The Water is Wide

529

Starsky has recovered from Gunther’s hit and is back at work. As he and Hutch work out their feelings for each other, Starsky’s mother comes into town with news of her own and helps him put things into perspective. An old flame of Starsky’s returns with complications for the boys to work out.

 

Originally published as a stand-alone zine in December 1982, produced by Pacific Fruit Express. It won an Encore Award.

Author’s note: Fond acknowledgements go to the following initials, whose talents, generosities, nagging demands, and friendship the author would not part with for worlds: MCK, PW, JM, JD, CRF

---

The water is wide,
I can’t cross o’er.
And neither have
I wings to fly.
Give me a boat
That can carry two,
And both shall row,
My love and I.
–Traditional

 

EPITHALAMION

To you I owe the leaping delight
That quickens my senses in our waking-time,
And the rhythm that governs the repose of our sleeping-time
No sullen, tropic sun shall wither
The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only…
   –T.S. Elliot

 

September 1979

David Starsky sprinted into the TWA terminal at L.A. International Airport, skidded to a stop in front of a TV monitor listing arrivals, and breathed a heart­felt sigh of relief. Flight 174 had been delayed half an hour in New York, thereby saving his skin. He’d been twenty minutes late getting out of his apartment—the vacuum cleaner had belched dust onto the carpet, there had been a pile of laundry to hide, and he’d spent half the morning hunting down the gremlin in the garbage disposal. But finally, the place was more or less ready for the only person in the world who could make him feel like a naughty ten-year-old.

As he walked slowly to Gate 47A, catching his breath, he wondered what had possessed his mother to fly to California on the spur of the moment. The list of possibilities was endless, starting with his brother Nicky. Much as Starsky loved his mother and welcomed any visits she cared to pay him, he did not relish any long discussions about his younger sibling. Nick could be a lot of fun, but he could also be an unqualified pain in the ass. Hutch had been correct in his evaluation of the pair: “You’re a wool rug, Starsk, and Nicky’s dry weather.” If the kid was up to something again in New York, and if their mother had learned of it and couldn’t cope, Starsky would cheerfully wring his brother’s neck for him. He could think of nothing else that might bring his mother three thousand miles to a city she cordially loathed.

Nothing, he reflected wryly, but the possibility that she had seen through the careful white lies he and Hutch had concocted about the shooting in March. They had told her almost everything, fudging a little on the dates and leaving out certain details and a few major facts—such as his cardiac arrest—and in general had downplayed the event to protect her. Now, in late September, he had recovered most of his strength and agility, but he knew that the moment his mother saw the scars on his chest she’d know the truth.

He rubbed his finger over the worst of them, feeling the hard-ridged flesh scoring his ribs. Hutch had browbeat him into keeping the scars supple, and Starsky knew that left on his own, he would have neglected them. They were so ugly. Six months after the fact he still winced when he faced a mirror undressed. Yet a sudden warmth seeped through him as he thought of Hutch’s care and tenderness—there had never been any shrinking away from the hideous marks, never any pity. Hutch had even told him the scars were badges of honor, precious to him because they meant Starsky was alive. Starsky had never considered himself to be particularly vain, and his abhorrence of the scars had lessened with time, but he could not help but hate them. They were the physical reminders of a terror he wanted desperately to forget.

The arrival lounge quickly filled with the usual crush of passengers—vacationing families, Japanese businessmen, blue-jeaned kids, young executive types—all with coats over their arms. Most looked relieved to be stepping into the sunny California day. But Rebecca Starsky had not made her appearance, and Starsky got to his feet and maneuvered his way to a better vantage point.

“David?”

He turned, startled, and caught his mother up in a bear hug that lifted her off the ground. “Ma! Who were you hiding behind? Almost missed ya.”

“David! Put me down!” But she was laughing as she hung onto him, dark blue eyes dancing with delight.

He set her gently back on her feet. Taking her shoulders, he held her out from him, looked her up and down, and whistled. “Are you old enough to be traveling by yourself?”

“Don’t try to sweet-talk me, meshugeneh,” she retorted, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Ah, Davey, it’s a long time.”

“You changed your hair,” he observed. “Lost some weight, too.”

He pinched her waist and got his hand slapped.

“Twelve pounds. Do you like my hair like this?” She ran her fingers through the soft, neck-length waves of dark brown hair. The streaks of white were gone, making her look ten years younger.

“Love it,” he smiled. “You’re beautiful. How come I’ve got such a gorgeous mother?”

“For the same reason I’ve got such a gorgeous son. It’s good to see you again. But where’s Kenneth?”

“Back at the station, covering for me. What’s a best friend for?”

She shook her head. “You’re going to get into trouble one of these days, and your nice Captain Dobey is going to fire the pair of you.”

“Nah. he wouldn’t dare. We know too much.” Sliding an arm around her shoulders, he made a path for them through to the escalator. “How many bags did you bring? Do you have your claim tickets?”

“David,” she sighed, “I’m fifty-four, not fifteen. I just flew all the way across the country without even a note pinned to my dress to tell the stewardess where I was going.”

“Sorry.” He grinned. “What’d you bring me?”

“I didn’t have time to shop at a toy store before I left.”

“Aw, Mom!”

As they waited for Flight 174’s luggage to arrive on the downstairs carousel, she began to bring him up to date on his East Coast relations, a recital which took them all the way through the claims line and out to the car. Even as he noted that his brother’s name was conspicuously absent from the roll call, he reasoned that if Nicky were really in trouble, his mother wouldn’t be looking so well. She really did seem much younger—it wasn’t just the new hairdo, or the slender figure, or the pale blue linen dress that complimented her eyes.

Something about her seemed to glow with excitement and pleasure. Odd that she’d reminded him of her age, he thought; she certainly didn’t look fifty-four. A grin touched his mouth as he recalled that she was, after all, barely eighteen years older than he; his arrival, a mere seven months after his parents’ wedding, had been a family scandal.

“What’s so funny about your Aunt Barbara’s gall bladder?” she asked tartly.

“Nothin’, Ma,” he assured her. ‘I’m just glad to see you.” He glanced over his shoulder and sped into the fast lane of the 405 Freeway, heading north. “Hey, why don’t I take you to lunch?”

“That’s very thoughtful, dear. Did you remember to be thoughtful and call your Aunt Rose?”

“No, because you’re not stayin’ at Aunt Rosie’s. You’re stayin’ with me. Now, Ma,” he went on hastily, anticipating her protests, “be reasonable. You and her fight like cats when you’re around each other more’n a few hours. Aunt Rosie’s comin’ to dinner tonight at my place, and she’s invited us over there for Sunday, but you’re stayin’ with me. And that settles it.”

“All right, Davey.”

The meek answer startled him, and he glanced at her. “Ma?” he got out before he saw the wicked glint in her eyes. “Ma,” he warned.

“Yes, darling?”

He groaned. “Makes me nervous when you call me that. You never call me that unless you’re mad at me. What’d I do?”

“Nothing, darling,” she replied serenely.

“Ma!” he pleaded.’

She turned a sweet smile on him, “Where are you taking me for lunch?”

“The Bonaventure. Come on, Ma. Tell me what’s wrong.”

‘”Nothing.” She smoothed her skirt and continued casually. “I was just wondering who you’ll be kicking out of your apartment while your aged mother visits you.”

Starsky choked and blushed. “Mother, you have a filthy mind!”

“My son, you are so right!” She laughed again, and touched his cheek. “I’ve missed you too, meshugeneh.”

Lunch and the view from the thirty-fifth floor were spectacular. Starsky cajoled his mother into sampling a thick slice of Key Lime pie from the sweet trolley, overriding her protests about her diet. He himself had a wedge of cheesecake three inches tall. Finally, over coffee, they sat quietly together, having caught each other up on events not discussed in letters or phone calls.

“So,” she said softly. “You’re happy.”

He blinked at her. “Ma, you shoulda been a detective. Yeah,” he smiled, “I am happy.”

“Good.” She set her cup down and gazed at him fondly. “You’re a son to be proud of, Davey.”

He waited for the inevitable comments that would compare him to his father. A long time ago such comparison would have irked him, but he’d been younger then.

“A pity I had nothing to do with it.”

“Hey! You made me, you and Papa. You had everything to do with what I am.”

“When you were a little boy, yes. You were mine then. But after you moved out here you belonged to nobody but yourself. Was it very lonely for you, Davey?”

He shrugged, discomfited. “Didn’t take me too long to make some friends. And anyway, that’s a long time ago.”

“I’m very proud of you,” she repeated, looking down at her hands. “I just wish I could take some of the credit.”

“Ma!” He had never heard her in this mood, and it worried him. “You’re a terrific mother— ”

“No.” She shook her head. “The son I did raise to manhood will never really grow up. Nicky will be a child all his life. I did the best I could, but…” Pain competed with the quiet resignation in her face. “I don’t even wonder any more what I did wrong. He is what he is.”

“Mama…” He reached across the table to take her hand.

“There’ll be time to talk about your brother. Have you finished your coffee?”

“Yeah.” Reluctantly he beckoned for the check.

His mother excused herself to powder her nose, and as Starsky presented his credit card to the waiter he wondered what Nicky was up to this time.

* * * *

Ken Hutchinson wiped sweat from his forehead and looked at the instructor. “Enough?”

“Enough.” A pen scribbled on a clipboard. “You can go shower now.”

“Thanks.”

He would have preferred spending his lunch hour in more congenial and talkative company than a health club Torquemada and various sadistic machines, but a flare-up of his back trouble had necessitated three days a week of strengthening his muscles and keeping his weight down where it belonged. The results, if not the methods, had pleased him; he hadn’t woken with a back­ache in weeks, and the Mexican dinner Starsky had treated him to last weekend hadn’t shown up around his waist. Still, he didn’t relish being martyred to a slant board and other instruments of bodily torment. Starsky only laughed at him when he complained.

Hutch stood under a warm spray of water, the relaxation of exercise and tiredness disappearing as he thought of his partner. The last few months had been a dizzying alternation of happiness and hell; God knew they’d seen some rough times together, both personally and professionally, but this was somehow different. The shooting had changed Starsky in ways that Hutch didn’t fully understand, but the most obvious result had been an exponential increase in possessiveness. Hutch shivered, adjusting the water to a higher temperature, and wondered why he was destined to be wanted by possessive people.

First his mother and grandfather had planned out a career in business to occupy his mind, and a career as stud to some socially prominent girl to occupy his body. At eighteen he’d fled. But his wife, married in haste and repented at length, had turned out to be the same type. Sloughing off the bitterness of their divorce had taken years. It had left him with the determination that never would he belong to anyone again—not legally, not emotionally, and especially not sexually.

Yet here he was, being claimed again. And this time he couldn’t run away. Wouldn’t run away. Even from the power-struggle that had begun as a sweet and dazzling love.

God knew he’d found the lover of a lifetime in Starsky—passionate, tender, and playful by turns in bed; beloved friend; trusted partner; guardian of his soul. And yet… and yet.

He dried off and returned to the locker room to dress, musing on his choices. There were two—no, three. He could stand by his promise not to see any woman ever again. His lips thinned angrily as he reminded himself that he didn’t even have the excuse of drunkenness for that foolish promise to Starsky. If he stuck to it, he might as well go out and buy a ring—one to go right through his nose.

His second choice was to continue bedding women, and simply not tell Starsky about it. What his lover didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Hutch tried to recall how many times he had successfully lied to those deep, knowing eyes; the count was so small he grimaced. He could confess everything or nothing; either way, Starsky would know.

Which wasn’t fair, he told himself furiously. What was a body, anyway, when compared with love? He needed women, loved the feel of warm softness, wanted the sensation of strength that came when making love to a beautiful lady. He enjoyed the little things—the undressing, the whisper of silk, the lingering perfume, the morning beauty rituals which frankly fascinated him. He’d lost count long ago of the number of women he’d slept with, and he knew himself well enough to know that there would be many more.

He arrived at his third choice reluctantly—end it. Go back to being friends and partners. forget that they had ever been lovers. Confine themselves to affection and deny desire. Turn his back on all the rest.

Never touch Starsky again in an act of love… never slide his fingers deep into the silky curls to tilt that face up to his… never hear triumphant laughter as he gave himself up to Starsky’s strength… never feel the loving dance of those hands over his body… never curl the slender legs around his waist and plunge deep—

No! I won’t give him up!

He sighed deeply, slamming the locker door shut. Starsky had caught him that night three weeks ago, in a mood just like this one. His resistance had been worn down and he’d been ready to promise anything in exchange for a little peace. He’d needed, that night, not jeering accusations, but the encompassing sweetness of his lover’s arms. He’d promised there’d be no more women, no more sleeping around, no more of the brief affairs that were his specialty and his defense against possessiveness. Just Starsky, only Starsky, always Starsky.

How had it happened? he wondered as he drove back to Metro. How had Starsky wrapped his fingers around a heart that Hutch had guarded so carefully for so long? Perhaps it had been because the love had come to them before they’d even thought about sleeping together. Hutch rubbed his forehead, fighting an incipient headache. What made Starsky so goddamn special?

Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about it for a while, anyway. Starsky would retreat so far back into the closet while his mother was in town that he wouldn’t even look at Hutch. There was relief in that, but a piercing longing as well. And. inevitably these days, guilt.

* * * *

Starsky unlocked the front door and pushed it open. He bowed with a flourish, saying, “This is it.”

“I’ve seen it before,” his mother reminded him, walking through to pause at the China cabinet. She swiped a finger over its top and held it up for inspection, her eyes gleaming. “Not bad. How long did it take to clean the place up?”

“All morning,” he admitted. “You want to unpack now?”

“No, leave the suitcases for a while, Davey. Come sit down.” Her skirt spread in graceful folds on the couch, and her face lifted to his. “Will Kenneth be joining us for dinner?”

“Should, unless he can’t get through all the paperwork.” He sat beside her on the couch. “Did you come out here to see me or him?”

“Both of you. You’ve been a desk set for years. I thought I’d gotten rid of you at last, but it turns out I’ve gained another son!”

Smiling, he watched as she picked up a framed photograph from the coffee table. Perhaps he should have put it away in a drawer somewhere, but it was a good picture and he was proud of it. His mother’s hands ran lightly over the plain wooden frame; slim hands, almost delicate. He always forgot how small she was, how his father had teased her about having a six-foot personality in a five-foot body. He hadn’t inherited much from her, just the eyes. His mother’s sisters and brother had the same eyes, and he’d seen them in portraits of her father. His own eyes looked out at him from the photograph, proud and happy. And Hutch, beside him, sleek and golden and beautiful.

“You do love him very much, don’t you?” his mother whispered.

He stared at her, nonplussed. “Y-yes—”

“I’m glad, Davey. Does he love you as much?” Her eyes were soft, luminous, and told him without words that she had always known about him. “Does he?”

He nodded slowly.

“Does he make you happy? Is he good to you?”

Again, he nodded, unable to speak.

She sighed. “Then you’ve found what you’ve been needing for a long time. In many ways I’ve hurt more for you than your brother. He’ll never admit to needing anyone. You’ve needed someone all your life.” She held his gaze solemnly. “I thank God for your Kenneth.”

“How did you know?” he breathed. “How did you guess?”

“I know my son.” Stroking his face gently, she added, “Don’t cry, Davey.”

“I can’t believe this—” He scrubbed his hands over his face and tried again, though it was difficult to speak around the knot in his chest. “How can you take this so—”

“Take what? That you and Kenneth love each other? That you’re lovers?”

He flushed and looked away.

“Don’t be ashamed. Davey, it’s a beautiful word. Your father was my husband and my friend—but he was also my lover. I’ve always wanted you to understand the real meaning of that word.”

“But, Ma—”

“Did you think I’d be shocked?” she interrupted. “I’m not, you know—not any of those things a parent is supposed to feel when they know their favorite child is gay.”

He flinched.

“That’s not such a good word, is it? I don’t like labels, David.” She sighed quietly. “For a long time after you left for California, I wondered what I’d done wrong, where your father and I had failed you. It took me a long time to realize that you’re you, Davey—and love is love.”

“You knew?” He met her gaze again, shaken. “All those years, you knew?”

“Yes,” she answered calmly. “And I think you know that I did.”

“You—you always wanted me to have a family,” he blurted out, then bit his lip, afraid of her answer.

“Yes. but what I want doesn’t have much to do with it, does it?” She smiled. “I sound very noble. It’s taken me years to get to this point. To accept you as you are. How do I say it?” She paused, frowning, then said determinedly. “I would rather you be with Kenneth, and happy, than see you married to a woman you can’t love with all of you. I don’t want you to live a lie, my son. That’s not the example you were given of what a marriage should be. If Kenneth is your truth, then live it.”

He bent his head, covering his face with his hands. “I never wanted to hurt you—my God. I was so scared you’d find out—”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “I always thought how ashamed you and Papa would be.”

She was silent for a long time. Then she took his hands from his face. Slipping her fingers into his, she said, “Did you know you’ve grown beautiful? I think Kenneth has done that for you. Oh, you were always handsome, the look of your father so strong about you—he would never have been ashamed of you, Davey. Where he is now, that gives understanding, I’m sure of it. Love doesn’t stop after death—and he loved you very much.”

He lifted his head, gazing at her. “Thank you.”

“There’s only one thing I want to know, David.”

“Anything.”

“Does he make you happy? Can he make you happy always?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

She nodded, her eyes solemn. “Then there’s only one thing I have to say. I love your Kenneth even more for loving you, but if he ever hurts you, may God forgive him—because I won’t.”

“Oh, Ma,” he murmured, hugging her. “Don’t you know that worryin’ over nothin’ gives you gray hairs?”

They remained for a time in silent understanding before Rebecca roused herself to begin her unpacking. And an hour after that she started in on the kitchen—which brought a predictable series of complaints.

“How do you have the chutzpah to call this place a kitchen? Everything’s backwards! And the knives wouldn’t cut butter, and—Davey! Come back here!”

He laughed, popped a cherry tomato into his mouth, and beat a hasty retreat to the living room. “Company’s here, Ma.”

“Rose? And how do you know?’

“Hutch,” he said, opening the door on the astonished face of his partner. “I heard that toy car of his a mile off. Hiya, babe. Ma’s gonna stuff us like Thanksgiving turkeys tonight. Didja bring the wine?”

“Hello, Mrs. Starsky. No, the wine’s down in the car—I’ll go get it.”

Red-faced, Hutch took the steps two at a time on his way down, and Starsky grinned. He winked at his mother who shook her head.

“Tell him to call me ‘Rebecca,'” she said, and returned to the kitchen.

