The Bitter Taste is Reality

63

Two months after the Kira debacle, Starsky and Hutch are assigned to new partners. Can they get back to where they once were?

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The words on the paper blurred and ran together. Hutch rubbed the back of his neck and tried to concentrate on the report. His head was throbbing again—or still. The headache had been with him for most of the past two months, and he didn’t need a doctor to know it was psychosomatic.

Two months. Christ, it seems like two lifetimes!

As usual, he paid for the unguarded thought. A torrent of memories rushed in on him, past the ruins of still another set of protective barriers. How long would it be before they started to hold? His stomach tightened into a hard knot. Never?

He reached for the ringing telephone with relief. “Hutchinson,” he snapped, hoping the call would bring a demand for action, violence, anything. It didn’t. With controlled fury, he punched the Hold button. “It’s for you,” he told his partner.

Walt Carlson nodded and answered the call. Hutch watched him, thinking that they had something in common, he and Carlson. They had both lost their old partners. He wondered if Carlson ever had days like this, when loneliness and guilt broke through all the defenses, and mind and body ached for the catharsis of violence to silence the taunting voices.

Carlson’s partner had been killed three months ago while they were answering a burglary call. In this business, that was the way partnerships usually ended. When Hutch had allowed himself to think about it, that was the way he had expected his partnership with Starsky to end. A dark night… a careless step….

But it hadn’t happened that way.

He and Starsky had been taking turns protecting an undercover cop. It hadn’t occurred to them that they needed protection worse than she did until it was too late and they were caught in the trap they had so successfully avoided in the past, with both of them wanting the same woman. It wasn’t a dark night; it was a sunny morning, but the step was careless enough.

Hutch gritted his teeth and tried to stave off another agonizing rerun of that final scene in Kira’s apartment. It was over. Reliving it wouldn’t change anything. Regrets wouldn’t undo the damage that had been done when Starsky had walked in on them in a situation only a fool could have misinterpreted, and Starsky was no fool.

Like a knife worrying the edge of an open wound, he remembered the glow that had been in Starsky’s eyes earlier that morning. “I love her, Hutch.” Not a word Starsky used often, or easily. Not the word Hutch would have used to describe his own feelings if he had been thinking with his head instead of….

God, how could I have been so stupid? And then, Stop it!

He shook himself out of the trance, realized he was still holding the telephone receiver, and replaced it carefully in the cradle. This exercise in self-torture was maddeningly familiar. Why couldn’t he face facts and go on from there? He’d tried often enough to know that Starsky wouldn’t listen to apologies or explanations.

They’d worked together for a month after that. Worked together—that was a laugh! They had shared a car. With the icy courtesy of total strangers, they had patrolled their area, going through the motions, waiting for the end of the shift and release from the enforced intimacy that was a mocking travesty of what they had once shared. The magic was gone. The awareness, the silent communication that had given their special edge against the world, might never have existed. They were alone.

At first Hutch had tried to talk it out. Throwing words against that cold, withdrawn face. Pleading. Begging. No—not begging. He couldn’t do that, not even for Starsky. If one mistake could wreck their friendship, maybe it hadn’t been all he had thought it was. Maybe it hadn’t meant as much to Starsky as it had to him.

“Ken.”

But the loneliness refused to go away.

“Ken!”

Hutch looked up to see his partner standing beside him, and sighed. He’d asked Carlson to call him Ken. It was his name. Why couldn’t he learn to respond to it?

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I was thinking about… something.”

“I have to go out for a while,” Carlson said. “Can you cover for me?”

“Sure,” Hutch agreed. “Things are slow anyway.”

His eyes followed Carlson through the door. In the end, even Dobey had seemed to realize that it was too dangerous for him and Starsky to stay together. Without consulting either of them, Dobey had assigned them new partners. But why Carlson for him? Their whole approach was different. Carlson was—Hutch searched for a non-judgmental word—cautious. Like a lot of cops who had been on the job too long, he was content to sit back and let the work come to him. He didn’t look for trouble. Hutch had the feeling that Carlson wasn’t exactly thrilled with him either. After eight years with Starsky, Hutch had the streets in his blood. If he’d ever been any other way, he couldn’t remember it.

