Saturday Night Murder

441

While Starsky is still dealing with John Blaine’s death, he and Hutch are asked to go undercover in a gay bar to catch a serial killer targeting couples. But he’s unprepared for the impact this “play acting” might have on his already shaken world view.

 

Originally published in the SHareCon 2018 Zine.

Author’s Note: The hyphen-loving author wishes to thank the ever-patient, always-gracious Cyanne and Flamingo for making this story so much better than it was before it was delivered into their more-than-capable hands. I also ask them forgiveness for showing up (again) at the last minute (actually, beyond it). Any and all errors are mine and mine alone.

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Prologue

Bette’s Dance Bar, West Hollywood
Saturday, October 22, 1977

He watched them. He loved to watch them.

They weren’t kissing or groping or grinding against each other. Not at the moment. They stood out among the throng of sweaty, beautiful male bodies as the two of them moved in opposition to the pounding disco beat, fingers linked and eyes locked, radiating such pure and perfect love that the observer could hardly breathe.

He studied them a while longer, profoundly moved. And jubilant.

Once more, he’d found exactly what he was searching for.

***

 

Chapter 1

Metropolitan Division, Bay City
Monday, November 7

“What’re you looking at?” Starsky snarled around a mouthful of masticated apple.

“Starsky!” Dobey warned. The detective was one of his best men, but the way he’d been moping around since the death of Lieutenant John Blaine was testing the limits of Dobey’s patience. Starsky wasn’t the only member of the Bay City PD who’d been affected by the messy loss of one of their own; Dobey had known Blaine and his wife, Maggie, for years. He was fed up with Starsky’s increasingly juvenile behavior, acting as though he alone owned the right to grieve.

But it didn’t seem to bother at least one of the two subjects of Starsky’s indignation.

“Harold, my friend,” announced the visitor in the expensive suit, “I think we’ve found the right men for the job.”

Perched on the arm of the chair Starsky was lounging—and chomping—in, Hutch snatched Starsky’s apple. “I don’t understand what we have to do with your investigation, Captain Kirk.”

“Captain Kirk,” Starsky sniggered.

“Starsky!”

“C’mon, Cap’n. You’ve got to admit he does look a bit like James Tiberius Kirk. But you,” Starsky said, acknowledging Kirk’s lieutenant, “look nothing like Mr. Spock. Not even Leonard Nimoy.”

Kirk made a clicking noise with his tongue and addressed Hutch, who’d taken a big bite of the apple before passing it back to Starsky. “Ever since Senator Hobart’s nephew was shot to death last month, we’ve put two of our best undercover teams on the case—and both of them were complete and utter failures. Suffice it to say that the Senator is most unhappy, which is why we’re here.”

Hutch chewed for a couple of seconds, then swallowed noisily. “Wait a minute.” He gripped Starsky’s knee as he leaned forward. “Six men have been killed in your jurisdiction since July. Are you telling me that you didn’t start taking this case seriously until a member of some rich politician’s family became a victim?”

“It’s not like—”

Hutch raised a finger. “So, if the Hobart kid—”

“Logan,” said Kirk. “His name was Bruce Logan. And he was 27.”

“Fine. So, if Logan and his boyfriend hadn’t been murdered, you would’ve just let this sicko serial killer keep going until he’d wiped out all the gay men in West Hollywood? Because who cares about a bunch of homos, right?”

With the flat of his hand, Dobey slapped the surface of his desk hard enough to make coffee slosh out of his mug. “Dammit, Hutchinson! I don’t know which of you two is worse these days.”

Starsky studiously examined the browning remains of the Macintosh. “Definitely Hutch, Cap’n. But he may be right. For once.”

“I’m well aware that John Blaine was your friend and mentor, Detective Starsky. And I’m sure you’re still in shock over his death.” Kirk redirected his gaze. “And, Detective Hutchinson, I’m not proud that it took the murder of the Senator’s nephew to finally light a fire under this investigation, not to mention get us the extra resources we need.”

“But why Starsky and me? What makes you think we’ll have any more luck than your own people?”

“Let’s say you’re uniquely qualified for this assignment,” said not-Mr. Spock, otherwise known as Randy McMillan, a stocky redhead with small round ears and regular eyebrows.

“What are you talking about?” Starsky tossed the apple core into the wastepaper basket beside Dobey’s desk, then wiped his fingers on Hutch’s leg.

“Hey!” Hutch scolded. He seized the offending hand and flung it away. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not your personal napkin?”

Kirk exchanged a brief but telling glance with his colleague. “For one thing, you’re both familiar with the Green Parrot, which is similar to the club that was frequented by all our victims.” He cleared his throat. “Also, Lieutenant McMillan and I think you two will make a believable couple.”

“A couple of what?” Starsky challenged.

Hutched squeezed his partner’s shoulder. “You know what he means.”

Starsky exploded out of the chair. “Just because John and I were close doesn’t make me like him.”

Hutch grabbed him by a flailing arm and tugged him back down. “Easy, Starsk. Nobody’s saying that.”

“Of course we’re not,” Kirk soothed. “But here’s the thing: we don’t believe these are random killings. Whoever’s doing this seems to be targeting men who are in committed relationships. So, if we’re going to stop him, we need to use the right bait. Men who’ll fit in at Bette’s.” He ran a hand through his thin blond hair. “Both of our teams flopped because they weren’t convincing as lovers.”

“But you think we’ll be?” Starsky was on his feet again. “You people are unbelievable.” Breaking free of Hutch’s grasp, he stormed from the room.

“Starsky! Get back here!” Dobey demanded.

It was Hutch’s turn to rise. “I’ll talk to him, Captain,” he said, then headed for the door.

“I’m sorry, Harold.” Kirk showed his palms. “We didn’t come here to cause—”

“And by the way,” Hutch interrupted, glancing back over his shoulder at the three senior officers. “We’ll do it.”

 

Chapter 2

The Green Parrot, Bay City
Tuesday, November 8

“I still can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Starsky grumbled.

“Well, you did. So, stop whining and—”

“Puh-lease, boys!” Sugar threw his hands in the air. “Both of you need to shut up now or you can leave and go waste someone else’s time.”

With great effort, Hutch stopped scowling at Starsky. “You’re right, Sugar. We really appreciate what you’re doing for us, and we apologize for our immature conduct.” He slapped Starsky on the back, harder than necessary. “Don’t we, Starsk?”

Starsky gave Hutch a look that would’ve made a lesser man shrink. “Yeah. Sorry, Sugar.”

“I’m only doing this because my dear friend Mr. Bear asked me to, and I owe him one.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “And before you get your knickers in a knot, I know you’ve been given some top-secret assignment and I’ve sworn an oath not to say a word about it. As if anyone would ever believe me.”

The three of them were clustered on the Green Parrot’s dance floor. It was mid-afternoon, and their host had yet to transform from Sherman Kowalski to Sugar Plum.

“I don’t know why Huggy thinks we need this,” Starsky complained, arms folded hard enough to make his leather jacket squeak. “We did okay when we were here the last time.”

Sugar recoiled as if he’d been struck. “Aside from the teensy-weensy fact that you nearly got me killed, Detective Hutchinson’s ensemble that night was atrocious! They only let you in here because they had to.”

“What was so bad about what I wore?” Hutch asked, clearly wounded.

“Dear God! I’m still having nightmares over that so-called disguise. I thought you’d stolen it from a geriatric production of Oliver Twist.”

“I tried to tell you,” Starsky said to a stunned Hutch.

“I almost died when you showed up in that tweed cap,” Sugar continued. “With sunglasses! If you’re ever going to pass yourself off as a gay man, you can’t appear in public like that again. Never ever. Have I made myself clear? Good. Now, as for what you’ve got on today…” He took a little stroll around Hutch. “The way these trousers display your derriere is divine. But corduroy? Brown corduroy? Really? Save them for when you have to paint the barn.”

“Aren’t you being a bit of a snob?” Hutch asked, fighting the instinct to cover his groin with his hands. “Everybody wears cordu—”

Sugar ignored the protest. “And no homosexual in his right mind would be caught dead in a shirt that’s so…” He shuddered. “Horrid.”

“Now you know why I never borrow it,” Starsky stage-whispered.

Hutch bowed his head and ran his hands across his chest, his voice rising. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”

There was another epic eye roll from Sugar. “For one thing, John Denver, it’s denim.”

“Chambray.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” Sugar flapped one hand dismissively. “But it’s the embroidered guitar on the back that makes me want to toss it onto the nearest bonfire.”

“Now, wait just one damned minute—”

“Take my advice and stick to solid-colored, tight-fitting shirts.” He fiddled with his expertly tied mauve neckerchief. “And when you’re at a club, the tighter the clothes, the better.”

“What about me?” Starsky asked.

“Try not to take this the wrong way—although I’m sure you will—but from what I’ve seen, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble fitting in.”

Starsky pointed a finger Sugar’s way, but before he had a chance to come up with an appropriate response, Sugar clapped his hands sharply.

“Now that we’ve covered the fashion portion of the program, let’s move on. Please remove your jackets.”

Although they co-operated, Sugar wrinkled his nose. “Don’t you ever take those things off?” he asked, indicating their not-empty shoulder holsters with a disdainful nod.

“Only when we shower,” Hutch clarified. “But don’t worry. We’ll be careful.”

“Hmmph. Famous last words. If you shoot anyone by accident, just make sure it isn’t me.”

While Hutch waited with growing anxiety, Sugar sashayed over to a small table that was dominated by a large audio cassette player. “And now it’s time for Dancing 101 with Professor Sugar.” He pushed a button and Don’t Leave Me This Way started to play.

For the first time that afternoon, Starsky showed no visible signs of tension. He began moving to the music, earning a sliver of a smile from Sugar, who frowned when he saw that Hutch was standing stock still.

“Is there a problem, Detective?” he inquired. “As much as I enjoy watching your partner, I need you to show me what you can do.”

Hutch muttered something under his breath, then launched into his version of dancing.

“Oh, good lord!” Sugar waved both hands in front of him, like he was warding off an attack. “Stop! For heaven’s sake, stop!”

From the base of his neck to the tip of his ears, Hutch was burning bright red. “What’s the matter?” he asked anyway.

“Nothing—if you’re playing soccer and punching a criminal at the same time,” Sugar said. He nudged Hutch toward Starsky. “Now, do exactly as I tell you, or I quit.”

“Fine. And stop smirking, Starsky. I mean it.”

“You,” Sugar said to Starsky. “You’ll have to tone it down to make this work. Oh, don’t pout. Put your hands on his hips. Yes, like that. And you, Blondie, put your hands on his shoulders. Good. Now, when I tell you to start dancing, keep your feet planted firmly on the ground and sway gently from side to side, matching his direction. Got it?”

Hutch picked a spot across the room to focus on, as chatty as a statue.

“And maintain eye contact with him, you big baby. You’re supposed to be mad for each other. Ready? Begin.”

So Starsky danced.

Hutch swayed.

And Sugar judged.

“Well, that wasn’t—horrible. For this next part, I want you to keep rocking side to side, Detective Hutchinson, but lift your feet slightly. Slightly! More dancing, less stomping roaches. Okay, better. Detective Starsky, guide his hips so that he mirrors what you’re doing.”

About halfway through Love Rollercoaster, Sugar ordered his students to detach, then spent the rest of the song instructing Hutch how to move his arms. “You actually have some rhythm when you’re not thrashing about like an out-of-control windmill.”

“Gee, Sugar. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”

“Well, don’t get used to it. I haven’t seen you slow dance yet.” Sugar sauntered back to the tape player to find something appropriate, settling on Dream Weaver. “Detective Starsky, since you’re marginally more talented in this area, I think you should take the—Oh, my…”

His trainees had already assumed the position, with Starsky leading. “Is there a problem, coach?”

“No. Well, yes! I mean, it appears that you’ve done this before. Which is ridiculous. And don’t call me coach. Except for figure skating, all sports are vile.”

Hutch was going crimson again, unlike Starsky, who was all but beaming with pride. “I taught this turkey how to slow dance for another undercover job. Watch this.”

Before either Hutch or Sugar could blink, Starsky had dipped Hutch. Perfectly. “Not bad, huh?”

It took Sugar three whole seconds to re-activate his vocal cords. “If you two start doing the Viennese Waltz, I’m hanging up my feathered boa.”

But no ballroom dances ended up being performed, so Sugar’s boa was in no danger of being retired.

“That would be passable if you were an old Amish couple,” he told them when he’d regained his composure. He tapped Hutch’s right wrist. “Let go of his hand and put your arms around his neck. The back of his neck. Tall, dark, and handsome—wrap your arms around him. Lower. Good.” Sugar put a hand on each of their backs and pressed forward until they were nose to nose. “That’s how to hold each other when you slow dance.”

Sugar chose the new hit song How Deep Is Your Love?, one of several numbers written by the Bee Gees for a movie that was opening in mid-December.

“Okay, detectives. Now, close your eyes, relax, and forget I’m even here.”

“Easier said than done,” Hutch groused.

But he was mistaken.

“Gentlemen?” Sugar called to them. “Yoo-hoo! We’re done.”

Hutch peeled his cheek away from Starsky’s, straightened, and gave Sugar a long-suffering look. “Now what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing.” Sugar grinned. “Not a single thing. But I must say I’m shocked that two such highly decorated detectives didn’t notice that the music stopped about 30 seconds ago.” He retrieved their jackets and handed them to the speechless cops. “Now go and serve, protect—and dance. And be fabulous about it.”

 

Chapter 3

West Hollywood
Friday, November 11

“C’mon, Hutch! Tempus fugit.”

“Just want to make sure I’m presentable,” Hutch said, standing in front of the bedroom’s full-length mirror.

“You’re beautiful and you know it, so let’s go. Got your peashooter?”

Still grimacing at his reflection, Hutch lifted his left foot and shook it. “Yeah. You?”

“Jesus! Don’t do that! You might kill me!”

“The holster’s closed and the safety’s on, dummy. Is yours?”

He wiggled his right foot at Hutch. “Yes, unfortunately. Are you ready yet?”

“I’m not sure about this shirt…”

“It’s fine. No, it’s better than fine.” The dark blue tee was practically glued to Hutch’s torso. And the body-hugging white jeans made the most of his other assets. “You know there won’t be any girls there, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Hutch ran the comb through his hair one more time. “I’m trying to look nice for you.”

“Oh. Okay.” Starsky emitted a strangled cough. “Can we get this over with?”

Hutch followed Starsky to the door of their furnished one-bedroom rental. Located on Sunset Boulevard in the heart of West Hollywood, it was small but tastefully decorated and, best of all, only a short walk to Bette’s Dance Bar. “What? You love to shake your stuff and show off.”

“Not in a place full of, well, you know.” Starsky had not joined Hutch and Huggy on the Green Parrot’s dance floor during the John Blaine investigation.

Hutch shook his head while Starsky locked up. “They’re people, Starsk. They’re just like us except for who they love. Some of them are being killed for it, and it’s our job to make that stop.”

“Okay, okay. You’re right. But I’d be lying if I said I was comfortable with this.”

“I know, pal.” Hutch patted Starsky on the back. “No matter how you feel on the inside, you need to let people think you’re happy and gay and having fun on the outside.”

But Starsky was still ill at ease when he and Hutch strode into the boisterous all-male party scene that was Bette’s. The club was geared to a younger, more sophisticated clientele and, unlike the Green Parrot, didn’t feature a live show. Disco music that caused the floor to vibrate poured from cutting-edge speakers. Flashing colored lights cut through the darkness; from what the detectives could see, everything was painted or upholstered in black. And the men running the well-stocked bar were shirtless for a reason.

“This is nothing like the Parrot,” Starsky shouted.

“No kidding. We may as well start dancing.”

“Not yet.” Starsky was positively twitching. “Later.”

Hutch sighed. “Want a drink?”

“Yeah. Something strong. You order.”

Hutch humored him. Glass in hand, he saw that all the stools that ran the full length of the bar were occupied. He craned his neck and spotted a row of small, high tables—about two dozen—off to the side. “Let’s go over there,” he said. “It might be quieter.”