Starsky sauntered slowly down the stairs, watching Hutch paw through the accumulated junk in his front seat. He debated briefly with himself about letting Hutch know that his mother knew about them and approved—but the impulse died as he reflected how much fun he was going to have every time he called Hutch ‘babe.’

“Starsky—”

“Hmmm?” He turned an innocent smile on his partner. “Find it?”

“Yeah.” Hutch approached the bottom step nervously and held out the bottle for inspection. “Is it all right?”

“Perfect. We’re having roast beast.” He took the bottle and started up to the landing.

“Starsk—don’t call me that again.”

“Call you what?”

“You know what. It’s not—I mean, not with your mother here. She might—just don’t call me that, okay?”

“You done stuttering?” He turned, touched the blond hair in the lightest caress. “Relax, babe.”

“I am relaxed—or I would be if you wouldn’t do that.”

Starsky almost had pity on him—almost. God, the man was gorgeous—dressed in a blue jacket and a cream-colored shirt, tan slacks knife-creased, hair like spun sunlight. “Lookin’ good, partner.” He grinned. “Can I call you ‘partner,’ sweetheart?”

“Starsky!”

He laughed and held up his hand in the Boy Scout salute. “I’ll be good, I premise.”

Hutch’s lips twitched in amusement and his tensed muscles loosened. “You’re always good,” he murmured, and brushed past Starsky into the apartment.

When he had choked back his laughter, he followed Hutch and entered the kitchen in time to see the hug his mother bestowed on her ‘third’ son.

“Sorry I’m late,” Hutch apologized as he stepped back, smiling. “Did you have a good flight in?”

‘The plane went up in New York and landed in Los Angeles,” she replied with a grimace. “That’s all a person can ask. And you’re not late—Rose isn’t due for another half hour. Davey, find us something to drink. Make yourself useful.”

Hutch grinned. “You don’t know how good it is to hear someone giving him orders!”

“Be nice, Blondie, or I won’t let you have any dessert,” Starsky warned on his way to the refrigerator. “Blueberry cheesecake,” he added as he tossed Hutch a beer. Taking one for himself, he got out the jug of iced tea for his mother. “She’s gonna put ten pounds on me.”

“I should do the same for both of you.” She looked Hutch up and down critically. “Skin and bones. I should live to see the day. Your Captain Dobey should be ashamed of himself. I may have a word with him.”

“You’d only tell him he’s too skinny, Ma. C’mon, Hutch, let’s go sit down. She hates bein’ watched in the kitchen.”

“It smells delicious, Mrs. Starsky.”

“And how many times have I told you to call me ‘Rebecca’?” She waved them toward the couch. “Where are you going on vacation this year?”

Starsky glanced at Hutch; their two weeks had been spent getting Starsky fit enough to pass the Review board, and there had been no postcards to New York from a beach or mountain resort as there had been in the past.

“Backpacking,” Hutch said.

“You’re taking my Davey on a backpacking trip?” Her eyes went wide.

“We’re going to do some of the John Muir Trail,” Hutch improvised, and Starsky blessed him silently. “About thirty miles.”

“Thirty?” Starsky cut in, aiding and abetting shamelessly. “Last week it was twenty!”

“Miles and miles from civilization,” Hutch went on. “Just the trees and the stars.” He laughed softly. “Of course, Starsky’s idea of roughing it is turning the electric blanket down—” He stopped abruptly and went red to his earlobes.

There was a rich chuckle. “I have to check on the roast.” She disappeared into the kitchen and Starsky used the moment to slide over on the couch nearer to Hutch.

“You’re blushing,” he observed in a whisper. “Pretty suggestive remark, babe.”

“Shhh! And stop that—”

Starsky took his hand from the hard thigh. “Okay.” He got up and went to sprawl in the easy chair.

“You’re indecent. Couldn’t you have found a tighter pair of pants?”

“Nope. Looked for about an hour, too.”

“And you know what that shirt does to me.”

“This old thing?” He held up one arm. glancing at the sleeve of the dark crimson knitted shirt Hutch had given him for his birthday. “What about it?’ he asked, knowing full well that it clung to and emphasized every line of his body. That was why Hutch had bought it.

“Starsky, you’re gonna pay for this,” Hutch said grimly, one eye on the kitchen. “I’m not sure where or when but—”

“You’re a prude,” he accused. “Don’t want to say nothin’, can’t wear my favorite shirt—”

“Just remember,” Hutch shot back, goaded, “what I can’t have, you can’t have either.” His gaze went deliberately to Starsky’s groin. “Think about it.”

Starsky pursed his lips thoughtfully. He’d forgotten that teasing Hutch was only fun when he could count on the multiple rewards of making his lover crazy. He sighed deeply and gave Hutch a rueful smile.

“Cold showers?” he murmured. “Or seif-abuse?”

* * * *

Dinner—a huge roast beef, biscuits dripping in butter, mixed vegetables, a three-bean salad brought by Aunt Rosie, and a mountain of mashed potatoes drenched in cheese sauce—was finally set out on the sundeck table. Hutch sat on Rebecca’s right, opposite Starsky who was next to his aunt. The two women were friendly and obviously enjoyed seeing each other, but each was strong-willed and each obviously considered Starsky to be her Davey. According to the family history given Hutch, Starsky had long ago taken over his father’s role of peacemaker.

“The way to do it,” he’d said smugly, “is to make both of ’em think you adore ’em ‘Course, I do, which makes it easy. But there’s this competition goin’ to see who gets most credit for me bein’ so wonderful and charming and gorgeous—”

“And modest?”

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it, boy.”

Now he was seeing the Starsky Theory of Relativity put to the test. Charm radiated from every wide smile, his attention divided equally between the two ladies. Hutch knew that Mike Starsky’s widow and Mike Starsky’s sister knew they were being bamboozled by Mike Starsky’s son, and he knew that Starsky knew it, and he also knew that all three of them loved every minute of it. All Hutch really had to do was listen, pass food around the table, tell Rebecca she was the best cook in the universe, and demolish the roast. There was no way to unravel the complicated skeins of conversation about cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, other assorted relatives, and what sounded like half the population of New York and New Jersey, with auxiliary branches in Florida. So Hutch forgot his waistline and happily stuffed himself, rising toward the end of the meal to uncork another bottle of wine.

When he returned, conversation had momentarily lagged. He walked around pouring wine, smiling at Rebecca as he refilled her glass. To his puzzlement, she didn’t smile back. She stared at her plate, hands folded in her lap. He resisted the frown that wanted to quirk his brows and seated himself again.

“I have some family news I haven’t told you yet, Rose,” Rebecca said suddenly. Her fingers twisted around the stem of her wineglass and she lifted it to her lips but did not drink. She did not look at her son.

“Yes. Rebecca?” Aunt Rosie pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and reached for the salad. “Davey, eat.”

“I’m getting married again.”

Something clattered. Rebecca’s glance swept around the table, finally coming to rest on her son. Hutch froze at her words—for Starsky’s face had gone blank with shock.

Rose lifted her glass very slowly to her sister-in-law, eyes wide and warm. “I think that’s wonderful, Becky.”

Hutch wanted to kick his partner. Starsky’s eyes were slits, too bright, as if trying to pierce through his mother’s brain. Hutch had seen the look before—once or twice directed at him—and knew its power. Rebecca’s eyes were both pleading and defensive, her lips thin.

“His name is Andrew Flaherty. He’s captain of a precinct on Long Island.”

“A cop?”

Starsky spat out the words in a voice sharp with distaste. This time Hutch did kick him, but it made no impression other than to shut his mouth for a moment.

“Davey—”

Rose interrupted her. “I think it’s marvelous,” she said firmly, eyes smoldering as she looked a warning at her nephew.

“So do I,” Hutch said a little too loudly, raising his glass as Rose had done to toast Rebecca. Her eyes never left her son, longing for his approval even as she challenged him to disapprove.

Starsky’s chair tipped over as he jumped to his feet and stormed into the apartment. The French doors slammed behind him a with a rattle of windowpanes. Rebecca looked as if she would weep.

“Excuse me,” Hutch said, getting to his feet. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“It’s all right, Kenneth.”

“No, it’s not,” he said grimly, and was careful to shut the doors firmly behind him.

The front door was open, and Starsky was seated on the top step. His head drooped, shoulders rounded, and as Hutch approached, he could see one fist beating, clenched. against his thigh.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hutch snapped. “Get back out there and tell your mother you’re happy for her or I’ll break your goddamned neck.”

Starsky turned, eyes blazing. “Go fuck yourself! It’s none of your business!”

“The hell it isn’t! Starsky, what’s wrong with you?”

Pain and uncertainty darkened the long face, and Hutch relented. He sat down next to Starsky, resting his elbows on his bent knees with his hands clasped between them. Staring at the dusk-painted street, he chose his words carefully.

“Try to forget for a moment that she’s your mother,” he said gently. “She’s been a widow for twenty years. She’s not an old woman, Starsk. Are you asking her to spend the rest of her life alone?”

Starsky shook his head. “Why’d she hafta say it like that? Why couldn’t she tell me in private?”

He slid an arm around the bowed shoulders. “Probably scared of how you’d react.”

“Didn’t disappoint her, did I?” he asked bitterly.

“She loves you very much.”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, what is it? Just her getting married again? She came out here to ask your permission and approval. That’s obvious.”

A brief laugh shook the too-slender body. “That’s really funny, you know? ‘Cause she knows about us, Hutch.”

“What?” He recoiled physically and mentally, his emotions in a whirl.

“Yeah. Oh, I didn’t tell her—didn’t have to. She took one look at me, and…” He shrugged expressively.

“How did she know?” Hutch whispered.

“She’s always known about me. My mother’s no dummy. She sees more than I want her to sometimes. She figured me out a long time ago.”

“And she knows about—about us?” His whole body cringed.

”Yeah. And she approves.” Again, the brief laughter. “Know what she calls you? ‘Your Hutch,’ she says to me. ‘Your Kenneth.'” He trembled. “I couldn’t believe it. Not sure I believe this other thing, either.”

Hutch gathered his thoughts and forced himself to the immediate moment. Time enough later to consider that simple trap of “Your Kenneth.” “I think—Starsk, she’s just as scared as you are. Maybe she thinks you’ll feel she’s betraying your father or something.”

“Knock it off with the psychology,” Starsky said tiredly. “I’m a big boy now. I’m not jealous of some man marrying my mommy.” The blue eyes met his sightlessly. “He’s a cop, Hutch. That’s grief any way you slice it. She should know better.”

“She knows what she’s getting into, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yeah?” he asked skeptically. “Look what happened to her twenty years ago. She couldn’t take that kind of pain again, Hutch. It nearly killed her. I can still hear her screaming. I never told you, but—after Papa was shot, she—well, nobody could blame her, what with me runnin’ wild and Nicky giving her trouble all the time, too, but she started to drink pretty heavy. I didn’t want to see it at the time—shit, I had my own problems—but lookin’ back, I know. I don’t want anything like that to happen to her again. It’d kill her.”

Hutch was silent for a long time. Then, very slowly, he said, “Starsky, how much do you love me?”

“What?” Startled eyes in a pale face. “You know how much.”

“You could lose me any minute of any day, the same way I could lose you.” He hated the dull, haunted pain that aged Starsky’s eyes, feared the twisting agony in his own heart that came with the memories. “Is the love worth risk?”

“Oh, God—” Starsky reached blindly for him, shaking. “Don’t—please—”

“Shh,” he soothed, holding him close. “Don’t you see, babe? We take that chance. Why can’t you let her? She knows what she’s doing. She knows the risks of loving a cop.” The word was wrong; he knew it the minute he said it and felt Starsky tense against him. He was getting used to the word “marry” but couldn’t yet handle the word “love.” “She let you have your own life. Give her the same, Starsk.”

After a time, Starsky pulled away and got to his feet. “Okay. I’m okay.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve made her wait long enough. Thanks, Hutch.”

He watched as Starsky visibly gathered himself. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The double dose of gratitude worried him, but as he followed Starsky back to the sundeck and watched him bend down to hug his mother, he had to admit that the performance was a brilliant one.

“Congratulations, Ma. Next time don’t pull your punches any, huh? So, when do I get to meet this guy? And how’d you get to know him—he arrest you for jay­walking?”

The jokes were forced, but the wide, brilliant smile worked its usual magic. Hutch could see that Rebecca wasn’t entirely fooled, but she was more than willing to go along with the change—the apparent change, Hutch corrected himself—in Starsky’s mood.

A master of diversionary tactics, Starsky suggested that they go indoors for dessert. Hutch took the cue, ushering Rosie inside so that mother and son could have some time alone. As he set the coffee on to perk and brought a huge covered dish out of the refrigerator, he caught sight of a comforting tableau through the filmy woven curtains. Rebecca’s head rested against her son’s chest as he hugged her tight. Hutch smiled.

* * * *

“…ninety-nine, one hundred. There.” Rebecca set her brush down, shaking out her hair, and left the bathroom. She stood in the bedroom doorway far a long time, contemplating the figure of her son as he put away the dinner dishes. It was difficult sometimes to reconcile the chubby little boy who smiled so innocently from her favorite photographs with this tall, graceful man who had what her mother had called “presence.” Mike had had it, too—a total inability to blend in with any crowd. He had been a man people noticed, not simply for his good looks but for the strong sense of self that radiated from him. “I know who I am and I know what I want”—David had that same quality.

Still, she reflected as she watched him rearrange cups and saucers on a shelf, much remained of childhood innocence in her son. She had always feared the emotional shocks of his early adolescence would hurt him too deeply for recovery. She knew what it was like to fight against bitterness, to try every day to keep thick protective walls from going up around her heart. During the early months of her widowhood the stranglehold of her grief had nearly killed her. It was then, she knew, that she had lost her sons. The years since had brought David back to her, slowly, but she feared that Nicky was gone forever.

Shaking aside futile thoughts of her youngest child, she concentrated on David. She was almost pathetically anxious that he and Andrew like each other. But there was something weighing on her son, something important. She had felt it from the first moment at the airport, and it had grown stronger when Kenneth had arrived.

Now there was another man with presence. David’s reaction to his Hutch had been immediate and unmistakable; she hoped he was more careful with his eyes in public than he had been tonight in private. The sense of possession had been almost overpowering.

“Find everything you need, Ma?”

She smiled. ”Yes. It’s getting late, and you have to be at work tomorrow, don’t you? Are you sure you won’t let me take the couch? You need your sleep.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be fine. This winter it rained so hard the ceiling leaked and I spent a week on the couch while the bedroom dried out.”

“I’m surprised. Didn’t Kenneth offer the use of his couch?” She put the faintest teasing emphasis on the last word, watching him carefully.

A brief flash of something in his eyes, too quick for analysis. “Yeah, but he was workin’ an inside cover job and got home all hours of the night.” He grinned. “And like you said. I need my beauty sleep.”

“You’d better get some now.” She reached up to ruffle the thick curls. “Do you remember when you and Nicky were little, and I used to threaten to mop up the floor with you?”

“Yeah. And Papa used to—” He broke off, a slow flush staining his cheekbones. “Look, Ma. I’m sorry about tonight. It just—it was kind of a shock. I’m sorry.”

“I couldn’t think of any other way to tell you than flat out. You’ll like Andrew. He’s a good cop and a fine man.”

“You love him, huh?”

“I’m too old for romance,” she said briskly, then paused. She owed David more than that. Looking at him once more, she wondered how much of childhood remained in his attitude toward this marriage. “I don’t love him the way I loved your father, if that’s what you mean. That was first love, Davey, and that only happens once. Andrew and I— we’ve both been married before and we understand what makes a good marriage work. I do love him, but it’s—it’s different. Do you understand?”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “I think so. You haven’t said much about him, y’know. I know what he does for a living, but—look, Ma, can we talk about this? If you’re too tired we can leave it for morning.”

“Your work—”

He shook his head. “I don’t have to be in until nine, and it’s only midnight now.”

“You don’t leave me much choice.” She smiled. “Do you always get your own way?”

Another fleeting glimpse of something behind his eyes, and then that wide grin. “Eventually. C’mon, sit down. I want to know all about this guy.”

* * * *

“Did I tell you he’s got a twelve-year-old daughter?”

“Yeah, about three times.” Hutch leaned back in his chair, wishing they built office furniture for real human beings. After seven solid hours of paperwork his neck was sore, his legs felt cramped, and the dull throb in his back meant that not even his lunchtime workout would keep him from a pain pill tonight.

“Think I’ll drop by the gym on my way home, see if I can work some of the kinks out,” he remarked, rubbing the small of his back.

“Don’t work out all of ’em,” Starsky grinned.

Heat rose in his cheeks, even though he was long used to suggestive words and glances from his irrepressible partner.

“Still don’t trust me to be careful, do ya?” Starsky murmured.

“About as much as you trust me,” Hutch shot back before he could stop the words. Quickly he added, “When did you say Andrew is flying in?”

“Friday night. Ma said to shanghai you into coming along to dinner. We’re gonna meet them at the Red Dog Saloon.”

“Starsk, I don’t think I should be there—I mean—”

Starsky shrugged. “Ma usually gets what she wants. She says to tell you you’re part of the family, too.” His eyes softened. “You are, y’know. All the times you had to call her ’bout me bein’ in the hospital or somethin’—not to mention the times I called her when I had to have somebody to talk to about you.” He smiled. “And the Paul Muni Special.”

Hutch chuckled quietly. “You still don’t eat your vegetables. Okay, I’ll tag along. I assume you’re buying?”

“Yeah. She would want to hit one of the most expensive places in West L.A. Andrew took her to some ritzy joint uptown to propose.”

“I thought everybody in New York proposed marriage at The Cloisters in the rain.” Hutch began stacking reports.

“My father proposed to her on the swing sets in junior high.”

Hutch glanced over to meet the laughing eyes. “What? That’s the most unromantic—”

“Not really. She was in the eighth grade at the time. She told him she’d never marry him in a million years.”

“So how did they finally get together?”

“She decided to get pregnant when she was seventeen.” He laughed again. “They got married in September and I was her birthday present in March.”

Hutch made a great show of counting on his fingers, then raised his brows. “Shoulda known. Only time in your life when you should have been late and weren’t!” He got up, shrugged into his jacket, and walked around to Starsky’s side of the table. Soft curls tangled in his fingers as they brushed the nape of Starsky’s neck. “See you tomorrow. Have a good time at the movies tonight.”

“I will.” Starsky looked up over his shoulder, holding Hutch captive in a world created just for them. “Miss me tonight,” he murmured. “Miss me a lot.”