The report was still in front of him, and he tried to work up some enthusiasm for it. It was dull. Everything was dull. The only interesting thing going down at the moment was the investigation of the burglary ring that had been giving the Department fits for months, and had shot to the top of the priority list after they had killed a cop—Carlson’s partner. Carlson had requested the case, and Hutch had hoped they’d get it, but policy frowned on allowing cops to investigate cases in which they had a personal involvement. Starsky and his new partner had drawn the assignment.

* * * *

The southern California rainy season had arrived with a vengeance, opening up the skies and attempting in a few short weeks to wash away a year’s accumulation of dirt and grime from a parched city.

Starsky slammed the car door and settled himself in the passenger seat, shaking raindrops from his hair. “Stop at the Pits first,” he instructed his partner. “Huggy has something for us.”

Jerry Harper nodded and started the engine. Starsky ignored him and stared morosely out the window. It hadn’t really been raining forever, he decided. It just felt like it.

The car radio blared into life in the middle of a song—”Hanging around, some kind of lonely town, rainy days and—”

Starsky reached over and clicked off the radio. “I’m not in the mood for music,” he explained.

He wasn’t in the mood to spend the day on a stakeout, either, and he’d rather be in his own car. The seats were more comfortable, and—he glanced in disgust at the patch of moisture widening on the fabric over his head—the roof didn’t leak. But his partner’s blue Chevy was less conspicuous than his own… Red Tomato. His mind supplied the words involuntarily. He refused to allow himself to track the thought back to its origin.

“Dave, do you have any plans for our day off?” Harper asked.

“Don’t know,” Starsky mumbled without thinking.

“I’ve got two tickets to see the Lakers. Good seats. Would you like to go?”

“Sorry, I’m busy.”

Don’t try to get close to me. I don’t need it.

He looked up in time to see the hurt flicker across Harper’s face, and the small part of him that could still react to such things was sorry for the rebuff that had cut deeper than he had intended.

Jerry Harper was a good cop. Young—until a few weeks ago he had been in uniform—but bright and willing to learn. Starsky envied him—his youth, his still untarnished ideals, his willingness to trust.

Who can we trust, Starsk?

Drawing back from the thoughts that were taking him where he didn’t want to go, Starsky retreated behind his wall of cynicism. He was doing Harper a favor, he told himself, watching his partner maneuver through mid-morning traffic with the light touch of a natural athlete. Better that he learned early—a cop couldn’t trust anyone. Not even his partner.

They parked in front of the Pits and ran for the door. It was dark inside. Huggy was at the far end of the bar, setting out glasses for the anticipated noon time crowd that hadn’t yet materialized.

“What’s up, Hug?” Starsky asked, sliding onto a stool. Harper stood behind him as though he knew he hadn’t yet earned the right to share Starsky’s easy familiarity in this place of memories.

Huggy glanced at Harper. “I thought you’d come alone.”

“Jerry’s my partner,” Starsky shrugged. “I don’t keep secrets from him.”

The eloquence of Huggy’s disbelief wasn’t lost on Starsky, or on Harper, who looked like he didn’t believe it either.

“C’mon, Hug,” Starsky prodded. “I don’t get paid for draping my beautiful body over your bar stool.”

Huggy took another look at Harper, and ran his cloth over a non-existent streak of dirt on the bar. “The word on the streets is that your ex-partner is into some heavy action,” he said reluctantly.

Starsky sighed. So that was it. Another one of the Bear’s transparent attempts to make peace between his two friends. Starsky wasn’t buying it.

“Hutch is a big boy, Hug. He’s been into heavy action before.”

“Not like this, man. They’re saying he’s switched sides. Gone bad—in a big way.”