“Better?” Hutch asked once they’d settled.

Starsky downed half his drink. “Terrific.”

“You know, at some point soon we’re going to have to start getting to know people here—and let them get to know us.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Quit nagging me.”

“Anyone ever tell you what a jerk you are sometimes?”

“Only you, lover boy.”

Hutch gave Starsky a long, hard look, shook his head, and bent over his whiskey and soda.

The uncomfortable silence between them was broken by a tall, gorgeous individual with cropped bleached hair and skin the color of nutmeg. He was holding a cigarillo between long, elegant fingers. “Excuse me,” he said to Hutch, “Would you like to dance?”

“Oh.” Hutch blinked a couple of times. “I’m flattered, but no thank you. I’m with him,” he said, indicating Starsky with a tilt of his head, “and he’s the only man I dance with.”

The man examined Starsky closely, then turned back to Hutch. “Really? You’re together? Could’ve fooled me.”

Hutch reached out and cupped the side of his partner’s face, rubbing Starsky’s cheek with his thumb. “Well, we are.”

Starsky placed his palm against Hutch’s chest, over his heart. “And I’m the jealous type.”

The man took a step back. “Sorry I asked,” he said, and stalked away.

Hutch yanked Starsky into an embrace, ostensibly to avoid eavesdroppers. “We agreed to take on this assignment, but we’re going to fail if we act like a couple of strangers. Or boyfriends on the verge of breaking up.”

“You’re right.” Starsky melted into Hutch’s arms. “I’m trying, but I’m having a really hard time with this. With everything. Since John, um, you know…”

Hutch slid a hand through Starsky’s dark curls. “I know. It hasn’t been easy for me, either.”

“What are you talking about? From day one, you’ve been cooler than Steve McQueen. What’s your secret?”

Hutch flinched a little. “There’s no—there’s no secret. As long as you’re with me, I can handle whatever life throws at us.”

“Maybe we should get out there before someone else hits on you,” Starsky said.

“Could’ve been you just as easily. You look, uh, really good tonight.”

And so Starsky did. The red, short-sleeved shirt that hugged his body was tucked into black boot-cut jeans that accentuated his ass.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Only you, handsome,” Hutch assured him with a twinkle in his eye. “Come on.” He threw his arm around Starsky’s shoulders, Starsky wrapped his arm around Hutch’s waist, and they made their way to the busy dance floor. The first few songs were fast but, thanks to Sugar’s lessons, Hutch didn’t embarrass himself—or Starsky. When a ballad came on at long last, it gave them a chance to talk shop again.

“Have you seen anything strange?” Hutch spoke into Starsky’s ear, his lips brushing against the cartilage.

Starsky stumbled slightly, then gave his answer.

“Huh? I can’t hear you,” Hutch scolded. “Your mouth has to be right up against my ear. Like this.”

Starsky did as he was told. “I said no. I haven’t seen anything strange, because guys sticking their tongues down each other’s throats is totally normal for me. What about you? You seen anyone who could be our serial killer?” Starsky, ever the good detective, noted how soft Hutch’s skin felt. And how good it smelled.

“Nothing. I wish I could get a better look at who’s sitting at the tables way in the back there, but it’s too dark.”

“So now what?”

“Keep dancing,” Hutch advised.

A few more upbeat songs later, Hutch mimed taking a drink and, when he got an assenting nod, took Starsky by the hand. A couple of stools were given up just as they got to the bar. Away from the blaring music, they could speak at an almost normal pitch. But it meant they could be overheard, so they had to be cautious.

It wasn’t long before the bartender materialized. “Need another round, boys?” He’d been so busy earlier that Hutch and Starsky hadn’t really talked to him beyond giving their order. And they’d been among the few customers who hadn’t flirted with him openly. But even Starsky could appreciate his appeal: average height but nicely muscled, and good looking without being too pretty. His hair was textbook surfer dude.

“I’m fine,” Starsky said. “You, babe?”

“Yup,” Hutch agreed.

“Haven’t seen you two in here before,” the bartender semi-shouted as a small group not far from them roared with laughter over something. “New in town or just passing through?”

“Moved from New York a few days ago,” Hutch boomed back. “Anything we should know about the neighborhood?”

“Well, you’ve found the best place in town to drink and dance.” The bartender exposed a male model’s set of teeth. “Overall, West Hollywood’s a great neighborhood. Good shops, great restaurants, the hottest men.” He trained his gaze on Starsky. “Obviously. I’m Tommy, by the way,” he said, offering a manicured hand.

“Hi, Tommy.” Starsky extended his own hand, which was swallowed up by both of Tommy’s. “I’m Dave.”

“Lovely to meet you, Dave.”

It took some doing for Starsky to free himself from Tommy’s clutches. “And this is Hutch.”

“Sure. Hello, uh, Hunch.”

Hutch smiled through gritted teeth. “That’s Hutch. With a T.”

“So, Dave,” Tommy said, “what do you do? I’ll bet you’re an actor. Or a race car driver.”

Starsky was all nonchalant. “Uh, not quite. I’m a firefighter.” He put his arm around Hutch. “And Hutch is a high school teacher.”

“Firefighter, huh? Sounds exciting.”

“Sometimes. Mostly it’s boring—lots of waiting around for a call,” Starsky said, drawing closer to Hutch.

Tommy was in the middle of asking Starsky another inane question when a cute but noticeably frustrated Hispanic man appeared on the scene. “Tommy. If you’re finished serving these gentlemen, there are other customers waiting. Get back to work. Now.”

“Been nice talking to you,” Tommy said to Starsky.

“Asshole,” Starsky said when he figured the obnoxious bartender was out of earshot. Or mostly out of earshot.

Hutch rolled his eyes. “First you complain when you don’t get hit on, then you complain when you do. Make up your damned mind, Gordo.”

“It’s—it’s not that,” Starsky said through clenched teeth. “The jerk should’ve warned us we could be killed just for coming here.”

“I’m not defending him, but I’ll bet he doesn’t know.” Hutch pretended he was whispering sweet nothings into Starsky’s ear. “The murders barely made the news, and none of the victims’ names were disclosed. And even though the local cops have spoken with the people who own and run this place, I highly doubt the staff was informed. It would be bad for business, right?”

“So all these people are sitting ducks. Terrific.”

“Don’t worry, Starsk. We’re here now.”

“Well, my white knight, we’re not doing much good by sitting around and drinking on our own. Let’s go and do the hustle with the rest of the boys.”

But as the evening was coming to a close, and Starsky was discreetly scoping out the place even as he was trying out some new dance moves, his gaze fell upon a figure standing near the club’s entrance. What caught his attention was the fact that it was a uniformed police officer.

Starsky grabbed Hutch by the hand and spun him in a half circle, then tugged him in tight so that Hutch’s back was pressed up against Starsky’s chest. “Take a look to the left of the front door,” he said directly into Hutch’s ear. “Hope this doesn’t mean what I think it does.”

They were both aware that gay bars were subject to random police raids. Even in a community like West Hollywood. Sugar had told them that someone at the Green Parrot would flash a red warning light when the “pigs” showed up. Then, the men on the dancefloor would try to grab hold of the nearest female—be she straight or not—to avoid being rounded up and arrested. If such a system even existed at Bette’s, it would likely fail due to the general absence of women.

But the cop at Bette’s didn’t stay long and didn’t come back—alone or with reinforcements. In fact, nothing else out of the ordinary occurred that night. When all the lights came on at closing time, Hutch and Starsky seized the opportunity to check out all previously dark corners of the club, where a potential killer might be lurking. But the area had already emptied, so they merged with the crowd that shuffled toward the exit and poured out onto the sidewalk, where many of the revelers exchanged goodbyes often accompanied by kisses and hugs.

“If they only knew,” Starsky said softly.

Hutch sighed.

They didn’t exchange another word until they were back at the Sunset Arms. Once their apartment door was locked behind them, Starsky headed for the bathroom.

“I’ll shower first,” he announced.

“Sure,” Hutch said. “I want to make some notes while everything’s still fresh in my mind.”

He was still writing at the kitchen table when Starsky padded in with a towel wrapped around his waist. He peered over Hutch’s shoulder, then drew back melodramatically.

“Eww! You stink like a dirty ashtray.”

“You didn’t smell so great yourself a few minutes ago, turkey.”

“Yeah, but I do now.” Starsky yawned extravagantly. “Wash up already. I’m beat, and you’d better be finished before I fall asleep.”

When they’d first been shown the place, they weren’t worried that it only had one bedroom. They’d figured that the moss-green loveseat in the living room would fold out into a bed.

They’d figured wrong.

And Hutch reminding him that they’d had to share a bed during previous assignments hadn’t made his partner any less unhappy. But when the man with the off-and-on back problems offered to curl up on the loveseat, or cram a cot into their tiny living quarters, Starsky waved him off—and there’d been no grousing about it since.

Starsky had started to doze off but opened his eyes when he felt the mattress dip next to him. “You brush your teeth?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Starsky poked Hutch in the ribs with his elbow. “Good. Go to sleep. And don’t hog the covers again.”

“Starsk?”

“What now?”

“Tonight wasn’t so bad, huh?”

“Guess not.”

“That must’ve been hard to admit.”

“Oh, shut up,” Starsky mumbled.

Hard? Hutch had no idea.

 

Chapter 4

Saturday, November 12

After breakfast, they discussed and polished Hutch’s notes from the night before.

“So, the perp could be any one of the following,” Hutch recapped, using his fingers. “Someone who works at Bette’s. Someone who hangs out at Bette’s. Or a brother cop whose beat includes Bette’s. There was no sign of forced entry at any of the crime scenes, so the victims either knew the killer or were lulled into a proverbial false sense of security by a badge.”

Starsky refilled their coffee mugs and brought them to the table where they were working. “Each couple was shot and killed together, at home, either late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Are we sure this is the work of just one person?”

“That’s what the physical evidence points to,” Hutch reminded him. “Still, it’s possible that our guy has an accomplice who’s not directly involved in the actual murders. Like a lookout.”

“God, I just hope it’s not one of our own. Some homo-hating brother in blue.”

“But it is possible, which is why the only local cops we can trust are Kirk and MacMillan. If they say that nobody else on the force here knows our identities, what choice do we have but to believe them?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Starsky said.

Hutch took a set of stapled pages from a thick file folder. “No one on the list of Bette’s management or employees seems suspicious. Not even pretty boy Tommy.”

“You know what they say about looks being deceiving.”

“Boy, do I ever. So, are you up to practicing a little more deception?”

They spent the afternoon going from café to shop to small business in search of temporary jobs. If anyone asked, Starsky needed something to do while waiting to hear if he’d been accepted by the Bay City Fire Department. Hutch’s story was that he’d put in for a position teaching high school English. Kirk and MacMillan had originally thought Dobey’s detectives might be taking their undercover personas too far, but in the end, they agreed that the more immersed in the community they became, the better their chances of solving the case.

It was almost time to head home for dinner when Starsky noticed that Hutch was no longer walking beside him. “Whatcha looking at?”

Hutch stood staring in the window of Gay Apparel, a clothing boutique for men. “Mind if we go in for a minute?”

“I don’t see a ‘help wanted’ sign.”

“I want to do some shopping,” Hutch explained. He and Starsky had been given a rather generous allowance for clubwear, and he’d let Starsky talk him into buying some super-snug-fitting bell-bottoms in various colors. But after one eye-opening night at Bette’s, he was willing to concede that his wardrobe needed a little more oomph.

A clerk approached them before the bell on the door had stopped jingling. “May I help you?”

“I’d like to try on that, um, shirt in the window,” Hutch said. “The black, short-sleeved one.”

“You serious?” Starsky asked under his breath.

The young man scrutinized Hutch diligently. “I believe I have it in your size. And you’ll be delicious in it.”

Behind the clerk’s back, Starsky caught Hutch’s eye and mouthed “delicious” with vulgar exaggeration.

His face reddening, Hutch mouthed back “fuck you” with equal clarity.

“Aha! Found it,” the clerk crowed. He stood dangling the hanger from one hand, combing through his multi-colored hair with the other. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

Starsky removed something from another rack and held it against Hutch’s chest. “How about this one?”

Hutch jumped as though the hot-pink sleeveless mesh t-shirt was on fire. “I don’t think so.”

The clerk freed it from Starsky’s grip and checked the tag. “It’s your size, honey. And it’s on sale.”

“And it matches the color of your face,” Starsky noted, ever so helpful.

“What about bottoms?” the clerk inquired.

“Excuse me?”

“He means pants, Hutch. At least I think he does.”

“Something in black leather, perhaps?” asked the clerk.

“I’m good, thanks,” Hutch ground out between clenched teeth.

“We’ll give these a go, shall we?” The clerk led them toward the back of the small shop. “My name’s Stevie, by the way.”

The change room wasn’t much bigger than a phone booth, with a flimsy curtain for a door, and Hutch could hear sniggering from the other side. “You know I love you, babe,” he called out, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t smother you with a pillow in your sleep tonight.”

“Always the romantic,” Starsky shot back, the grin evident in his tone. “So, what are you trying on first?”

“The black one. And it’s the only thing I’m trying on. Hey—there’s no mirror in here.”

“You’ll just have to come out and model for us,” Stevie said.

The two spectators had similar reactions when Hutch emerged, but Stevie found his voice first. “Wow. You have to buy it.”

“Is there a mirror somewhere?” Hutch asked.

With a sweeping gesture, Stevie told him he was welcome to use the large antique “looking glass” located near the cash register.

“Jesus,” Hutch said to his reflection.

“Uh-huh,” Starsky agreed.

The four other people who’d been milling about—three customers and a second shop boy—bobbed their heads heartily.

On the mannequin, the t-shirt had appeared opaque rather than sheer. But now, against Hutch’s fair skin, it seemed as though it had been painted on with the lightest touch. Starsky had seen Hutch topless more times than he could count, but he’d never seen him look quite so naked before. He stared at Hutch’s nipples until Hutch folded his arms across his chest and practically ran back to the safety of the change room.

But when he came out wearing his own shirt, he didn’t get very far.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Stevie said. “We haven’t seen you in the mesh yet.”

“And you’re not going to.”

“C’mon,” Starsky prodded, standing beside Stevie to make Hutch’s escape more difficult. “In for a penny, in for a—how does that go?”

Hutch gave them both a withering look. “Okay, fine. But this time I’m not coming out. I’ll open the curtain so only you two can see me.”

“Is he always like this?” Stevie asked Starsky.

“You have no idea.”

“You realize I can hear you,” Hutch warned. “Okay, ready or not…” He pushed the curtain to one side. “It’s totally stupid, right?”

“Oh my God, Hutch. I picked it out as a joke. But—” Starsky swallowed. “It—it’s—”

“It’s really sexy,” Stevie finished.

“What he said.”

“Then you wear it.”

“My chest is too hairy for all those little holes.”

A tiny portion of Hutch’s flat belly was visible above the waistband of his khakis. “It feels small. Isn’t it too small?” he asked Stevie.

“If you’re a bank teller, yes. But if you’re going out dancing? It’s just right, Goldilocks.”

Hutch crossed his arms again. “I don’t know…”

“We’ll take them both,” Starsky declared.

“We can’t afford them both.”

“Yes, we can.”

The exchange came to an abrupt end when Hutch realized that the black shirt audience had drifted toward the changing area. He pulled the curtain closed with a violent swoosh.

“I’m not wearing that pink thing,” he told Starsky on the way back to the apartment. “Ever.”

Starsky whacked Hutch in the butt with the bag of new clothes, which he’d somehow got stuck carrying. “Wait ’til you see how amazing it looks on you. You’ll change your mind.”

But that night, Hutch wore the black sheer number, paired with black jeans and black boots, and it attracted more than enough attention. Even Starsky-hungry Tommy did a double take when he saw it. Someone tried to put the moves on Hutch on the dance floor and then again, when he and Starsky were having drinks.

“What’s with these assholes?” Starsky seethed. “You’d think I was invisible or something.”

Hutch gave him an affectionate squeeze. “You’re something, all right, but never invisible. And they’re definitely assholes.”

“Maybe this outfit is too boring.”