So easy to make the promise those eyes wanted, the promise he had already given but regretted. Give up life and freedom and sanity for the love in those blue eyes. Hutch felt himself sinking deeper into them and consciously pulled away. Breaking the physical contact as well, he said, “Gonna call every hour to check up on me?”

Spell broken. A few cutting words, a reminder of their conflict, and Starsky drew away from him behind some personal wall of protection that both freed Hutch and painfully isolated him. He left the squadroom and drove home, skipping the gym, going at once to his telephone to dial an always available number.

* * * *

Rebecca glared fondly at her slightly drunk son as he searched his pockets for his house key. “How many times have you seen that movie, anyway? Ten?”

“Twelve, counting tonight,” he replied, unrepentant. “I’m in love with Princess Leia.” Unlocking the door, he continued. “See? Home before midnight, Cinderella—and the car didn’t even turn back into a tomato.”

She gave up and laughed. At times like this he reminded her forcefully of his father—the mile-wide smile challenging anyone to rain on his exuberant parade. The years had muted the brilliantly-colored memories, but Davey could bring them all back with his boundless enthusiasm for living. He showed the effect of the beers he’d downed with the pizza, but his vault of the couch was graceful as a cat’s.

“Air the place out a bit,” he explained as he opened the French doors part way. “Want some coffee?”

“I’ll make it. You never did learn how.”

“Not true!” Laughing, outraged eyes widened. “Anyway, you should taste the bilge Hutch calls coffee—oh!” He snapped his fingers and reached for the phone. “Gotta call him, apologize.”

For what? trembled on her lips, but she kept silent as she went to the bedroom. Removing her nightgown and robe from the closet, she tried not to listen to her son’s side of the conversation.

“Hiya, babe! We got back early and I thought I’d call and tell ya g’night.”

A long pause, and when David spoke again the happy lilt had left his voice. Rebecca clenched her fingers on the green robe.

“No. I’m not checkin’ up on you. Of course I trust you, babe, that’s not why I—Hutch!” Coaxing note now. “C’mon, babe, don’t be this way. I can see where you might be mad at me, but honest, I wasn’t—Hutch?”

Another silence and this time when David spoke his voice was a clipped and angry snarl. Rebecca shook her head at the mistake he was making, all in the name of his love.

“You promised me, that’s right. And that should be enough for me—so how come it isn’t, huh? How come I always get this feelin’ in my gut when you pick up the phone, like you’re waitin’ for somebody to be quiet so you can lie to me? How come I—shut up! Just shut up? How come we’re so happy an’ then you come up with some goddamned—all I did was call to tell you I love you and say goodnight! You want to make a fuckin’ production outta this, fine. Sleep well—sleep with whoever you goddamn want.”

The phone jangled as the receiver was slammed back down. Rebecca stood very still for a long time, eyes closed, running the soft cotton of her robe through her fingers. “Davey,” she whispered soundlessly to herself, “you’re going to lose him. Love isn’t possession. Don’t hang on so hard, please—”

She heard soft sounds from the kitchen—china clattering, coffeepot perking, refrigerator door shutting. She wondered if she had the right to pry.

“Ma? Coffee’s about done.”

She walked slowly through the living room, past the cabinet that had stood in her mother’s parlor for thirty years. She remembered the last time she had taken Davey to the old apartment, bringing with them pastries from the Italian restaurant downstairs. Her mother hadn’t answered their knock, and when the super had finally been persuaded to let them in, they had found the old woman peacefully dead in her faded armchair. David had been just ten-years-old.

Rebecca managed a smile as she took a coffee mug from her son and sat down at the kitchen table. She allowed the silence to enwrap them as she gazed at him, noting the tightened lips and pallor of anger, the lashes that had lowered to hide his eyes. He was much too young to have seen so much death. Grandmother and grandfather; the baby girl she had birthed when Nicky was three-years-old, who hadn’t lived more than a month; father, shot down before his eyes; Rose’s husband, Jacob, dying slowly of cancer; Viet Nam; the streets of Los Angeles.

“Why did you become a cop, Davey?” she asked suddenly. “You never did tell me.”

He looked up, startled by the abrupt question. “Because—partly because of Papa. I told him at my bar mitzvah, remember?” He stirred more sugar into his coffee. “I guess I always thought of it as a promise.”

“But it wasn’t just that, was it?”

“No. Not just for him.” He got to his feet, nervous energy rippling off his muscles tensed, movements quick. “In the Army, when I made it to M.P.—it was the only place in the whole lousy war where I could do something good instead of just killing people—pointing a gun into the jungle and shooting. Not even knowing if you’d hit something. It was better, bein’ in Saigon. Not safer—nobody was safe anywhere. But…” His eyes focused on scenes she could only guess at. “I guess the first time I broke up a fight between a buncha G.I.s over a- girl—she wasn’t a hooker, but they were gonna use her like one. And then there was the dealer we caught—a lieutenant, for God’s sake, sellin’ heroin cigarettes—I guess it reminded me of what I’d said to Papa.” He gave her a rueful grin. “I didn’t have much direction in those days, y’know. Once I remembered that I’d wanted to be a cop, I lost the feeling of fighting against myself.”

“Why else, Davey?” She knew she was prodding him, but also knew there were only two people in the world allowed to do so—herself, and Kenneth.

“Because I learned what a great cover a uniform is.” His eyes were old and bitter. “It’s safe. The macho image of bein’ a cop—nobody suspects nothin’.” He blinked, shaking his head, and sat down again. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, Ma. It’s not very pretty.”

“It wasn’t pretty to live through, was it? Don’t you remember whose wife I was for fourteen years?” She pressed on before the barrier could slam closed in his eyes. “I used to listen to your father when he needed somebody to talk to. I’ve heard all the stories, David. I’ve heard a lot of ugliness. What you’re telling me about yourself isn’t ugly. It hurts me, because I never helped you when you needed help. But I do understand.” She paused, then asked, “Do you ever regret becoming a cop?”

He leaned back and closed his eyes. The light from the living room shadowed his face, etching deeper hollows into his cheeks, shading the fine bones of his brow and jaw. “I don’t know. There’s some things that make me want to die when I think about them. Lonnie Craig. Gillian, Helen… Terry—”

The other names meant nothing to her, but the last was all too familiar. “You loved her very much, didn’t you?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. She was my last chance, Ma.” His voice was wistful with remembered tenderness. “I coulda married her, had kids, been like everybody else. I really did love her.”

‘But—you loved Kenneth then, too? Would you have been happy with Terry, still loving him?”

He flinched, his eyes wide. “Mama,” he whispered, “you’re tearin’ my heart out. Why’re you asking me all this?”

“Davey!” She rose, put her arms around his shoulders and held him. “I’m so sorry, forgive me.”

“I loved him then—of course I did,” he murmured, leaning against her. “But we weren’t—he didn’t know. Guess I hardly knew, myself. I don’t know if I coulda made it work with her. Maybe I’m fooling myself. But I never got the chance. And because of me, because I’m a cop, she’s dead.”

She smoothed back his hair, looking down into clear eyes that were so like her own. “It was so much easier to be a mother when you were little. All I had to do was take care of you, watch you play and grow, protect you from skinning your knees. Keep you from things that could hurt you. I can’t do that anymore.”

A glimmer of a smile appeared. “You did all right, y’know.”

She had no answer. Moving away from him, she gathered the mugs and cream pitcher from the table. “Go to bed, Davey. You look tired.”

“Ma?”‘

“Yes?”

“Papa was lucky to have you to talk to. So’m I.”

She turned to see that astonishing innocence in his eyes. What had allowed it to live through all the things that had happened to him?

“And so is Andrew. I’m gonna like him—really.” He smiled and hugged her. “G’night. See you tomorrow for dinner.”

“Good night, Davey.”

Slowly she washed the cups and set them to drain. Then, switching off the remaining lights, she passed silently by the couch where her son slept and went into the bedroom. It was a long time before she could sleep.

* * * *

Hutch caught at his partner’s arm before they entered the Red Dog Saloon. Starsky turned, brows uplifted, and Hutch smiled. “Tie’s crooked,” he explained, and adjusted it. “There. You’re gorgeous.”

“You don’t have to try so hard,” Starsky told him, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I already said I’m sorry. How come whenever I do something wrong, you’re always the one who patches things up?”

“My natural generosity and charm,” Hutch said, steadfastly refusing to remember the lies he’d told Starsky. “Plus the fact that you make my life miserable when you sulk. Come on, let’s go in. You can have a drink to steady your nerves before they get here.”

“My nerves are fine.” He held out his left hand and Hutch laughed as it trembled with deliberate exaggeration.

“Idiot. Move your ass, Curly, before it gets kicked.”

“Never thought you’d have a taste for—ouch!” Starsky jumped away from the goosing Hutch gave him. “And you tell me to quit with the obvious stuff in public!” he hissed, cheeks red.

“I am never obvious,” Hutch intoned with dignity. “I am subtle. I am also thirsty.” He led the way into the elegantly dim interior and strode directly through to the bar.

They ordered drinks and Hutch allowed himself to absorb the pleasing sight of his partner in a suit. Although Starsky always complained and balked at anything more formal than jeans and a shirt, he wore his café-au-lait gabardine with instinctive style. A cream-colored shirt and a tie patterned in shades of tan and blue complimented his coloring—and, coincidentally, blended with Hutch’s own blue suit. The contrast of blond and dark was striking, and Hutch knew it. It amused him to watch other people watch them when they went out for an evening; they were always mistaken for a pair of lawyers or businessmen or doctors, never identified as cops. Hutch enjoyed intercepting glances from ladies, but he enjoyed even more the looks given Starsky. He grinned to himself as the barmaid ran bedroom eyes over his partner, for Starsky, as usual, paid her no more attention than if she had been fat and forty rather than a willowy mid­-twenties. Hutch warmed with satisfaction; women could look all they wanted. Starsky would be going home with him.

“You’re cheerful.”

Hutch set down his beer. “Try a smile,” he suggested. “The man’s probably as nervous as you are.”

“He’s probably some totally New York type who’ll call Ma ‘the little woman.’ Old geezer.”

“You think your mother would stand for that kind of stuff?”

“Nah….” He took a long pull at his beer, frowning. “Hutch. I really don’t know what to expect. He’s a widower, his wife and two sons died in a car accident years ago, he’s got a twelve-year-old daughter, and he’s a good cop. Ma told me a whole buncha stuff, but I still don’t know much about him. ‘Cept he’s Irish Catholic. That’s gonna be cute.”

“You’re only Jewish at Hannukah—and then only so you can get more presents,” he teased.

Starsky sniffed. “You just don’t understand ethnicity.”

“You can pronounce it? Come on, lighten up. He’s probably a very nice man who happens to want to marry your mother. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothin’. It’s perfectly understandable. But how’s she gonna fit in with his family?”

“You know what you sound like?”

“What?”

“Her father, not her son.”

Starsky grinned. “It’s the Jewish mother in me. How do you overcome a background like mine?”

“I give up—how?”

“You don’t. Believe me, you don’t.” He pointed to his own chest. “Underneath this suave, sophisticated, debonair California exterior is five thousand years of Jewish mothers.”

Hutch laughed. “Well, partner, don’t look now, but here comes yours.”

Starsky set his empty glass down just as Rebecca appeared in the doorway, smiling up at the man beside her, and whispered, “Holy shit.”

Hutch echoed him silently. The gentleman who took Rebecca’s arm and guided her to the bar was at least six foot three, black Irish, built like a pro running back—and perhaps forty-five-years old. As they neared, Hutch took in the details: wavy black hair silvered at the temples, strong bones of nose and jaw, bright blue eyes, neatly-tailored suit on a powerful body. The mouth was firm and wide, curving in a wary smile as he caught sight of Starsky and correctly identified him as Rebecca’s son. Hutch nudged his partner in the ribs and Starsky took the cue. He went forward to meet them, hand outstretched, a smile on his face.

“Hi. I’m David. Nice to meet you.”

The two men shook hands. Andrew Flaherty’s voice was a deep rumble as he said, “It’s a cliché, but I really have heard a lot about you. Call me Andrew.” He looked down at Rebecca. “Do you want to sit in the bar or go right in to dinner?”

“We’ve left out Kenneth,” she replied, gathering Hutch to her with a look. “Andrew, this is my son’s partner, Kenneth Hutchinson.”

Hutch shook the big hand and smiled. “Hutch. Glad to know you, Andrew.”

“I’ve heard some stories about you, too.” Andrew nodded. “Well? Shall we go eat? Those airline dinners wouldn’t feed a gerbil. I’m starved.”

In five minutes they were seated at a corner table, looking at their menus. Hutch cleared his throat softly, glancing at Starsky from behind the cover of the leather-bound parchment. But Starsky was concentrating very hard on the selection of appetizers. Hutch realized that conversation was up to him. “Are you out here just for the weekend, or is this a vacation for you?”

“Just for the weekend. I’ve got three weeks off at Christmas. but that’s reserved for the honeymoon.”

“I’m hoping for a drive up to Vermont, but he wants to take me to Paris,” Rebecca said.

“Paris?” Starsky’s attention was caught. The menu closed and was placed atop his plate, felling the delicate sculpture of a crimson-edged white napkin. “Take it, Ma—and send lots of postcards.”

“I don’t think I’m a Paris sort of person,” she began.

“You’ll love it, Becca,” Andrew said. “Didn’t you tell me your father had emigrated from France after World War One?”

“Grandpa taught you a lot of French when you were a kid, didn’t he, Ma? Me, too,” he explained. “I forgot most of it, though. He was a rabbi.”

Hutch groaned inwardly—ten minutes it had taken Starsky to get into religion. “I don’t remember too much about France,” he said. My grandfather took me along on a business trip there when I was twelve, and about the only thing I recall is getting sick on pastries.”

“There, you see?” Rebecca chided her fiancé. “You’d destroy my diet.”

“Lame excuse, Ma.” Starsky chuckled, picking up his menu again. “The waiter’s giving us the evil eye. You decided what you want yet, Hutch?”

Conversation between them unnecessary during the ordering of the meal and wines, Hutch took the time to observe his three companions. Rebecca gave off an air of serenity that couldn’t quite mask her nervousness; her eyes flickered back and forth from Andrew to her son. Andrew himself appeared oblivious to any under­currents, his perfectly composed face probably the same one he would show to any new-met person. As for Starsky, his customary ease of manner was bridled by his situation. One moment he was relaxed, and the next his eyes were sharp and searching. Hutch sighed; it was going to be a long evening.

* * * *

Starsky pushed the ruins of a Baked Alaska around on his plate, wondering what to say. He cursed Hutch for taking his mother out onto the tiny dance floor, leaving him and Andrew oh-so-tactfully alone. Hey, step-dad-to-be, did you know I’m gay? Did you know you’re getting a queer for a stepson? “You met my brother Nick?”

Andrew sipped his coffee. “Yes. Nick is a spoiled, seif-indulgent brat.”

“Yeah. He can be a real pain.”

“I do owe him a debt, though. I met your mother after I’d arrested him.”

Starsky blinked. “What charge?”

“Possession—just under an ounce of grass, nothing serious. He was making a fool of himself at a club, and—oh, hell, I’m telling this backwards. I’d taken a lady out to dinner and Nick was creating a problem at the bar. I took him to the back hall to talk to him, and out popped the dope. So I busted him and took him over to my precinct. The man behind the desk—Jerry Solomon—knew your dad from way back, and when I gave him the name, well…” He shrugged. “Jerry asked me to go easy on the kid. Then your mother came down to post bail.”

“You booked him?”

“Not completely. My mistake. I thought I’d thrown a scare into him. It didn’t work.”

“It’s always that way with Nicky—he’s never in enough trouble to really scare the shit out of him. And somebody always saves his hide.”

“So I’ve gathered. I think what got to me about your mother was the look in her eyes—like she’d done this too many times before.”

“She has,” Starsky replied, not wanting to remember his own waywardness during the months after his father’s death. Later, in L.A., he’d been far enough away to avoid hurting her.

“I dropped by your mother’s place that next week to check up on Nick.” Andrew smiled reminiscently. “And when I asked her out to dinner, she told me to get lost.”

Starsky chuckled. “That sounds like Ma.”

“It took me a long time to convince her, you know. She’s a very beautiful woman, and as silly as it sounds at my age, I think I fell in love with her right away.”

“What about Nick?” Starsky was nervous at the mention of love and told himself he was being a jerk.

“He got a talking to, but that was all. He hates me, of course.” Bringing out an expensive silver cigar case, he offered it to Starsky. “Don’t smoke? Mind if I—?”

“Go ahead.” He watched the intricate process of readying the cigar for smoking—clipping the end, rolling it between strong fingers, carefully igniting the tip.

“There are a lot of people in the department who still remember your dad. They don’t want to hurt his widow.”

“He was something unusual.”

“I’ve heard the stories. Some of them I’ll bet even you haven’t heard.” Andrew smiled through a haze of cigar smoke. “I’ll keep a close eye on Nick. I won’t have him hurting Becca.” He paused a moment, tapping the ash against the rim of a crystal bowl. “I didn’t know what to expect when I came out here, David. I was afraid you’d be another Nick.”

“If I’d stayed in New York, I probably would have been.” He’d never admitted that to anyone before, not even to Hutch.

“I don’t think so. You’ve always had it in you to be a cop, Becca says—and a damned fine one.”

“Slice all of what Ma says in half, water it down, and it might have some relation to the truth.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You know, I’d like to see sometime how you and Hutch work out here. L.A.’s so different from New York—maybe I could pick up something to use back home.”

Starsky took the hint. “You want to come with us on patrol tomorrow? We have to spend some time with our captain goin’ over some paperwork, but that shouldn’t take too long. I think you’d have to sign an observer’s waiver, too.”

“A cop is a cop—even though I’m three thousand miles out of my jurisdiction.” Andrew smiled. “I’d like to ride along with you and Hutch. Thanks for the offer.”

“It’ll probably be pretty boring. But you’re more than welcome.”

Hutch reappeared at the table with a flushed and smiling Rebecca on his arm. Starsky eyed his mother approvingly, then called the waiter over to order a bottle of champagne.

* * * *

“I think we shocked your son.”

“I know we did.” Rebecca paused as Andrew paid off the cabbie, watching the way the streetlights touched his hair. As he straightened and replaced his wallet, she wondered how long it had been since she had stopped comparing him to Mike. “But you know he liked you. Did you like him?”

He slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow as they walked into the warm elegance of the Sheraton Wilshire. “Let’s have a nightcap.”

