radio to someone at headquarters.

“A couple of Marcovitz’s muscle guys got a hold of March, but they know we’re out here. They told us they want the boss out of jail, or they’re going to kill him.”

“Oh, swell, something simple,” Hutch responded angrily.

“Who’s got phone contact with them—anybody here?” Starsky asked.

“Stevens, right over there.” The officer pointed to the only other unmarked car on the scene.

“Anybody talked to Eric yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Thanks.” Starsky led the way to where Hal and Linda were standing by their car, Hal busily talking on the phone to the captors. He motioned to Hal to let him talk to them.

“Detective Starsky wants to talk to you. He and his partner are in charge of this case,” Hal explained to the man on the other end of the line, and then after a moment of listening to something, passed Starsky the phone.

“This is Sergeant David Starsky. You have Eric March?”

“Sure as hell do,” a husky voice retorted.

“Yeah? Well, I’m not makin’ any deals for corpses, so put him on the phone. I wanna hear his voice.”

“You wanna hear his voice? That’s no problem.” A strangled yelp came over the phone lines. “You can hear his voice all you want to,” the caller explained, returning to the phone.

“I want to talk to him. NOW.” Starsky knew he was pushing it, but he couldn’t let the kidnappers have such total control so early in the game. Finally, there was some commotion, and a somewhat breathless voice came over the line.

“Dave?”

“Eric? Hey, you okay in there, pal?”

“Pretty much, but I think they’re gonna kill me anyway—”

“That’s enough. We want Marcovitz out of jail. For every hour we have to wait, we’re gonna break one of his bones. And when we get tired of waiting, we’ll break his neck. Understand?”

“Hey, man, this is going to take some time. And one broken bone on his body, and the deal’s off, you got that? Now I’m gonna talk to Eric every half hour, and he better sound damned healthy, or you’re getting shit from us. Do you read me?” Starsky knew his personal feelings were dictating what sounded like a stiff set of rules for kidnappers, but he was most concerned with doing something, no matter how hopeless it might seem, to protect Eric from being seriously hurt before they could get him out alive.

“Just release Marcovitz.” The connection was broken.

“Went at that a little aggressively, didn’t you?” Stevens said to Starsky, who simply turned to him with an almost malevolent look on his face.

“When you think you’ve had enough experience to handle a hostage situation, kid, you come find me. In the meantime, keep your damned mouth shut!”

“Starsk, back off, okay? We’re all on the same team here.” Hutch was attempting to be the voice of reason in an unreasonable situation. And what did I promise him about being mature and not expecting him to play watchdog for my tantrums, Starsky scolded himself.

“Look, I’m sorry, but that happens to be a very good friend they’re having fun and games with in there, and I want all his bones intact when we get him out of there. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat, Stevens.”

“They’re asking something impossible,” Stevens responded, having nodded an acceptance of the apology.

“Maybe not.” Starsky started pacing, and Hutch merely watched him for a moment. “Did they make any demands for themselves?”

“Oh sure. They want safe passage to Mexico, and they won’t leave until they’ve had a phone call from their boss assuring them he’s safely on a plane headed south of the border.”

“Then we need to deal with Marcovitz,” Hutch announced, heading toward the Torino.

“Like he’s going to agree to this,” Starsky grumbled, taking his post in the driver’s seat.

“Let’s hope we can convince him.”

“This is like playing let’s make a deal with Satan.”

“So be it.”

* * * *

Marcovitz’s laughter reverberated in the interrogation room. It was absurd, but then it wouldn’t be the first time they had asked something unreasonable from a criminal. Starsky had fought for Hutch’s life when he was dying from that plague by reducing himself to begging at the feet of Roper the crime boss, not that it had helped any. He still had to find Callendar without Roper’s help, and the medical personnel still had to race against time to draw the life-saving blood before the bullet from one of Roper’s men killed Callendar. Another sneering bastard criminal who held the life of a friend in the palm of his hand and was just waiting to close his fingers and crush it, Starsky thought to himself.

“If Eric March dies, you’re going to be adding an accessory to murder rap to your already impressive list, Marcovitz,” Hutch spat the words into the man’s face. He was unimpressed.

“And that’s going to ultimately make a difference in time served? You cops have been gloating all morning about all the murder raps you’ve got sewn up against me. Why in hell should I worry about one more accessory charge? If I weren’t in this hole right now, I’d order the hit on that little asshole myself. I’m just sorry my assets are frozen and I can’t reward my men.”

“Listen, you son of a bitch,” Starsky grabbed the prisoner by the shirtfront and slammed him against the wall, “if Eric March dies, there ain’t no court in the world that’s gonna save you from me, you got that? I’m gonna come for you, man—”

“Starsky!” Hutch was pulling him back, and Marcovitz’s moment of panic subsided. He was once again composed and sneering. And once again, Hutch was playing the voice of reason. “This is no use. He wants accessory to murder and kidnaping added to his rap list. That’s fine. We’ll tell the DA to keep any deals he might’ve offered.”

“Veiled promises…nice touch, Hutchinson.” Marcovitz grinned evilly. “No, this is your problem, gentlemen. Unless of course, you want to comply with their demands, in which case I’ll be happy to make that telephone call for you.”

“Go to hell.” Starsky stormed out of the room followed by his equally incensed, though more reserved, partner.

“Now what?” Hutch probed Starsky. He was the only person who would have been safe to probe the irate man who was pacing up and down the hall in some vain attempt to work off the energy that had built up in an intense desire to beat the hell out of Marcovitz. It erupted in a fist slammed into a wall. Yelping and shaking his hand, Starsky looked a little sheepishly at Hutch, who was smirking slightly. “That was bright.”

“That shoulda been Marcovitz’s face!” he bellowed back at Hutch, squeezing the injured hand under his opposite arm in an attempt to squelch the pain.

“Did you break anything?” Hutch coaxed the hand out of its hiding place. He probed it a little, and despite Starsky’s discomfort, no fingers appeared broken. The wall wasn’t too happy, boasting yet another new dent. “Let’s get some ice on this and try to figure out what we’re gonna do next.”

“I’m sorry, Hutch.”

“Apologize to the wall, buddy, not me.” Hutch released his hand and led the way to the cafeteria.

“I made this big speech about how I was gonna be more mature and not make you watch out for me all the time…and then twice in one day I go nuts and you have to peel me off the ceiling.”