“Hardly.” Hutch pinched a portion of the sleeve of Starsky’s electric blue t-shirt. “In fact—”

“I hate to interrupt,” said a lanky, long-faced blond with an acne-scarred complexion, “but we noticed you two last night.”

“Oh.” Hutch said. “Really?”

“We were hoping you’d come back,” added the blond’s balding companion, flicking the ash off his cigarette onto the floor instead of using the ashtray on the table.

“Why is that?” Starsky inched even closer to Hutch, dodging both the burning end of the cancer stick and the man’s toxic breath.

“This dump is so dull,” said the first stranger. “Why don’t we all go to somewhere—let’s say, your place—so we can have some real fun?”

“We’re doing fine right here,” Hutch said.

“So, is that a no?”

“Sure is,” Starsky told him.

The blond’s eyebrows expressed his disbelief. “Your loss. C’mon, Kevin. Let’s find some fresher meat.”

“Holy shit!” Starsky said when they were alone again. “Maybe you should burn that shirt.”

Hutch snorted. “What I’m wearing has nothing to do with it. Like he said, we’re just ‘fresh meat.’”

“As much as it sickens me to say this, maybe we shouldn’t have let them go so quickly.”

“I have the sinking feeling this won’t be the last time we see them. But maybe we should—”

“Oh, my God!” boomed a new voice directly behind them. “It is you! And you wore one of the shirts!”

“Uh, Stevie?” Hutch ventured.

“You remembered my name!” The Gay Apparel shop boy, grinning proudly, was holding the hand of a dark-haired man with incredibly long eyelashes. “This is Juan. Juan, this is…?”

Hutch and “Dave” introduced themselves to the young couple, who proffered cheek kisses and hugs instead of handshakes.

“I see you had the, ahem, pleasure of meeting James and Kevin,” Juan said.

Starsky scratched his head. “Kevin looked familiar. His last name wouldn’t happen to be Parker, would it? I used to know a guy called Kevin Parker.”

“Nope. It’s Barnett or Bennett. Something like that.”

“Barnett,” Stevie said. “Kevin Barnett and James St. Clair. I know it’s none of my business, but if you want some unsolicited advice, steer clear of them.”

Juan slapped him lightly on the arm. “I told you—those are just rumors.”

“If those little sluts don’t have syphilis or gonorrhea or some other disgusting disease, I’m the Queen of England.”

“Stevie,” Juan cautioned.

Stevie’s sour countenance changed in an instant to one of delight. “Oh, listen! I love this song! Excuse us, but it’s time to boogie. Come on, baby.”

Hutch chuckled as their new acquaintances scampered off. “At least they didn’t ask us to join them in a foursome.”

“Yuck,” Starsky said, then squinted in deep concentration. “Kevin Barnett and James St. Clair. Kevin Barnett and James St. Clair. Kevin Barnett and James St. Clair.”

“That really works for you, huh?”

“You’ve got your way of memorizing stuff. I’ve got mine.”

“Fair enough. So, we’ll have two more names to add to our list of suspects when we get home. Until then, may I have this dance?”

They soon lost sight of Stevie and Juan, which was easy enough to do in such a jam-packed place. Happily, they managed to keep their distance from James and Kevin, both on the floor and at the bar.

During a hydration break, Starsky began glancing toward the murky nether regions of club.

“See something?” Hutch asked quietly.

“The bathroom’s back there.”

“So?”

Starsky squirmed. “I need to take a leak.”

“So, take a leak. I’m not stopping you.”

“You need to come with me.”

“Sweet of you to worry about me, Starsk, but I’ll be fine here by myself.”

Starsky grabbed Hutch by the wrist. “That’s not what I’m worried about!”

“I’m just teasing.” Hutch chugged the rest of his drink. “Let’s go, scaredy-cat.”

“Don’t tell me you’d want to run into Kevin and James with your dick hanging out,” Starsky said, maintaining a watchful eye on the way to the men’s room.

Luck was with them because only two urinals were occupied—and not by the sleazebags. Hutch shepherded Starsky to the last urinal, then took the one beside it, giving Starsky some privacy.

But privacy didn’t seem to be that big a deal for everybody. While he was zipping up, Starsky heard something above the din of flushing, chatter, and running water. Something coming from one of the stalls behind him. He followed Hutch to the row of sinks and caught his eye in the mirror.

“You hear that?” he whispered.

Hutch shrugged and moved on to the paper towel dispenser.

Starsky didn’t say another word until they were back on the dance floor. “Someone was having sex, Hutch! In a Goddamned toilet stall!”

“You think that only happens in gay bars?”

“Have you ever had sex in a public bathroom?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean other people haven’t, Starsk. Maybe it happens in the ladies’ room more than it does in the men’s room.”

Starsky made a face. “Still, it’s pretty pathetic if you can’t wait until you get home to do it. What?”

“Can you say, in all honesty, that you’ve never, ever thought about having sex at a club? Not even once?”

“Thinking about doing something and actually doing it aren’t the same.”

“You’re right. They’re not,” Hutch said. “But who has more fun? The man who does it, or the man who just thinks about doing it?”

Starsky stared in awe. “The way your mind works sometimes… You’re starting to scare me.”

“What else is new?” Hutch laughed. “Now stop frowning and make everyone believe you’re head over heels in love with your scary boyfriend.”

 

Chapter 5

The Sunset Arms
Sunday, November 13

“What’s your problem?”

Starsky groaned again. “I don’t remember the last time I danced two nights in a row. Or that much. It’s a good thing that Bette’s isn’t open tonight. My feet are killing me.”

“Sit on the bed, against the headboard,” Hutch ordered. “I’ll be right back.”

He returned from the bathroom a moment later, a towel in one hand and a white and blue tube in the other.

Starsky’s eyes widened. “Ben-Gay? Ben-Gay?”

“Oh, come on. It’s been around forever. I use it when my back hurts. But if you don’t want a foot rub…”

“No, wait! Wait! I do!”

“Then stop criticizing my choice of pain cream and take your socks off.” Hutch sat cross-legged toward the end of the bed, covered his legs with the towel, and pulled Starsky’s left foot onto his lap. He squeezed out a generous amount of cream and warmed it up between his hands, then went to work.

“OhmyGodthat’ssogood.” Starsky closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

“I don’t suppose you want to go for a run with me this morning…”

“No way, pal. Not unless you want to take me to the Dobeys’ in a body bag.”

“Even death wouldn’t stop me from having one of Edith’s roast beef dinners.”

“Me neither.” A happy, rumbling sound escaped from the depths of Starsky’s throat. “If I’d have known how good a massager you are, I would’ve worn new boots without breaking them in more often.”

“It’s masseur, Starsk. Masseur. And if I’d known that a simple massage would help you relax this much, I would’ve offered ages ago.”

Starsky cracked an eye open. “You’re a true pal.”

“So you don’t hate me for strong-arming you into taking this assignment?”

“Nah. It’s not as bad as I’d thought it would be. Even if I am stuck with you all day, every day.”

“And every night. Don’t forget about that.”

“How could I? Hey!” Starsky said. “Why are you stopping?”

“I need more Ben-Gay.”

“Hardee-har-har.”

It was the closest Starsky had come to laughing since John Blaine died.

 

Chapter 6

The Dobey Residence, Bay City

“That was fantastic, Edith.” Starsky patted his stomach. “Best meal I’ve had in ages.”

“Help yourself to more. There’s plenty.”

“I’ve already had two servings. Besides,” Starsky said, catching the eye of Rosie Dobey and winking at her, “somebody gave me a sneak peek at what’s for dessert, so I’d better save room.”

“What about you, Hutch?” Edith asked.

He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “For once I agree with Starsky.”

Dobey cleared his throat. “Pass the potatoes, Starsky.”

“Harold! Manners.”

“Please,” Dobey added, scowling at a giggling Rosie. “And the gravy. Please.”

Edith shook her head. “You always seem to have room for dessert, dear.”

Her husband could do no more than grunt.

“You’re a wonderful cook, Edith,” Hutch said. “Thanks so much for inviting us to dinner.”

“You’re very welcome. It’s been far too long.”

Starsky placed his palms on the table. “Hutch and me—well, we apologize for bringing work into your home. Especially on a Sunday.”

“Now, don’t you worry, Dave. Harold told me that you don’t have a phone yet.”

“They’re installing it tomorrow.”

“You don’t have a phone?” Rosie asked. “Why not?”

“Stop being so nosy,” said Cal Dobey.

Hutch smiled at Cal, then turned to the little girl seated next to him. “Well, Starsky and I had to move to a new place for a little while, and it takes a few days to put in a telephone line.”

“Oh, okay. Momma, can we have apple pie now? With ice cream?”

“Rosie, you know we have to wait until everyone’s finished eating.”

“Hurry up, Daddy!”

“Yeah, Cap,” Starsky chimed in. “Hurry up!”

Dobey put down his knife and fork, chewed thoroughly before swallowing, and looked from Rosie to Starsky and back again. “Dessert’s only for children who behave properly.”

“Cal. Rosie.” Edith stood. “Clear the table while I put the coffee on.”

Hutch jumped up and began gathering plates. “Let me help.”

When it was only Dobey and Starsky in the dining room, Dobey folded his hands in front of him. “I wasn’t crazy about lending you and Hutchinson out for this assignment. But you seem to be doing okay.”

“It’s been—interesting.” Starsky took a sip of water. “But yeah, we’re fine. Just want to catch this maniac as fast as possible.”

“It was nice of you two to shoot some hoops with Cal before dinner. His girlfriend dumped him last week, and he barely passed his last math test, so he’s been a handful lately.”

“He’s a fine young man,” Starsky said. “All teenagers go through stuff. And just wait ’til Rosie’s that age.”

“I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Hey, lazybones,” Hutch called from the kitchen. “Get in here and make yourself useful for a change.”

“That’s no way to talk to the captain, Hutch.”

“Ha-ha. I mean it, Starsky.”

“And leave our host sitting here all by his lonesome? That would be rude.”

“Stay where you are, Dave,” Edith said as she entered the dining room carrying the pie. She was trailed by Rosie, who’d insisted on escorting the enormous tub of vanilla ice cream to the table. Then Cal appeared with a tray filled with dessert plates and fresh cutlery. Hutch brought up the rear, his tray laden with cups, saucers, a sugar bowl, and a cream pitcher.

By the time the pie was cut and served, and everyone had a turn with the ice cream, the coffee was ready.

“I’ll get it,” Starsky said when Edith started to rise from her chair.

“Finally,” Hutch muttered.

“You say something, partner?”

“Starsky!” Dobey barked. “Before the coffee gets cold…”

Once everyone was finished eating and drinking their fill, they all helped clean up—despite Edith’s insistence that her guests sit back and relax while the kids did their chores.

“After all your hard work today?” Hutch dried another plate. “We’re more than happy to give Cal and Rosie a hand.”

“And then we should get going,” Starsky added. “We don’t want to overstay our welcome.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Edith wiped her hands on her apron.

“Yeah, don’t be ridiculous,” Rosie said. “You can watch TV with me. It’s Disney night.”

Cal frowned at his sister. “They’re not babies like you.”

“I’m not a baby! You’re a baby!”

“Hey, hey! That’s enough, you two.” Dobey’s tone stopped the squabbling instantly.

Hutch smiled at Rosie. “Maybe next time, sweetheart. But Starsky and I really do have to get going.”

“I’ll drive you home,” Dobey said.

“That’s really nice of you, Cap’n,” said Starsky, “but we’ve taken up too much of your day off as it is. But if you wouldn’t mind calling us a cab…”

“I’ll do it,” Edith offered, shooing everyone into the living room so she could use the phone in peace.

“Where’s your car?” Rosie asked Starsky. “The red one with the white stripe?”

“We don’t really need a car for work right now, so it’s on vacation.”

“You’re silly!” Rosie chortled. “Cars don’t take vacations.”

Edith emerged from the kitchen with a big brown paper bag, and the six of them chatted until they heard the familiar honk of a car horn.

“Thanks again for dinner,” Starsky said, kissing Edith’s cheek. “And the leftovers. I couldn’t survive another night of Hutch’s cooking.”

“Then maybe you should put on the chef’s hat for a change,” Hutch fired back.

Rosie gave both Hutch and Starsky hugs, perhaps hanging on to Hutch a trifle longer. Cal and his father shook their hands.

“You got everything?” Dobey asked as he opened the front door.

Hutch tapped the canvas satchel hanging from his left shoulder. “Uh-huh. We’ll call you tomorrow.”

“They’re really nice,” Rosie said, waving as the cab sped Hutch and Starsky away. “I like it when they come over. Can we watch TV now, Momma?”

“Yes. Your father and I will be there soon, okay?”

Edith followed her husband back into the kitchen and shut the door behind her. “How’s the case going?”

Dobey started putting the dinner plates in the cupboard. “It’s early yet, but I think they’ve made a good start. Even gave me the names of some possible suspects.”

“So, what’s the matter? You seem worried about something.”

“I always worry about those two.”

“Well, with an undercover assignment that’s so close to home, it’s no wonder.”

“What do you mean, ‘close to home’?”

“Harold, you must—” Her eyes widened momentarily. She picked up the stack of coffee spoons and went over to the drawer where they belonged.

“I must what?”

“It’s nothing. Never mind.”

“Edith. If you have something to say about me or my men, then say it.”

Edith walked over to where Dobey stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “Do you really not know they’re in love?”

“They’re not in love,” Dobey scoffed. “They’re partners and best friends. They love each other like brothers. Like me and Elmo.”

“Oh, Harold,” she said with great affection. “What they feel for each other is, well, quite different from what you and Elmo felt. The way they constantly touch each other. The way they bicker with each other like an old married couple. The way they look at each other like no one else exists. I don’t know if your detective skills are rusty, or if you just don’t want to admit what’s right there before your eyes, but they’re very much in love.”

Dobey exhaled noisily. Over the years, there’d been a lot of things about his two best men that he’d chosen to ignore. Like why they took so many vacations together, without dates. And the fact they’d been handpicked by another district to go undercover as a gay couple had rung alarm bells he’d also tried to disregard. “Do you know how dangerous it would be if anyone on the force found out? Why do you think Blaine never told any of us he was a homosexual?”

“I know.”

“So how do I deal with it? As a man who goes to church every Sunday? As their boss? I don’t know what to do but ignore it and hope their secret never gets out.”

She took both of his hands in hers. “They’re good police officers, Harold. And good men. You’re a good man, too. All you can do is protect and support them.”

“And pray for them.”

“Amen, dear,” she said, the sound of young voices rising from the living room. “Now, let’s go see what your other children are up to.”

 

Chapter 7

The Sunset Arms
Wednesday, November 16

Starsky burst into the apartment and caught Hutch up in a bear hug. “I got it!”

“You got the job?” Hutch squeezed him back. “That’s great! When do you start?”

“Monday. But I’m going in tomorrow to sign some papers and get a feel for the place.” He let go of Hutch and made a beeline for the fridge. “Want some iced tea?”

“Sure.”

They sat down with their drinks at the kitchen table, where Hutch had been going over the case files. “No offense, but I’m surprised you got work so quickly.”

“No offense taken. The holiday season starts next week, and their part-time guy just quit, so maybe they were desperate. And maybe I was the only sucker who was willing to take just three lousy shifts a week. How would you feel about going in at 6:30 on a Saturday morning?”

Hutch tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. “I see your point. Hey! How do you feel about going out after dinner to celebrate your three lousy shifts?”

“Where? Bette’s?” The club was open Wednesday through Saturday.

“Where else?”

“I guess,” Starsky considered. “But just a couple of hours, okay? I don’t want to show up at the café late.”

“Is your new boss a stickler for punctuality?”

“Bosses, actually. Dan and Gwen Mitchell. They’re brother and sister. Twins. He’s quiet, she’s a little scary, and I think they’re both ex-military. I can’t tell whether they’re gay or not, though.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” Starsky said. “It’s just an observation. Jeez. Don’t make such a big deal out of it.”

“You should know better than to judge a book by its cover.”

“I’m not, dammit!”

“Okay, okay. Calm down,” Hutch soothed. “Tell me more about your coworkers.”