A certain intensity in Huggy’s voice erased Starsky’s doubts. He fixed a piercing look on the troubled black face across the bar. Hug was serious, deadly serious, and it was impossible.

“Damnit, Hug, you know Hutch better than that. He’s so clean he squeaks.”

“Sure,” Huggy jeered. “You knew he wouldn’t steal your girl, too, but he did.”

“That’s different!” Starsky blazed. “Besides, I don’t think he really meant to—” The words were out before he could stop them. He caught Huggy’s flash of triumph and grimaced in acknowledgement of the direct hit. “Have you talked to Hutch about this?” he asked.

“When would I talk to him? He hasn’t been in here since you two split. Probably afraid of running into you, which he wouldn’t,” Huggy said pointedly, “’cause I never see you either.”

He could have saved his breath. Starsky wasn’t listening. If Hutch was really in trouble…. He shut out the thought. It wasn’t his problem. But his eyes were still worried.

* * * *

The Ready Resale Store was supposed to be one of the places that was fencing merchandise for the burglary ring. That’s what Starsky’s informants claimed. They’d been watching it for a week, and so far the most suspicious thing to show up was a prostitute who’d tried to solicit Starsky.

The car was chilly and damp. Jerry Harper squirmed in his seat and tried to find a position that was less uncomfortable than the others. An all-day stakeout in the rain was only slightly better than an all-night stakeout in the rain. And when your partner had spent the last four hours staring into space without speaking you started to wonder what the captain would say if you asked for a new partner after only a month on a new job.

He frowned and decided that it sounded like a good way to end up back in uniform, and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want it, but he wasn’t sure how much more he could take of this. This what? What could he tell Dobey that would make sense? That he felt like an intruder in his own car? That Starsky treated him like he had a contagious disease that couldn’t be mentioned in polite company? That if he had to put his life on the line, he’d rather have Starsky beside him than anyone he could think of?

Damnit, you don’t even make sense to yourself.

The trouble was that he liked Starsky, and that didn’t make sense either. He’d never been given any encouragement. The wall around Starsky was so formidable that a tank couldn’t blast through it. Most of the time he thought that it wouldn’t be worth the effort. That the other side would be the same as this side—cold and efficient. But once in a while, something else showed through—a flash of warmth that was tantalizingly brief and disconcertingly real. He looked across the car at Starsky’s brooding face and wished he knew more about him.

Harper had been transferred from another precinct, and had met Starsky for the first time on the day they’d become partners. All he really knew about him was squad room gossip. He and Hutchinson had been partners for years, the glory boys of Metro, always together, acting like they owned the world.

Harper had met Starsky’s old partner only once, in the squad room with Starsky. Hutchinson had acknowledged the introduction with a terse nod, but his eyes had looked straight through them, like they didn’t exist. Maybe that’s why he and Starsky had stayed together for so long—they were both cold fish who didn’t care about anyone or anything except the job.

Starsky stiffened, and Harper followed his gaze across the street to the tall blond man who was getting out of a car in front of the resale store. Hutchinson?

The front of the store was glass, protected by iron bars. They saw him enter the store and talk to the man behind the counter. After a few minutes, the man handed him something—an envelope, it looked like. Hutchinson stuck it in his pocket and came out.

As the car pulled away, Harper looked at Starsky. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

“What do I make of what?”

“Hutchinson. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that he would show up here?”

“Hutch gets around,” Starsky replied cryptically. If Harper had known him better, he would have recognized the warning note in the quiet voice.

“Maybe, but I’d like to know what that guy gave him. Wouldn’t you?”

“No. That’s Hutch’s business. Not ours.” This time the warning was clear enough for even Harper to pick up. And there was something else—a defensive quality that he’d never heard in Starsky’s voice before. So he shut up. But he didn’t stop thinking, because he was, as Starsky had noted, a good cop.

* * * *

The next day, Harper called in to say he’d be late and made a stop on the way to work. When he arrived at Metro, Starsky was waiting for him. Harper waited until they were walking to the car to tell him where he’d been.