“You’re not immature, Starsk. You’re passionate about things. There’s a difference.” Hutch seemed unmoved by his own comment as he got an empty soup bowl off the salad bar in the cafeteria and went to the pop machine and filled it with ice. The cashier waved them through with no charge.

“You really mean that?” Starsky asked as they found a remote table where Starsky could sit and freeze his injured hand with a minimum of question from the other officers milling around the dining room.

“What?” Hutch urged his partner to entrust him with his hand, which he did without question.

“About my not being immature?”

“Well, Starsk, you aren’t the only one who had some time to evaluate things while you were laid up. I’ve always gotten furious at you for not being able to control your temper when you should have, or for bugging the hell out of me about something until I was ready to smack you, but when I gave it some thought—God knows I had a lot of long, empty hours to do that while we wondered if you’d survive—all the times you either hung onto an idea like a pit bull and tried to pull me into it, or flew off the handle, it was always because the thing involved meant so much to you. I’d be dead right now if you weren’t that way, so I decided it was time to stop bitching at you every time you got a little over-excited.”

“Hey, Hutch, I want to reduce the swelling, not get frostbite.” Starsky pulled his hand away and flexed the fingers uncomfortably. Fortunately, he had chosen to slam the wall with his right hand, so his trigger finger was still intact on his left.

“If you weren’t as stubborn and hot-headed as you are, I might have died pinned under my car, or maybe from the plague, or maybe even from eating bad clam chowder. Of all the undignified ways to die in the line of duty…” Hutch shook his head, smiling a little. “I think I did enough nit-picking on you in the past year to carry us through the rest of our partnership.”

“I still get on you about your car and your health food and your primal grunts.”

“Those are primordial sounds, Starsky–the ‘oahm’ sound you make when you meditate—it’s called a primordial sound.”

“Okay, whatever, but I still get on your case.”

“How many times have you really attacked me, personally? How many really mean-spirited things have you said to me?”

“It’s not like I keep score on that, Hutch.”

“You tease me about things I do, but you never called me a moron or really put me down.” As Hutch spoke, Starsky still winced at the memory a little. He couldn’t put his finger on the exact incident when Hutch had called him a moron, but it had something to do with a case, and it was in front of some tacky informant, and it had been embarrassing. And it had hurt—a lot. There may have been more incidents than that, but that one stood out even now, and Starsky hated himself for being petty enough to remember it.

“Look, when you spend most of your waking hours with somebody, you get on each other’s nerves. That’s nothing to beat yourself up about later.”

“You’re going to tell me I didn’t insult you or hurt your feelings? A few days ago, at Matt Armstrong’s apartment—”

“Okay, so you got a little nasty with your teasing sometimes. I thought we got that settled the other day. No need to keep dredging it up.”

“When I thought you were dying, I wanted a chance to take it all back—”

“And the times I thought you were dead or dying, I wanted to take back every joke I ever made at your expense about your stupid car or your weird health shakes—and as soon as you recovered, we picked up where we left off. Friends do that. If you love somebody, you feel safe enough to tease ’em a little and it’s no big deal; they understand.” Starsky smiled broadly at his partner. “I’m not made of china, Hutch. I made a full recovery—I’m fine. You don’t have to treat me like I’m gonna shatter into a million pieces anymore. You treated me that way when I needed you to, and it brought me back to where I am now, but you can relax and quit tearing your hair out over every nasty thing you ever said. It’s water under the bridge now.”

“But I made this vow that if you ever regained consciousness I’d tell you all the things I never told you, and that I’d treat you with the respect you deserved, and that—”

“You’d feed me and walk me and clean up after me—God, Hutch, I made a similar laundry list of promises about getting a dog when I was a kid. And I bartered with God for your life a couple of times too. I’m just glad he didn’t go back on his side of the deal when I went back on mine from time to time.” Starsky looked at his watch. “We’ve got to get back out to Eric’s. I want those bastards on the phone before the hour’s up.”

“Thinking about Rigger?”

“Not really. At least Soldier just blew him away, nice and easy. Eric’s probably getting tortured while we’re sitting here contemplating our navels.” Starsky headed for the door, and Hutch was close behind him.

* * * *

Both detectives were surprised to see Tim, Adam, and Mick sitting in a row on the curb near Eric’s gates, all three handcuffed.

“Where the hell have you guys been?” Tim demanded.

“What’s with the cuffs?” Hutch asked Stevens, who was still in charge of the on-site operation, pending the arrival of a hostage negotiator.

“We pulled that one off the back gate, trying to make a rescue attempt,” he indicated Tim, “and these two decided to provide him with a diversion to make that attempt by jumping a couple of officers. They’re just cooling their heels.”

“Anybody hurt?” Starsky asked.

“Just some pride, I think,” Stevens sneered at the three lined up on the curb.

“Can you three shut up and behave yourselves?” Starsky asked the trio of musicians.

“Do we have a choice?” Mick asked angrily.

“The cuffs or your good behavior.”

“We won’t try anything else,” Tim spoke for the group.

“Okay. Let ’em go,” Starsky directed Stevens.

“But—”

“Don’t mess with me, Stevens, I’m in no damn mood for it. Just do it.” Starsky ruthlessly pulled rank on the other detective, and Hutch did nothing to intervene. “Anybody been in touch with them?” Starsky asked Linda as she returned to the car after talking to one of the black and white units stationed up the street.

“They let us hear him scream a little, and then repeated their demands. They’re claiming they’re going to break his arm at five o’clock.” She checked her watch. It was 4:45.

“Get them on the phone,” Hutch directed, and within moments, the connection was made. He motioned to Tim to join him. Glancing at Starsky, he received a confirming nod from his partner to let Tim talk to Eric. It would probably reassure Eric and might keep the musicians calmer than freezing them out of the operation. Starsky wondered what in hell his partner was going to say, but they had to think of something to stall while they came up with a rescue plan.

“This is Sergeant Hutchinson, LAPD. We’re currently making arrangements to meet your demands, but as I’m sure you can imagine, there is a lot of red tape to work out with the DA. We need more time.”

“Take all the time you want,” the husky voice responded. “He’s got lots of bones. This’ll take a while.”

“Look, man, we’re bargaining in good faith here. We’re asking as a show of your good faith that you lay off the bone-breaking threats. We want him alive, and well, and you don’t need to threaten us with injuring him to make us move along. We can only push this thing so fast. Now how’s it fair for you to get your end of the deal, and we get a pile of broken bones?”

“Okay. You got another hour for us to see some results, man. Then we’re going to start takin’ it out on him.”