“Not much to tell. There’s only one other full-time employee. A kid named Martin Paige who’s definitely—never mind.”

Hutch banged his glass down on the table and went back to his paperwork. “Maybe we should just stay home tonight. We need to call Dobey and let him know about—about what happened today.”

“I thought we were going out—you know, to celebrate.”

“I’m not in the mood anymore,” Hutch said.

“Oh. Okay. Are you hungry? I can start getting dinner ready…”

“Fine.”

“Hutch?” Starsky scooted his chair closer. “If I said something to make you mad, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad. Just try to be a little more tolerant. Okay?”

“Okay,” said a crestfallen Starsky. “I’ll try. I promise.”

Despite knowing he was right, Hutch felt like shit for taking the wind out of Starsky’s sails.

And that’s why he took him out for Chinese food that night.

 

Chapter 8

The Hot Stuff Café
Thursday, November 17

The Mitchell siblings were the hands-on type of business owners. When it came to running their café, no job was too big or too small for them. The place was closed only on Sundays, and they were both there the rest of the time except for Saturdays, when they took turns so the other could have a break.

Gwen was hardly a hulk, like her brother, but she was no lightweight, either. Starsky didn’t have to look hard to see that her biceps rivalled Dan’s. Hers didn’t sport a military tattoo, though.

“You okay?” she asked Starsky, her long blonde ponytail bobbing. There’d been a second delivery earlier, when the place was hopping, and there wasn’t time to put it away, so Starsky had offered to help carry the 50-pound boxes of bagged coffee beans into the cramped storeroom.

“Yup. Fine.”

Not pitching in was Martin Paige, who was busy pouring coffee. He had a baby face and wore glasses with heavy black frames, giving him the appearance of a college freshman. Starsky had been amazed to learn he was closing in on thirty.

Serving customers and ringing in orders weren’t the kind of things Starsky would be responsible for. He’d been given the far more glamorous tasks of schlepping things around, clearing tables, washing dishes, refilling napkin dispensers, and mopping floors every Monday, Friday, and Saturday.

“We have you coming in on our busiest days,” Dan said. “But if we find that we need an extra pair of hands in between, would you be interested?”

Starsky didn’t hesitate. “Sure. Whenever you need me, just call.”

“Thanks. So, now that you’re familiar with the storeroom, I’ll show you the kitchen and explain how things are done around here.”

The café, known for its excellent coffee, was open weekdays from 7:00 in the morning until 4:00 in the afternoon. On Saturdays, it opened an hour later. Muffins, sweet rolls, and—from 11:00 only—prepackaged sandwiches were on the menu while they lasted. There wasn’t enough room for a full kitchen, so all food items came from local suppliers and were for customers only. If anything was leftover by the end of the day, it was divided up among the staff. But they had to bring their own lunches or run out to get something, if there was time. At least the coffee was on the house—within reason.

Once Starsky was confident he could wash and dry cups, plates, and cutlery without too much difficulty, he was ushered into Dan’s office to sign a few documents.

“With you on board,” Dan said, “I’ll have more time to spend on the books. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit on my ass all day. If you need help with anything, feel free to come and get me.”

“Will do. Hey,” Starsky said, nodding at Dan’s tattoo, “I don’t mean to be nosy, but did you serve in Vietnam?”

“Marine Corps. You?”

“Army. I went through basic training but was given assignments in the U.S. only and never went overseas. How many tours did you do?”

Dan sat back in his creaky leather chair and crossed his massive arms over his chest. “Two.”

“I can’t imagine what they must’ve been like.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen more than enough action fighting fires.”

“You got that right, but—”

Gwen knocked and entered the office all in one motion. “You fellas done? It’s nearly lunchtime and I need all hands on deck.”

Both men stood. “Unless you need anything else from Dave,” said Dan, “he’s free until Monday morning. And I’m all yours now.”

“Have a good weekend,” Gwen told Starsky. “See you next week. Remember to be here no later than 6:30. Sharp.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Starsky was tempted to salute but thought better of it. Getting on Gwen’s bad side wouldn’t be the smartest move he could make.

 

Chapter 9

Bette’s Dance Bar
Saturday, November 19

Their routine firmly established, they started off the night at Bette’s with a drink. Only a few minutes had passed since they’d found a free table when Starsky was grabbed from behind.

“Mario!” came the joy-filled cry. “Oh, thank God!”

Starsky whirled around to confront the hugger, and whatever annoyance he was feeling evaporated the instant he registered the disappointment that was written all over the man’s face.

“I’m so embarrassed,” the sad man said. “From the back, you looked just like my friend.”

“It’s okay,” Starsky soothed. “My name’s Dave. And this is Hutch.”

“I’m Phillip.” He ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. “It’s nice to meet you but, to be honest, I wish you were Mario.”

Who else could he be talking about but Mario Pileggi, the boyfriend of Senator Hobart’s nephew, Bruce Logan?

Hutch exchanged a meaningful glance with Starsky. “May we buy you a drink, Phillip? Looks like you could use one.”

After one polite refusal, Phillip gave in and requested a Singapore Sling, which Hutch went to fetch.

“You seem really worried about your friend,” Starsky said.

“Not just him. His lover, too. Bruce.” Phillip clasped his hands together and placed them in front of him on the small table. “At first, when I tried calling them, the phone just rang and rang. Then their number went out of service. So, I went over to their apartment, but there was no answer. It wouldn’t have been like them to move away without so much as a goodbye.”

“When was the last time you saw them?” Starsky asked.

“Right here. Almost exactly a month ago.”

Hutch arrived with Phillip’s cocktail. “Is there anything my—Dave and I can do to help?”

“Thanks.” Phillip took a big gulp of his shocking pink drink. “That’s very kind of you, but I think it’s time I went to the police to get some answers—no matter how much that terrifies me.”

Starsky wondered what might frighten Phillip more: finding out what had really happened to his friends, or how the police might treat him. Or both.

Phillip, it seemed, no longer wanted to talk to these apparently benevolent strangers about his missing friends. He made civil conversation until his glass was empty, then excused himself, saying he was exhausted and need to go home.

“Even if he finds out that Logan and Pileggi were murdered, I doubt he’ll learn anything that could jeopardize our case,” Hutch said once he and Starsky were alone again. “Kirk and McMillan wouldn’t be that sloppy.”

Starsky’s face was a study in skepticism.

Except for another pathetic attempt by Tommy the bartender to steal Starsky away from Hutch, no one else interacted significantly with the partners for the rest of the evening. They were on the dance floor, thinking about calling it a night, when Starsky saw a familiar figure.

“Look. Look at the door.” He mouthed the words several times before Hutch caught on.

Hutch repositioned his body smoothly. “Same cop?” he mouthed back.

Starsky shrugged.

The uniformed officer was standing near the entranceway, hands resting on his duty belt, observing the crowd. He was too far away and the club was too dark to put together a useful description of him. And then he was gone. Just like the last time.

According to Kirk, it was standard procedure for beat cops to pay a quick visit to all the bars in the area from time to time. If Bette’s was suddenly dropped from the checklist, wouldn’t that arouse suspicion?

Still, there was something about the anonymous sentinel that gave both Starsky and Hutch the heebie jeebies.

 

Chapter 10

Sunday, November 20

Starsky tossed the paperback novel over his left shoulder, sending it through the open balcony door and into the living room.

“What’s going on with you?” Hutch was also reading—or, at least, attempting to read.

“There’s no TV.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“If we had a TV, we could watch the football game.”

“We can listen to it.” Hutch had packed his transistor radio when he learned that the apartment didn’t come with a television set.

“I don’t like the Rams that much.” Starsky was a diehard New York Jets fan despite all the years he’d lived in California—and despite the crummy season his team was having.

Hutch, who’d remained loyal to the Minnesota Vikings, put his book down carefully. “If you’re so bored, we could—”

“—go for a run,” Starsky finished. “No thanks. Go if you want to, but you’re on your own. Two nights in a row of dancing entitles me to a day of rest. And, for your information, I’m not bored. I’m frustrated. We’re not making any progress, and I hate just sitting here doing nothing.”

“Starsk, we’ve been on the case for less than two weeks. Our killer’s been active every six weeks, so he must choose his victims carefully. Gets to know them. Learns their routines.”

“I know. But what if he doesn’t choose us, and two innocent guys wind up dying?”

“That won’t happen.”

Starsky was going to leave permanent finger indentations on the armrest of the cheap plastic patio chair. “Is that what your crystal ball says?”

“Yes,” Hutch said, getting up and stretching luxuriously. “It’s also saying we should go to the movies.”

“You’re just trying to distract me.”

“Do you want to go out or not?”

Starsky lumbered to his feet, ambled inside and into the kitchen, rummaged through the Sunday paper that he’d help dismember over breakfast, and returned to the balcony with the entertainment section.

There were two independent film houses within reasonable walking distance, and several chain theatres requiring a bus or cab ride to get to.

“No, we’re not going to see Star Wars again,” Hutch pre-empted.

“You’re no fun. How about Close Encounters of the Third Kind? I hear it’s really good.”

“Where’s it playing? And when?”

“Uh, the Century Plaza in…” Starsky consulted his watch. “…about 25 minutes.”

“Too far, too soon. Anywhere else?”

“Nowhere near here, dammit. Hold on… They’re showing a fantastic double bill just a few blocks away: To Have and Have Not and Casablanca.”

“Bogart. Of course.” Hutch scratched at the side of his neck. “Fine. I’m in, but you do realize that we’ll have to act like we’re on a date, right?”

Starsky was already back inside, in search of his Adidas. “Yeah, fine. To Have and Have Not starts in 15 minutes, so get off your beautiful blond butt and put your shoes on.”

“It’ll take less than 10 minutes to get there.”

“But I’ll need time to go to the concession stand. What if there’s a big line?”

It was a good thing that Hutch humored Starsky; the two films had drawn a fairly large audience, and the lights went down just moments after they’d found a pair of seats that Starsky deemed acceptable.

To maintain their cover, they decided to share a bucket of popcorn and a large root beer, obliging them to sit shoulder to shoulder. When Hutch had had his fill, he casually draped his arm across the back of Starsky’s seat, then his shoulders, mimicking the behavior of other male twosomes near them.

As expected, Starsky needed more refueling before the second film started.

“I don’t want you to get fat while we’re living here,” Hutch told him during the fading minutes of the intermission, “so I think we should join a gym. Or just find somewhere to play basketball.”

“I feel like I should argue with you, due to the insult and all,” Starsky said between fistfuls of popcorn, “but that’s not a bad idea. I miss shooting hoops with you.”

Hutch fidgeted with a paper napkin. “You’ll be sick to death of me by the time we wrap things up here.”

“How can you say that?” Starsky studied Hutch’s rigid profile. “I could never—”

“Shhhh! Movie’s starting.”

When Starsky eventually finished snacking, he hunkered down into his seat and put his head on Hutch’s shoulder. Hutch stiffened briefly, then leaned into Starsky, remaining that way until Rick Blaine and Captain Louis Renault headed off to join the Free French army and get started on their ‘beautiful friendship.’”

 

Chapter 11

The Sunset Arms
Monday, November 21

“Hey!” Starsky came to a comical halt in the kitchen doorway. “What’s her name?”

“Who?” Hutch knew where this was going.

“The girl you invited over for dinner.”

“You’re the only girl I cooked for today.”

“Ha-ha. But I’m serious. First you get up early to make me an entirely edible breakfast, then you send me to work with a lunch that was actually good, and now this?”

“It’s just pot roast, Starsk.”

“It’s never ‘just’ pot roast. It’s my favorite.” Starsky pointed at the table. “And flowers? Wine? Napkins instead of Kleenex? The restaurant last night wasn’t this fancy. Am I dying or something?”

Hutch wiped his hands on a small towel. “We’re celebrating your first day at work. It’s not like I had anything else to do while you were out being the breadwinner.”

Starsky made a sound that almost passed for laughter. “Shouldn’t you be wearing an apron and pearls?”

“You wish. How was your day, Ward?”

“It was just swell, June.” Starsky breathed in deeply. “When’s dinner?”

Hutch checked the timer. “It’s got another hour to cook, so about 5:30.”

“Great. I’ll go wash up and change.”

Two long strides brought Hutch close enough to bury his nose in Starsky’s hair and take a big sniff. “Good idea.”

Starsky pushed at him good-naturedly. “Don’t you have some cookies to bake or something?”

A few minutes later, he padded into the living room—and did a classic double-take.

“Like it?” Hutch asked.

“How—? Where—?”

“I called Huggy’s cousin. You know Junior, right?”

“The one who owns—”

“—the electronics store. Yeah.”

The coffee table had sprouted something that was sitting on a phone book smack dab in the middle of it. Starsky approached it as though it were an altar.

“Is it a color TV?”

“Nope. With a case like that, you’d think so, huh?”

Starsky placed his hand ever so gently on top of the Quasar portable television, its 12-inch screen enclosed in shiny, Tang-orange plastic. “I love it. Thanks, Hutch.”

Hutch handed him a glass of red wine. “Thank Junior the next time you see him. It’s a floor model that was gathering dust, so he’s loaning it to us.”

“Yeah, because you asked.”

“I asked him for a deal, and this is what he offered, so I couldn’t say no to a freebie.”

After a dinner that Starsky deemed as good as anything Edith Dobey would prepare, he and Hutch discussed the case until it was time for Monday Night Football. Then they plunked themselves down in front of their new TV, fiddled with the rabbit ears, and watched the tiny Redskins take on the mini Packers—all in black and white glory.

And all was right with Starsky’s world.

 

Chapter 12

The Hot Stuff Café
Friday, November 25

Starsky was fairly certain that nothing could ever top Thanksgiving Day 1977.

The Dobeys had invited Hutch and him over for a day of football and turkey he knew he’d never forget. Best of all, they’d been sent home with enough leftovers for two days’ worth of lunches and dinners.

Closing time was mere moments away, and Starsky hoped he’d seen the last of the Black Friday shoppers, who’d paraded in and out all day. He was sweeping up in the kitchen, daydreaming of drumsticks and pumpkin pie, when a shriek from Martin brought him back to reality.

Thinking that maybe a mouse had found its way into the café, he decided to investigate, arriving in the sitting area with broom in hand.

Dan was already there, and it took Starsky less than two seconds to understand why he was wielding a baseball bat.

“Let him go,” Dan said calmly to the bulked-up young man who had Martin by the front of his pale pink shirt.

To Starsky’s enormous relief, neither the preppy thug nor his two buddies were armed. And they seemed to be surprised by the pair confronting them.

Still, the one manhandling Martin tried to keep up the tough-guy act. “Fuck off, you big homo, and mind your own business.”

“This is my business. Gwen,” Dan said as his sister appeared at his side with a raised shotgun, “there’s no need for that. These boys were just leaving.”

Gwen took a step forward, her weapon trained on the bullies. “Let. Him. Go. Now.”

“That thing’s probably not even loaded, you stupid dyke,” the kid in the Trojans’ jacket sneered.

She readjusted her aim. “Want to find out the hard way?”

“Gwen.” Dan’s volume increased ever so slightly.

Apparently convinced that he and his friends were fighting a losing battle, the ringleader loosened his grip and shoved Martin away, wiping his hands on his smartly pressed chinos.

“I have a photographic memory,” Gwen warned. “So, if anything happens to this place or anyone here, I’ll give the police sketch artist such detailed descriptions of you little USC pricks that you’ll be getting butt-fucked in jail before your next pep rally.”

The three left amid a flurry of creative profanities and empty threats.

Dan dropped the bat and hurried over to Martin, who was behind the counter on hands and knees. “You okay?”

“Be careful!” Martin squealed. “My glasses fell off. Ah, here they are. And not broken, thank God.”

As he and Gwen closed ranks, Starsky felt compelled to ask, “Does this sort of thing happen often?”

Dan chewed on his bottom lip. “That was nothing. Halloween was worse.”

“Some ignorant kids drove around throwing eggs and rocks at anyone and anything they figured was gay,” Gwen said as she put the shotgun’s safety on. “And sometimes, like today, they’re so ignorant that they walk through our door and think they can intimidate us.”