“YOU DID WHAT?” In one sentence, the mask was ripped away, and that was fire coming from Starsky’s eyes.

Harper took a step back. Cautious cops lived longer. “I checked Hutchinson’s bank account,” he repeated.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Internal Affairs? If Hutch finds out, he’ll take you apart. I oughta do it myself!”

Starsky looked as though he had every intention of carrying out the threat. Harper was taller and heavier by several pounds, but he didn’t think he could handle Starsky—not in this mood—and he didn’t want to.

He tried a long shot. “Do you want me to turn it over to Internal Affairs? Hutchinson made three deposits this week. Big ones. You can bet they’d like to know where a cop gets that kind of money.”

A bucket of ice water couldn’t have cooled Starsky down faster. “No! Don’t do that. Not yet.”

They reached the car and got in, Starsky slammed the door so hard the windows rattled. Harper sat behind the wheel, making no effort to start the car. Their discussion wasn’t finished.

Finally, Starsky turned to him. “Jerry, give me a couple of days before you do anything about this.”

Harper hesitated. It wasn’t a demand, it was a request, and the plea in Starsky’s eyes was unmistakable. “You’ve got it, partner,” he agreed. “I don’t want to believe it either.”

Starsky smiled his thanks.

Harper took a deep breath and let some of the tension ease out of his muscles. Now he knew. And for Starsky’s sake, he hoped to God that Hutchinson deserved that kind of loyalty.

* * * *

Hutch hung his jacket and holster in the closet and threw himself across the bed. He should fix something to eat, but he was too exhausted to think about food. It had been another endless day. Just when he’d have given anything for a good clean murder, every criminal in the city had decided to go straight, and Carlson wasn’t helping. Hutch liked to spend most of his time on the streets. Even quiet streets were better than the office, but it was a struggle to get Carlson away from the desk—when he was around, which sometimes he wasn’t.

Like yesterday, for instance. He’d disappeared in the middle of the afternoon, leaving Hutch to answer the final call of the day alone. Not that it mattered. Just a routine call from a resale store. The owner had bought some merchandise that he thought was too cheap to be legitimate.

Hutch remembered the list that was still in his jacket pocket. He’d meant to check that out today. And that bothered him. He was getting careless, losing his edge—like Carlson.

He turned over on his back and stared at the ceiling. He felt drained. Empty. There was a gaping hole in his life that he couldn’t blame on the job or on Carlson or on Starsky or on anyone but himself.

A buzzing sound invaded his privacy. The door bell. He didn’t want to see anyone. It buzzed again.

Go away.

The buzzing continued until, giving in to the inevitable, he rolled off the bed and stood up. If he was lucky it would be someone he could get rid of in a hurry. He opened the door and suppressed a groan. Walt Carlson was the last person he wanted to see tonight.

“Hi, Ken.” Carlson aimed a meaningful look over Hutch’s shoulder into the darkened room behind him. “Am I interrupting something?”

Hutch flushed. That was another thing he didn’t like. Because word had gotten out that he and Starsky had broken up over a woman, Carlson seemed to think Hutch was some kind of Don Juan, and he was constantly making sly references to it. Like that one. Hutch was ready to tell Carlson what he thought of the crack, when the words played through his mind again. Only this time the voice was Starsky’s. The re mark was exactly what Starsky would have said under the circumstances, and Hutch would have laughed.

I’m not giving Carlson a fair chance. “Come in, Walt. I was just resting for a few minutes.” He flicked on the lights and motioned Carlson toward the couch. “Can I get you a beer?”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

Hutch went to the refrigerator. “Did you want to see me about something special, or is this a social call?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Matter of fact, I’m here on business,” Carlson said.

Hutch came back with two cans of beer and handed him one. Business? He hadn’t known Carlson thought about business, especially off duty. He sat down and asked, “What’ve you got?”