“Let me talk to him,” Hutch asked. There were sounds of movement, and he handed Tim the phone.

“Eric?” Tim spoke into the receiver. “You still okay in there?” He heard some response. “Just hang in there, pal, we’ll get you out okay—” Tim looked angry and handed the phone to Hutch. “They want to talk to you. Eric still sounds strong, but scared,” he explained, covering the receiver.

“We’ll be back in contact in one hour, and we expect your hostage healthy.” Hutch concluded the conversation with the kidnapper and then turned back to the group which included Hal, Linda, Starsky, Tim, Mick, and Adam. “Did you see anything when you tried climbing over the gate?” he asked Tim.

“You know that fancy garden Eric’s got back there? Well, when you get up to the top of the gate, you can see through to the patio doors, and those lead into the living room. One of the patio doors was open, and I didn’t see anybody in the living room.”

“Think you could draw us a rough floor plan of the house?” Hutch asked.

“I’m not too great with drawing, but Adam—”

“Yeah, I can do it. Anybody got paper?”

“Here, use this,” Linda directed, spreading a map with the blank side up on the hood of the car and handing him a pencil.

For a few minutes the art project went on, the band members bickering about the exact placement of rooms and entrances. It had been determined that there were two armed captors inside, as they had asked for two of everything—two tickets out of the country, two phony passports, etc. Two armed nuts and an impossible set of demands. Both Starsky and Hutch knew it was falling to them to come up with a plan of action, some brilliant scheme to rescue the captive and apprehend the gunmen. And before the hostage negotiator and the S.W.A.T. team commanders got in on it, they knew they had to do something. Once all that hell broke loose, the hostage ceased to be the focal concern.

“When they get done with their art project over there, What’re we gonna do with it?” Starsky asked.

“Sneak over the back gate and get inside and look for him.”

“A bit simplistic, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got a better plan?” Hutch retorted.

“I didn’t say that, but what if they see us from the house?”

“We know you can see the garden from that rec room upstairs, but my guess would be that they’re facing the front, watching the main entrance. I’ve got one of the black and whites visiting the estate on the adjoining property. You know how you can see the upper level of their pool house from Eric’s upstairs? Well, my guess would be we could see in that rec room from the pool house with the binoculars. If they’re not there, and there isn’t another feasible place for them to be holed up that faces the back of the house, we should be able to approach it.”

“I like it. So let’s go visit the neighbors.”

* * * *

A scouting trip to the neighbors’ pool house revealed that the upstairs rec room was also empty. According to Adam’s sketch, there was only Eric’s bedroom facing that same direction. While a large tree gave privacy to that window, the high-powered binoculars brought them in close enough to see that there was no sign of movement in that room.

That cleared the path to approach the house from the rear. The rooms still unchecked included the dining room, kitchen, studio, bedroom and bathroom on the first floor. Upstairs, two other bedrooms faced the front of the house, while two more bathrooms and a library rounded out the second floor layout. After debating the point only briefly with Hal and Linda, it was decided that Starsky and Hutch would make the little raid on the house by themselves, and would not make any attempt to confront the kidnappers if they couldn’t do so safely. Their little operation was underway just in time to avoid clearing it with Dobey and the hostage negotiator.

Scaling the back gate was a piece of cake. They scurried up to the patio doors and slid inside as noiselessly as possible. They froze when they heard the slight creak of a floorboard overhead. Trying to discern its origin, the detectives decided it was coming from one of the front bedrooms, which made sense, since it would afford the best view of the front gates and the police accumulating there.

“Now what?” Hutch turned to his partner.

“I s’pose if they heard something downstairs, they’d have to come down and have a look,” Starsky whispered.

“Can’t be too obvious,” Hutch admonished, as Starsky eyed a large, very breakable lamp.

“Right.” Starsky scanned the room. “The kitchen. Come on.” They edged carefully along the walls of the house, just in case one of the captors was posted downstairs. A thorough search revealed they were alone on this floor, and their final stop was the kitchen, where Starsky selected a small water glass and shattered it against the counter.

“What the hell was that?” Nick, the larger of the two men, tensed and cocked his gun. Eric watched him nervously. This man had alternately slapped or threatened him any time he had spoken, and the little session of arm-twisting he had done when they had that detective on the phone had elicited just enough of a cry of pain to satisfy his captors. Thank God somebody had bought him more time…

“Go check it out,” the older of the two men directed. Hank was a stocky man in his mid-forties. He reminded Eric of a TV late show gangster, the way he took charge of the situation, and the corny things he said. Even in the face of death, phrases like “bump you off” or “rub you out” reminded Eric more of something that should be done to a dented car rather than a hostage.

“What about him?”

“He ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Hank answered Nick, who reluctantly left the room and could be heard retreating down the hall.

“Somebody’s comin’,” Starsky slithered into position behind the staircase while Hutch crouched behind the sofa. Nick made his way slowly down the stairs, his feet and legs visible through the open contemporary staircase. Starsky took a deep breath and waited for his quarry to come into sight, and when he was right in front of the detective, Starsky’s Beretta pressed against the base of his skull. “Drop it, real slow, and real quiet, now,” he ordered, his own voice barely above a whisper. There was a moment of hesitation, and Hutch rose from his hiding place, aiming the Magnum directly at Nick.

“Drop it now, or I drop you,” Hutch stated simply. Nick’s gun tumbled to the floor.

“How many of you are in here?” Starsky demanded.

“Just Hank and me.”

“Convince me,” Starsky grabbed a handful of greasy brown hair and yanked Nick’s head back, pressing the gun up against his temple. He could feel the other shaking. “Now, I’m gonna ask you one more time, how many?”

“I swear to God, just the two of us.”

“Good boy,” Hutch retorted. “Now, you’re going to help us get your partner down here.” He slapped hand cuffs on their prisoner and shoved him back on the couch, keeping the gun aimed at him. “Now, call to Hank, and make it real convincing.”

“What’ll I say?”

“Tell him to get down here,” Starsky offered the obvious, and resumed his post under the staircase. Hutch and the man on the sofa would not be visible from the stairs or the entry hall until well after Starsky had made his move.

“Hank! Hey, Hank! Get down here right away!” Nick glowered back at Hutch, who nodded his approval.

Hank checked the ropes restraining Eric’s wrists and ankles. His captive had been a well-behaved prisoner for the most part, and the restraints seemed secure.

“What the hell does he want?” Hank queried aloud, going to the doorway of the bedroom. “Hey, what’s going on down there?”