Starsky thought there was fat chance of that happening while the Mitchell siblings were in charge.

Dan gave Martin the once-over for injuries. “You sure you’re all right?”

Martin carefully touched the reddened area under his chin. “Yeah. I’ll live.”

“Go get your stuff. I’m taking you home.”

“Uh, okay.”

After Martin went to the kitchen to collect his things, Dan clapped Starsky on the back. “Thanks for your help.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You sure did,” Gwen said. “You were out here in a flash, willing to put yourself at risk to protect someone you barely know.”

Starsky squirmed under her gratitude. “I’m a firefighter. It’s what I do.”

“Not like this, so stop being so modest.”

“I’m just glad nobody got hurt.”

“Really?” Gwen slung her weapon over her shoulder. “I can think of three nobodies who deserved at least a little pain.”

Conversation ceased the moment Martin came into view, head down and mumbling thanks to his rescuers.

Starsky wished him a good night, but he reckoned the poor kid would have anything but.

 

Chapter 13

The Hot Stuff Café
Saturday, November 26

For the umpteenth time, Starsky snuck a peek at his watch. It still wasn’t 3:00 and he was itching to go home and get a nap in before dinner.

Now that he’d finished the latest load of dishes, he grabbed a plastic bus tub, spray bottle, and cloth and entered the seating area. There was only one unoccupied table, which some slobs had left a God-awful mess, so that was the logical place to get started.

He was about halfway through the cleanup from hell when he heard something that made him freeze in his tracks.

“The poor thing,” uttered a man with a melodious voice. “He said the pigs were useless. They wouldn’t tell him much of anything because he’s not related to either Bruce or Mario.”

Starsky edged closer, straining to hear more. He kept his head down while scrubbing at an imaginary stain.

“Just like Ben and Rob,” said a second man.

The faces of Benjamin Lewis and Robert Boyd, the second pair of lovers to be murdered, popped into Starsky’s head. He wanted to hear more, but the table he was working on was now as clean as it had ever been and he was starting to feel like he should move on.

“Uh, excuse me?”

He’d been busted. Shit. He turned slowly and forced a smile. “Can I help you, sir?”

The two customers were dressed casually but very well. One was about his age, dark and attractive. The other was younger, maybe; his ginger-colored hair and light freckles made it hard to tell. But their body language proclaimed—loud and clear—that they were an item.

“I knew it!” said the first speaker. “I’ve seen you at Bette’s—with that stunning blond.”

Starsky relaxed his hold on the spray bottle. “Guilty as charged. So, you go there, too, huh?”

“We do, indeed,” said the other man. “I’m not surprised you don’t recognize us. You and your boyfriend seem to only have eyes for each other.”

“Sorry about that.” Something did a little flip in the pit of Starsky’s stomach, and he could feel a wave of heat rushing up his neck. “Uh, I’m Dave. Dave Starsky.”

“Henry Singer,” said Mr. Deep Voice. “And this is my better half, Patrick Bentley.”

“Nice to meet you both.” He started to extend his hand but withdrew it; he was still brandishing the sprayer.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Patrick inquired.

“Very new,” Starsky said, collecting his cleaning supplies and tub of dirty dishes. “And I’d better get back to work before this turns out to be my last day.”

“Maybe we’ll see you at Bette’s tonight,” said Henry.

“Me and Hutch will be there.”

“Great. We’ll have a drink. Or two.”

“You’re on,” Starsky said. “I could use one. Or two.”

But what he needed at the moment was to keep repeating their names in his head before he forgot them.

 

Chapter 14

Bette’s Dance Bar

Henry and Patrick showed up at Bette’s about an hour after Starsky and Hutch arrived. As soon as Starsky spotted them, he waved in acknowledgment. His greeting was met with such enthusiastic waving that he took Hutch by the hand and led him off the dance floor to meet the couple.

Once introductions were out of the way, the group trooped over to the bar, where Tommy spent too much time, in Hutch’s estimation, brazenly gushing over Starsky.

“Does anybody find it too noisy here?” Hutch asked.

“Yes,” said Henry. “Let’s get as far away from that insufferable bartender as possible.”

Hutch groaned. “Am I that obvious?”

“You are,” Patrick said with an impish grin, “but I think it’s adorable. I wouldn’t be happy if someone fawned all over Henry like that, especially with me standing right there.”

The four of them found a table and spent two drinks’ worth of time exchanging pleasantries and basic information. Henry said he was a dentist and Patrick was an art dealer, and they’d been together for nearly ten years. They told Hutch and Starsky that they, too, were fairly new to the area, having moved from San Francisco back in June.

“We love West Hollywood so far,” said Hutch, “but if you don’t mind me asking, why would you leave a great city like San Francisco?”

“I was offered an amazing job at the Museum of Art here, and Henry was all for it, so here we are.”

“If you haven’t found a dentist yet,” Henry said, his dark brown eyes dancing from Starsky and Hutch, “I’m still taking new patients.”

“Henry! What have I told you?”

“I’m just trying to be helpful. They both have such beautiful teeth, and I’m sure they want to keep them that way.”

Starsky laughed. “Feel free to drop off your business card the next time you’re at the café.”

“My turn to get a little personal,” said Patrick. “Why did you leave New York?”

“Now, there’s a sad little story,” said Hutch.

Starsky captured Hutch’s free hand. “One of Hutch’s students was gawking at the homos in the Village when he saw us standing outside a club. And the little shit made sure everybody knew.”

“Of course, I got fired,” Hutch continued, “and I couldn’t find another teaching job to save my life. So Star—so Dave told his captain he wanted to move south because he was sick of the weather.”

“Fighting fires when it’s twenty below must be dreadful,” said Patrick.

Starsky nodded enthusiastically. “You got that right. Anyway, the captain gave me a great letter of recommendation, and now I’m on the BCFD waiting list.”

“Which explains why you’re working at the café,” Henry said. “A sad little story, indeed.”

“But we’re here to have fun and forget about our troubles,” declared Hutch. “So, who wants to dance?”

The vote was unanimous.

When I Need You was transitioning to Strawberry Letter #23 when Starsky felt a tap on his shoulder. He angled his head to find Henry peering at him. Was he going to ask to trade partners? Anxiety changed to relief when Henry beckoned the two of them to leave the dance floor with Patrick and him.

“Time for another drink?” Starsky, for one, had worked up a thirst.

“Oh, yes,” Henry said. “But not here. I’m always worn out after Thanksgiving, and I don’t want to stand at one of those ludicrously small tables again.”

“What have you got in mind?” Hutch asked.

“We’ve found the cutest bar,” Patrick added cheerfully. “It’s not far, and it’s such a beautiful night for a walk.”

Starsky, who’d been expecting—and dreading—being invited back to Henry and Patrick’s home, plucked at the neck of his t-shirt. “Dressed like this?”

Henry dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand. “Everybody there will be dressed like us. But if we want to get one of their cozy booths, we should leave now.”

The four of them were on their way out of Bette’s when Starsky came face-to-face with a uniformed officer, who met Starsky’s eyes with something that went way beyond disgust, beyond hate. Ben Forest, Vic Bellamy, George Prudholm—they’d all given Starsky the same sort of vibe this fellow cop was projecting.

Officer Creepy charged through the club’s door as though Starsky wasn’t there, forcing him to reach for Hutch to steady himself.

Hutch’s hand shot out automatically to lend support, and the set of his jaw told Starsky he’d also seen the beat cop—and was similarly agitated.

“Excuse me, lovebirds, but the clock is ticking,” Henry joked. “You can resume pawing at each other once we arrive at our destination. If we can get in, that is.”

Luckily, there was one booth big enough to seat four when they arrived at This Is Not Barney’s. Tucked away on an unassuming street off Sunset, it was the kind of hole-in-the-wall that would be easy to miss if you didn’t know exactly where it was.

Starsky still felt self-conscious about wearing club clothes in the quietly elegant surroundings, but he soon realized that Henry was right—it appeared that most of the all-male patrons had started the evening at joints like Bette’s. He relaxed as he settled into soft leather beside Hutch, the low-ceilinged room filled with the soft jazz that wasn’t competing with the muted conversations.

“This is great,” he told the two men across the narrow table from him.

Henry laced his fingers through Patrick’s. “We like it.”

“It’s not cheap,” Patrick said, “but we think it’s worth it.”

“First round’s on us,” Hutch said. “Right, babe?”

“Absolutely.” Despite having added Henry and Patrick to their list of suspects, Starsky was enjoying socializing with them. And if they weren’t the murderers he and Hutch were after, they might know something that could help them find whoever was responsible.

Hutch got the ball rolling once their drinks had been served. “Starsky and I had a disturbing experience at Bette’s last week.”

“How so?”

“A man named Phillip saw Starsky from behind and thought he was a friend of his who’s been missing since the middle of October.”

“We know Phillip,” Patrick volunteered, his fingers tightening around the stem of his martini glass. “And he’s right. From the back, Dave could easily pass for Mario.”

“You know him, too?” asked Hutch.

Henry’s brow furrowed. “We met him and his boyfriend, Bruce, shortly after we moved here. They were a lovely couple.”

“Phillip had been going faithfully to Bette’s every night it was open, asking if anybody had seen or heard from Mario and Bruce,” added Patrick.

“Had been?” Hutch asked. “A lot of past tenses are being thrown around here tonight.”

Henry swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Now that he’s talked to the police, Phillip is convinced that they’re dead.”

“What? Why?” Starsky nudged Hutch’s foot with his own.

“The pigs told him it’s an ongoing investigation,” said Patrick, “and that he should stop wasting his time trying to find them.”

“Maybe they just moved,” said Starsky, playing it cool. “Or started hanging out at another club.”

Patrick shook his head sadly. “All their friends have said that wouldn’t be like them.”

“And it gets worse.” Henry’s countenance was grim. “There’s been no sign of another couple we met at Bette’s—not since September.”

“But if gay men really are vanishing off the face of the earth, maybe being killed, don’t you think there’d be something on the news about it?” Hutch asked.

“I thought you New Yorkers weren’t that naïve,” Peter said.

Starsky rested his hand on the nape of Hutch’s neck. “My boy’s from Minnesota.”

“Well, that explains those Nordic good looks,” Henry said, “and the charming naïveté.”

Hutch bristled. “Is it naïve to think things would be different in a community like this?”

“Darling,” Henry said, “even in the great gay American Mecca of San Francisco, very few politicians, cops, or reporters care about what happens to people like us.”

“What about Harvey Milk?” Hutch persisted. “I know he just got elected, but he’s already done so much good.”

Patrick shrugged. “He has, but he’s just one man. We have a long road ahead of us, my friend.”

“This conversation has gotten way too serious.” Starsky toyed with the collar of his shirt. “I thought we were supposed to be having fun.”

“Right you are, David,” said Henry. “Has anyone seen a good movie lately?”

 

Chapter 15

“I can’t stop thinking about that flatfoot who keeps showing up at Bette’s,” Starsky said once he and Hutch had bid goodnight to Henry and Patrick and were homeward bound.

“Same here. At least we saw him up close and personal tonight.”

“Don’t remind me,” Starsky mock-chided.

“We’ll give his description to Kirk and MacMillan tomorrow. They should be able to figure out who he is and take it from there.”

They turned onto Sunset, which was busy on both sides of the street as clubgoers and barflies spilled out onto the sidewalks.

“Were you okay with me shutting down all the talk about the missing couples?” Starsky asked.

“Yup. It was the right time to switch subjects. Whether Henry and Patrick are innocent or not, we can’t make it obvious that we’re digging for information.”

“Hutch?”

“Hmmm?”

“I like them. I hope they’re not who we’re after. Or the next victims—if tonight’s not, you know, the night.”

“I like them, too, pal.” Hutch gave his partner a sideways glance. “Either way, we need to make sure they’re really who they say they are. It may just be a coincidence that they moved here in June—allegedly—and the first murders occurred in July. Or maybe not.”

“I’m sure it is. You know, one of the things that impressed me was that Henry didn’t introduce himself as Doctor Singer.”

“Oh?”

“Think about it. Hasn’t every medical doctor or dentist or college professor you’ve ever met let you know they’re a doctor the second you meet them?”

“You have a point.”

“But Henry didn’t do that. And when I heard that Patrick was some kind of art expert—”

“A curator.”

“—I figured he’d laugh at me for liking Star Wars. But he’s seen it even more times than me, which makes him not—”

“Pretentious?”

Starsky snorted. “I was going to say ‘not the asshole I thought he’d be,’ but pretentious works, too.” He had to swerve to avoid a collision with a very drunk—but very cheerful—young man. “Hey, Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“We don’t have any friends, do we? Besides Huggy, I mean. And the Dobeys don’t really count, on account of the cap’n being our boss.”

“I guess. So?”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with us?”

Hutch shrugged. “It’s never bothered me all that much.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re all I need.”

Starsky’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. And his eyes were stinging, probably because the area was under another smog alert. “Maybe?” he asked once he’d found his voice again.

“Turkey.” Hutch hip-bumped him light-heartedly.

“Takes one to know one. But, yeah—maybe you’re all I need, too.”

“Still, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to make some new friends,” Hutch said. “And you think Henry and Patrick would fit the bill, huh?”

“Why not?”

“You do know they have sex. With each other. Right?”

Starsky slapped Hutch on the butt. “Smart ass.”

“Ouch! Stop beating on me or I’ll call the pigs.”

“Ah, Henry and Patrick’s favorite word for cops. But can you blame them? If I—”

Starsky’s next words were drowned out by the repeated blaring of a car horn, and he and Hutch looked around to see what was causing all the noise.

“Get a room, faggots!” yelled a man from the back seat of a black Mustang convertible.

“Fuck off!” someone walking behind them shouted, but there was more resignation in his voice than indignation.

“Jesus,” Starsky said, putting his arm around Hutch. “What’s the matter with people? Don’t they have anything better to do?”

Hutch clutched Starsky in return. “At least the only things he threw at us were words.”

“Yeah. This time.”

“Well, we’ll be home soon, where we should be safe.”

“If we can make it there without being maimed or murdered, that is.” And instead of releasing Hutch, Starsky held on tighter.

 

Chapter 16

West Hollywood
Thursday, December 1

Not long after Thanksgiving, they’d discovered—purely by accident—a public park with a decent basketball court that was seldom used during school hours. And it was the perfect place to spend the afternoon on the first day of December.

“I’ve been sleeping better lately,” Starsky said after sinking a rare three-pointer.

Hutch took ownership of the bouncing ball and began dribbling it. “Oh? Good for you.”

“Don’t tell me I’m still tossing and turning and making weird noises.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Hutch.” Starsky tried to steal the ball, obviously not too concerned about risking a personal foul. “You need to tell me if I’m ruining your sleep.”

Hutch was able to get past Starsky and score. “Don’t worry. I will.”

He lied to Starsky only when he had no other choice, and he felt this was one of those times. There was no way he was going to let Starsky know that, periodically, he’d been latching on to Hutch during the night. And even though there was nothing the least bit romantic or sexual about it, he thought Starsky would freak out if he knew.

“Are we playing or talking, Gordo?” Hutch retrieved the ball and chest-passed it to Starsky.

Anyone watching would have wondered what kind of one-on-one basketball game involved wrestling moves, but the two men wouldn’t have noticed the presence of an audience had there been one.

After packing it in after ninety minutes of friendly but oftentimes fierce competition, Starsky had enough breath to whistle an unintelligible tune on the way back to the apartment.

“You’re in a good mood,” Hutch observed, “considering I just cleaned your clock.”

“Hah! I was the one beat the pants off of you, pal.” He tilted his head to indicate what Hutch was holding. “Loser lugs the ball home, remember?”

“We both know I left you too weak to carry it.” Hutch shoulder-checked Starsky light-heartedly. “But really—it’s good to see you like this.”

“I know we’re working here. And I want to stop this bastard from killing again. More than anything. But I can’t help it, Hutch. I like it here. I even like my crummy job at the café because I like the staff and the customers. Pretty much everyone we’ve met in this place is so happy and full of life. They’re not ashamed of who they are, the way John must’ve been.”