“An old contact of mine just got out of jail, and he’s been trying to stay straight. Works in an appliance store. Today two guys approached him about fencing some hot merchandise for them.” Carlson took a long swig of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I guess they scared him pretty good. He was afraid to refuse, and afraid not to, so he played along with them. Made a deal to look at the stuff at their warehouse tonight. Then he called me.

“I figure this is tied up with that burglary ring, and if we go over there tonight, it could be our chance to get them.”

Hutch studied Carlson’s face, wishing he knew why this felt so wrong to him.

“That’s Starsky’s case,” he stalled. “Why didn’t you call him?”

“I tried, but he’s not around. Anyway,” Carlson leaned forward and looked at Hutch intensely, “I have a personal stake in this. Those bastards shot my partner.”

There it was again. The voice was different. The eyes were different. But the words could just as easily have been Starsky’s. Maybe he’d misjudged Carlson.

“Okay, Walt,” Hutch said. “It can’t hurt to check it out, but take it easy. Starsky’ll be madder than hell if we blow his case.”

Carlson finished his beer while Hutch slipped back into his shoulder harness and jacket. “I think we’d better take your car,” Carlson said. “Mine isn’t running right, and I don’t want to take a chance on it.”

They left the apartment together. Hutch didn’t notice the black notebook on the table behind the couch.

* * * *

Starsky recognized Carlson’s car in front of Hutch’s apartment, circled the block, and found a parking spot that would allow him to watch the door of Venice Place without being seen. He wanted to see Hutch, but he wanted to see him alone. What the hell was Carlson doing here anyway?

The obvious answer to that question did nothing to improve his mood. He and Hutch had spent most of their off-duty hours together. It was only natural that Hutch would become friendly with his new partner. Except that he hadn’t pegged Carlson to be the kind of guy Hutch would warm up to. But Hutch had done a lot of things lately that Starsky couldn’t figure. That’s why he was here. No matter what he’d told Harper, the bank deposits worried him. But he wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation.

That’s what it would be. How could it be anything else, the way things stood between them? Hutch would be furious at Starsky’s interference.

There’d been a time when talking to Hutch had been as easy as talking to himself. Easier. Hutch understood how things were without being told. Or had, until that morning….

Why, Hutch?

And that brought him full circle, back to the question he had asked himself so often he heard it in his sleep. What he didn’t hear was the answer. Maybe it was time he asked the only person who could tell him.

But not tonight. There were other questions to be answered first. Like who was framing Hutch, and why. Starsky knew it was a frame.

You knew he wouldn’t steal your girl, too….

The memory of Huggy’s jeering words sent a chill through him. It had to be a frame. It had to be.

The door to Venice Place opened and Hutch and Carlson came out, heading for Hutch’s car. Where the hell were they going? Out to dinner? His balled fist drummed in irritation on the steering wheel. One thing was for sure, he was going to talk to Hutch tonight, even if he had to break up a dinner party to do it.

He watched the car pull away, gave them a block lead, and pulled out behind them. They headed downtown, and Starsky stayed as far back as he could without losing them. The heavy rain had stopped, but there was a light drizzle falling. By the time they left the freeway, it was dark. Starsky moved a little closer, keeping his headlights off.

They were in the garment district, just east of the downtown area. During the day, L.A. residents came here looking for bargains from the local merchants, who sold everything from clothes to furniture at discount prices. At night the streets were empty.

Hutch slowed down and parked in front of a row of warehouses. Starsky coasted to the curb in the nearest empty spot. Hutch and Carlson left the car and disappeared through the side door of one of the warehouses. Starsky started to follow them, and hesitated. This was obviously not a restaurant, and if he loused up a case, Hutch would kill him. But something didn’t feel right. Checking out a lead on off duty time didn’t match with what he knew about Carlson. But what did he know about him really? Not much. It was the “not much” that bothered him.