“Just get down here now. I think I saw cops on the lawn out back,” he lied. Starsky and Hutch shrugged at each other, indicating their approval for Nick’s creativity while staring down the barrel of Hutch’s cannon. Of course that excuse caused the delay of Hank rushing to the rooms facing the back property to check from the upstairs vantage point, but when he saw nothing, he started toward the stairs, pausing at the bedroom to give Eric a parting warning.

“If I hear even one sound from you, I’ll come back in here and blow your fucking brains out? Got it?” Eric nodded a response. He had been forbidden to speak without permission earlier, and he wasn’t about to test those waters again. Hank disappeared from his view. He closed his eyes and released a mammoth sigh of relief. Even a few minutes without a gun in his face was a break. He started wiggling his arms and legs, trying vainly to find some slack in the ropes. This would probably be his last chance to escape alive.

“Nick?” Hank was making his way down the steps, and Starsky braced himself again to do his part when the man approached where he was hiding.

“Drop it,” Starsky ordered again, pressing his gun against the back of the man’s head. But Hank’s nerves were steadier than Nick’s, and he delivered an elbow to Starsky’s stomach that winded him long enough to daze him a moment while Hank spun around and smashed a fist into his jaw.

“Freeze!” came Hutch’s order from across the room. Hank turned from Starsky, firing. The bullet hit Hutch’s shoulder, enough to dislodge the gun from his hand. But it had also given Starsky time to regain his equilibrium. As he maintained his aim at Hutch, ready to finish the job, Hank had no warning of the bullet that hit his back and dropped him to the floor.

“Hutch!” Starsky leapt out of his crouched position under the stairs, and kicking the weapon out of reach of the incapacitated gunman, made his way over to his partner.

“Just my shoulder, buddy. I’m okay.” Hutch winced at the pain as Starsky helped him into a sitting position, but it was obvious the bullet had missed any vital organs.

“Think you can keep an eye on these two while I check upstairs? I wanna make sure this is all of ’em.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just cuff that one in case.” Hutch nodded toward Hank, who didn’t appear to be moving. Starsky followed the direction and when he had secured the cuffs, cautiously made his way upstairs. The first room he looked inside found him face to face with Eric.

“Hey, pal, you okay?” Starsky entered the room a little hesitantly. “How many of them were there?”

“Two.”

“Good. This the phone they used?” Eric nodded, and Starsky found the number of the connection that had been set up with Stevens and dialed it. When it was answered, Starsky barked into the phone. “We got ’em. We need back-up and an ambulance, pronto. Hutch is wounded, but I think he’s okay, in the living room. One of the gunmen is down, both are cuffed, also in the living room. I’m in the upstairs bedroom with Eric March. He looks healthy.” Starsky hung up and worked at untying Eric. “Are you okay?”

“They smacked me a couple of times and twisted my arm a little, but nothing’s broken. How’s Hutch?”

“It’s a shoulder wound. I think he’s okay.” Starsky undid the last of the ropes holding Eric’s ankles together. “Just stand up and get your circulation going a second.”

“How’d it all come down with Rhiana and Marcovitz?”

“They’re both languishing in the county jail as we speak.”

“They admitted to killing Matt?”

“Rhiana did. We’ll have enough to nail ’em, don’t worry.”

“Great.”

“Hey, c’mon. I wanna get back down to Hutch.” Starsky led the way down the steps, and by the time they arrived downstairs, Dobey was crouched by Hutch, uniformed cops were dragging Nick out to waiting police cars and Hank was being fitted for a body bag. Dobey seemed infinitely relieved to see that their informant had survived. “Captain Dobey, this is Eric March—the guy who gave us the tip that started it all.”

“I want to thank you for your help, Mr. March. We’re in the process of breaking up a very significant crime ring based on your initial information.” While Dobey shook hands with Eric, Starsky joined the officer who was applying pressure to Hutch’s wound and slid an arm between his partner’s back and the front of the couch that was supporting him.

“Hey, partner, you still with us?” he asked Hutch, who smiled faintly in response.

“I’m still here, Starsk.” As he finished answering, the paramedics approached him, and Starsky backed away again to let them do their work. He joined Dobey and Eric at the end of their conversation.

“I’m glad it’s helping the cops, but I did it for Matt. Just don’t let his murder get lost in the shuffle, huh? Or plea bargained or something?”

“His murder was an ordered, planned homicide. It won’t be tried as anything less than that.”

“Then I got what I wanted. Hey, are the guys still outside?”

“Right outside the gates,” Starsky directed.

“Great.” Eric hurried out the front door, and Starsky watched as the four men met in what resembled a sort of football huddle halfway down the driveway.

* * * *

Hutch’s shoulder wound was a superficial one, only confining him to the hospital for a couple of days. Starsky hated being back in the corridors of that damned hospital again, but yet there was a certain power in walking down the halls in street clothes again, not lying on his back in agony in an ICU bed. He even greeted a couple of familiar nurses and orderlies who had helped keep him in his tree during his lengthy stay there on his way up to see Hutch. They seemed pleased to see him in this healthier form, and Gina, a pretty brunette who had made it clear she was single, was very open to his suggestion of dinner and a movie sometime the following week. She had been a constant bright spot during his convalescence, joking with him, sneaking in and sharing her pizza with him at lunch and generally bringing a little ray of normality into an abnormal situation. She had even turned her head when Hutch occasionally snuck in after visiting hours and stayed late into the night.

Now it was Starsky’s turn to be the visitor, not that he relished that role. Hutch had been under the weather enough times to last Starsky a lifetime, but at least this time wasn’t life-threatening. When he arrived at the room, his partner was pushing the hospital dinner around on his plate with his fork, looking generally disgruntled.

“Hey, partner, how’re you feelin’?”

“Like I’m being slowly poisoned.” Hutch pushed the tray away.

“Got a remedy for that.” Starsky set the bag of take outs on the table and removed the tray, setting it on another table near the door. “Got you a double burger with bleu cheese and thousand island—just like you like it.” Starsky handed the large wrapped sandwich to his partner, who looked like he had been handed the crown jewels. He opened the paper and began eating enthusiastically.

“Thanks, buddy. This is great,” he said through a mouthful.

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” Starsky asked as he perched on the edge of the bed and started eating his own burger. “So when do you get sprung?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, probably. They want to be sure my arm isn’t going to drop off.”