Hutch used his free hand to wipe the hair off his forehead. “What about your place, with your big color TV and your car and your own bed? Don’t you miss all that?”

“Yeah, sure I do. But it’s just stuff. I feel guilty for saying this, but I haven’t had this much fun in a long time. And I’m having it with my—with my best friend.”

Hutch swallowed and kept on walking.

“What about you?” Starsky asked. “Are you homesick?”

“No. Not really. I have to admit that I’m enjoying being here with you, too. And I’m—”

“What? You’re what?”

Hutch slowed to a stop. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

“Why are you looking at me like I got an A on a math test?”

“More like an A-plus.”

“You’re weird.” But there was no heat in Starsky’s words, and he was still wearing a shit-eating grin later that afternoon when he helped Hutch get dinner ready.

 

Chapter 17

The Sunset Arms
Friday, December 2

“Starsk,” Hutch said, groggily. “Starsk! Time to get up.”

The alarm clock, which lived on the night table on Starsky’s side of the bed, was ringing. But Starsky was ignoring it because he was sound asleep—mostly on top of Hutch.

Well, this was different.

It was the first time Hutch had woken in the morning with Starsky as the barnacle and him as the ship. He was sleeping so peacefully that Hutch hated to disturb him, but he couldn’t reach the clock with 155 pounds of partner plastered to his chest.

“Starsky,” he tried again. “You need to turn off the alarm and get ready for work.”

Starsky groaned and burrowed his face into Hutch’s neck. “Five more minutes.”

Five more minutes? Hutch didn’t think he’d last five more seconds without getting them both in deep trouble. It took some effort, but he succeeded in shoving Starsky off him. He slid out of bed and padded into the bathroom.

He was standing at the toilet when he heard Starsky breathing behind him. “I’m almost finished, O Great Impatient One.”

“It’s not that.” Starsky scratched at his belly underneath his t-shirt. “I just wanted to apologize for being such a bed hog.”

That wasn’t the reaction Hutch was expecting. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, flushing.

While Hutch washed up, Starsky relieved himself. “You sure?”

“Of course. Now hurry up or you’ll be late. And Gwen will kill you.”

“You got that right.”

Breakfast was on the table when Starsky emerged from the bedroom, groomed and dressed for work. “This looks great, Hutch.”

“Don’t just stand there admiring it. Sit down and eat.”

“I’m seeing my best friend’s lips flapping, but it’s my mother’s voice I’m hearing.”

Hutch made a face. “Keep it up, buddy boy, and I’ll switch back to protein shakes with wheat germ and spinach.”

“Yuck. Anything but that.” Starsky tucked into his greasy feast. “Bacon is perfect. Eggs, too.”

Hutch was busy at the counter. “I aim to please.”

“I know I’m always giving you a hard time,” Starsky said, stifling a yawn, “but I do appreciate you getting up early like this and making me breakfast. And lunch.”

“I know you do, babe.” Hutch came and sat down across from Starsky, cradling a mug of coffee. “We don’t have to stay too late at the club tonight.”

Starsky spread chunky peanut butter on a piece of toast. “I’ll be fine. Might take a quick nap when I get home from work, though.”

“You’d better get going,” Hutch advised when Starsky’s plate was clean. He got up and retrieved Starsky’s lunch bag, which he handed over in the hall. “Have a good day, dear.”

“You, too, sweetheart.”

They both reached for the door at the same time, and there was a moment where they froze, hands touching, breath mingling, completely fixated on each other.

Hutch was the first to break the spell. He took a step back and, heart pounding in his ears, mumbled a hoarse goodbye.

The next thing he knew, Starsky was gone, the door was closed, and he was leaning against it, thinking about what had almost happened. Or wondering if it was all just in his head.

 

Chapter 18

The Hot Stuff Café

“Someone here to see you,” Dan said.

Starsky’s blood started racing. He figured it had to be Hutch, and he’d come because something big had happened. Either that or he wanted his first cup of the famous coffee. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“It’s fine. You’re due for a break.”

Starsky peeled off his rubber gloves, tore out of the kitchen, and was brought up short. “Henry! I thought you were Hutch.”

“Don’t I wish?” Henry sighed theatrically. He had a takeout coffee in one hand and something small and rectangular and white in the other. “I know you’re busy, and this is really short notice, but Patrick and I want to invite you and Hutch to join us for dinner Saturday night before going to Bette’s.”

“That’s—that sounds like a great idea. I’ll check with Hutch, but I’m sure we’re free.”

“Wonderful. There’s a new Italian place we want to try.” Henry handed over his business card. “Our home phone number’s on the back.”

“Thanks. I’ll call tonight and let you know for sure.”

“Who was that?” Gwen materialized at Starsky’s side like a magician’s assistant.

“Just a friend,” he said on his way back to the sink.

She followed him. “Just a friend, huh?”

“Yes. We’re both taken.”

“Gwen.” Dan stuck his head into the kitchen. “Don’t you have work to do?”

She stuck her tongue out at her brother, then sidled up to Starsky again. “This isn’t over, you know,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. The exaggerated wink she gave him made him laugh out loud.

“Out,” Dan growled at her.

Purely by accident, Starsky didn’t cross paths with her for the rest of the afternoon. He was cleaning tables mere seconds before closing, and the Mitchells were out back, when the door opened to admit a very tall, very well-built man. Starsky got the impression that he had to both bend and turn sideways to pass into the café without causing structural damage.

“Will’s here,” Martin shouted toward the office.

“Hey, Marty.”

“Hello, William. Want anything before I close the register?”

“No, thanks.” Will spotted Starsky. “You must be Dave.”

“I am,” Starsky said, thinking that Will was an appropriate match for Dan. “Nice to meet you.”

Something Will saw over the top of Starsky’s head redirected his attention. “Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hey, yourself.” Gwen shoved Starsky out of her way and threw her arms around Will’s neck.

While Starsky stood there gaping, Martin locked up and started rolling down the blinds.

One torrid kiss later, Gwen climbed down from Will and addressed the other men in the room, who now included her brother. “Oh, yeah. I’m leaving a bit early today. You didn’t forget, did you, Danny?”

“Hey, Will,” Dan said.

“Hey, Dan. How’s it going?”

“You know.” Dan buried his hands in his pockets. “You?”

“Great. Gwen and I are going house hunting.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mentally kicking himself for making asinine assumptions, Starsky resumed his table-cleaning duties.

“Let’s go, lover,” Gwen sang, snagging Will’s tree limb of an arm. “Bye, boys.”

Martin was quick to throw the deadbolt and let them out, perhaps fearing they’d simply walk right through the door if he didn’t.

And Starsky was afraid that Gwen’s absence would mean it would take longer to close up—and, therefore, longer to get home to Hutch to tell him about Henry and Patrick’s dinner invitation.

 

Chapter 19

The Sunset Arms

But Hutch wasn’t at the apartment when Starsky arrived. There was, however, a note.

Starsk –

Had to meet one of K’s people at 4:30. Will pick up food on the way back and explain everything when I get home.

Love, Hutch

Starsky’s stomach did a little flip and, instead of tossing the scrap of paper in the trash, he folded it and slipped it into his pocket.

He started for the bedroom but changed his mind and went into the living room. There wasn’t much worth watching on TV this time of day, which didn’t prevent him from trying every channel at least twice. He opted for a local newscast, got comfortable on the loveseat, and closed his eyes.

He didn’t think he’d fallen asleep, but someone was shaking his arm, and he could smell something delicious, so unless he was having an extremely vivid dream…

“Starsk? Come and eat.”

He sat up straight and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Time is it?”

“About 6:30,” Hutch said. “Sorry I’m late. The Jade Pagoda was unbelievably busy. I hope the food is still hot.”

“How’d you know I was in the mood for Chinese? I’ll set the table.”

“Everything’s ready. Just sit.”

As promised, the table was laden with dishes and cutlery, two bottles of beer, and several takeout food containers.

“Hey! These are my favorites!”

“You don’t say?” Hutch hid a smile. “So, how was work? Any excitement today?”

“Oh, yeah. I found out that Gwen isn’t gay.”

Hutch’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

“Not that it matters,” Starsky added quickly. “But this giant came into the café at the end of the day, and Martin knew him, and I thought he had to be Dan’s boyfriend, even though he wasn’t exactly friendly with me or Martin, but he turned out to be Gwen’s, and she left early to go look at houses with him.” He speared a breaded jumbo shrimp with his fork, then paused when it was halfway to his mouth. “I almost forgot! Henry came by and invited us out for dinner tomorrow to some new Italian place before we go to Bette’s. I need to call him tonight to give him our answer.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him yes?”

“Because I wanted to ask you first. Isn’t that what couples do?”

“Fair enough,” Hutch said.

“Now tell me about your meeting.”

Hutch ate another a piece of Kung Pao chicken, then wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I got a call from Dobey around 3:30. He told me to go to the Denny’s down the street to meet a plainclothes detective. They must’ve given him a fairly accurate description of me because he recognized me the second I walked through the door.”

“What did he want?”

“To tell me about a suspect.” Hutch took a sip of beer. “Lawrence Crewes. He was awaiting trial for shooting two gay men in Chicago last March. Then, about a month later, he escaped. He was recently spotted in this area, so we’re supposed to be on the lookout for him. I’ll show you his file after dinner.”

“Does he fit the profile? Because you don’t sound too excited.”

“I’m not,” Hutch said. “First of all, his victims were killed days apart and never on a Saturday, and they had no connection to each other.”

Starsky dumped what was left of the rice onto his plate. “Maybe he was just warming up to targeting couples.”

“Maybe. But once you see him, I think you’ll understand why he’d stand out in a gay bar like a sore thumb.”

“We don’t know for sure that the scumbag we’re after actually goes into Bette’s, do we? Maybe he just hangs around outside the club, seeing who comes and goes.”

Hutch grabbed another container and frowned when he saw that it was empty. “But how would he know which couples were committed to each other and which were just having a good time if he weren’t watching them doing more than coming and going?”

“Okay, you got me there. Now I’m dying to see what this creep looks like.”

Once the meal was over and the table cleared, Hutch spread the meager contents of the file in front of Starsky, with the suspect’s photo front and center. Lawrence Crewes was not the type of man who would blend in at Bette’s—not even in the darkest corners. He was at least 25 years older than the average clubgoer and had a Neanderthal-like appearance that no amount of grooming could make acceptable.

“Hard guy not to notice.” Starsky grimaced. “His own mother wouldn’t love that face. Oh, shit!”

“What is it?”

Starsky jumped up and fished a white card from his back pocket. “I need to call Henry about tomorrow.”

“It’s 7:20. They’re probably out.”

“Maybe. But, unlike us poor folk, they probably have an answering machine.”

But Henry answered and sounded delighted to receive Starsky’s news.

“So, what’s the plan?” Hutch asked after the call ended.

“We meet at Romeo’s at 8:00.”

“I assume you also scribbled down the address.”

Starsky tapped the scrap of paper in question with his pen and mock-glowered at Hutch.

“I mean, thanks for taking such detailed notes, Detective.”

“That’s more like it.” Starsky sat back down. “I suppose there was nothing in that file about our list of suspects.”

“Nope. But thanks for reminding me.” Hutch raised his arms over his head and stretched like an oversized tabby. “When I was talking to Dobey, he told me that Henry and Patrick look clean. But every name we’ve provided is still being investigated.”

“Terrific.” He got up and was on his way to the living room when he looked over his shoulder at Hutch. “I just realized there weren’t any fortune cookies.”

“Oops!” Hutch loped over to the kitchen trash can.

Starsky hooked his thumb in the front pocket of his jeans. “Really? We’re eating garbage now?”

“If they’re there, they’ll be wrapped in plastic, dummy.”

Two slightly crushed but acceptable cookies were retrieved from the bottom of the takeout bag. To make amends for his indiscretion, Hutch let Starsky choose first.

As usual, Starsky was crunching away before Hutch had unwrapped the traditional after-dinner snack.

“Well?” Hutch prodded. “What’s it say?”

“‘Change is happening in your life, so go with the flow.’”

“Not bad.”

“What do you mean, ‘not bad?’” Starsky sputtered. “It’s not a real fortune. I hate it when it’s not a real fortune.”

“Oh, for the love of God. You’re never satisfied unless it says your long-lost uncle left you a pile of money.”

“That’s not true! Well, maybe it’s partly true. What’s yours?”

Hutch purposely took his time cracking open the cookie and unfolding the fortune, knowing he was driving Starsky crazy.

“Hutch!”

“Okay, okay. Mine says, ‘It is a good time to start something new.’”

“That’s not a fortune, either. But it’s better than mine.”

Hutch threw up his hands and put Starsky in a headlock, catching him off guard.

“No noogies! No noogies!” he yelped.

But the gesture was all play and no pain, and Starsky was laughing when Hutch let him go, running his hands through his curls. “Nice going, pal. Now there’s cookie crumbs in my hair.”

Hutch brushed something off Starsky’s shoulder. “That’s just dandruff.”

Starsky opened his mouth to deliver an insult of his own, but either changed his mind or forgot what he was going to say. Hutch was having a similar problem. Maybe he’d find the words if he stared at Starsky long enough.

The slam of a neighbor’s door startled them both back to the here and now.

“Uh, want to watch TV?” Hutch asked in a rusty voice.

“Sure. Okay. Sure.”

But there was nothing decent on, so Starsky suggested a game of Monopoly. Hutch pointed out it would take too long, so they played backgammon until it was time to get dressed in their club clothes.

“For crying out loud, Hutch,” Starsky complained after Hutch had been in the bathroom for longer than he deemed necessary. “You’re worse than a girl sometimes.”

Then the door opened slowly, Hutch walked out, and Starsky’s chin dropped.

“You’re wearing it,” Starsky breathed. “The pink top. You’re finally wearing it.”

“I bought it, so yeah. I’m finally wearing it.”

Starsky reached out with his left hand, then pulled it back. “Like I told you the first time, it looks good on you. Really good.”

Hutch shrugged off the compliment. “Uh, thanks. So, you ready?”

“Hmmm. What? Oh, yeah. Let’s go.”

 

Chapter 20

Bette’s Dance Bar

If people had been in a holiday mood the Friday after Thanksgiving, they were positively celebratory a week later. The laughter was louder, the smiles sunnier, the music more joyous, the cavernous club almost filled to capacity.

“Want a drink?” Starsky shouted.

Hutch scanned the bar, where those needing to quench their thirst were lined up at least four deep. “No,” he hollered back. He seized Starsky’s hand and marched him toward the fray, squeezing through the press of bodies to stake out a pint-sized section of floor space. The constant jostling of their exuberant neighbors made dancing with any distance between them next to impossible, so by the time the DJ finally cut to a ballad, they were wearing each other like shirts.

As usual, when the music turned mellow, there was more breathing room on dance floor. But Starsky didn’t care. He liked things just the way they were.

It was so easy to forget that he was on the job. Instead of scanning the area, over and over, looking for the killer—no mean feat in a place where people were checking each other out non-stop—he closed his eyes and gave himself permission to enjoy the moment. His relationship with Hutch had always been unapologetically physical, and he couldn’t even count the number of times they’d held each other to offer and receive comfort. But they’d never done anything quite like this. And it felt just as natural, if not more so. This was touching for pleasure, and he liked it. His whole body liked it. Hutch’s too, apparently.

They both stopped moving and locked eyes, oblivious to what was going on around them. Of all the long, meaningful looks they’d shared over the years, this one was the all-time champ. Starsky’s own hunger was reflected in Hutch’s baby blues, and he started to unwind his arms from around Hutch’s neck to do something about it. But he was just a fraction too slow. His face was framed by a pair of capable hands, his lips were met by a demanding mouth, and his response felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Then it dawned on him what was going to happen if they didn’t stop making out like horny teenagers. It took all his willpower to break the kiss, and a hell of a lot of effort to get them off the dance floor and toward the back of the club.

The men’s room was busy, of course, but Starsky’s panic subsided when he spotted an empty stall. He pushed Hutch into it more forcefully than he intended to.

“Door,” Hutch hissed when Starsky went for his belt.

“Hmmm?”