By the time he finished arguing with himself, he was at the door of the warehouse. He drew his gun, checked it, and opened the door cautiously. Inside, he could make out shapes that looked like pallets of merchandise and the outline of a fork lift truck a few feet away. The only light was in an office at the other end, where Hutch and Carlson were standing.

Starsky stepped inside and closed the door. He examined the contents of the pallet closest to him—used television sets, with some radios stacked on top. The whole thing was tied securely with ropes. Starsky remembered that television sets had been a hot item in the burglaries. The implication gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The murmur of voices reached him through the silence. Using the pallets for cover, he made his way toward the office. When he was about halfway there, Carlson turned slightly and Starsky’s knees sagged with relief. He would never have believed it could feel so good to see a gun pointed at Hutch. After a few more feet, the murmur of voices resolved into words. Carlson was speaking.

“…and when the truck gets here, we’ll empty this place out. Of course, we’ll leave enough evidence to tie you to the burglaries. With the trail I left, it shouldn’t take much. Eventually, they’ll search your apartment and find a notebook with all the proof they’ll need.”

Hutch looked past Carlson into the warehouse. “I still don’t understand why you need me.” His voice was a little louder than it needed to be. Starsky felt a small jolt of conviction, and leaned closer to hear Carlson’s reply.

“You can thank your ex-partner for that. He’s been making it so hot that our distributors are afraid to talk to us. We had a sweet operation going until he got involved, but for the last month all I’ve got is a stack of cancelled orders.”

“But why me? Why didn’t you go after Starsky?” Hutch’s eyes narrowed in understanding. “Or did you think another dead cop so soon after your partner would be pushing your luck too far?”

“Let’s just say it would have complicated things. This way, he’ll be convinced you’re the ringleader, and once he’s got you, he’ll find something else to keep him busy.”

Starsky stepped into the circle of light around the office, and met Hutch’s eyes over the top of Carlson’s head.

“You’re crazy. Starsky’ll never believe it.” There was an edge to Hutch’s voice that Starsky was sure wasn’t intended for Carlson.

“Oh, won’t he? After what you did to him, he’ll jump at the chance to crucify you. And,” Carlson pointed out, “you won’t be around to argue. You’re going to have a fight with your new business partners, and you lose.”

Starsky saw Hutch’s eyes widen and at the same moment he heard a sound behind him. He tried to turn, but it was too late. Carlson’s last words filtered through the explosion that took off the back of his head, and followed him down into the darkness that claimed him.

You lose…

You lose…

* * * *

Starsky opened his eyes and closed them again quickly. The Fourth of July had arrived a little early this year. He raised one hand and touched the back of his head. It had to be there; it hurt too much not to be.

“If that was supposed to be a rescue, Starsk, you blew it.”

Starsky opened his eyes and looked up at Hutch in disgust. “I blew it? I wouldn’t even be here if you had better taste in partners.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Hutch chuckled. “I always had rotten taste in partners.”

They both laughed, and it felt good. God, how good it felt! Then they both sobered, remembering with one mind why it had been so long since they had laughed together. The good feeling disappeared.

More to cover the awkward moment than because he felt like it, Starsky sat up. The fireworks started again, but with Hutch’s help, he scooted over to the wall and leaned against it, waiting for the pounding in his head to ease.

They were in a small, windowless room, lit by a single light bulb dangling from a cord above their heads. In the warehouse, Starsky supposed.

“How much did you hear out there?” Hutch asked.

“Enough,” Starsky answered. “You knew I was there all the time, didn’t you?”

“Hell yes, I knew. Did you really think you could tail me in that red tomato without me knowing it?”

“Guess not,” Starsky admitted, looking around the room. It was empty except for some cardboard boxes in one corner. “Any way out of here?”

“Not unless you walk through walls. The door won’t budge.”

The pain in Starsky’s head had subsided, but it was still there. For the moment he was content to accept Hutch’s assessment of their situation… and wait.