“Don’t evade the question.”

“Becca,” he began. then grinned. “Yes, all right—I liked him. You knew I would. Now can we have a nightcap?”

“Of course.”

The interior of the lounge closed snugly around them in amber velvet and brown leather. Andrew ordered two Irish coffees and excused himself to check on the delivery of Rebecca’s luggage that afternoon. While he was gone, she thought seriously about how she would frame her next question.

“I could hear the gears whirring all the way from the lobby.” He slid into the booth, his big body surprisingly graceful. Placing one hand gently over hers, he continued. “Keeping secrets?”

Not her secret; Davey’s. She smiled back. “Did you like Kenneth, too?”

“Mn-hmmm. I mentioned that I’m riding along with them tomorrow, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Ought to be interesting.”

“I hope it’s dull.” She glanced up as the waitress brought their drinks and spent a few silent moments stirring the whipped cream into her coffee to cut the taste of the liquor. “Be careful. And don’t let Davey show off.”

“He’s a cop, not a ten-year-old. Worry wart.”

“Did you talk to Davey about Nick?”

“Yes. What did you tell him about Shauna?”

“Just family things. About the boys, and your wife.” She sipped her coffee, steam warming her cheeks, the fragrance of Irish whiskey tickling her nose. “You know, I don’t think I noticed before but Shauna could almost be my boys’ sister. Same color hair and eyes.”

“My favorite combination.” He smiled. “Blue eyes and dark hair. It’s all right, Becca. I like your cop son. And his partner. I assume I’m getting both of them into the bargain?” A brow lifted quizzically. “I’d like to let them loose in my precinct, show those clowns what a real partnership is. Because they’ve got it.”

“You haven’t even seen them work yet.”

He leaned back, took out a cigar. “Don’t really have to. The old cliché is true—a good partnership is like a good marriage. You remember when I introduced you to Chaille and Brodhagen? They’ve got it. So did I, when I was working with John Wentzel.”

“Then it follows that a good marriage is a good partnership, too, right?” She winked at him.

“Except I can’t imagine anybody wanting to sleep with Wentzel.” He grinned. “You on the other hand…”

The color burned up into her cheeks. “Andrew!”

“Start practicing, Becca—you’ll have to look married to me when we register. Think you can manage it?”

“I thought you were going to sneak me into your room. Will you? I’ve never been snuck into a man’s hotel room.”

Andrew laughed. “And you tell me that I shocked David and Kenneth.”

“Well, we both did. Andrew…”

“Yes?”

“I want to know exactly what you think of David. And Kenneth.”

“Stubborn….” He tapped the cigar ash off its end and frowned. “I was afraid David was going to be like Nick. But he’s not, thank God. He’s a good son, a good man. I’m not sure how that big blond ever became a cop—what with his manners and looks. He comes from money, doesn’t he? You can’t fake something like that. ‘Breeding,’ my old Irish granny used to call it.”

“But you like them? Really?”

“Of course,” he said, but his eyes were bewildered. “I told you I’d like them, even if they turned out to be Republicans.” He coaxed a grin from her and finished his coffee. “Come on. And try to look married, Becca.”

Fifteen minutes later they were in a large, quiet room on the fifth floor, preparing for bed. As Rebecca brushed her hair and washed her face, she wondered why she hadn’t been able to tell Andrew about Davey and Kenneth. But that would be admitting things she didn’t like to think about, revealing to him as she would never reveal to her son that there was still a part of her that was ashamed. One son a lifelong adolescent, the other a closet gay. That made her a wonderful mother for his daughter, didn’t it?

Tears welled in her eyes. “Last chance,” David had said about his Terry. Andrew was her last chance—the only chance since Mike’s death. He had jolted her out of the accustomed dullness of her long widowhood and made her feel young and desirable again. She would make him happy, and their marriage would be good. She was sure of it. She could not be anything less than sure, not now.

“Becca?”

The room was dark as she emerged from the bathroom. She made her way to the bed, slipping off her robe. Andrew’s arms welcomed her, a not-yet-familiar embrace and thus even more precious.

“Relax, darling,” he whispered, and she appreciated the darkness that allowed him to use the endearment. “Everything’s going beautifully. And I find it very flattering that you’re not at all worried about whether or not they like me, too.” He chuckled, lips roaming through her hair.

“Davey would like you for my sake,” she replied teasingly, “even if you were a Republican.”

“Did you tell him everything about Maggie? And Kevin and Brian?”

“Yes.” She felt him withdraw from her into thoughts about his dead wife and sons. Mike had been this way sometimes, too, moving away from her to places in his mind and heart where she could never follow. Still, he had belonged to her. Just as Andrew now belonged to her. The private places in a beloved’s soul remained private, but the belonging was worth any temporary withdrawal. She wondered if that wasn’t part of Davey’s problem with his Kenneth. Andrew—and Mike—had belong to her through their own choice. Was Davey confusing belonging with ownership?

“Becca?”

He was back with her, as she had known he would be. “Yes?”

“You want me to wake you up the way I did on your birthday?”

She laughed against his shoulder. “Oh, that would be nice.” She snuggled closer to his warmth, remembering his pre-dawn arrival at her apartment with a bottle of champagne and a dozen red roses in his arms. She hadn’t realized until that morning how deeply she’d missed the comfort of a strong male body in her bed.

His breathing slowed into measured sighs and she listened to them for a long time, contented. But the part of her that had always been too far away to mother a cherished son still cried out softly inside her, and her sleep was troubled.

* * * *

Hutch smiled as Starsky’s lids drooped slowly closed to hide the dark sapphire of his eyes. Beautiful eyes. In anger, they flashed blue fire, they could be soft as a child’s with tenderness and need, laughter turned them warm and brilliant, and passion—he had just seen those eyes turn blue-black with wanting, their bright heat searing his skin.

Starsky sprawled next to him, sated and musky-smelling. Hutch ran his fingers lightly through the tangled mass of curls that in the last year had begun to silver at the temples. Starsky always plucked out each white hair the minute he found it, but Hutch had discovered another one tonight, woven through a curl like a ray of captured moonlight. He hadn’t mentioned it.

Sliding one hand over the curve of a shoulder, he touched again the terrible scars crossing the broad chest. He would never get used to them. They would always frighten him. He had to force himself to caress them when he made love to Starsky, to keep that wounded, shamed look from his lover’s eyes.

He thought of the weeks after Starsky had come home. Those first nights they had clung together, unable even to speak much, neither of them able to make love. After all the time and all the pain, they had simply soothed each other’s nightmares, rediscovered the fit of their bodies in sleep. But it had been a long time before desire had stirred in either of them again.

And it had been Hutch, tenderly, with exquisite care, who had reawakened that part of their need for each other. Hutch, who had learned such loving from Starsky, who had never touched any other man and never wanted to, who had been so shy their first few months of being lovers, had brought Starsky’s body fully back to life. He became teacher, as Starsky had once been for him. Even now his heart moved at the memory of Starsky’s eyes, huge and dark, frightened that Hutch would find him ugly. It had hurt to see a body that had once been sleek with careless strength grown so frail. And the scars—sweet Christ, the scars. Yet there had been nothing awkward or ugly about him: he had been fined down to painful thinness, but he was beautiful all the same.

Still, deeper than the fear of being unwanted, Starsky’s eyes had held a terror of being unable to function as a man. His body had been hesitant, his responses tentative, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he waited for failure, expecting it, dreading it. Hutch’s patience had seemed to humiliate him.

When at last he hardened and was coaxed to climax, tears had filled his eyes. Hutch had made love to him again only a little while later, reinforcing the lesson, teaching him, as Starsky had taught him so long ago, to relax, to feel, to savor the striving and the love play, to surrender to the violence of orgasm and the sweetness of afterglow. The beautiful eyes had widened in almost innocent wonder, as if he had never known lovemaking before, and Hutch had laughed in delight.

What more could he ever need than this man? Best friend, companion, partner, lover, beloved, life’s mate. What more could he ever want than this?

Starsky stirred beside him, nestling closer, and Hutch stroked the curls from his forehead. Long lashes trembled a little in sleep, the skin of the eyelids pale and delicate. The most beautiful eyes in the world… Was his freedom too great a price to pay for eyes like that? Why couldn’t he promise Starsky fidelity—and mean it?

* * * *

“…so this idiot strolls around all day with a ladder, for Christ’s sake, carries it all over the damned hotel—”

“Not true! Hildie took it away from me.”

Hutch exchanged grins with his partner in the rearview mirror as Andrew, beside Starsky in the Torino’s front seat, shook his head. Leaning forward, Hutch said, “Only in L.A., right?”

“Something like that. Did you ever catch the Baron?”

“Nope. He got away, but without the diamonds.” Starsky chuckled. “For a while there I thought Huggy was gonna give in to his baser instincts and keep them. They sure were pretty.”

“‘Pretty,’ he says,” Hutch commented. “Four million bucks, and he calls them ‘pretty.'”

“Who’s Huggy?”

“Friend of ours, owns a bar downtown.” Starsky made a quick left turn onto a side street. “Want to check with Rupert, see if he’s got anything today?”

“Sure,” Hutch answered, sitting back again. “Rupert’s a useful snitch, only you have to feed his ego as well as his wallet.”

“Does he run with any particular set?” Andrew took a short, slim cigar out of a box and lit it. “I ask because my Narco men have found that the best snitches are snug in one organization or another. The most reliable, that is—usually men or women the boss would suspect last.”

“We don’t have much to do with Narco,” Hutch replied. “Starsky and I have a little network of our own, and we use the important snitches to check out what the small fry gives us. We learned that the hard way, believe me.”

“We like to have a deep, meaningful, personal relationship with our snitches,” Starsky added sardonically. “There’s Rupert. Whaddya think, Hutch?”

He ran his gaze over the tall Jamaican, gauging the shabby elegance carefully. “Maybe.”

Andrew exhaled fragrant cigar smoke. “Looks like he’s doing okay. You might not get anything from him until he’s strung again.”

Hutch gave him full marks for recognizing addiction where the signs were scarcely visible yet. “Maybe,” he said again. “But I think he’s starting to hurt just enough to make him remember what it’s like to hurt more.” He met Starsky’s eyes again in the mirror, acknowledging the memory silently. Andrew couldn’t know, as Hutch knew intimately, every stage of heroin hunger.

“Hey, Rupert!” Starsky pulled to the curb and leaned out the window. “How’s it goin’?”

Rupert was about a quarter of the way through his life expectancy as an addict. He still took care of his appearance, although his clothes had been new several years ago. Still, he wore them with a certain flair, and this afternoon he looked almost dapper.

“Salutations,” Rupert greeted them, bowing. He retained the supple grace of the athlete he had once been, but it wouldn’t last such longer. Workouts and a healthy diet were in the past. He was like some beautiful statue of dark marble, slowly being defaced. “Have you changed your mind, my blue-eyed chevalier? Are you going to take me up on my perpetual offer?”

Starsky grinned as he set the brake and got out of the car. “I’m still thinking it over, queerida.” Rupert laughed appreciation of the Spanish endearment, purposely mispronounced and feminized. “Got somebody here I’d like you to meet,” Starsky went on.

Hutch climbed out behind Andrew and received the usual languishing glance before Rupert grabbed Starsky’s arm, staggering.

“Davey, sweet Davey, where did you find him? Is he a present for me? Oh, I’m going to faint!”

“Knock it off, Rupert. He’s my future stepfather, and if you don’t stop vamping him, I’ll tell my mother. And she’s even meaner than me.”

“Why are you always breaking my heart?” Rupert complained. “What does this gentleman call himself?”

“Andrew Flaherty, and I resent my intended step­son’s remarks about my intended bride.” Andrew smiled and held out his hand. The snitch took the fingertips, bowed low from the waist, and sighed.

“Pay no attention to him, he’s classless and uncouth. I am enchanted. Andrew, although chagrined. But I offer my congratulations.”

Hutch, leaning on the car with his arms folded, observed to his partner, “You’ve been jilted.”

“Fickle, fickle,” Starsky said, shaking his head. “When you’ve stooped drooling, Rupert, tell me if you’ve heard anything about Dan Flynn.”

The dark face altered, the charm turning crafty. “I’ll sing you a song, Davey, when you play me a nice green tune.”

“What century did you have in mind?” Hutch settled into the usual game.

“Late eighteenth, Baroque of course—with over­tones of France and many illegitimate children.”

Hutch identified Benjaman Franklin and his brows shot up. To start out at a hundred, Rupert must have something very interesting to tell.

“How about nineteenth century?” Starsky parried. “You know the tune of ‘Battle of New Orleans’?”

“You wound me,” Rupert mourned. “To the depths of my soul.”

“You’ll get the winner of the 1860 election and like it if you don’t remember the words pretty soon,” Starsky countered.

“Oh, come on, partner,” Hutch said at once, as expected. “How about ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’?” For emphasis, he dug out his wallet and produced a crisp new fifty.

“Music to my ears,” Rupert drawled. Then the charm faded and he spoke quickly. “Dan Flynn is living in Santa Monica, with many, many moneys and a dozen packing crates, which are not filled with Ming Dynasty vases. And before you ask how I know, several friends of mine have been invited to help him spend these many moneys. You might even find some of their purchases on the premises.” He sniffed for emphasis.

“Where in Santa Monica?”

“A charming place called Pasqualito’s. You know it?”

“Heard of it,” Starsky said casually, and Hutch hid his own amazement that Flynn was living above one of the most notorious and well-guarded pawn shops in the South Bay area. “I like your lyrics, Rupert, so you can have your green tune.”

Hutch handed over the fifty as Rupert said, “It’s nothing. The usual protective clauses apply, of course?”

“Of course,” Hutch echoed. “We appreciate it.”

Rupert nodded, folding the note and slipping it into his back pocket. “It was a pleasure and a privilege to meet you, Andrew. Be sure to wish your bride happy for me, and have a blissful marriage.”

“Thank you,” Andrew responded. “May I offer you a cigar?”

“My God! You didn’t get her pregnant!” Rupert looked horrified.

“No such luck,” Andrew said, flicking his lighter for the snitch. Rupert drew in a deep lungful of smoke as if taking a drag on a cigarette.

“He’s marrying my mother, not my sister,” Starsky pointed out.

“But you yourself are but a child, sweet Davey,” Rupert purred. “So your mamita can only be a—Davey, why is the Great Golden One in hysterics?”

Hutch managed to stop laughing long enough to say, “Keep spreading it with a shovel, Rupert—”

“Watch your mouth, Great Golden One,” Starsky growled, his eyes dancing. “We gotta go, Rupert. Stay out of trouble.”

“My allergies ensure it. Adieu.” He distributed smiles all around and resumed his interrupted promenade.

“You were right, Hutch,” Starsky said thoughtfully. “Hurting just enough to remember.”

“Yeah—or we wouldn’t have gotten Flynn. Do you think he’s giving it to us straight—don’t say it!” Hutch warned hastily as the grin tilted across Starsky’s face.

“Who me? Andrew, you’d better let Hutch ride shotgun for a while.”

As Andrew climbed into the back seat, Hutch looked over the top of the car at his partner. “Well?”

“Yeah, I think he’s telling it straight about Flynn. The crates have gotta be part of the haul from the Wyoming State Armory, and when we find that, we’ve got the gun that killed those two bank guards. Nice profit for Civil War currency, even with inflation.”

“Really.” Hutch slid into the seat and turned to look at Andrew as Starsky revved the Torino’s engine, “Rupert’s about an eight on the ten scale of our snitches. And he’s not even the weirdest.”

“Oh, I rather liked him. Reminds me of a woman I dated once—and only once.” Andrew smiled, stubbing out his cigar in the side ashtray. “She liked green music, too. Will you call this in, or go check it out yourselves?”

“We’re handling the murder investigation, but we’re gonna need a half a battalion to get through the muscle at Pasqualito’s. It’s sorta like Fort Knox.” Starsky glanced over his shoulder as he pulled out into the street behind a delivery van.

“Getting cautious in our old age,” Hutch added for Andrew’s benefit—and his partner’s.

“Good plan. Any of my men who tried to take this one on their own, I’d pick up what was left and tack it to the squadroom wall as a warning to other prospective hotshots.”

Starsky groaned. “Did you and Dobey go to the same Captain school?”

“No, I learned that particular bit from your mother—who’s expecting a full report, by the way,” Andrew grinned. “I’ll be glad to tell her that her foolhardy son is finally getting some sense into his head.”

“Better late than never,” Hutch observed virtuously, winning an elbow in the ribs from his partner. “Let’s find a phone and call Dobey. He can start setting things up.”

“Okay. And while we’re at it, I could use somethin’ to drink. Being sweet to Rupert makes my ulcer gurgle.”

“Ulcer? At your age?” Andrew snorted.

“It’s just a baby one right now. Doctor gave me this whole long list of stuff not to eat—”

“—which he ignores every chance he gets,” Hutch finished. “You watch—he’ll find a phone, all right, but ten to one it’s in a pizza place or outside a taco stand.”

“Got one mother,” Starsky grumbled. “Don’t need another one.” But the first phone booth they saw was just outside a Mexican restaurant, and as Starsky pulled the Torino into the parking lot he glared at Hutch. “Don’t say it!”

“Who me?” Hutch dug into his pocket for a dime as he walked to the booth. He had just deposited the money and placed the call when Starsky yelled from the car.

“Hey, turn into Superman while you’re at it, babe! Two-eleven call just came for a couple blocks from here!”

Hutch put the phone down hastily, cutting off the switchboard operator’s voice, and ran back to the car. Starsky had them rolling before Hutch had closed the door.

“So much for ‘dull,'” Andrew murmured from the back seat.

The “couple blocks” went by at forty miles an hour, sparse traffic coming to the prescribed halt on either side of the street at the sound of the siren. It always gave Hutch an eerie feeling to see that happen, as if the world had suddenly suspended all motion. Not that it was in deference to officers in pursuit of their sworn duty, but more likely in amazement that there was a cop around when somebody needed one.

Six thousand officers, Hutch thought sourly, three million-plus people in L.A. City proper, and they expect us to be everywhere at once. Maybe, just maybe, if we could get enough cops who really knew what they were doing, who came out of the Academy knowing a little more—or went into it better informed—

Half a dozen patrons of the Great Italian-American Pizza Emporium and Watering Hole spewed out of the front door of the establishment as the Torino came to a halt. One, a three-hundred-pound matron making remarkable speed down the street, kept shrieking, “He got a gun! He got a gun!”