“I think it was bleeding they were worried about, smart ass.” Starsky chewed in silence for a moment. “Well, the DA’s real happy. Looks like we’ve got about four counts of murder, a whole slew of loan-sharking and extortion charges, the accessory to kidnapping…all sorts of cool stuff. And that’s just against Marcovitz. Rhiana’s still cutting a deal with the DA, so we don’t know what she’ll ultimately get charged with.”

“Have you seen her? One on one?”

“Did that right before everything went down at Eric’s yesterday. Didn’t really solve anything. Made me feel worse, not better.”

“How?”

“She went on and on about how she still loved me, and that she meant everything she said but couldn’t be with a cop…it was nothing that should have surprised me. But it didn’t solve anything either.”

“Well, Linda was marginally softened by my getting shot, so at least she’s speaking again, but that’s as far as it goes. I heard from Stevens that she was applying to get back into the SFPD. I guess Stacy Sheridan’s doing okay now, and Linda told him she thought coming here had been a mistake.”

“Nice of Stevens to drop by and cheer you up while I was at the precinct.”

“He’s a great guy,” Hutch said a little sarcastically.

“Well, he helped me when I was trying to get you back from Callahan, so I guess I can’t find too much fault with him. He might be a human being when he grows up a little.”

“Miracles can happen.” Hutch finished his burger. “How’s Eric? None the worse for wear, I hope?”

“Nah. He had a couple of strained tendons in his arm that they were working over, which just means he needs to take it easy on the drums for a little bit, but it’s nothing serious. I’ll go out in a while and get you a pile of newspapers so you can see how famous we all are.” Starsky licked chili sauce off his thumb as he finished his burger. “Hope Gunther reads the paper. I love the thought of the old bastard choking on the news with his dinner tray.”

“I was worried about that blow you took in the stomach.”

“Oh, that? It winded me a little, but nothing major. I’ve got a bruise, just like I used to get, but my guts are all still where they’re supposed to be.”

“At least things turned out the way they’re supposed to this time—I can’t help but think about Rigger, and how we messed up with him. I feel like we kind of redeemed that with Eric.”

“We had a little help from his band. Those guys are pretty sharp.” Starsky laughed a little. “I’d still like to recruit Tim into undercover vice.”

“He’s a smooth one.”

“I’m really back, Hutch. And I’m okay. We’re really back. Surprises the hell out of me that this is what we really want.”

“Having second thoughts, buddy?” Hutch asked, leaning back against the bed as he drank his pop.

“Uh-uh. You? I mean you’re the one who just got shot yesterday.”

“I noticed. No, I think we’re doing the right thing—for us anyway.”

“How would you feel about doubling with a couple’a nurses?”

“You have something in mind?”

“You remember Gina?”

“The brunette you claimed was in love with you while you were recuperating?”

“I never said that.”

“Well, you implied she was always first to volunteer to assist you with your,” Hutch cleared his throat, “personal needs.”

“That was a simple fact. Anyway, I saw her today when I got here, and she has this friend—”

“Oh, swell. Some Godzilla look alike who needs her friend to fix her up with a wounded man who can’t get away.”

“You might regret turning this down, Hutch. Gina wouldn’t steer me wrong.”

“I must be insane, but go ahead and set it up.”

“I kinda did already.” Starsky cringed a little, waiting for a verbal spray of reprimands, but Hutch merely shot him a disdained look.

“So all this asking was just a formality?”

“I figured you’d say yes eventually. Besides, you’ve been treatin’ me real nice lately, so I thought you’d go along with it,” Starsky said with an impish grin. Hutch had to smile in spite of an underlying urge to wipe the grin off his partner’s face.

“Just don’t push it, Turkey.” Hutch became serious again. “Did we ever find out how Daniels knew about the bust?”

“Well, we’ve got a theory right now,” Starsky reported, feeling odd to be the one at work while Hutch was out of the action. “Daniels went into a diner to get coffee for the three of them, and there were a bunch of other cops in there, and he was standing around, talking with them for a few minutes before he went back outside. We’re trying to get a line on who those cops were. I guess a couple were plainclothes, and there were four uniformed guys—two units that converged there for lunch. If one of those units was supposed to be part of the back-up, and they didn’t know who the leak was…Daniels said he had to use the john a while later and he never went back to the stakeout.”

“I didn’t think Dobey was letting much information about case out to anyone.”

“He must’ve thought he could trust those guys, and they must’ve thought they could trust Daniels—another cop, for God’s sake. Who’d automatically think they weren’t supposed to talk about a big drug bust coming down with another cop? And speaking of trusting brother cops, I had a little talk with Bernie Glassman—the patrolman who found you in the alley after you got away from Forest’s men? Seems he got a little loose-lipped in front of Daniels about that incident—I guess he was puffed up to be able to tell a new detective some hot inside information about another detective.”

“Who else was with Daniels when this happened?” Hutch tensed visibly.

“No one—Bernie’s partner was there, but he already knew anyway, so that didn’t matter. I guess he reminded Bernie to shut up. But we know now how Callahan got the information.”

“Kind of reminds me what a house of cards I’m living on,” Hutch responded.

“Hey, Hutch, Daniels is dead, and I really threw the fear of God into Glassman. We’ve been okay this far.” Starsky smiled and Hutch returned it. There was that “we” mentality again. Always my back up, eh, Starsky? Starsky became serious again. “Dobey said it was a judgment call on whether or not to make the identity of the leak more general knowledge, but he was afraid of someone tipping off Daniels, and him getting away, and tipping off Marcovitz. It was a no-win situation. We’re just lucky Tim got out alive.”

“I’m glad this one’s about wound up. It’s been a real roller coaster ride.” Hutch stared out the window for a moment. “I can’t believe we actually made a demo tape in a recording studio. Sometimes I feel like I dreamed all of it.”

“We could still go back to that.”

“I thought you never wanted to see the inside of a recording studio again.”

“I’m not about to let Rhiana have that kind of power over my life.” Starsky seemed a little sad at the topic being brought up again, but he didn’t turn away from discussing it. “If you have any second thoughts about turning our backs on that…”

“Do we have to? The tape’s all finished. Maybe Eric knows somebody who could shop it around a little. Might be something to do on the weekend—play a few gigs, make some extra money.”

“I can see Dobey going for that idea. ‘Sorry, Cap, we can’t come in and work on that new case. We’ve got a gig Friday night.'”

“I suppose you’re right. Still would like to know if anybody’d sign us. I guess it’s just foolish pride.”

“We were damn good at the music, Hutch. We sounded great.”

“You’re humble about it,” Hutch needled.