“Shhh! Door. Lock the door.”

“Huh? Oh, right.” Starsky accomplished that task without taking his eyes off Hutch, who’d already started to unbuckle and unzip. Starsky wanted to help but figured they’d save time by tending to their own clothing removal.

They managed to tug their jeans down their sweaty thighs to their sweaty knees without injuring themselves on sharp metal teeth or belt buckles. And then they were all over each other, Starsky flattening Hutch up against the partition on the right side of the toilet.

“Don’t think I can last much longer,” Starsky confessed in a breathless whisper before claiming Hutch’s mouth.

Hutch moaned, cupped Starsky’s ass in both hands, and rubbed up against him.

Starsky remembered where his own hands were—wrapped around Hutch’s head—and brought the left one down, inserting it between them. His fingers scrabbled along Hutch’s chest until they found their target. Through the mesh of the infamous hot pink tank top, his thumb began to stroke Hutch’s bare right nipple.

And that did it for Hutch.

He detached his lips from Starsky’s, threw his head back, and produced an interesting noise from the back of his throat as he lost control.

Hutch’s explosive release gave Starsky tacit permission to let go too.

“Wow,” he panted into Hutch’s ear once the fireworks ended.

“Yeah. Wow.”

“I’m normally not this fast. Or this messy.”

That earned him a lazy smile from Hutch and a deep, slow kiss.

“Babe?” Starsky asked softly when Hutch began nibbling his ear. “Can you see if there’s any toilet paper?”

Hutch peeked over Starsky’s shoulder. “We’re in luck. Can you reach it without getting this, um, stuff all over our clothes? Twist a bit. Yeah, like that.”

It took some time—and a lot of toilet paper—to get cleaned up.

“Shall we?” Hutch asked, his hand poised to open the door.

Starsky hesitated. “Wait a minute. Why’s it so quiet in here all of a sudden?”

Hutch was reasonably sure they weren’t alone. “Only one way to find out.”

All eyes were on them as they exited the stall, a mix of admiration and envy. Had they been that animated?

“Maybe we should call it a night,” Starsky said under his breath as they washed their hands. “We probably reek of, well, you know.”

“With all the smoke and other odors out there, I doubt anyone would notice.”

“Well, well, well,” someone brayed from behind them, breaking the mood. “If it isn’t the princes.”

“Are you talking to us?” Hutch knew damned well who’d sidled up to him and Starsky, but he couldn’t let on that he knew their names. If fact, he was more than happy to let them think he barely remembered them at all.

“Of course I am,” huffed James St. Clair.

“What do you want?” Starsky was livid. The two morons were the last people in the universe he wanted to encounter right now.

But Kevin Barnett and his crooked, nicotine-stained teeth tempted fate by getting up in Starsky’s face. “You couldn’t turn us down fast enough when we asked you to join us in having a little fun. But then we saw you leave here last weekend with those snobs from San Jose.”

“San Francisco,” St. Clair corrected none too kindly.

Hutch pulled Starsky back and slid between him and Barnett in one smooth motion. “It’s none of your fucking business who we leave with and who we don’t.”

“And I don’t appreciate the fact that you’re spying on us,” Starsky piped in over Hutch’s shoulder, eyes blazing.

“You’d better get out of my way before I flush you down the toilet like the disgusting pieces of shit you are.” Hutch linked his fingers with Starsky’s and hustled him out of the men’s room, trying to find the shortest route to the bar.

And, of course, once they got there, it was like Tommy had been waiting just for them.

“Two Coors. Please,” Hutch said sweetly while struggling to dig out the money from his front pants pocket.

Tommy winked at Starsky. “Hi, Dave. You’re looking foxy tonight.”

“Uh, thanks. You need some help there, Hutch?”

Hutch produced the bills with a flourish. “Wish you’d asked me a few seconds ago.”

“Me too.”

Hutch moved in and was kissing Starsky thoroughly when he heard a loud clunking sound near him.

“That’ll be $2.90,” Tommy said.

“Hmmm? Oh.” Hutch broke the clinch, snatched the two bottles with one hand, and slapped three one-dollar bills on the counter with the other. “Keep the change, Timmy.”

“That’s Tommy.”

Hutch turned his back on the sullen bartender and chuckled smugly to himself. “I think there’s an empty table over there.”

“Hey! Isn’t that Stevie and Juan?”

“I believe it is.”

“Hi, Stevie!” Starsky said. He started to greet the man at Stevie’s side, but he couldn’t find the right words, including the right name.

Stevie laughed. “Dave, Hutch—this is Nic.”

“I’ve heard about you. Your Juan’s favorite customers.” Nic had dark hair, like his predecessor Juan, but that’s where the similarities ended.

“I see you like the tank,” Stevie said to Hutch, nodding approvingly.

“He loves it. Don’t you, babe?”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Not as much as you do.”

The four men chatted until a song came on that Stevie just had to dance to, leaving Hutch and Starsky alone with their half-finished beers.

“Well,” Starsky said, “I guess we don’t have to worry about Stevie being in any danger.”

“Not from our killer, anyway.” Hutch picked up Starsky’s free hand and pressed his lips into the palm. “Feel like going home now?”

Starsky’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

Chapter 21

The Sunset Arms

“What we did in the men’s room tonight?” Hutch trailed his fingers along Starsky’s arm. “That wasn’t exactly how I pictured our first time.”

“Me neither.”

Hutch propped himself up on an elbow. “You thought about us having a first time?”

“Of course. You sound surprised.”

“That’s because I am. When did you first start having this particular thought?”

“I really don’t know.” Starsky kept his eyes on the ceiling. “Before John died for sure. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The when, the how, the where…”

“Not in a toilet stall, I’ll bet.”

“Uh, no. This right here—in a bed, behind closed doors—is more like what I had in mind.” Starsky rolled over onto his side to face Hutch. “Like this.”

Their kisses were now long and deep, their caresses tender. They weren’t in their twenties anymore, so there wasn’t going to be a third round tonight.

But that didn’t mean round two hadn’t been any less satisfying. In fact, the sex they’d had in the shower when they got home was better than their first experience because they were able to explore every inch of each other’s naked bodies with their hands—something they couldn’t do at Bette’s. And although it took longer to climax the second time, there were no complaints whatsoever.

“You have to work in the morning,” Hutch said dreamily, savoring what Starsky’s lips were doing to his ear lobe.

“Hmmm?”

“Don’t you think we should get some sleep?”

“Hmmm.”

But each time they began to settle down, one of them would start up again until, finally, they simply couldn’t keep their eyes open.

 

Chapter 22

Saturday, December 3
The Sunset Arms

“Oh, shit! Shit! Starsky!”

“Hmphh?”

“Starsky! Get up! We slept in!” Hutch tried to shove Starsky off him, turn off the alarm, and ignore two impressive erections—each task more difficult than the other.

“Time izzit?”

Hutch was successful in getting untangled from Starsky, climbing over the inert body, and stretching enough to reach the clock and stop the annoying clang of the bell. “Seven twenty-two.”

“Dammit!” Starsky leapt out of bed and made a mad dash for the bathroom.

“I’m laying out some clothes for you,” Hutch told Starsky while he peed.

“Thanks.”

Hutch grabbed the first bathrobe within reach and rushed to the kitchen. He could hear Starsky buzzing around in the bedroom. “Almost 7:30, babe!”

“Coming! Coming!” Starsky came skidding into view. By the time he’d shoved his feet into his sneakers, Hutch was there with his portable breakfast.

“Take this,” Hutch commanded, thrusting an untoasted bagel with cream cheese at Starsky, “and stand still for two seconds.”

“No time.” Except for chewing vigorously, Starsky stopped moving and let Hutch fuss with his hair, which needed some taming.

“There.” Hutch yanked the door open and pushed Starsky toward it. “Now go.”

“Wait.”

“You’re going to be—”

Starsky kissed him. “’Bye.”

“Yeah. ’Bye.” Hutch stood in the doorway, licking dill cream cheese off his lips and watching Starsky sprint to the door to the stairway, where he paused briefly to wave before disappearing.

A tiny white-haired woman chose that moment to emerge from the apartment across the hall. “Oh! Good morning,” she trilled, checking Hutch out appreciatively.

Conscious of how short his kimono-style garment was, and that he wasn’t wearing a stitch beneath it, Hutch returned her greeting and made a hasty retreat.

 

Chapter 24

The Sunset Arms

Starsky ran up the stairs, unlocked the door with clumsy fingers, and flung the door open.

Hutch came out of the bedroom in an equal hurry, wearing nothing but a pair of threadbare sweatpants that sat low on his hips. “You’re home early.”

“Yeah.” Starsky licked his lips. “Gwen was feeling generous.”

“So am I.”

Indeed he was. Hutch undressed Starsky swiftly but carefully—a loaded gun was strapped to his ankle, after all—and tipped him backward onto the bed. If the previous night had been about exploring each other’s bodies with their hands, it soon became apparent that Hutch was now set on tasting everything he’d touched.

“I should shower,” Starsky said, amazed he could still form a simple sentence.

“Later.” Hutch’s lips were pressed against the skin below Starsky’s navel. And traveling south at a rate that got Starsky’s pulse pounding.

Ever the competitor, Starsky gave back at least as good as he got, tossing his inhibitions out the window just as Hutch had done.

“I hope the neighbors are all still at work,” Hutch panted after they’d satisfied each other.

Starsky snickered. “Isn’t there an old lady across the hall from us?”

“With any luck, she’s hard of hearing, or out shopping.” Hutch ruffled Starsky’s hair. “Speaking of which, I went to Gay Apparel and bought us shirts for tonight.”

“Why? Does the restaurant have a dress code or something?”

“Not exactly. But we didn’t have anything appropriate for both dining and dancing.”

“Was Stevie there? Did he help you?”

Hutch laughed. “Is my taste in clothes that bad? Yes—Stevie was there and he helped me. Even gave me a discount. Go see for yourself.”

With a groan, Starsky rolled off Hutch and made his way to the closet, where he found two perfectly pressed long-sleeved shirts: one black, one powder blue.

“These are nice, Hutch,” he said, “but won’t they be hot to dance in?”

“Stevie said we could roll up the sleeves and unbutton them. All the way.”

“All the way, huh?” Starsky got back into bed and clambered on top of Hutch. “Stop putting ideas into my head when you know we can’t stay home and, uh, try stuff.”

“I remember what I was going to tell you… Before I went shirt shopping, I hit the library. There wasn’t much about gay sex, but I found a couple of reference books and took some notes. Then I went to the drugstore and picked up a few things.”

“What kind of things?” Starsky asked, his interest evident.

“No time for show and tell now. Tomorrow, however…”

Starsky bestowed a love bit on Hutch’s shoulder. “Is there time for anything before we have to clean up and get dressed?”

There was, as it turned out.

 

Chapter 25

Romeo’s Italian Kitchen
West Hollywood
Saturday, December 3

“Sorry we’re late,” Hutch said.

Henry waggled a breadstick at Hutch and Starsky. “Your apology would be far more effective if you two weren’t smiling like a pair of Cheshire Cats.”

Hutch, who was turning a charming shade of pink but still grinning, laid claim to the chair to Henry’s right. “We feel terrible. Really. We lost track of the time and—”

“Hutch, sweetie,” Patrick interjected from across the table, “it’s okay. We just got here ten minutes ago ourselves. I’m afraid that Henry’s sense of humor is an acquired taste. Isn’t that so, Hen?”

“I do love to tease. Maybe too much.” Henry extended a hand. “So, let’s start again. Good evening, Hutch. Hi, David. Don’t you both look extremely dashing!”

“Hutch bought these shirts today,” Starsky said, beaming even brighter. Then he took in Henry and Patrick as if for the first time that night. “You two look great, too. Nice jackets. But aren’t they a little, uh, formal for Bette’s? Or are you going home to change before we go dancing?”

Henry gave his lover’s forearm a quick pat before withdrawing his hand and placing it back on the table. “Unfortunately, we won’t be able to join you.”

A server appeared at his side, delaying the meat of the change-in-plans story.

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” said the round little man cheerfully, pen and pad in hand. “My name is Michael and I’ll be looking after you tonight. Would anyone like a beverage besides water?”

Patrick resumed the story once the server left to fetch their drinks. “Like Henry was saying, we have to bow out because I had a little mishap at work yesterday.”

“Oh, jeez.” Hutch leaned in. “What happened?”

“I feel so foolish.” Patrick sighed. “I was helping with a new installation and I tripped over an electrical cord that hadn’t been properly taped down.”

“Sprained his ankle, the poor darling,” Henry said, cocking his head in the direction of a set of crutches leaning against the wall behind them. “Those are his.”

“That’s terrible,” Starsky said. “At least you didn’t break anything.”

“You could’ve cancelled dinner, you know.” Hutch shifted his weight so that his knee connected with Starsky’s. “We would’ve understood.”

“Are you kidding?” Patrick waited until the cat-footed server placed drinks in front of Hutch and Starsky before continuing. “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Right, Hen? Henry! Need I remind you again that Hutch and David don’t know you well enough yet to appreciate your, shall we say, quirkiness?”

Henry threw up his hands, but there was a definite gleam in his eye. “All I’m saying is, they sound concerned. But they look inappropriately ecstatic.” He squinted at them and lowered his voice. “Like they just had sex. So, that’s why you were late, you naughty boys!”

Starsky’d just taken a sip of his gin and tonic and nearly choked on it, giving Hutch a legitimate excuse to touch his lover. Thumping Starsky’s back also gave him a reason to avoid looking at his grinning dinner companions.

Henry let up on them after that, and the rest of the evening was spent discussing things other than their sex life.

Patrick made things easier for them by being the one to bring up the subject of the missing and possibly murdered men, and neither Starsky nor Hutch belabored the subject lest they blow their cover.

So while they didn’t learn anything that would help solve the case, they did find out a lot more about Henry and Patrick—and were disappointed when dinner finally ended and the two couples were ready to part ways.

Out on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, they exchanged hugs and cheek kisses and more chit chat until Henry and Patrick’s taxi arrived.

“Just a sec.” Hutch bent down to speak to Henry through the open window. “Be careful when you get home, okay? Lock up tight and don’t answer your door—to anybody.”

“Not even you?”

“I’m serious, Henry. If there’s a killer on the loose around here…”

“We appreciate your concern, Hutch,” Patrick said. “Don’t we, Hen?”

“Of course we do. And Hutch—be sure to take your own advice.”

“Well,” Hutch said to Starsky when it was just the two of them, “we may as well go home and put on our dancing clothes.”

Starsky consulted his watch and okayed the change in plans.

They were within sight of the apartment building’s bright white awning when, above the din of human and vehicular traffic, Hutch thought he heard someone calling out, “Dave.” He slowed down and glanced over his shoulder, wary of figure approaching at a rapid pace.

“Martin?” Starsky stopped, as did Hutch. “Is that you? What’s going on?”

Martin bent over and rested his hands on his knees. “Man, I’m—I’m glad I ran into you.”

“What’s wrong?”

“These guys.” Martin gulped in some air. “I was taking a walk. Minding my own business. And—and some guys just came out of nowhere. Started giving me a hard time. One of them grabbed me but I got away.” He looked around, then back at them. “I was really scared.”

Hutch reached out but didn’t touch. “I’d be scared, too.”

“Were they the same assholes who came into the café last week?” Starsky asked.

“No. Different assholes.”

“Terrific.” Starsky pointed over his shoulder. “See that building there? That’s our place. You should come in and wait while we check you out and call you a cab.”

“Really?” Martin blinked back tears. “Thanks.”

“My name’s Hutch, by the way,” Hutch said as Starsky unlocked the door to the building.

“I know,” Martin said. “I thought Dave said you were going dancing tonight.”

“We are.” Starsky ushered Martin and Hutch into the apartment. “We were just stopping by here to change our clothes. We’ll go to Bette’s after we make sure you’re not hurt and get home safely.”

“I hope I’m not ruining your evening.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Hutch. “You were just attacked, for God’s sake. How many did you say there were?”

“Three or four. It all happened so fast.”