“Terrific,” Starsky muttered as he checked his gun and got out of the car. “Want the back?”

”Okay. Don’t get your ass blown off—I’ve got plans for later,” Hutch said softly, and ran around the corner of the building before Starsky had a chance to reply.

The back door, he was pleased to see, was not of the kind forceable only by a bazooka or Sherman tank. It was beige-painted metal, but there were only a deadbolt and a key lock to get past. Begging the taxpaying owner’s pardon, Hutch took out the illegal, unethical, and strictly forbidden six-inch throwing knife he had added to his personal armory the day he’d gone to arrest James Marshall Gunther and used it to force the deadbolt. He snorted in disgust; the door was locked only by the handle, not by the deadbolt at all. Sheathing the knife in its leather case inside his jeans, he opened the door and stole cautiously inside.

He could hear Starsky’s voice, firm and commanding, inform the suspects that they were now in the armed presence of the LAPD. At the same time, he was giving Hutch all the data he needed of the exact whereabouts of each. It was a technique nobody had taught them at the Academy—one of the many they’d had to work out on their own.

“—away from the counter, and join your buddy over by the pinball machines. And you, with your hand in the till—yeah, couple steps back to the pizza ovens, and spread your arms real wide. You’re gonna have to drop the money, kid. That’s it. Real good.”

Hutch slipped around the corner of the massive oven, took the hand the suspect had extended on Starsky’s order, and cuffed the boy to the oven door. They kept getting younger, he reflected as he gave the kid a quick pat-down for weapons; this one wasn’t more than fifteen. Hutch then approached the counter where another boy, slightly older, stood with his fingers wrapped around the tall wooden handles of the draft beer dispenser. “Stand very still,” Hutch advised softly.

Starsky was in the middle of the room among the long wooden tables, his gun leveled at the boy behind the’ counter, his gaze flowing smoothly back and forth between him and the kid by the pinball machines. A quick glance told Hutch that the gun the woman outside had screamed about lay in the sawdust about five feet from Starsky’s position. As he frisked the kid in front of him, Hutch called, “Throw me your cuffs, will ya?”

“Allow me,” came Andrew’s voice from behind him, and Hutch gave a start of astonishment. He had forgotten all about the man. Andrew was carrying the shotgun, which was kept racked and loaded beneath the front seat of the Torino, its stock resting on his hip. He looked for all the world like some old West marshal in a saloon. Hutch accepted the extra pair of cuffs, thinking that Andrew had made a very thorough and efficient search of the car, indeed. “Lot of trouble to find a phone, David,” Andrew remarked.

Hutch fastened one of the bracelets to the boy’s wrist. “Where’d you come from?”

“Back door. David, why don’t you take care of that young man while Hutch calls this in?”

“Sure.” Starsky bolstered his gun, frowning, and turned to the boy leaning against the pinball machines. But just as he did so, the boy dropped and rolled, not toward the gun on the floor but away from Starsky, using the machines as cover. He came up an instant later with a Saturday Night Special in his hand, and fired.

There were many things Starsky could still do perfectly. There were many he could do only with pain. And there were some things he could no longer do at all. He wasn’t as quick as he had been, nor quite as strong, nor had he gotten back up to street weight. He had passed the Review Board—but just barely. In the six weeks he’d been back on full duty there had been no test of either his strength or his agility. Hutch had been secretly dreading the day such a test would come. And now it was here in front of him, a finger curling around a trigger that would send yet another bullet that might kill, as the others had nearly done.

Starsky moved so slowly. It was as if Hutch could see the bullet on a leisurely course through the air, the sharp scent of the firing already in his nostrils as Starsky’s body drifted slowly, so slowly. Hutch barely felt the fist that slammed into his midsection, barely heard the hoarse cry from Andrew beside him. All those things existed in false, sped-up time. He and Starsky and that small deadly bullet lived in real time, and they all moved so slowly. Hutch to fend off the hands that gripped his throat, Starsky to avoid the bullet, the bullet itself almost casual in its path to Starsky’s body, moving so slowly, so slowly.

The hands around Hutch’s neck were suddenly gone, and he looked down at the sprawled body his own hands had somehow broken. A great numbing roar echoed in Hutch’s ears. Starsky was on the floor. Hutch shook his head, hoping to clear it, and saw that there was a foot-wide hole gouged into the wall above where Andrew stood over the prone figure of the boy. His foot was planted on the fingers that held the .22 and the shotgun was pointed directly down into terrified eyes. The good cop in Hutch bent to fully cuff the kid at his own feet before he went around the counter to kneel beside his partner. Starsky’s hand was wrapped tight around his right thigh, and Hutch pulled his fingers away, fearing that the bullet had found its way to shatter muscle and bone. But Starsky sat up, his face pasty although his eyes were clear, and said something. Hutch couldn’t quite hear it. He concentrated, watching the moving lips, and eventually the sounds reached him.

“Hutch! I’m okay, it’s just a scratch. Babe, listen to me! Hutch?”

He nodded. So luck wasn’t entirely run dry after all. And the risk, that insane gamble that Starsky would be alive at the end of each day to hold his heart, that risk was over again. For now.

“Let’s call it in and get you to a hospital,” Hutch said, careful to speak distinctly and got to his feet feeling very old.

* * * *

Hutch sat on the brick wall of the planter outside the ER doors, contemplating the line of ants that marched past in the hot sun. He could have sworn they were the same ants he’d watched during the morning they’d operated on Starsky. It took very little effort to watch their orderly lines, one leading from and one to the crack in the pavement where they disappeared. Maybe they’d been doing it every day all these months. Maybe they’d been doing it forever.

He looked up at last as a voice called out his name. Rebecca ran to him from the taxi at the curb, her cheeks pallid, her eyes huge.

“Is Andrew all right? And Davey?”

“They’re fine,” he assured her, drawing her into the shade of an awning. “Andrew’s got a bruise on his shoulder and there’s a graze on Starsky’s leg. Not serious at all.”

“Thank God!” Her face regained a little color. “Tell me what happened.”

“We were out patrolling and got a two-eleven—armed robbery—and answered it. Starsk and I split up, and Andrew followed us. Three kids robbing a pizza place. No big deal.” He ran through the basics automatically, having already given them to an infuriated Dobey over the phone. “Andrew blew a hole in the wall with our shotgun—that’s how he got the bruise, because he didn’t have time to anchor the stock properly against his shoulder.”

“And Davey—”

“Just a graze, small caliber bullet. He walked in under his own power, Rebecca. The doctors are taking care of them now. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” she echoed. “When all the men I love are determined to get themselves killed?”

“Rebecca, it wasn’t—”

“Don’t tell me what it wasn’t! How dare he play at being a street cop again!” She paced away from him, then spun around, cheeks flushed and eyes sharp with bitterness. “Why is it you love this work? Why can’t any of you ever let go? It’s the same with all of you—you and Davey. Mike. Andrew—you can’t give it up even if you’ve been at a desk for five years! My God, why are you all the same? You’re like little boys, standing on the tracks waiting for the trains to come, playing ‘Chicken’! God, how I hate it!”

“You married a cop,” Hutch said quietly. “You’re about to marry another one. You’ve got a son who’s a cop. You should be able to understand by now, Rebecca.”

“Oh, I understand! You never think about anybody but yourselves!”

“That’s not true.” But he heard an echo in her voice of another woman who had cried out the same protests—only he had never heard her pain. Vanessa’s heart had toughened against him and love had died; Rebecca would always love and always suffer. “Is the love worth the risk?”

She was crying now, arms wrapped around her chest, her small frame shivering as if the breeze was freezing cold instead of warm and scented with the ocean. He went to her and slipped an arm around her shoulders; she shook him off angrily.

“Let me alone!”

“Rebecca—let’s go inside.”

She wrenched away from him, tears still on her cheeks. She wore them almost proudly as she preceded him through the double doors, then went to the ladies’ room down the hall to recover herself.

Hutch sat on a couch covered in orange plastic, his body too weary for movement and his mind too old for thought. He had loathed hospitals all his life but hated this one in particular. He knew each intersection of white tiling underfoot, each watercolor fern in the prints on the walls, each frightening sound from beyond the NO ADMITTANCE doors. In this room he had lived his worst nightmare. Is the love worth the risk?

Rebecca was back in a few moments, a slight puffiness under her eyes the only evidence of her emotion. She rested her hand for a moment on his hair, then went to the desk to speak to the nurse. “Kenneth,” she said over her shoulder at last, “we can go in now.”

He followed her, still numbly exhausted, through the doors and into a long room sectioned off by white curtains. They stood by a row of green oxygen tanks, listening to a doctor’s murmured instructions about when dressings could be removed. There was a soft clatter of metal rings sliding fabric aside, and the doctor left. Starsky slid off a gurney, wearing his jeans but no shirt. Rebecca gasped, and Hutch suddenly saw what she could not help but see.

The scars were hideous, jagged things where flesh and muscle had been twisted, cutting across chest and belly and sharp ribs. They had healed into whiteness, those cruelly necessary incisions that had obliterated the marks of bullets’ passage through Starsky’s body. Hutch, viewing them as if for the first time through Rebecca’s eyes, saw their ugliness and felt horror spreading through him. He wanted to run, escape the danger she had moaned of, the risk those scars represented. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stay here—but he couldn’t let anything show on his face, couldn’t let Starsky see his inward recoil, couldn’t reveal the fear of losing that made him want to run and run and run—

“Davey—oh, Davey—”

Starsky had stiffened, his jaw muscles tight and his eyes defiant. “Now you know,” was all he said. He turned to grab up his shirt and jacket, then pushed his way out into the hall.

“Mr. Flaherty is down the corridor having a cast put on,” a nurse’s voice said from behind them. “Would you like to go see him, ma’am?”

“Yes,” Rebecca whispered, her eyes blind.

Hutch returned to the waiting area and tried to remember where the drinking fountain was located. Familiar though he was with the place, he couldn’t seem to recall where to find it. He thought back dully, and eventually knew that it was precisely fourteen steps from the orange couch. He started from there, counting footfalls as he paced off the distance down the hall. The water was warm and brackish, nearly gagging him.

“He was gonna make my mother a widow again before she was a wife.”

Hutch resisted the longing to run and straightened slowly from the fountain. Starsky, shirt buttoned to his throat and jacket zipped up, leaned against the wall with his fists in his pockets. Hutch cleared his throat. “How’s your leg?”

“Fine. Doesn’t even hurt.” He glanced down at the protruding bandage against his outer right thigh. There was a neat hole in his jeans where the bullet had gone in, blackened and crusted with blood at the edges. “That was a goddamn stupid thing for Andrew to pull.”

“Maybe.”

“Coulda gotten himself killed.”

“There’s always that possibility,” Hutch said evenly.

“Why’d you bring her in there, anyway? I didn’t want her to see what’d happened to me.”

“She would have found out eventually.”

“Not if—oh, fuck it. Let’s get outta here. I hate this place.”

Hutch waited outside while Starsky signed the necessary forms. He went back to watching ants, but his mind stubbornly refused to blank out again. The sight of the scars after all these months had crumpled some integral part of the barrier he had built up in secret since Starsky had been shot; he felt as if he was disintegrating into dust like some clumsily-made brick wall, mortared with water.

Starsky joined him, silent and sullen. When Andrew appeared, Rebecca holding his arm, Hutch looked carefully for signs of the outburst of fear and rage. But Andrew was making light of the incident, and though Rebecca was pale with concern her voice and manner were easy, making no fuss, betraying nothing of her terror. He wondered as he drove them back to the Sheraton just exactly how she did it.

Starsky’s apartment was another twenty-minute drive, but there was no one to make comfortable conversation. The first words were spoken when the door was closed and locked behind them.

“I’ll have to go back to the office and work up the preliminary report,” Hutch said.

Starsky limped to the kitchen for a beer. “Oughta make Dobey freak. Unauthorized intervention by an unsworn passenger—he’s gonna love it.” The refrigerator door slammed shut. “So help me, Hutch. I’ll never understand why she couldn’ta married a furniture salesman—or a teacher or—”

“Starsky, let go.” Hutch went to the French doors, opened them to the sunlight.

“What?”

“Let go,” he repeated. “You don’t own her. She’s got her own life. She knows what she’s getting by marrying Andrew.”

“Yeah—a cop who doesn’t have sense enough to—”

“A cop, just like her first husband and her son.” He ran the curtain cord through his fingers. “She knows, Starsk. She’s not a little girl who has to be told what to do, what’s best for her. She can make her own decisions. Don’t hang on so hard. Don’t try to run her life.”

The couch-springs creaked softly as Starsky sat down. “That’s not all of it, right, Hutch? You think I don’t know what’s really eating at you?”

“Don’t read things into—”

“Bullshit,” he said with perfect calm. “We’ve been tap-dancing around this for almost a month now. It’s not my mother you want me to let go of—it’s you. Don’t think I don’t know that. And don’t think I don’t know what you did the other night. I can always tell, or had you forgotten that? Who was it—Carrie? Adriana? Or a one-nighter I haven’t met yet?”

“Stop it.”

“You want me to let go of you so’s you can fuck your way through the whole city. I know you, Hutchinson—that’s been your style for years. Fuck ’em and forget ’em. No involvement. Christ—you’re thirty-six, and you’re still actin’ like a—”

“Starsky. Knock it off.”

“No, we’re gonna talk about this. Used to be enough for me to be your lover, ’cause I thought that what we had would get so strong you’d forget about playin’ around. Used to think I could love you enough to where you wouldn’t want anybody else but me.”

“But you don’t think that way anymore, is that it?” He marveled that they were speaking so quietly.

“No. Not anymore. I love you, Hutch. I’ve put up with a lotta shit from you—and you don’t need to tell me you done the same for me. But we were still findin’ out about each other then, looking for a place where we could be lovers. But I won’t settle for a compartment of your life. I want it all. All your time, all your love—everything.”

“Why the change?” Hutch asked, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s different?”

“Somethin’ happened to me when I got shot—somethin’ changed. I can’t explain it, babe—I just know that I can’t live without knowin’ you’re mine.”

“I know what I promised,” Hutch said carefully, “but I can’t keep my word. I’ve tried, Starsk. But I can’t be held accountable for—”

“I want you. All of you.”

“You’re strangling me.”

“And how would you feel if I went out and found it on the side?”

He turned then, to find the eyes he loved were those of a stranger, hard and unforgiving. “Starsk—I feel trapped. You demand so much—”

“I’m not demanding anything that I’m not willing to give of myself.”

“And now you’re going to give me a taste of how it feels? Is that it?” Hutch asked very quietly. “You’ve tried that before.”

“I know.”

“I’m not made that way. I’ve got to have room to breathe.”

“Room to fuck around in, you mean.” Starsky drained his beer, set it on the table. “You’re mine, Hutch,” he said, his voice deadly certain. “You belong to me, just like I belong to you. Forever, with no limits and nobody else in our lives. You promised me, and you broke your promise—but when you give it to me again you’re gonna mean it. And keep it.”

Hutch stared at him, stubbornly silent. There would be no shouting match this time, no battle to end in angry passion that burned out, for a time, the memory of the quarrel, no quick rough lovemaking to make them forget.

“Now, Hutch. Promise me now.”

All his love, all his days and nights and his forever, given to one person, this man who claimed everything of him and gave everything in return. No one else, and no escape.

Hutch shut the door softly on his way out.

* * * *

The pain was crippling, but it had to be hidden. His mother and Andrew would be gone Monday morning, and tonight was such a short time to act as if his heart still lived within his body, as if he was a whole man instead of pieces that spoke and smiled and walked in to Sunday dinner at Aunt Rosie’s as if he had not spent Saturday night damning the doctors by getting drunk.

“What happened to Kenneth?” Rose was busy in the kitchen over a pot of chili.

“Says he’s sorry, but he can’t make it.” Starsky wondered why he was covering for Hutch. But one couldn’t say to one’s aunt that one’s partner was out screwing a beautiful redhead. Or blonde. Or brunette. Or whoever happened to be the fuck of the week.

“Well, I’ll save some of this for him and you take it by on your way home tonight. Now, go outside and enjoy the sunset, Davey.”

He leaned over to kiss her cheek and did as told. It was easier to obey orders than to think up something to do on his own.

Andrew lounged in the wicker chair on the patio, laughing at the antics of a pair of sparrows who fought for bread crumbs on the lawn. His mother sat nearby, relaxed and pretty in a pair of blue slacks and a white blouse. The aged look on her face of the previous afternoon was gone; she looked young again, her eyes alight. Watching them from the shelter of the doorway, the last of his dimly-admitted resentment and jealousy flickered away.

“Davey? Come and sit down and rest your leg. Does it hurt very much?”

“Only when I laugh.” He exaggerated his limp to take her smile, and sat down near her. “You never did say when the wedding’s gonna be. I’ll have to arrange for a few days’ leave.”

“December,” Andrew replied. “We haven’t chosen the date yet, but we’ll let you know.”

“You’re giving the bride away, Davey.” His mother smiled.

“Damn right,” he agreed with a grin.

Andrew got to his feet and collected his own glass and Rebecca’s. “Refill, Becca? And what can I get you, David? A beer?”

“Beer’s fine—let me help you with that.”

“I’ll recruit Rose into helping. You stay here.”

When they were alone, Starsky turned to his mother and said, “I’m sorry about how I’ve acted, Ma. I mean it. And I’m happy for you.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me, Davey.”

“You gonna tell Andrew about me and Hutch?” He lowered his voice, glancing to the patio doors.

She bit her lip. “I—I don’t know. Do you want me to?”

He shrugged. “All the rest of the family has been wondering for years why poor Davey isn’t married and making babies with some nice Jewish girl.”

“Do you wish you were?”

“Doesn’t much matter. I won’t, Ma. Ever.”

“I’ll tell Andrew if you want me to.”

“It’d be nice not to have to pretend. But I guess that doesn’t matter, either. He might not take it so good, huh?”

“What do you want, Davey?”

“I want—” He stared at the late flowers, could almost feel the softness of red and white and yellow blooms in his fingers. “I want Hutch. A place to live, maybe like this, to make a home and grow roses—and be together. I want a home, Mama. Someplace real. I want it with Hutch.”

“Then let him come to you. He loves you enough, Davey.”

“No, he doesn’t. He loves runnin’ around more’n he loves me.”

“You’re smothering him. Can’t you see that?”

“I won’t be cheated on!”

“That has to be his decision. You can’t force someone’s faithfulness. If you try, you’ll lose him.”

“Already have,” he muttered.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” She broke up more bread crusts and threw them out onto the lawn. “He’s frightened, Davey.”