* * * *

Hutch sat down beside Starsky and leaned back. He was tired. Tired of eyes that asked questions and wouldn’t listen to answers. Tired of pain that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. Tired. Just tired. He wanted it to be over—one way or another. Maybe when Carlson came back it would be.

“Hutch, tell me what happened at Kira’s that morning.”

Starsky’s voice sounded calm, but Hutch knew him too well to believe it. “You already know what happened. Do we have to pour salt on it?”

“No, I mean all of it. Your side.”

“I’ve tried to tell you my side before. You wouldn’t listen.”

“So try again. You got something better to do with your time?”

Hutch turned so that he could see Starsky’s face. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“No,” Starsky answered honestly, “but I have to.”

Hutch felt his temper flare. And it only took you two months to find that out? He clamped down on the anger, making his voice flat and emotionless. “After I left your place, I went to Kira’s. She had me confused. I wanted to find out what her game was. I found out all right. She was making it with both of us. She called it love. I’d have used a different word, but at the time she made it seem… natural.

“I know I should have talked to you about it, but you weren’t there, and she was. Too close. All I could think about was the smell of her, the feel of her in my arms, and—” He saw Starsky wince, and smiled bitterly. “Sorry, but you asked. And I was going to tell you. You know that.”

Starsky’s face was white. “Sure you were, but first you had to grab one more piece. Right?”

“Right!” Hutch let the word hang in the air between them like a challenge. Their eyes locked in a combat as old as time and more primitive than reason.

Hutch looked away first, knowing that his actions, and now his words, had triggered the conflict. “I’m sorry, Starsk. I’m so damned sorry.”

Starsky’s eyes were dark with pain. “Why, Hutch? Just tell me why.”

“I don’t know why! You think I haven’t asked myself that? Maybe I was jealous, I don’t know. Was she really that important to you?”

“You were that important to me. You knew I trusted you completely. No limits.”

“Yeah, and I trusted you. Even now, after two months of knowing you hate me, I’d still trust you with my life. That’s the easy part. Living up to that trust isn’t always so simple. You’re letting one mistake cancel out all the times I didn’t let you down, and I don’t think I’d do that to you. You call me the White Knight, and act like you expect me to be one, but I’m not. I’m just a cop, and I make mistakes.”

Starsky’s face was impassive. Hutch stopped. There was more he wanted to say, but it was getting harder to talk, and if Starsky wasn’t listening it didn’t matter anyway. The silence lengthened to minutes.

“So you think I expect you to be perfect?” Starsky said at last.

His voice was so soft Hutch could hardly hear it. “Don’t you?”

“Maybe I do.” He fell silent again for a few moments, staring at the floor. “When I saw you in Kira’s apartment, I didn’t even blame her. All I could think of was that I’d lost both of you.”

“You didn’t lose me,” Hutch said. “You walked away from me, and that’s something I’m having trouble dealing with—that it took you two months to get around to talking about it. I thought we could talk about anything, but you froze me out, and I can’t take that.”

“I couldn’t talk about it—or even think about it. Can’t you see that? I believed in you, and when that was gone, there was nothing left to say.”

Hutch put his hand on Starsky’s arm, feeling the need for some kind of physical contact to bridge the gulf between them. “Starsk, I need you. But I’m not everything you think I am. I’d like to promise you it’ll never happen again—and it won’t, not that—but someday there may be something else. You have to decide if you can handle that.”

“And if I can?” Starsky asked. “What then?”

Hutch bit his lip. He knew what Starsky was saying. They had lost something that they could never get back. “It won’t be the same. You can’t forget, and I don’t want to. Your trust was so much a part of me that I took it for granted. I won’t do that again.”

Starsky was thinking it over. Hutch gave him time. He’d said all he could, and he didn’t know whether it was enough… or too much.

A sound from outside the door brought his mind back to their current situation. They’d been so engrossed in the trouble between them that they’d all but forgotten they had another, more immediate problem.