“Why should I be? You shouldn’t be either.”

“I guess it’s just another chapter in our lives, buddy.”

“You really feel lousy about closing it though, don’t ya?”

“I guess I do. More than I thought. But I want to stay a cop. How’s that for wanting the cake and eat it?”

“Well, you always were a complex person, Hutchinson.” Starsky stood up and paced a little, then stopped. “Maybe we could play a few gigs here and there. We usually get our time off when we’re supposed to. It really was fun.”

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“I think Eric’s probably going to go back with Kingpin now, so that leaves us minus a drummer.”

“Maybe he knows somebody,” Hutch suggested.

“Why don’t you call him and bounce it off on him? It’ll give you something interesting to do when you get sick of the TV.”

“Maybe I will. This is crazy.” Hutch snickered and shook his head. “Can you picture all the crap we’ll have to take at the precinct if we do this?”

“No more than we usually do,” Starsky responded, grinning. “No reason we shouldn’t try to have it all.”

“We’ll think about it.”

“Call Eric and talk to him about it. See if he knows somebody who’s halfway good who’d be interested to do something on the weekends once in a while. Oh, by the way, while you’re getting back on your feet, you wanna stay with me or you want me to stay with you?”

“It was just a shoulder wound, Starsk.”

“In your right shoulder. You’re not supposed to lift anything—you’re supposed to rest it, remember? That’s real tough for righties.”

“Righties, huh?”

“See, if you were left-handed, like me, it wouldn’t be such a big problem for you. But since you’re—”

“If I were left-handed, he’d have aimed for my left shoulder.”

“Ah, but we’ll never know that for sure, will we? I mean, what if —”

“Oh God, Starsk, don’t start that ‘what if’ thing again.” Hutch threw his head back on the pillow in exaggerated frustration, but it was too late, and a veritable litany of “what ifs” spewed from Starsky until Hutch used his good arm to throw a maliciously aimed pillow in his partner’s direction.

* * * *

Starsky and Hutch were soon back on active duty again, though temporarily sidelined while Hutch got his arm back in action. The sling was a thing of the past after a couple of weeks, and life seemed to be returning to something that approximated normality. Eric was still enthusiastic about moonlighting with Passages on an occasional weekend gig, and took responsibility for marketing the band via Kingpin’s management.

It was on a mild summer evening that the guys made the drive out to Eric’s place to talk about a potential performance the coming weekend at a small club in San Diego. At least that was the story Eric had used to lure them out there. When they arrived, they found the ornate garden draped with all manners of outdoor lanterns and lights, dozens of guests milling around, and the band yelling an enthusiastic “SURPRISE!” when they walked in.

“What’s the occasion?” Hutch asked Eric, who led the band across the lawn to greet the guests of honor.

“It’s Matt’s birthday today, and since he can’t be here, and you guys were the ones who nailed Marcovitz, we decided to give you a party. It was kind of a way for Matt to say thanks.”

“I think this is the first time we got a party for wrapping up a case. I could get used to this. Thanks, guys, this is really great,” Starsky responded.

“I guess to say we were just doing our job would be pretty corny at this point?” Hutch asked, smiling. Eric nodded emphatically and soon the others joined in.

Eric had come up with an impressive guest list of musicians and a nice smattering of attractive women. It surprised both detectives to see amidst all these entertainment personalities their captain and his wife, plus a number of other detectives and police officers.

“Never thought I’d have all these cops at one of my parties if they weren’t breaking it up,” Eric quipped as he and Starsky took a detour into the house to replenish the champagne supply at the bar on the patio.

“This is really incredible. Hutch and I really appreciate it. And the girls you imported aren’t bad either.”

“One of the few perks of the business.” Eric disappeared behind the wet bar in the living room, fishing more champagne out of the small refrigerator there.

“I would think there’d be lots of perks.” Starsky was looking around the room with an approving eye.

“Well, eight months out of the year I’m not here. I’m eating sub-level food, sleeping on a bus or in a hotel, playing a show almost every night, getting my hair ripped out by screaming fans if I stick my nose outside the bus at the wrong time, performing whether I’m sick or healthy…I dunno.” He set the bottles up on the bar.

“All these gold and platinum records…man, lots of accomplishments to make by thirty.”

“Oh I’m not really complaining. I love music, and I really do live for that time up on stage. The fans are usually great. I think Matt’s death has been real hard for me to work through in connection with going back on the road, and back into the studio.”

“I couldn’t go back on the streets without Hutch, so I can imagine how you feel.”

“You make a lot of friends in your life, hopefully, but the ones that last…there aren’t many of those. I just wish we hadn’t ended things on such a sour note—no pun intended.”

“Matt wasn’t himself.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“You know, if you hadn’t urged me so hard about getting a second opinion, I probably wouldn’t be on active duty right now, and this whole case would probably not be solved.”

“Or I’d be sweating out a murder trial.”

“I want to thank you for pushing me about the second opinion. I was so wiped out that first night I thought I was gonna die. Between Rhiana and the no-go for street duty, I was pretty discouraged.”

“Understandable.” Eric popped a cork with appropriate panache and poured two glasses. “I think we oughtta drink to something.”

“Anything in particular?”

“We’ve got four bottles here. We could conceivably drink to everything.” Eric flexed his eyebrows a little.

“To good friends, past, present, and future.” Starsky raised his glass, and Eric tapped it, taking a healthy slurp of champagne.

“Good one. Okay, to long shots becoming reality—Passages, nailing Matt’s killers, and you back on active duty.”

“Works for me,” Starsky responded, clinking glasses with Eric and taking another drink.

“To Rhiana, for bringing Passages together.” Starsky shocked himself by toasting to her, but she had provided him with a new group of good friends, and that deserved toasting.

“Whatever,” Eric responded with a smirk, and toasted again.

“Hey, are you guys going to just sit in here and get wasted all by yourselves?” Tim entered through the patio doors. “That crowd’s gettin’ ugly with no bubbly.”

“If it isn’t our favorite part-time undercover narc,” Starsky greeted.

“Oh, no, not me. It was a real trip, but I think I’ll leave the guns and drug busts to the cops.”

“You did a real smooth job, man. You didn’t flinch at all.”

“Oh, I was flinchin’ a little when that guy shot me.”

“Thank God for the vest,” Eric spoke up.

“I’da been a goner without that.”

“I know Hutch and I are planning to wear them a little more often. I don’t know how many times I can be shot up and restitched and have it hold together. I don’t think the doctor’s real sure either.”