“Yeah—scared of makin’ any commitment to anybody, especially me.”

“No. He’s frightened of himself. I tell you he loves you, it’s all over his face when he looks at you. And he hates himself for not being able to give you what you want.”

“So what do I do?” he cried. “Let hit jump into any bed he wants, welcome him home when he decides to come back to me? I can’t live that way! What if he finds somebody else?”

“If you drive him to it, he’s bound to find somebody else. And I think that scares him more than anything. He doesn’t want anyone but you, Davey. But you’re making it impossible for him to admit that to you. If what you have is right and lasting, then he’ll see it—but not if you chain him.”

“He’s never been able to be with anybody for long. He only stayed with Vanessa for a couple of years, and even then he was playin’ around, cheatin’ on her.”

“Will you stop using that word?” she snapped. “What do you want—his love or his hatred?”

“I want him. All of him. Everything.”

“Then wait for it to be given. You can’t force him. The more you try, the less you’ll have of him until he’s gone completely.”

Andrew returned with their drinks balanced on a tray, ending the talk. But Starsky felt his mother’s eyes, adamant and frightened for him, and couldn’t stand their warning. It made no sense to him; let Hutch go and he’d never leave? Ask for nothing and receive everything? He wrestled with it for a time, then pushed it aside. There wasn’t any point; he’d lost Hutch anyway.

The pieces of himself still functioned, and nobody but his mother knew what was wrong inside. But he could barely restrain himself from telling his aunt that what he ate or didn’t eat was none of her damned business, and when Andrew started comparing what he’d seen at Metro with the way New York precincts were run, Starsky wanted to hit something. Anything. Pressure built inside him, overpowering need and the desperation of loneliness.

At last the meal was over and he could escape. He made arrangements to pick up his mother and Andrew at the Sheraton early the next morning for the drive to the airport, accepted the Tupperware container of chili that Rosie pressed into his hands, and waved good night. And his mother’s eyes still held the warning as he drove away.

He didn’t want to go home to an empty apartment and a cold bed. He needed Hutch. Hurt demanded that he give in, agree to whatever Hutch wanted, just for the comfort of having those arms around him. Pride rebelled; he wouldn’t give in. His way or nothing.

Nothing.

The years came rushing back, hollow and hungry, when he’d sworn to himself that if Hutch would only love him a little, he’d be happy. Promises he’d made himself and hadn’t kept, because whatever he had of Hutch, he always wanted more. Friendship, then love, then physical desire—it would have been enough for most people. Not for him. Not anymore. When had he become so greedy?

Starsky drove to Venice and parked at the beach, looking out at the dark water. Hutch loved him. That should be enough. He’d watched the parade of women through his partner’s life, knowing that Hutch would run if they stepped across some invisible boundary that marked intimacy with that proud heart, and pitied them for wanting something that belonged to only him, only Starsky. And when Hutch ran, Starsky was always his destination. Now there was no place for him to go; he was trying to escape Starsky. Running again—but this time there was nowhere to go. No escape. Hutch had closed off every other choice.

“Poor babe,” he whispered. “My poor love.” Hutch had trapped himself more effectively than Starsky ever could have done. Not knowing it, Hutch had taken up the chains and worn them gladly in the name of friendship, refuge, love. Hutch belonged to him. There was no need to prove it with coerced promises. Hutch’s need was promise enough.

He got out of the car and dug in his pockets for a dime. He wouldn’t embarrass Hutch or himself by arriving unannounced at Venice Place. He didn’t need to do that anymore. Hutch was his. Sooner or later he’d realize that. Starsky could afford compassion now. With a rueful smile for his own idiocies of the past, he pushed the door of a phone booth closed behind him and fed the dime into the slot.

Hutch’s phone rang four times before it was answered. “Hello?”

“Hi. Just me.”

“Starsk?” Wonder in the voice, quickly schooled into neutrality. “What do you want?”

“Aunt Rosie packed up some chili for you. Want I should bring it over?”

“Uh—sure. Now?”

“If you want. Tomorrow’d be fine.”

“No, come over now.”

Starsky smiled, knowing he had won and feeling none of the wild triumph he had always thought he would feel. He understood Hutch now. “Okay. See you in a little bit.”

“Okay.”

He hung up and went back to the car. But he didn’t start the engine and drive the eight blocks to Venice Place. Instead, he watched the dark sea for a long time, still smiling.

“Gonna love you, babe,” he promised himself. “Just love you the way I always swore to myself I would.”

Eventually he turned the key in the ignition and drove the car up through the short streets to Ocean Avenue. There was a jazz ensemble—guitar, clarinet, piano—playing in the back court of Chez Hèléne and the gentle intricacies of the music followed him upstairs to Hutch’s apartment. When the door opened, he caught his breath—Hutch was so beautiful, tall and slim, elegant even in jeans and a t-shirt, so golden it almost hurt to look at him.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Come on in. That the chili?”

“Yeah.” He handed the container over and took off his jacket. Settling on the couch, he propped his heels on the coffee table and sighed. “Gotta pick up Ma and Andrew tomorrow morning and get them to the airport by nine.”

“Are you going back there for the wedding?” Hutch was busy putting the chili away in the refrigerator. “Want a beer?”

“No, thanks. Yeah, sometime in December. Be nice to spend Christmas or New Year’s in the snow again.”

“I thought you hated the cold.”

“I do. Hated livin’ in it year-round, but it’s a nice thing to visit.” He smiled. “Come on, sit down. You’re prowling again.”

“Oh.” Hutch chose the easy chair and sank into it, long legs sprawled, mouth dragging down at the corners.

“Got somethin’ to tell you.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

A momentary smile, a slight softening of the crystal eyes. “I know. I love you, too.”

“Ma kept telling me that tonight, but for a while I couldn’t believe her.”

“You discussed—you talked to your mother about—”

“Relax. She brought it up, wasn’t my idea. I was still mad.”

“But you’re not now?” Puzzlement in the clear eyes.

“No. Really, babe.”

“So you love me, and I love you,” Hutch said, staring down at his hands. “That should be enough to keep two people together, keep them faithful to each other, right?”

Starsky tried to suppress a flash of irritation. “Don’t quote me back at myself. I know what I said.”

“But isn’t that how that particular speech goes? I’ve heard it all before, Starsky.”

“Not this speech, you haven’t. Lookit, Hutch, I’m sorry. I was pushing you and I was wrong. But I’m just so goddamned scared of losing you—”

“When did you experience this sudden revelation?”

“Don’t. Please.”

Hutch’s pale eyes were wide with exaggerated surprise. “I beg your pardon.”

“Stop it, babe. And listen to me. I can’t force promises from you that you can’t keep. I can’t help it that I’m possessive—but I almost wrecked what we have for somethin’ you don’t want.” Not yet, he added to himself. But you will want it, my Hutch, you will.

“What are you saying, that I can sleep with anybody I choose? That you won’t call to check up on me? You’re not going to rant and rave every time I’ve been with someone else?”

He ignored the harsh mockery of Hutch’s tone. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Hutch surged to his feet and turned away. “And if you think that fucking around, as you so delicately phrase it, is the whole point of this, you’re a fool. You want to own me, Starsky—you want every minute of every day accounted for. God, why is everybody alike? Why do you all want—” He broke off, swinging around to stab a finger in Starsky’s direction. “I’ve been that route; I won’t go it again, not even for you. Especially not for you! What the hell would you do with me if you had me like that, all the time, every minute? You’d go out of your mind a lot sooner than I would! Believe me, buddy, I know—I’ve been there before. Just what do you think you’d do with me if you got me, Starsk?”

He waited for a long moment, trying to understand the emotions battling each other in the pale, unhappy face. At last, very quietly, he answered: “Love you.”

The corners of the wide mouth lifted in a cynical smile, but Hutch said nothing. Starsky waited, not relinquishing his lover’s gaze, and finally Hutch turned away. His head bent slowly.

“Love you as much as you’d let me, whenever you’d let me. I love you. I always have and I always will.” Because you are what you are, and I know you, down to your bones, and there’s nothing that would drive me away. Is that that you want to hear, love? “Hutch. Look at me.”

“So you’re gonna give me all the freedom I want.”

“Look at me.”

The head stayed stubbornly bent. “Does that mean you’re willing to be a martyr, make me feel guilty? Or does it mean you don’t really give a damn as long as you can get your piece?”

It took Starsky several minutes to fight back his own anger at the cruelty of the question. When he could think clearly again, he nearly laughed. You perverse sonuvabitch, he thought without rancor, you want me to come unglued! You like it when I’m jealous.

“I’m sorry,” Hutch whispered. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes you did. And you should know by now not to play ‘prove you love me’ games with me. I don’t have to prove anything to you.” Frustration tightened his muscles, but he kept his voice calm. Fury got him nowhere with Hutch; he had learned that to his cost. “I love you. How many times do I have to say it?”

“Starsky— I know that!” Hutch braced one hand against the wall, his forehead resting on the out­stretched arm. “But don’t you see? You almost died.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“What if it was me the next time? Yes, I do want you to let go of your mother, let her do what she feels is right for her. Why can’t you do the same for me? What will you have left if I—I don’t want you to go through what I did.”

He wondered suddenly, absurdly, how much it had cost Hutch to caress his scarred chest when they made love. “Don’t you believe what you told me yourself? That the love’s worth the risk? Why are you fighting so hard?” Biting his lip, he forced calm into his voice. “You changed your mind, is that it? You don’t love me enough for that?”

All at once Hutch was beside him, clasping him breathlessly tight as he had not done, not like this, since the shooting. Starsky gasped and hung on, heart racing.

“Not love you enough—? My God, you’re my whole life, that’s what scares me—I can’t lose you too. I can’t—”

“You won’t,” he soothed. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’ll always be here, Hutch.”

“But you—I couldn’t do anything; you were lying there dying and I—”

“Shh. it’s all over, babe. All gone.” Slowly he gentled the shivering body in his arms, murmuring wordlessly.

Hutch pulled away from him, wide eyes trying to see into his soul. Starsky stayed silent; he had done all he could do, his choices gone. This was Hutch’s decision, Hutch’s balancing act between love and fear, between freedom and possession, between the pain of separation now and the greater pain that might come in the future. If Starsky clung too tightly, Hutch would run; if he let go, Hutch would doubt that he was loved. Helplessness nearly suffocated him.

Hutch’s face changed, cheeks staining with color, eyes opaque. Rising, he went to the kitchen phone and punched out a number? “Carrie? Yeah, it’s Hutch. I know it’s getting late, but I wanted to call you….”

Starsky tried to block out the conversation, rejecting this new test, this new game. Clenched fingers dug his nails into his palms and he used the tiny pain as a focus, fending off the cry that lodged in his throat.

“…about the Music Center next Saturday…. No, I can’t go. Not the next week either. Not—don’t make a scene, Carrie, you always knew there was someone else—yes, more important to me. The most important person in the world. No—don’t bother.”

Hutch’s eyes were infinitely weary, and yet there was a strange peace in them, too, without bitterness. He hung up the receiver and leaned against the wall, the redness fading from his cheeks.

“You could have stopped me,” he said quietly. “If you’d said anything, I would have seen her again.”

“Why? Why did you do that to me?” Starsky could barely make his throat form the words.

“Because I’m ready to make that promise now.”

This was victory, clear and complete, waiting for him to grasp it and hold it tight, laughing. Starsky got up and backed away from the outstretched hands. “Don’t make me no promises!”

“But I want to, now.”

“No!”

A sad-sweet smile crossed Hutch’s face. “Did I make you that miserable? You still don’t understand, do you?”

“You bastard,” he whispered, looking at Hutch and almost hating the careless perfection of that golden face. “How could you do that to me? What the hell do you want?”

“You.” Hutch took another step closer. “You were right, Starsk. It’s worth the risk. I don’t promise not to be scared, but—I want you, David Michael.”

His face was taken in gentle hands. “Hutch,” he said thickly. “I don’t understand.”

“How does it go?” Hutch smiled. “‘I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine, and my desire is only unto him’? Yeah, like that, I think.” Lips brushed Starsky’s forehead. “I mean that. I’ve always known we belonged together. So that means we belong to each other, doesn’t it?”

“But what about—”

“It doesn’t mean you own me, or I own you. It means—I’d rather live with the fear of losing you—and with your jealousy, even if it drives me nuts—than be without you. Oh, Starsk, you feel things so deep, there aren’t any limits to you. And that’s always scared me. But I need you. And I’m willing to learn, if you give me the time, and the room.”

“Are you sure?” He took the hands from his face, gripped them tight.

“If you’re willing to try, too.”

“Didn’t you just make me prove that?” he asked bitterly.

“I won’t test you like that again, Starsk. Trust in me, can you?”

He’d won—on Hutch’s terms. Bewildered, he struggled with it for a time and then gave it up as useless. What did it matter, as long as Hutch acknowledged that they belonged to each other? Slowly, carefully, he gathered his lover into his arms.

* * * *

Hutch woke with the sunlight on his face. A luxurious, slightly guilty feeling of contentment seeped through him as he came to awareness, and he examined it curiously. He was warm, completely safe, utterly loved. It would be remarkably pleasant to wake up every morning like this, to the same quiet fulfillment, the same dark head nestled to his shoulder, the same strong arms enfolding him, and the same spicy musk of loving to scent his bed. He wondered at the feeling, and finally had a word for it. He was happy.

Guilt disappeared, but he hardly noticed its departure as Starsky murmured in his sleep. Hutch rubbed his face in the tangled curls. Jealous, demanding, possessive—and his. He hadn’t known before last night that he doubted his hold on this man.

Easing away, he coaxed his lover onto his back. The paralyzing fear was gone as he looked at the scars, and he wondered at that, too. He had been so afraid. He still hated the scars for what they represented—but he no longer feared them so deeply. What alchemy had produced the change in him? Why could he promise now, and mean every word?

“You think too much.”

The sleepy mumble startled him. “You awake?”

“No, talkin’ in m’sleep, like always.” Starsky blinked up at him.

“How did you know I was thinking?”

“Little line, right here.” A long finger smoothed the crease between his brows. “But don’t worry. I’ll still love you when you’re old and wrinkled.”

“And fat, if I don’t get up and run. Must be seven thirty.”

Starsky sat bolt upright. “Seven thirty?” His voice had gone up half an octave. “Holy shit! Ma’s gonna kill me?”

“Starsky—what the hell—?”

But Starsky had hurtled out of the bed, grabbing up the orange robe on his sprint to the bathroom. Hutch sighed, remembering something about picking Rebecca and Andrew up to take them to the airport. All he wanted was to laze in bed and make love some more.

He considered that carefully. Nobody but Starsky in his bed for the rest of his life. Could he live with that? He ran his hand over the pillow, collecting a few stray curling black hairs. Fidelity was against his nature, wasn’t it? Starsky yelled something from the bathroom about coffee, and Hutch smiled. All things considered, he’d manage.

Ten minutes later he brought two steaming cups into the bathroom and settled on the rim of the tub. Starsky was shaving. “Next time, you bring your own razor. Your damn beard leaves gouges in the blades. I can’t afford you, Starsk.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.” A stroke down one cheek, then a cautious swipe around the mole on the other. “If you didn’t buy such cheap blades—”

“Bitch, yourself. We’ll never make it to the Sheraton and then to the airport by nine, you know. Want me to call your mother and tell her we’ll meet them at the airport?”

“Would you? I think they expected us for breakfast.” Starsky’s face disappeared behind a towel.

“Sure.” He set Starsky’s coffee down on the sink and took his own with him to the phone. A recorded operator advised him to take a note of the number for the next time he needed it, and then he was speaking to a directory assistance person who, by the tone of his voice, had had a rotten weekend. Hutch eventually got the Sheraton’s number, and waited while they rang Andrew’s room.

“Hello?” Rebecca’s breathless voice.

“It’s Hutch. Sorry, Rebecca, but we’re running late. Can we meet you at the airport?”

“Oh—of course. We’ll take a cab. What happened?”

“We woke up late.” Hutch suddenly realized what that must sound like, and blushed.

“Oh, really?” Laughter in Rebecca’s voice bubbled over the phone. “Well, so did we. And probably for the same reason.”

Hutch choked on his coffee. “You’re impossible—now I know who he gets it from.”

“You never met his father.” She paused, and her voice was soft and serious when she continued. “Kenneth, is everything all right between you two?”

“Yes. Completely right.”

She sighed. “Be good to him.”

“I will.”

“We’ll have to talk when you come to New York for the—Andrew?” she called away from the phone. “Get back in the shower! You’re dripping all over the place!”

Hutch laughed. “We’ll see you in about an hour?”

“What? Oh, yes, Kenneth. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you and Davey have worked everything out.”

“We’re still working on it,” he corrected gently, “but things look promising.” He smiled at his choice of words.

“Tell Davey—” She hesitated again, then went on swiftly. “Tell him I’ll wait, and when he says it’s all right, I’ll talk to Andrew.”

Hutch bit his lip. When Davey says. How sweetly the traps closed around the throat—”We’ll let you know,” he said, emphasizing the plural just slightly.

“Ah!” Rebecca let out a quiet breath. “I understand, Kenneth. Forgive me.”

“It’s okay,” he assured her, damning his idiotic sensitivity. “We’ll talk about that, too, when we come back there for the wedding.”

“Yes.” She paused for a moment, then went on briskly. “We’ll be at the departure gate. Number 43, I think.”

“See you then.”

He hung up and went back into the bathroom, snatching up the damp robe from the floor. “Gonna have to get you one of your own,” he muttered irritably. “And you’ll do your own damned laundry, lover.”

“Hutch?”

He turned from the mirror as Starsky limped into the doorway, clean and glowing, hair dripping around his cheeks. He wore a towel around his neck and faded jeans that had been purchased fifteen pounds ago. He would have to do something about that, too, Hutch told himself. “I call your mom, and—”

“I heard.” Starsky rubbed at his wet curls with the towel. He flinched as Hutch’s gaze traveled to the scars. “Hutch—”

“Hey.” Closing the distance between them, he deliberately stroked the whitened scar near Starsky’s heart. “You’re still beautiful.”

“Still?” Starsky smiled ruefully. “Never was, ‘specially not compared to you. But you don’t—” He sighed. “Are they too ugly, Hutch?”

“Meaning, do they frighten me, or do I still want to touch you in spite of them?”

“Both, I guess.”

“To be honest—yes, they’ll always frighten me.” He framed the quiet face with his hands. “They’ll always remind me that I almost lost you.”

“It’s the only way you ever would, Hutch.”

He drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes. “I know. We’re scared of different things, you and I. If you help me believe I won’t lose you that way…”

“I’ll try, babe. I mean it. No more risks.”

He shook his head. Starsky knew as well as he did that the risks would always be there for the taking. “Just be careful with yourself, my love,” he whispered. “You belong to me—scars and all.”

“If you hate them too much then I could—”

Hutch looked up, smiling. “You could what? Wear a shirt when we make love? No way. They’re part of you, Starsk.” He hesitated a moment. “You’re getting my scars, too, you know. They’re not very pretty either.”

“I’m only afraid of them when you—”

“I know,” Hutch interrupted, not wanting to hear it. Not now, when there wasn’t the time to talk it all through and weigh every word. The understanding was there and the commitment, but both were still too new. He took the towel from Starsky’s neck and stood back, his eyes lingering not on the scars but on the proud grace of his lover’s body. “You are beautiful, you know,” he murmured.

Starsky stood absolutely motionless for a moment, then grinned. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, we’re never gonna get to the airport. And you can explain it to my mother!”

 

 

HOME

And home sings me of sweet things
Life there has its own wings.
–-Karla Bonoff

 

March, 1980

Starsky rubbed at his sore left shoulder and glared out at the rain from the comparative shelter of the walkway. Comparative, because city budgets being what they weren’t these days, no one had found the money to repair the leaking spots in the awning. The Academy was still spruce enough—the hard labor of the recruits saw to that—but here and there age was beginning to show.

Like me, he though wryly. Some of his muscles were still easily strained in his twice-weekly work­outs. There were twenty other officers participating in the program, in situations similar to his own: back on full duty after convalescence but still under the watchful eye of department physiotherapists. Recently there had been talk about the offer of a famous health-and-fitness guru to lend his expertise for the avowed purpose of “flattening every stomach in the LAPD.”

Starsky figured that by the end of March, when he was officially released from these Academy sessions, there’d be plenty of pot bellies for the instructors to worry about. He grinned, picturing Captain Dobey or Deputy Chief Weinberg in sweatpants, being directed by the TV health nut. It would almost be worth continuing past his allotted time to see those revered gentlemen get reacquainted with their kneecaps, because there was no way either of them was ever going to touch his toes again.

His own stomach growled as he peered out into the rain, and he wished Hutch would hurry up so they could go have an early dinner. There was a formidable hill of paperwork to tackle this evening from the case they’d wrapped up yesterday. He stretched his shoulder again, gingerly, and turned to watch a double line of recruits pound around the corner of the building. Hair plastered to foreheads, gray sweatsuits drenched, faces pulled tight with last-mile anguish, they were shockingly youthful. Their D.I. ran with effortless energy beside them, taunting and insulting them. As their feet squished in wet track shoes around another corner and they left his sight, he wondered suddenly if he and Hutch had ever been that young.

At last he saw the Torino swing around the long drive and ran out to the curb. Climbing hurriedly into the passenger’s seat, he resisted the urge to shake his hair free of raindrops. “Hi! You talk to Muncie about the deposition yet?”

“He wasn’t in.” Hutch’s eyes stayed on the road ahead of him.

“So where’d you go while I was doin’ the Spanish Inquisition?”

“Uh… I was checking something out.”

“What?” Starsky settled into the seat and watched Hutch’s profile, clean and proud against the rainy window, framed in blond hair.

“Hmmm?”

“What were you checking out?”

“Oh, nothing much.”

Starsky’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t the reticence of teasing, or uncertainty. It was nerves. He considered the amount of patience he possessed to coax the information out of Hutch, decided he didn’t want to waste the time or energy, and said, “So tell me.”

Hutch said nothing.

Again he debated the wisdom of letting Hutch talk in his own sweet time, then realized they weren’t headed back down the hill to Metro. “Where’re we goin’?”

Hutch said nothing.

Exasperated, he drummed his fingers on the dash. “Hey!”

Startled, Hutch’s head snapped around. “What?”

“Now that I finally got your attention, you mind telling me what’s going on? What’re we doin’ on this street? Metro’s back the other way. Or did they suddenly put in a restaurant up in Griffith Park?”

“Uh…no.”

“Hutch,” he warned.

“Just relax, will you?”

“I hate surprises, Hutch. You know I hate surprises. Is this a surprise?”

“I’m not sure,” Hutch answered thoughtfully, turning off onto a side street. They were now in a residential section of houses built in the 1930’s. No tract area this, but a collection of Spanish homes of varying sizes and designs, well-kept and gracious. The street was lined with jacarandas and elms, and everything from ivy to bougainvillea to huge beds of flowers decorated the front yards.

“Why aren’t you sure?”

“About what?”

“Where the hell are you, anyway? Mars? Earth to Hutch—anybody home?” He rapped his knuckles lightly against the blond head.

“Sorry.” Hutch gave him a preoccupied half-smile.

“One more time. Where are we going?”

“It’s up this street—yeah. There.”

The car pulled to a stop before a tidy spilt-level. Beige stucco walls and red tile roof were dark with rainwater and the thick grass looked drenched, tell-tale sign of not only neglected mowing but a faulty drainage system. Two white-blossomed crepe myrtle trees stood on either side of the front walk, straggling sentries over the twin rows of empty flowerbeds. Still, even in the half-dusk of rain and late-afternoon, the wide-arched bay window was graceful, the house conveying warmth and coziness. Starsky looked from it to his partner curiously.

“What d’you think?” Hutch asked.

“What do I—?” His head swiveled once more from the house to Hutch. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“I’m not sure.” Hutch frowned. “Let’s get out.”

Starsky followed him, suspicious now, and they ran up the wet driveway to the front door. Made of solid oak and banded in black wrought iron, it was a work of art. Starsky touched it reverently, then gaped at Hutch. For the long fingers had produced a key to open the front door. From the keyring dangled a large plastic tag that advertised the name of a real estate firm. “Hutch?” he breathed.

Hutch swung the door fully open and Starsky fell in love. He walked into the living room in a complete daze, staring at everything as if it was totally familiar and yet totally unknown at the same time. For, despite the lack of furniture, the need for paint and wallpaper, the stains on the parqueted flooring, the missing bricks of the fireplace, the cracks in the sliding glass doors and the atmosphere of dust and neglect, this was home.

Starsky walked on, entranced. The kitchen was a misery—no stove, no refrigerator, and the dishwasher had been ripped out. The tiles around the sink and on the countertops needed grouting. The cabinets didn’t close right. There was a thin trail of ants marching from one wall to the other. What he could see of the back yard desperately needed a careful and creative hand. But—there was a place for the roses he’d always wanted to grow, and a wooden arbor with a bench underneath that would be perfect for bougainvillea, and lots of room for the vegetable garden Hutch wanted to plant.

From the living room several steps led up to a hallway, and from there he went first into a den that would make a perfect office. There was another small bedroom, and another, one of which could be for appearances and the other begging to become a studio. Then there were more steps and a left turn into the master suite. The house was much larger than it looked from the outside, he realized, running his fingers over the chipped paint on the walls of the bedroom. Almost a full wall of windows looked out over the back yard, and a door led onto a redwood deck. Stairs from this went down into the yard.

At last he turned and met Hutch’s apprehensive eyes. They had talked again and again of buying a house of their own, but somehow had never found much time to go looking. And everything they’d seen thus far had been too small, or didn’t have the right kind of yard for roses, or cost too much. But here was this odd-shaped, neglected, perfect house—Starsky bit his lip and went over to the recessed window seat. It was a smaller twin of the one in the living room, tiled in dark blue and pale green, and looked out into the side yard where a row of tall cypresses guarded the view into the bedroom.

“Well?” Hutch could obviously stand it no longer, and the words rushed out of him breathlessly. “Do you like it? Do you? I know it needs a lot of work, but it’s basically sound. I had a friend of mine from college check it out—he got into the construction business—he says it’ll take some work but it’d be worth it. The roof’s perfect, and there’s nothing wrong with the walls or the wiring or plumbing or anything else, and the flooring isn’t warped at all, and it won’t take that much to fix it up, Starsky.” He paused for breath.

Starsky looked at him carefully. “Do you like it?”

“Uh—yeah.” He picked at a crack in the pale green paint, mumbling something Starsky couldn’t quite hear.

“What?”

“I said, I—” Hutch shrugged, pulled in a deep breath, and turned to face him. “I bought it.”

“You what?” He didn’t hear his own words, and repeated them incredulously. “You what?”

“I bought it. Just the down payment, Starsk, so nobody could get their hands on it before I showed it to you. I wasn’t sure if you’d like it or not, but—” Hutch leaned against the wall. “It’s not that expensive,” he added defensively.

“How much?”

“Not much.”

“Don’t evade the question. I’ve gotta know sooner or later, babe, if I’m gonna shell out half. How much?”

“Uh….” Hutch’s cheeks crimsoned. “A hundred and two.”

Starsky whistled involuntarily. Then he did some rapid calculations in his head. “You put down ten grand on this without even telling me? Ten grand of our money?”

“No—ten grand of my money.”

Starsky told himself to count to ten—or ten thousand. It didn’t help. “Where’d it come from?”

“I—I, uh, got rid of some stocks and closed one of the accounts my grandfather left me, and—” Hutch pushed away from the wall, frowning. “It’s your goddamned birthday present!”

Stunned, Starsky could only sit and stare at his lover. He’d always known Hutch came from money, but he’d never realized how much money. He knew there were a couple of bank accounts, interest in the family firm in Duluth, part share in the Minnesota farm, and some blue chip stuff some company with a long name took care of for him. He knew Vanessa hadn’t been able to get her hands on much of it during the divorce settlement. But he also knew that Hutch lived off his cop’s salary and always had. Now, to be told that selling off some stocks and draining “one of the accounts” had netted ten grand—it was staggering.

He became aware that Hutch was picking the paint off the wall again, and struggled to find something to say. But before he could open his mouth, let alone figure out what words to use, Hutch started talking.

“You know the money doesn’t mean anything to me. We could’ve afforded the house even without it—it would’ve been a strain, but it could’ve been done. It’s not gonna be easy, even when your G.I. loan gets approved. We knew that all along. But I want this house, Starsky. I want to live here with you. It’s got everything we wanted. And it’ll be even better because we’ll have to do so much of the work ourselves—it’ll make it even more ours.”

He paced to the sundeck door, a tall black figure against the dirty gray windows, crowned with bright gold. “What was I supposed to do with the fucking money, anyway?” he went on angrily. “My grandfather set it up to tie me to the family. I haven’t touched it in all the time I’ve been a cop, not a goddamned penny of it. But now—” He faced Starsky, eyes blazing defiance. “I’ve got a reason to use it, and I’m going to. This is for me, for what I want. I thought you wanted it, too.”

The pride of the street-kid who’d hauled himself out of the slums alone warred with the pride of man whose lover had finally admitted, however obliquely, that they belonged to each other. Now and forever, in a house of their own. Together. He looked at Hutch and smiled, at peace.

“When can we move in?”

Hutch’s jaw dropped. Starsky laughed at him.

“I said, when can we move in? You gettin’ deaf in your old age, Blondie?”

“Starsk—you mean it?”

“Sure I mean it.”

“But—the money—you—”

“What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine—even if it ain’t much—is yours. And this house—” He went slowly to his lover, who still stared at him unbelievingly. “This house is gonna be ours, babe.” He shook the wide shoulders, grinning. “Community property. Could be kinda messy if you ever divorced me.”

Color rushed up into the fair cheeks again, and gold lashes swept down. “Didn’t know we’d been married yet.”

Starsky caught his breath. “Didn’t know you wanted me to ask.” He cradled Hutch’s face between his hands, trying to control the sudden pounding of his own heart. “Hutch?”

“Was that a question?”

“No. But this is.” He kissed Hutch lightly, tentatively, felt the pulse of Hutch’s heartbeat in his lips. Dizzy and shaking, he whispered. “Beloved? Will you?”

“Yes.”

It was no more than a sigh. Again the breath stopped in his throat and he bowed his head, humbled. Hutch’s arms slid around him and they held each other carefully, as if their bodies and this feeling were made of thinnest glass.

After a long time Hutch murmured, “I mean it, love.”

“So do I.” Starsky swallowed, his throat tight. “Just one thing.”

Hutch drew away slightly to look at him, his eyes a dazzling incandescent blue. “Anything.”

“You—you hafta ask me the same thing, too.”

Hutch began to laugh. “You think I’m gonna ask something as important as that in someplace as unromantic as this? Give me credit for a little class, Starsky! Some candlelight, some wine, something with style and elegance and—Starsky don’t you dare!”

But Starsky tickled him without mercy anyway.

 

 

SOUVENIRS

And here is a sunrise
To set on your sill
The ghosts of the dawn
Moving near
They pass through your sorrow
And leave you quite still…
Sitting among souvenirs.
–Dan Fogelberg

 

September, 1980

“Come on, Lassiter, get the lead out.” Hutch grinned at Tammy Lassiter; his favorite of the civilian personnel who spent their days buried in the basement file room.

“Just giving your typewriter time to cool off, Sergeant—and other things the chance to heat up.” She smiled at him. “My husband’s on a business trip to Denver this week, and the kids don’t get home from Little League until five on Thursday.”

“Are you propositioning me, Mrs. Lassiter?”

“I’m trying to, Sergeant Hutchinson.”

“You big-city girls always try to take advantage of poor ol’ country boys like me,” he moaned.

“Aw, just got in off the farm, did you? Well, you come over and see me sometime, plowboy—” She broke off as the phone rang. Picking up the receiver, she said, “Lassiter, Files and Frustration.”

Hutch laughed softly. He enjoyed flirting with pretty women just as much as he always had. For a time he’d lost the habit, but Starsky had pointed out to him more than once the necessity of keeping up their images as lady-killers. Hutch had made a few bad mistakes with a couple of the women here at the station and a few more around town, but he’d eventually learned he could keep his reputation intact and still be perfectly safe from embarrassment—by flirting with “safe” ladies.

Lassiter was one of them. Lizzie Thorpe was another, as was Minnie Kaplan, and leggy Linda Baylor from Narco, who’d worked with them on the Frost case a few years earlier. All of them were either very married or very good friends with more than half an idea of the relationship between him and Starsky.

“Now, where were we?” Lassiter asked in a low, seductive tone.

“You were supposed to be looking up that file on Jorge Arrillo.”

“No, not that. When are you going to come over to my place and let me show you the delights of living in the big city?”

He made a show of pulling out his black notebook. “Well, let’s see…. Tomorrow night I’m being shown higher culture by a nice little lady from Encino, and Wednesday there’s an art opening in Laguna—the lady wants to show me her etchings.”

“Spare me the excuses. Hutchinson, when are you going to liven up your life a little?” The phone rang again and she swore. “Damn. Just when I was getting to the clinch.” She picked up the receiver again. “Lassiter. Yes, he’s here.” She held out the phone. “For you, Blondie.”

“Thanks. Big-eyes.” He winked at her. “Hutchinson… No, Captain. I’m not doing anything important—” He grinned as Lassiter sank back into her chair with one hand clasped to her heart, eyes closed in mock anguish. “Five minutes? I have to find that Arrillo file. Yeah, okay.” He handed the receiver back to the young woman and said, “Gotta go, Lassiter. Duty calls.”

“Then send your partner down to entertain me,” she suggested. “I’m sure he’s not the shy type like you.”

“Starsky? Lassiter, I wouldn’t let him within ten feet of you.” He turned to go, then turned back, his face severe. “And where did you learn to be so fickle? I thought I was the only man in your life. For shame!”

“Don’t tell me you changed your mind and you’re going to take me up on my offer?”

“Maybe I can spare you twenty minutes next Saturday.”

“Nope, you blew your chance, Blondie. Now get out of here. Some of us do work for our pay, you know.”

“Don’t put yourself in a class with the working girls, Lassiter—you’re way out of their league.” He winked at her again and left the office, listening to her laughter. He did enjoy flirting with pretty girls. But only with the safe ones.

He knocked perfunctorily on Dobey’s office door and went in without waiting for an invitation. “What’s up, Captain?”

Dobey, looking haggard and grim even for a Monday morning, nodded towards a chair. “Sit down, Hutchinson.”

Hutch did as he was told, making a quick survey of the desk. There were no open file folders, no notes, no memos, nothing to indicate a case to be discussed. Something personal, then. His heart froze momentarily in his chest before he realized that even if Dobey did know for certain about him and Starsky, he would say nothing. They were too valuable to him as cops—and the captain believed that a person’s private life should remain private. He met Dobey’s eyes curiously. “You wanted to talk to me, Captain?”

“Yes. Alone. Before your partner gets back from Disbursements.”

“What’s he doing down there?”

“I sent him down there to get him out of the office. Is that plain enough?” Dobey’s hand slammed flat onto the desk. “And there’s somebody outside that I don’t want him to see just yet. I have to talk to you first.”

“I don’t understand. Who’s—”

“If you’ll be quiet a minute I’ll explain,” Dobey snapped. Then he sighed heavily, shaking his head. “How close was he—I know I’m prying but it’s necessary or I wouldn’t ask—” His thick fingers fidgeted with a pen, then dropped it. “How well did he get to know Rosemary Malone?”

The name detonated in Hutch’s belly, sending shock waves up to stop his breath and all speech. The slim golden image filled his brain, bringing with it the hatred he’d felt on first learning Starsky loved her. Jealousy oozed through his veins and stank on his skin, and he looked away from Dobey’s face before the captain noticed his expression.

“I’m sorry, Hutch.” The voice was soft and held a note of understanding that terrified him. Fear poured into the hate, the two blending into a brown bile in his throat. From a great distance he heard Dobey’s footsteps, the door opening, the words. “Sergeant Hacker, please bring our visitors in now.” The door shut. “What you’re not saying is that he slept with her.”

Hutch nodded. Dobey knew, and instead of anger or disgust there was pity. Hutch’s mind cried out for Starsky. You never really loved her, did you? Did you? He remembered his rainy encounter with the lady in January of this year at the L.A. County Art Museum and the way he’d destroyed her. And she was about to walk through that door. He got to his feet and turned. He’s mine! You can’t have him back!

The door opened and a short, middle-aged Chicana shuffled in. He looked at the high cheekbones and the thick coal-black hair and amended his first identification to more Indian than Spanish. Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t Rosey Malone, and relief sang through his heart.

It was then that he saw the child.