The door opened and Carlson entered the room. The gun in his hand was Starsky’s Beretta. Behind him was a taller, dark-haired man Hutch hadn’t seen before. He stepped away from Carlson so that he could cover them, and Hutch recognized his Magnum. The pieces were falling into place, and there was a sickening kind of irony to it.

Hutch got to his feet and held out a hand to Starsky.

“No thanks,” Starsky snarled. “You’ve helped me too much already.” But his face was pale, and he swayed a little when he stood up.

“Suit yourself,” Hutch shrugged. He turned to face Carlson and he could feel his pulse quicken with the familiar combination of fear and excitement. His weariness had vanished.

“I’m glad you’re getting along so well,” Carlson commented in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “I’d like to stay and watch, but I’m short on time, so I’m going to have to end your little feud—permanently.”

Hutch wondered what they had done to make Carlson hate them so much. “You’re a fool.” He edged closer to Carlson. He could feel Starsky moving with him.

Carlson’s grip tightened on the Beretta. “Hold it,” he said mildly and smiled. “I’m a cop, too, remember?”

“You’ll never get away with killing both of us. Dobey’ll track you to hell.”

“Yeah, he probably would at that,” Carlson said. “He never made it a secret that compared to you two the rest of us are dirt. But it won’t happen that way. When you don’t show up for work, they’ll start looking for you. With your cars outside, it shouldn’t take long to find you, and when they do…. The picture’ll be clear. Starsky followed you here; caught you in the act; you had a shootout. With the evidence I planted and the way you two have been fighting, even Dobey won’t question it.”

“Talk your way out of this one, genius.” Starsky’s voice taunted from behind him. “You were always good at talking. And lying.”

Hutch swung around and glared at the sneering face. “Starsky, if you don’t shut that goddamned big mouth of yours, Carlson is going to have one less person to take care of.”

As Starsky’s fist drew back, Hutch caught a disturbing glitter of anticipation in his eyes.

Take it easy, Starsk. I’m breakable.

Going with the punch, he let the force of it carry him backward into Carlson and send them both crashing into the wall. A gun exploded nearby. Hutch bounced off Carlson, whirled, and landed a hard right. From the corner of his eye, he saw Starsky take the other man down with a low tackle. The Beretta was laying at his feet. Hutch scooped it up and stepped back. Carlson was sprawled on the floor, conscious but dazed.

Starsky finished putting the cuffs on the dark-haired man and got to his feet. “Y’know something, Hutch?” he asked. “We oughta patent that routine. Works every time.”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, rubbing his jaw. “But next time, try to remember whose side you’re on. You damned near took my head off with that punch.”

Starsky grinned at the memory, which was obviously a satisfying one. “I know, and believe me, the pleasure was all mine—Partner.”

* * * *

Harper watched them come out of Dobey’s office. They paused by the door. Hutchinson said something in a low voice, and Starsky laughed. It was the first time Harper had heard his partner laugh, and he was surprised at how natural it sounded. Like he did it all the time.

Starsky came over to Harper’s desk, propped a hip on one corner, and reached for a file folder. “Hi, partner. What’s happening?” Starsky asked, scanning the contents of the folder with an experienced eye.

Harper looked at him in surprise. It was Starsky all right, but if he’d met him on the street, he wasn’t sure he’d have recognized him. There was an open friendliness that he’d never seen. This wasn’t the same man he’d been working with for the past month.

Starsky tossed the folder aside and looked up. “Me and Hutch are going to Huggy’s for lunch. Wanna come along?”

Harper looked across the room to find Hutchinson watching them. The blue eyes held a warmth that seemed to reach out and touch him, drawing him into some kind of special circle. He realized that Starsky was waiting for an answer. “Sure,” Harper agreed. “Why not? Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

Starsky strolled over to Hutchinson’s desk, and perched on the edge, apparently his favorite position. Harper watched their easy give and take and wondered how he could ever have thought they were cold, and wondered if they’d tell him at lunch or if they’d let Dobey do it, and wondered how long it would take him to figure out if the emotion he was feeling was relief… or regret.