“To be shot for real—I can’t picture that,” Tim said, shaking his head slowly. “Must really hurt.”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Starsky said with an uneasy grin as he finished off his champagne.

“You must really love what you do to risk that again.”

“About as much as you love what you do to take on the road schedule,” Starsky retorted, exchanging a knowing look with Eric.

“You said a mouthful there,” Tim replied, laughing a little. “I think your partner’s puttin’ the moves on Tina,” Tim reported, craning his neck for a better view.

“You’re shittin’ me,” Eric responded, joining him to watch Hutch laughing and talking with Tina, obviously charming her. “I’ll be damned. Looks like it’s working, too.”

As Hutch was whispering something in her ear, he noticed the trio mirrored in the living room window. His face registered appropriate disgust, but he had to quickly adjust his expression for Tina’s benefit, who had her back to the patio doors. Eric, Tim, and Starsky burst out in a fit of adolescent laughter, for no particular reason but the pure lightness of the moment, and the influence of the champagne.

“Hey, take this out there. We’ll be out in a few minutes, okay?” Eric handed Tim the champagne, and he gladly loaded his arms with it and went back outside. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you.” Eric led the way through the house to the recording studio.

“This is a pretty nice set up too.” Starsky looked around at the small area, much less posh that Gary Olson’s, but still well-appointed.

“It does what I need. I’ve got something for you.” He disappeared into the control booth and a moment later came out carrying a somewhat worn-looking red electric guitar.

“This is for me?” Starsky asked as Eric handed him the instrument.

“Yup. Matt’s mom and dad gave me a few of his things, and I wanted you to have that. I know you were having some fun learning how to play electric at Gary’s, and I think Matt would like to do something to say thanks.”

“But this has got to mean a lot to you—being Matt’s. Are you sure you want to part with it?”

“I’m sure. Just have some fun with it. It was one of Matt’s first guitars, but I always thought it had a real cool sound. This way, next time we jam on Zeppelin, we won’t need Tina to take over guitar duty.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“Hang out with Mick once in a while. He’ll teach you all the tricks.”

“Thanks, man. This is really special.”

“Better get back to the party, I guess.”

“You seem a little down.” Starsky commented as he followed Eric through the house again, this time carrying the guitar.

“I think all the hype is subsiding, and I’m just depressed. We always throw a real blast on each other’s birthdays, and I miss Matt. The whole studio scene depresses me yet. I was sitting there one night just listening to the vocal track, all by itself. I’ve got some unreleased stuff that Matt and I were messing around with. But we’ll get rollin’ again. Matt wouldn’t have it any other way. I just can’t picture another singer…”

“At least the people responsible didn’t walk.”

“True. Hey, this is a party, not a wake. Let’s get out there and round up everybody who plays anything or anybody who can carry a tune and get a sing-a-long going.”

“You don’t expect me to play this in front of all those people?”

“Nah. Put it behind the bar and pick it up on the way out. I didn’t give it to you so I could subject you to public humiliation—though now that you mention it, it might have been fun.” Eric cackled a little evilly. “Hey, by the way, I did get something for Hutch. Remember that album you said you fried in his oven?”

“Thanks for reminding me—the rare, autographed Buddy Holly album that he searched the planet for?”

“Well, it was rare, but not one-of-a-kind. One of the record company execs I know has a real extensive collection, and I did a little bartering with him—”

“You got another one?”

“Sure did.”

“Man, you sure just got me off a hook I’ve been on for about a year now!”

“Killed two birds with one stone, then, I guess. Anyway I think he’ll get a kick out of it.”

* * * *

Hutch was examining the prized record album as Starsky pulled out of the winding drive in the Torino. It was late, almost three in the morning, but for some odd reason, Starsky seemed bent on taking a detour. Hutch was a little annoyed not to be heading for home, but he had to agree with his partner that this night, with its mild breeze and crystal clear sapphire sky was almost too beautiful to waste sleeping. And for once, they were spending Friday night cruising the street with the windows down, the police radio off, and no responsibility to the department until Monday morning.

Starsky turned up the car’s radio a little, letting the music fill the interior. Hutch noticed that his partner had become something of a radio junkie since his convalescence. Having tired of the TV more quickly than Hutch would have expected him to, Starsky had filled many long, lonely, boring hours in the hospital becoming an expert in popular music. He had twitted Hutch with high-pitched and off-key renditions of numerous Andy Gibb songs, and could sing or recite lyrical passages to most of the current disco hits. Since his partner had usually only considered disco worthwhile for dancing purposes, Hutch recognized how bored Starsky really must have been all those weeks staring at the walls.

The volume got another boost. Starsky had developed a real fondness for this particular song. It had been a sort of anthem throughout his physical therapy, and he seemed to draw strength from it even more so since the whole string of events with Rhiana.

“You tell ’em, Gloria,” Starsky said quietly, as Gloria Gaynor’s voice boomed out of the speakers, vowing “I Will Survive.” Hutch could understand his partner’s affinity for the song once he really zeroed in on the lyrics, for the first time since he had been initially vaguely annoyed at Starsky’s attachment to the song:

“It took all the strength I had
not to fall apart
Just trying hard to mend the pieces
Of my broken heart.

And I spent so many nights
Just feelin’ sorry for myself,
I used to cry
But now I hold my head up high,

And you see me
Somebody new
I’m not that chained up little person
Still in love with you…

Weren’t you the one
Who tried to break me with goodbye?
Did you think I’d crumble?
Did you think I’d lay down and die?

Oh no, not I
I will survive.
As long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive.
I’ve got all my life to live,
I’ve got all my love to give,
And I’ll survive, I will survive…”

As the song faded, Hutch noticed they had driven quite far into the countryside, and his partner didn’t seem inclined to turn back toward town. He was onto another song, not as intensely, drumming out the beat on the steering wheel, looking utterly relaxed in the comfortable silence that had prevailed between the two of them. Not a silence born of nothing to say, but rather born of no need to say it aloud. Reluctantly, Hutch broke the pattern and spoke.

“Where’re we headed?”

“Don’t know. You in a hurry to go home?” Starsky asked, with no trace of irritation in his voice. Just a simple question.

“Not particularly, no. Just wondering.”

“Quite a party, huh?”

“It was really something. I guess you were right about those guys after all.”