Starsky made a quick appraisal. “Hutch and I have had a lot of first aid training. Would you mind if we took a look at you to make sure—”

“Really,” Martin said, “I’m fine. If I could just have some water…”

“Sure thing.” Hutch said. “You go with Dave into the living room and take a load off. I’ll be right back.”

When he returned from the kitchen, he nearly dropped the glass. “What—what’s going on?”

Martin was standing behind Starsky, who was seated in the moss-green armchair with a handgun pressed against his right temple. It was a Walther PPK: the same type of weapon that was used on all six victims of the West Hollywood serial killer.

Martin’s all-back outfit—sneakers, jeans, hooded sweatshirt—now made sense.

“Sit down, Hutch,” he ordered politely, indicating the loveseat with a nod. “Good. Put the glass on the end table. Nice and easy. That’s right. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“You okay?” Hutch asked Starsky.

“Yeah. You?”

“Dandy.” Hutch folded his hands in his lap. “What’s going on, Martin? Are you robbing us or something?”

Shock was splashed all over Martin’s face. “Of course not! I’d never steal from anybody.”

“This is better than stealing? Pretending to be in danger, then pulling a gun on the people who tried to help you?”

“It’s not—you don’t understand.”

“Why don’t you explain it to us?” Starsky asked, his eyes fixed on Hutch.

“And maybe you could put the gun away,” Hutch suggested, “so nobody gets hurt.”

Martin shook his head. “I’m doing you a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” Slowly, casually, Hutch crossed his right leg over his left.

“It’s something I only do for very special people. And you’re the lucky ones. Before you two came along, I had my sights set on those friends of yours. The redhead and his boyfriend. I believe you had dinner with them tonight.”

“But you chose us instead.” Hutch used both hands to clasp his right knee. “Why? What makes us so special, or more special than Henry and Patrick?”

“You’re in love,” said Martin. “Really and truly in love. And that’s the most beautiful thing in the world. But, you see, life is very, very cruel to men who love each other. Like Tony and me.”

Hutch winced when the muzzle of Martin’s weapon dug a little deeper into Starsky’s flesh. “Who’s Tony? Tell us about him.”

“Tony was the love of my life. He meant everything to me.”

“What happened to him?” But Starsky and Hutch already knew the answer.

Martin took off his glasses and used his sleeve to dab at his damp forehead. “He’s—he was murdered. Not far from here. We were on our way home from Bette’s. It was our third-year anniversary, and we’d been out celebrating. We were trying to find a cab, but these guys came along and started shouting horrible things at us, so we ran. But they—they were too fast.” He swallowed again, harder this time. “Tony died that night. I was in the hospital for a month. And, of course, they never caught the bastards who—who beat us.”

“My God, Martin.” Once again moving leisurely, Hutch repositioned himself so that his right ankle rested atop his left knee, being careful to keep his pant leg from creeping up over the top of his boot. “I can’t tell you how sad I am to hear that. Sometimes, it seems like there’s no justice in this world. But how does this—” He spread his hands, palms up. “—solve anything?”

Pink patches blossomed on Martin’s pale cheeks. “Tony and I were inseparable. And when he was taken from me, the pain was excruciating. After I got out of the hospital, I went to his grave and tried to commit suicide. Unfortunately, a groundskeeper found me before I bled out. But then I thought, what if I wasn’t supposed to kill myself? What if I was actually supposed to die that night, with Tony? And because I didn’t, maybe there was a reason for it. Maybe I had a purpose: to prevent men like Tony and me from suffering if they got, well, separated.”

“By killing them both?” Starsky sounded calm enough, but Hutch knew better.

“You have no idea what it’s like to go through what I did,” Martin snapped. “Dying together is as special—as romantic—as living together. You get to go to the afterlife at the same time, and never be apart. One of you will never have to wake up in a hospital bed to learn that your reason for living is gone, and they didn’t wait until you came out of your coma so you could go to his funeral, and then go home to the apartment you shared and see his stuff everywhere—but not him.”

Hutch laced his fingers around his knee again and smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry, my friend, but Starsky and I have done a real number on you.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“We’re not a couple. We’re not in love.”

“Of course, you are! I’ve seen the way his eyes light up when he talks about you. And the way you dance and kiss…”

Hutch eased his hand down to his right shin. “We’re undercover cops, Martin. We pretend to be other people—all types of people—all the time. And we’re good at it.”

“The best,” Starsky chipped in.

Martin’s face had lost its pallor. “You’re lying.”

“Afraid not,” said Hutch. “You may not know it, but one of the men who was murdered the night of October 22 was the nephew of Senator Hobart. We were sent here to find the killer—and stop him.”

“Then prove it! Show me your badges.”

“We keep them locked up at the station, with our weapons, so we don’t blow our cover,” Starsky said evenly. “But if you want proof, call the Bay City PD, Metropolitan Division, and ask for Detectives Ken Hutchinson and Dave Starsky.”

“But this place,” Martin said, wiping his brow. “This place is so small. How many bedrooms?”

“Just the one.”

“Does one of you sleep in here?”

“No,” Hutch admitted. “This loveseat is too short. So yeah, we share a bed. And as much as I like my fellow officer, I’m glad this assignment is nearly over. He snores louder than my grandmother and farts in his sleep.”

“Hey!” Starsky squeezed the arms of the chair. “It hasn’t exactly been a picnic for me, either, pal!”

Hutch had to concentrate his focus on Martin. “So, if you shoot us, you’ll not only be killing two cops,” Hutch pointed out, “but two straight men. And one of whom is a father.”

The gun in Martin’s hand slid down the side of Starsky’s neck, stopping at the top of his shoulder. “You’re straight? Both of you?”

“Yup. I’m divorced.” Hutch wiggled his naked ring finger. “Twice. I have two kids.”

“What are their names? How old are they?”

“Rosie is eight and Cal’s seventeen,” Hutch said without missing a beat.

“What about you?” Martin tightened his grip on the Walther. “You married, too? Got kids?”

“Nope,” Starsky said. “I don’t like being tied down.”

“C’mon, Martin,” Hutch urged, his hand now clutching the inside of his right ankle. “You’re no cop killer. You’re a good guy. Starsky has only ever had nice things to say about you. You don’t want to do this.”

“That’s right,” Starsky agreed. “If you put down the gun and tell your story in court, they’ll go easy on you, on account of you being more of an angel of mercy than anything. But if you blow us away, when they catch you—and they will catch you, because your name is on the list of suspects—you’ll get the death penalty.”

Dear God, Hutch thought. As far as being a viable suspect went, Martin was so far down on the list that he was merely a footnote.

Unhurriedly, Hutch uncrossed his legs and stood up. “Please.” He held out his hand toward Martin. “Tony wouldn’t want you to kill a couple of police officers. And he certainly wouldn’t want you to be executed for it.”

“But—” Martin’s hand was shaking violently. “But you tricked me. You made believe you were lovers.”

“We were just doing our job.” Hutch stood his ground. “We didn’t understand your motives then. But we do now. That changes everything.”

“Honor Tony’s memory,” Starsky said in his most soothing voice. “Make him proud. Give the gun to Hutch.”

Tears spilling down Martin’s cheeks, he almost dropped the Walther as he handed it over.

Starsky eyes conveyed his relief to Hutch even as he sprang to his feet. “I’ll call in the cavalry,” he announced, hightailing it to the kitchen.

Hutch had the gun and his eyes trained on Martin. “When you’re done,” he called to Starsky, “bring something to tie his hands with.”

Once the weeping Martin was bound and seated, Hutch walked around to the back of the chair where Starsky stood watch, gripped his partner’s shoulders, and placed a soundless kiss on the back of his head. Beneath his hands he felt Starsky’s bunched muscles relax, and was filled with gratitude.

Then a fist pounded on the apartment door, along with orders to open up, and Hutch went to let Kirk and company in.

 

Chapter 26

The Sunset Arms
Sunday, December 4

Hutch followed Starsky into the apartment, locked the door, and leaned against it.

With his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his jeans, Starsky ambled down the hallway and into the living room, now bathed in early-morning light.

Hutch joined him there but kept his distance. “Starsk…”

Starsky remained standing in the middle of the small space, his head down, as though fascinated by the pattern of the parquet flooring. “We just caught a serial killer. So why do I feel like shit?”

“Because you knew him.”

“No, I didn’t. That’s obvious. I just worked with him. Hardly ever spoke to the guy. He was so quiet. Seemed so innocent.”

Hutch swayed on his feet. “When he and Tony were ambushed, he suffered severe physical and emotional trauma. Now it seems there was also psychological damage. Who would’ve known that he’d wind up killing gay couples because of it? Thinking he was doing the right thing? I just hope he gets the help he needs instead of rotting away in prison for the rest of his life.”

“He wouldn’t last a day. Goddammit!” Starsky yelled, startling Hutch. “What are Dan and Gwen going to do? With Martin arrested, and our undercover assignment over, things are going to be really tough for them.”

Hutch wiped a hand over his face and through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about that, and I have an idea. Something we can run past Dobey.”

“What?” There wasn’t a trace of curiosity or enthusiasm in Starsky.

“I bet this apartment is rented out until the end of the month. And we both have at least couple of weeks’ worth of time off coming to us…”

Starsky lifted his head and faced Hutch. “What are you saying?”

“You could keep working at the café until they find someone to replace Martin. I could help out, too.”

“You’d do that? You only met Gwen once, and you don’t even know Dan.”

Half dead on his feet, Hutch deposited his weary self onto the loveseat and patted the cushion beside him. “So? Martin notwithstanding, you’re a good judge of character.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.” Starsky sank down next to Hutch. “And you’re aware that I never intended to cash any pay checks from them.”

“I am. They need the money more than we do.”

Starsky tipped his head back and studied the ceiling. “You’ve got to stop making me love you more.”

It was hard work and it hurt, but Hutch lurched from the loveseat onto the floor and crouched in front of Starsky. “Why would I want to do that, babe?”

Starsky balled his fists at his sides. “Because whether we leave this place today or in a few weeks, the fact is we have to leave. And that’s ripping my guts out. I think—I feel like this is where I belong. I know it’s where I feel comfortable. I don’t want to go home and wind up like John, keeping secrets from everyone and living in shame all the time.”

“Come here.” Hutch’s knees and lower back were killing him, so he grabbed Starsky’s hands and dragged him down to his level. “I realize what we’ll be giving up here, and I don’t like it any more than you do. But we’ve both seen how gay men are treated and know how cops feel about people like us. So, yes, we’ll have to keep secrets when we get back to Bay City. But not from everyone. And not forever, I hope.”

“Is that what we are now? Gay?”

“I don’t plan on having sex with anyone—male or female—but you for the foreseeable future. If that means I’m gay, so be it,” Hutch said. “But you’re the one who’s always talked about wanting to have kids, so maybe this—” He touched his chest, then spread his arms wide. “—was just something brought on by circumstance and won’t last. So, if you’re planning on dating women again when we’re done here…”

Starsky was wearing an expression of pure disbelief. “What?! No! Don’t be an idiot.”

“What about other men?”

“What do you mean? Am I going to date other men? Don’t you think being with you is torture enough?”

“If anyone is torture to be around, it’s—”

“Shut up, dummy.” Starsky kissed Hutch soundly.

“You know,” Hutch said, “we could always put in for a transfer to the West Hollywood precinct.”

“Report to Kirk instead of Dobey? No way.” Starsky rubbed the back of his neck. “But having a place here—”

“—would be something worth considering,” Hutch finished. “Right now, I need a few hours’ worth of shuteye. Then we can talk to Dobey about helping out the Mitchells.” He yawned hugely. “In fact, I think you and I should be the ones to tell them about Martin—before the news gets out.”

“I think so, too,” Starsky agreed as he helped haul Hutch up from the floor.

It didn’t take them long to get ready for bed, stripping down and slipping between the sheets in no time.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m still worried about what’s going to happen when we go home.”

“We’ll have to be careful. Really careful. But we spend so much time together anyway—”

“Seventy-five percent.”

Hutch stroked Starsky’s bare back, smiled against his warm skin. “That’s right. At least seventy-five percent. People are already used to us being each other’s shadows.”

“Do you think we could we still go to Bette’s? Or the Green Parrot?”

“There’s always a chance we could get caught in a raid,” Hutch said.

“Right. I forgot all about that.”

Hutch’s arms tightened around Starsky. “But some things are worth the risk. And even if we did get caught, we know a couple of police captains who owe us.”

“Not to mention a senator.”

Hutch yawned again. “Sorry, babe, but if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’m not going to be of much use when we see Dobey and the Millers—”

“Mitchells.”

“—the Mitchells later.”

“Just tell me one more thing,” Starsky said.

“And then will you shut up?”

“Yes. I swear.”

“Okay,” Hutch sighed. “What is it?”

“Will you still love me when we wake up?”

Hutch made Starsky roll over and face him. “Yes,” he said, placing his palm against Starsky’s cheek, “I’ll still love you when we wake up—today and every day for the rest of my life. I’ve always loved you and I always will.”

“I love you, too. Now go to sleep, Hutch. All this soapy stuff is keeping me awake.”

 

Epilogue

West Hollywood
Saturday, February 23, 1980

The two men danced. If dancing were defined as full-body-contact hugging to music, that is.

Hutch’s finger was hovering over the stereo’s power switch when Starsky stopped him with a touch on the wrist.

“Hey,” he’d said, “I like this song. Let’s dance to it.”

“It’s late. And you’re tired.”

“Yeah, I know. Just this song. Then we’ll go to bed.”

Hutch, who could deny him nothing, took Starsky into his arms.

Two songs later, they were still swaying upright in the living room. They hadn’t been to a dance club since The Shooting, which, during the rare times they referred to it, sounded more like the title of a book or a movie than something that had changed their lives so dramatically. Between Starsky’s lengthy rehab and their new jobs and the move, they didn’t have the time or energy to go out much. Nor did Hutch want Starsky’s lungs to be exposed to mass quantities of cigarette smoke.

But things were returning to normal. A new normal.

“Great house-warming party, babe,” Starsky murmured from the comfort of Hutch’s shoulder.

Hutch agreed by pressing his lips against the side of Starsky’s head.

It had been a long but wonderful day, thanks to the efforts of their West Hollywood friends and neighbors—Henry and Patrick and the Mitchell twins and their significant others—who’d helped with food preparation and decorating the night before and Saturday morning.

The party had started promptly at 2:00 that afternoon. By 6:00, the Dobey family, Huggy, and Sugar had come and gone. Dan and his boyfriend, Colin, were the last to arrive, as Dan had to close the café.

And now it was almost 10:00—a late night for Starsky.

“Our friends are the best,” he said, trying to stifle a yawn. “They worked their butts off last night and today, and then stayed to help clean up.”

“We’re the luckiest guys on the planet.”

“You got that right. Hey, Hutch?”

“Hmmm?”

“You were telling everyone today how much you like teaching. Do you really? Or are you just putting on a happy face for my sake?”

Hutch stopped moving and cradled Starsky’s face between his palms. “I would never lie to you about something that important. Being in the classroom is great. I don’t miss being out on the streets at all. I swear.”

“Okay. Just checking. Because I would hate it if you were bored or frustrated while I’m having the time of my life.”

Hutch kept one hand on Starsky and turned off the stereo with the other. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, since your head is already too big—”

That got him a poke in the gut from Starsky.

“—but I’ve heard that you’re the best firearms instructor the Academy’s ever had.”

“No fooling?”

“No fooling. “Hutch captured Starsky’s hand and held it against his chest. “Cross my heart. So, bedtime now?”

“Bedtime now.”

“So,” Starsky said as he and Hutch went around turning lights off, “the best guy to ever do my job, huh? I guess I’m even more amazing than I thought.”

“Starsky…”

“Do you think Gwen and Will might name the baby after me? If it’s a boy, of course.”

Hutch prodded him up the stairs. “Okay, egomaniac. You’re not that great.”

So maybe Hutch did lie to Starsky sometimes. Like now. Because, to him, Starsky was great. He was more than great. He was silliness and tenderness. Enthusiasm and warmth. Trust and love. He was everything that was beautiful and good—and exactly what Hutch had been searching for his whole life.