“I just had a good feeling about them. I guess Eric is what I would have liked in a younger brother. I’m not trying to put Nicky down, but things didn’t work out well with him, they never did. We were like oil and water from the start, and when I left home, well, things just went from bad to worse. I see another guy his age, like Eric, who can be a little flaky sometimes, but really has his head on straight, and cares about people, and I wonder what went wrong. I s’pose I kind of know. Growing up without a father…he was even younger when Dad died…and then I left home, and he had to come up with whatever role models he could, which didn’t leave much in our old neighborhood.”

“What got you thinking about Nick?” Hutch refused to speak of the man with any diminutive nicknames. He found him to be a hateful, amoral little hood who played his brother’s sensitive nature like a violin. The fact he shared a first name with one of Marcovitz’s kidnappers seemed like a darkly amusing twist of fate. Never will name my kid Nick, Hutch thought, attaching an absurd significance to the name itself. Bringing him up had disturbed an otherwise pleasant evening.

“I thought about everything when I was in the hospital. Nothing else to do but think…and get hooked on the radio.” Starsky turned it down a little to avoid yelling over it.

“I wouldn’t waste too many brain cells on Nick if I were you.” Hutch blurted the remark without really planning to voice it aloud.

“I know he doesn’t waste many on me, so you’re probably right.” Starsky’s reaction wasn’t the defensive one Hutch expected.

“I didn’t mean to say it exactly that way.”

“It’s okay. I can’t argue the point. Hey, I wanna show you something. This should appeal to you, nature boy.”

Starsky maneuvered the Torino around a number of curves as it followed the twists of a road that led to the top of a hill overlooking the city. Starsky pulled the car up near the edge and got out, followed by his partner. It was a remote spot, and it had taken them at least an hour to get there. Leaning against the hood of the car, Hutch was stunned by the panoramic view of the ocean of lights below and the blanket of stars above.

“Is this where you usually run out of gas?” Hutch needled.

“What d’you mean?”

“Oh, playing innocent now, huh? When you’re taking a lady out for a drive, this must be the spot where you run out of gas.”

“I don’t bring dates here.” Starsky’s tone was completely serious. “This is my place. I don’t bring anybody here who’s gonna ruin it for me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Let’s say I’d brought Rhiana up here. Every time I came here after what happened, I’da thought of her, and I’d stop coming. I found this place one night when I was driving around after Terry died. Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep, and decided to give you a break and not call and whine at you for two hours at a time in the middle of the night, I’d get in the car and just drive for a while. I found this place by accident, and I’ve been coming here when I wanted to think or just be by myself ever since.”

Starsky sat on the ground near the edge of the bluff, and Hutch was chillingly aware of the last time he had seen his partner sitting on the edge of such a spot. He joined Starsky on the ground and just took in the view, the sound of the crickets and the rustle of the trees. His partner was right—Hutch the nature boy was in heaven. In the middle of the smog, crime and depravity, this was an oasis of perfection.

“This is a beautiful spot, buddy.” Hutch resumed his silence a moment. “So why’d you bring me here?”

“‘Cause I figured you’d like it.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“But you understand it…what it means.”

“A place to come when you need to be reminded there really is still something beautiful and worthwhile in the world? That all those lights down there are what make us do the lousy dangerous job we do? A special place that you want to protect, so it isn’t contaminated by all that ugliness down there?”

“Told ya you’d understand,” Starsky responded with a wide smile. Neither man spoke for a few minutes, enjoying the silence and solitude of the spot.

“Might be a good spot to write a few songs, huh?” Hutch suggested.

“Might be,” Starsky replied, not taking his eyes off the view. “You want to start back?”

“Why? Are you in a hurry to get home now?” Hutch asked, parroting his partner’s prior question.

“No way.” Starsky seemed pleased, and settled in to just sit and stare out at the lights and the stars.

* * * *

Hutch lost track of how long they were there, exchanging a few words here and there, but mostly just breathing in the fresh air and watching the city sleep. Everything seemed to be finally falling into place. Starsky looked healthy again, and when he smiled now, the old warmth and humor lit up his face. Hutch reflected on the fact that he was blissfully content to be back on the job he thought he hated, and that amidst all the confusion and the stress of the case, he had overlooked the fact that one of his lifelong dreams had been realized. He was part of a band, had recorded a demo tape—the future of which was still unknown—and had enjoyed the experience of working with professional musicians in a state-of-the-art studio—something he never could have afforded without Gary Olson’s generosity, and Rhiana’s connections. That was a sour thought. Well, Rhiana was Starsky’s connection, so he preferred to give his partner credit for helping that dream come true. Maybe it was time to stop looking for the elusive thing called happiness…in the tranquillity of the night and the soft sounds of nature and the companionship of the best friend he’d almost lost, it seemed as if it had been there all along, just waiting to be discovered.

Starsky tossed a pebble into the abyss in front of him. He thought briefly of the Torino hurtling off the cliff, taking a tumble into the valley below it. Different cliff, different valley. No reason to entertain unhappy thoughts in this place. Still, the thought of what an insane waste that would have been haunted him. All the wrong facts could have sent him literally over the edge, and left his moody partner to his own ruminations, which would have probably involved blaming himself, no matter how hard Hutch had to work to figure out why Starsky driving his own car off a cliff was his fault. Hutch just had too big a capacity for guilt not to eat himself alive over that one. Starsky’s lengthy convalescence had reinforced the fact that they were a unit, like it or not, and one functioning without the other just didn’t seem practical.

Starsky looked over at his partner, enjoying the look of perfect peace and tranquillity on his face. Showing him this place was a good idea. Hutch needed a place like this as much as Starsky did himself. Plus sitting up here all alone and reviewing all the miserable things that ever happened in his life suddenly didn’t seem as rejuvenating as just relaxing and watching the darkness dispersed by the first rays of dawn, enjoying the quiet companionship of many years that didn’t require words.

The sky was turning a spectacular blend of blue, grey and rose before it occurred to either of them to break the spell and seriously suggest heading back for town. And then it was not really one of them, but rather Starsky’s stomach growling its dismay as breakfast time approached.

“Some things never change,” Hutch teased his partner as they rose and headed back for the car.

“I know that. That’s why I brought you here.” Starsky made little fuss over the comment as he got in and started up the car, but it was not lost on Hutch, who just smiled a knowing smile as they started back for town.

“There’s a calm surrender
To the rush of day,
When the heat of a rolling wind
Can’t be turned away,
An enchanted moment
And it sees me through,
It’s enough for this restless warrior
Just to be with you…”

–“Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” by Elton John
Words & Music by Tim Rice and Elton John