Not more than two-and-a-half years old, dressed in red corduroy rompers and a spotless white shirt, barefoot—a beautiful child with very dark brown curls and enormous blue eyes. He looked up at Hutch suspiciously, holding tighter onto the Indian woman’s hand. But he said nothing, made no move to escape. Thick lashes swept for a moment down across tanned, rounded cheeks, and then the eyes stared solemnly up at Hutch again.

“Señora Esquivel, this is Sergeant Hutchinson.”

The señora looked at Hutch and tried in very halting English, “Good day, señor. I bring the little one—”

Automatically Hutch spoke to her in Spanish. “Buenos dias, Señora Esquivel. Whose little one is this?” He knew, of course. Could there be any doubt, with those eyes?

“Señora Malone,” she answered. She went on to explain, relievedly in Spanish, that the child was two years and three months old, the son of Señora Rosa Malone. When the señora had left Mexico last year after the death of her father, she had instructed the Indian woman to bring the boy to Los Angeles in September. This she had done, helped across the border by friends of the señora’s late father. They had given her a place to stay—a very nice place, on a hill—and bought food and told her to present herself this day to Capitán Dobey of the police. This, too, she had done. Now she wanted to know what to do next, for her instructions went no further.

Hutch seated Señora Esquivel in a chair and knelt down in front of the child. Wide, dark blue eyes; the same thick curls although the color was lighter; bone structure just as fine; facial resemblance difficult to judge—but the hands were the same as those he had seen in pictures of Starsky as a boy. Doubt and suspicion fought in him—and yearning towards this child. Such a beautiful little boy, and there was every chance that he was Starsky’s son. Old dreams surfaced, old longings to see the strength and beauty that was Starsky continued in a new life. He almost touched the boy, but drew his hand back. He smiled slightly and the dark head tilted to one side.

“Hello,” Hutch said softly. “What’s your name?”

“His name… Miguel.” Señora Esquivel reported.

“Michael,” Hutch whispered. Is this your son, David Michael?

“Miguelito,” Señora Esquivel said, telling the boy to answer Hutch.

Spanish floated back to her, but Hutch couldn’t understand it. The señora told the child to speak English. He looked at Hutch, blinking. The one hand went out, reaching for Hutch’s hair.

“Es de oro,” he said. “Como león.”

“He said… my hair is gold, like a lion’s.” Hutch ruffled the dark curls gently, smiling. “Why don’t you come sit down for a while. Michael?” Gently, alert for any wriggle away from him, he lifted the boy and sat down with him in his lap. Michael turned to look at him, then settled comfortably down with his head on Hutch’s shoulder.

Oh God—‘like a lion’… of all the things he could have said… “You’re like a big golden lion to me, babe”—And those eyes…Starsk. You have a son. This boy is yours—

—and Rosey Malone’s.

His hold tightened fractionally on the child. “Why did she leave him?” he asked aloud, then repeated the question in Spanish.

The answer came back, slowly. He listened then turned to Dobey.

“She says that after Frank Malone died, Rosey went away. She left Michael with Señora Esquivel in Mexico City and told her to bring him to L.A. this fall.”

“Is he—” Dobey didn’t seem able to finish the sentence, and ended with a cough.

“I don’t know.” But he did. This had to be Starsky’s son. The timing was right. Wasn’t it? He’d made love to Rosey and his seed had grown within her and this child was the result. “I don’t know,” Hutch repeated, and heard his voice waver.

“Why did she bring him here? And how’d she get across the border?”

Hutch told him what the woman had said earlier, half his mind clinging to the feel of the small trusting figure in his lap. Michael was picking at the half-moon and star of his necklace. He buried his fingers in the soft hair and battled within himself. He wanted this to be Starsky’s son—and somehow, deep inside, he could not believe that it was possible.

“His papá—está el papá aqui? Señora Esquivel said suddenly.

Michael’s head lifted. “Está mi papá—”

“English!” Señora Esquivel snapped, and Hutch wanted to slap her for speaking sharply to the child.

The boy glanced at her, shrugged, and went on in slightly-accented English, “Is papa here?”

There was no answer. What in the name of God could he say?

“Dondé está mi mamá?”

“In English, Michael,” Hutch said gently. ”Don’t worry about that now.” He got to his feet and Michael settled easily onto his hip. It felt so natural, so inevitable—a little curly-haired elf, born of Starsky’s body.

And Rosey Malone’s.

Why didn’t she say anything last winter? WHY?

“Hey, Cap’n, I got all that stuff you asked me to, and it wasn’t easy. And since when do you expect senior detectives to play delivery boy? I want a little apprecia—”

Hutch turned to the open door. Black curling hair, large blue eyes, fine bones, graceful hands. And astonishment scrawled all over his face.

“Señor?” The woman’s voice beat at Hutch’s brain.

“Hutch?” Starsky’s voice, thin and bewildered.

Michael hugged Hutch around the neck, nearly strangling him—or was it his own agony of hope and doubt that blocked his breathing?

“Starsky, sit down.” Dobey’s voice, calm and rational, cut through the raging emotions. “Señora, will you—” He stopped, then said to Hutch, “Ask her to step outside for a while.”

Hutch complied, and the señora nodded. One anxious glance towards her charge and she was out the hallway door.

“Who’s the kid?” Starsky asked, his voice rough.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Dobey said, not ungently. “The señora told Hutch that he’s Rosemary Malone’s son.”

Starsky sat abruptly in the chair the señora had vacated. He stared at Hutch, then at the boy. “No way,” he said flatly.

“Starsk,” Hutch said softly. “His name is Michael.”

“That don’t mean nothin’.” He turned his head away, refusing the concept. “He’s too old.”

“Twenty-seven months,” Hutch told him. “That would be just about right.”

“No! When I was with Rosey—” His cheeks flushed. “This kid can’t be mine. Can’t be. Takes nine months to have a baby. It’s September ’80 and I was with Rosey—”

“It’s not impossible, Starsk.” He tried to count months in his head but failed; Michael was playing with his necklace again.

“So where’s Rosey? If this is her son, where the hell is she? Why’d she leave her own kid?”

Hutch glanced at Dobey. “Captain, can you take Michael outside for a few minutes? I have to talk to my partner.”

“Of course.” Dobey lifted the child from Hutch’s arms. “Come on, little fella.” Michael struggled for a moment, then sighed resignedly and submitted. The movement and capitulation told Hutch volumes about how this child had been treated during his short life. “Let’s go outside and get some water, okay?” The door closed behind then.

Hutch stared at his hands. “I didn’t tell you this when it happened, Starsk. There didn’t seem to be any point. But you remember when your aunt and uncle were out here in January? The day I went to the. Art Museum while you spent the afternoon with them?”

“Yeah—so?”

“I—I ran into Rosey Malone there.”

“She’s back in LA.? What’re you talkin’ about? She’s still with her father down in Mexico—”

“No, love. Her father died—almost a year ago, now. She and I had a cup of coffee in the cafeteria… talked…” And you destroyed her, didn’t you, Hutchinson? “She said she wanted to see you, and I told her… about us….”

“What about us?” Starsky asked tightly.

“What the hell do you think?” Hutch began to pace restlessly. “I told her we belonged to each other—because the minute I saw her I was jealous as hell! I couldn’t let her back into your life! She hurt you before and—” He stopped at the window, leaning his forehead to the sun-streaked glass. “And I was scared that if you saw her again, you’d still love her. I’m sorry, Starsk. I didn’t have the right.”

Starsky was silent for a long time. Hutch heard the soft breathing, the quiet, slow movements of fingers against denim-clad thighs. Then: “It’s okay. Doesn’t matter.” A deep breath. “What about the kid? Hutch, do you really think he could be mine?”

“I don’t know. Looking at him—I see you. But every time I see a little boy with curly dark hair and blue eyes, I see you, the son you’ll never have—or maybe Michael is that son—oh, Jesus—”

Fingers pressed warm into his shoulders, turning him around. “Babe.” Lips brushed tenderly against his cheek. “Hutch, listen to me. Look at me, love.”

He met the clear gaze, feeling frightened and guilty.

“I don’t know if he’s mine or not. If he is—we have to find Rosey. We have to know for sure. But whatever happens, there’s not room enough for her in my heart now. You gotta believe that, Hutch. I love you.”

“I’m sorry, Starsk—I’m so sorry—”

“Shh.” Another kiss, soft and contorting. Then Starsky moved away. “Christ,” he said. “Ma will have a stroke.”

Hutch saw for the first time the nervousness and fear, and self-hatred sliced at him. Who was he to stand around feeling guilty and scared when strength and support were what Starsky needed, not worries about the death and permanence of their love? He folded all his own emotions into a dark back corner of his mind and went forward to put a hand on Starsky’s shoulder.

“We’ll find out for certain before we make any decisions, okay? First thing to do is get a blood test done, all that other stuff.”

“Your basic investigation for a paternity suit?” The tone tried for lightness but bitterness shaded the words.

“I’ll start looking for Rosey. And I think someone ought to question Señora Esquivel very carefully. I’ll get Paco to do it—he owes us a favor, and he’s Chicano. She’ll speak more freely to him than to me.”

A brief smile flickered over Starsky’s drawn face. Just last night that face had glowed with sleek contentment. Now the world was closing in around them again. When would they be allowed to love each other in peace? Hutch pushed that thought aside, too, and hugged his lover gently around the shoulders.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get to it.”

* * * *

Señora Esquivel and Paco went out to lunch at The Pits. Starsky took Lizzie Thorpe along with him to County-USC Medical Center to keep Michael quiet as they went through the tests. And Hutch drove to the gallery on La Cienega where Rosey Malone had had her shop.

The gallery now housed a collection of fairly good textiles from all over the world. The manager had no idea of who Rosemary Malone was, but gave Hutch the phone number of the property’s owner. Hutch called, invited himself to the man’s house, and drove up out of the smog into Bel Air.

He had to identify himself before being let through the front gate. The house was huge, of course, a sprawling monster of brick and white shutters. He was led into a foyer with an eighteen-foot ceiling and told by the housekeeper to wait for just a few moments while Mr. Wentworth was informed of his presence.

“Sergeant Hutchinson?”

The basso voice turned him around at once to look into a pair of very dark brown eyes set off by a deep tan and black hair fading artfully into white. “Yes,” Hutch said, advancing to shake hands. “It’s kind of you to spare me a few minutes, Mr. Wentworth.”

“Not at all. Shall we go into the den? Mrs. Hobbs will be serving us something cold. Quite enervating hot, isn’t it?”

As he followed his host deeper into the house, Hutch had that queasy sensation in his stomach and the prickle of hair on the backs of his hands that told him his instincts were registering a high-class hood. But he smiled blandly as he accepted a glass of iced lemonade from the housekeeper and sank into an armchair.

“What can I do for you, Sergeant?” Wentworth adjusted the collar on his Givenchy sports shirt and smoothed a crease from his slacks.

“I’m interested in locating a Ms. Rosemary Malone.” He watched the brown eyes carefully, sipping at his lemonade.

“Malone… Malone… The name is quite familiar.” Wentworth swirled ice in his glass, his frown thoughtful. “May I ask why you wish to find her?”

“I’m sorry, that’s police business,” Hutch admitted with what he hoped was disarming candor. “If you have any information I’d be most grateful. She once rented the gallery you own on La Cienega.”

“Oh! Now I recall!” Wentworth smiled widely. “Lovely young girl—quite lovely. She filled the place with the most delightful Indian artifacts. All the proceeds went to help the tribe whose work—”

“Yes. I know,” Hutch interrupted, impatience surfacing against his will. “She approached you last winter about leasing the property again, didn’t she?”

“Hmmm… I don’t quite recall.” He rose from the couch and walked to a desk. “I was quite disappointed when I received notice she wished to give up the lease. That was three years ago. I find it very difficult to believe that anyone of her caliber is wanted for criminal activity by the police.” He looked up from his search through a drawer, brows lifted.

“I don’t believe I said she was wanted for any infringement of the law,” Hutch said pleasantly.

“Oh, of course.” Wentworth sketched a smile and Hutch’s neck felt cold. “Here it is.” He pulled out a thin black ledger book, leafing through it as he returned to the couch. “The lease was in the name of Rosemary Malone for two years. Then it was taken over by Ames Henderson—quite a terrible little man, selling bad copies of bad art—he didn’t last long. The present tenant is—”

“Yes, I know,” Hutch said again. “What I need to know is if Ms. Malone contacted you again last winter about renting the gallery.”

“Now that you mention it, and I recall her, I believe she did. I got a message while I was out, and then a letter asking if the lease was available.”

“Do you still have the letter?”

“No, I’m quite sure I don’t. It was eight months ago, after all. Or thereabouts,” he added.

Hutch noted and filed the evasion. “Did you meet with her or was your contact strictly by correspondence?”

“The latter, Sergeant.”

“I see.” Something was not quite right; he felt it deep in his gut, more than the alert that had slithered over his body earlier. Hutch got to his feet, careful to leave his glass on a coaster. “Do you happen to remember the address?”

“Oh, dear…. My memory isn’t quite what it used to be, Sergeant Hutchinson.” He paused a well-timed moment, then smiled. “You know, I believe I’m not quite senile after all! She was staying at the Chateau Marmont. I remember it because I thought as I addressed the envelope what a perfect setting that hotel would be for her beauty.”

“Yes,” Hutch smiled noncommittally. “Well, thank you, Mr. Wentworth. You’ve been helpful.”

“Not very, I’m afraid. If I recall anything else, I’ll phone the police and ask for you.”

“I’d appreciate that.” He opened the door. “Thanks again. I can find my own way out.”

The foyer was cool and he paused for a moment before returning to the ninety-five-degree September heat. Inside the LTD he reached for the mike and asked to be patched through to R&I. Minnie Kaplan answered brightly.

“How’re you doin’ today, hot legs?”

“Just got served some lousy lemonade by somebody I want you to check out, Minnie. Charles Wentworth, address 332 Woodpass Drive. Let me know what the computer comes up with.”

“Will do. Where’s that trashy partner of yours?”

“Buying a new suit. We’re taking you to L’Escoffier.” He smiled.

“Holy mercy me!” Minnie whistled. “What did Cousin Minnie ever do to deserve that?”

“You’re beautiful—schweetheart,” he replied, imitating his partner’s accent.

“So why don’t you both marry me?”

“Polyandry’s against the law, you know that. Besides, which one of us would wash the dishes?”

“It ain’t the dishes I’m concerned with, Blondie.”

He laughed and signed off. But the moment the cheerful, teasing voice was gone, depression settled around him again. Where the hell was Rosey Malone? Preliminary reports from R&I had turned up only her old L.A. address, almost three years out of date. Mexico City hadn’t reported in yet, but he didn’t think much would be forthcoming from there. She’d mentioned to him last winter that she’d been in Europe last fall, but God only knew where and if she had any friends there.

And Wentworth. Hutch scowled into the oncoming smog. There was a sour note in all that sweet gentility. He didn’t have the nouveau riche vulgarity of an Amboy or a Roper—no, something entirely different. Hutch sighed and drove back down Sunset towards the Chateau Marmont. Maybe they’d tell him something there.

* * * *

Starsky sat in Dr. Ensfield’s office staring at his track shoes. Lizzie Thorpe lounged gracefully on the couch, flipping through a magazine. Both waited for Ensfield to bring Michael back from a general physical examination. Both had been silent for ten minutes.

“Where’s he going to stay tonight?” Lizzie’s soft voice brought his gaze up and around.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Probably with that Esquivel lady.”

“I don’t like that idea, Dave. Look, why don’t I have a talk with Susie down in Juvenile and I can take him home with me tonight? Pete and I would love to have him, and Joni would take good care of him, play with him.”

Starsky sighed. “Well, I sure can’t take him home with me,” he mumbled.

Lizzie got to her feet, her flowered skirt swinging softly around her long legs, and sat in the chair next to his. “What if it turns out that Michael really is your son? What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said miserably, “I just don’t know.” Shaking his head, he began to pick at a loose thread on his jacket. “I’m not married, don’t have anybody to take care of him while I’m at work. If Hutch can’t find his mother, then—”

“Don’t you want him? If he is your son, don’t you want him?”

“Of course I want him!”

He sprang to his feet, trying to run away from the words. “Oh, God, I don’t know what’s going on! I don’t know if he’s mine or not—I’m afraid to think or feel until I know for sure. I know I scared him today, bein’ so quiet and starin’ at him so much—but it ain’t every day you walk into a room and there’s this kid sittin’ there who looks just like you, who might be your son—”

“Dave, relax. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push it. I just think you ought to start considering what to do.”

“Yeah. yeah…. I’m sorry, Lizzie, I’m just freaked right now…” He turned towards her, tried to smile. “And thanks for offering to take him home. I appreciate it—and I’ll probably take you up on it.”

“Good. He’s a sweet little boy, whoever he is.” She sat back, watching him. “Have you heard anything from Hutch yet?”

“No. He promised he’d check in at noon, but it’s after one now.” Prowling the small office, he brushed his fingers against the table, desk, chairs, bookcase, window ledge. “Jesus, Lizzie,” he whispered. “I’m scared.”

“I know.” Her voice was light as she continued. “At least a woman always knows when she’s a mommy. It’s a little more difficult to tell if a man’s a father.”

He smiled, glad to respond to the humor. “Yeah, I guess it’d be kinda hard to ignore bein’ out to there for nine months, huh?”

“Not to mention labor.” She snorted. “When I had Joni, Pete wanted to be in the delivery room with me. He lasted five minutes, went outside, and fainted into mom’s lap.”

“My dad fell over when my mom had me, too.” He shook his head, his smile dying. “How’m I gonna tell her? What’m I gonna say?”

“Leave it for when it comes, Dave.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” He flopped down in the chair again and reached over to squeeze her hand. “Thanks for coming along, Lizzie.”

“Sergeant Starsky?”

He jumped up and swung around to meet Doctor Ensfield’s professionally cool gaze. “Yeah? Where’s Michael?”

“The nursing staff is trying to feed him some lunch.” The doctor walked around to his desk, gesturing Starsky to be seated again. “He’s a healthy child, all in all—rather small for his age, but that might be due to diet.”

“What about—?” Starsky gulped.

“I can’t say anything for sure. The blood types are the same, but all that means is that we can’t rule out the possibility that you are the father. We still have to run skin sample tests and—”

“When will I know?”

“Five minutes after I do,” Ensfield replied calmly. He glanced at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have rounds in fifteen minutes and I’m sure Michael is ready to leave.” A faint smile—the first sign of humanity. “He’s rather empathic about hospitals.”

That’d be typical, Starsky thought, then shied away from the idea. Things like that don’t get inherited. But eye color and curly hair and bone structure and skin type and blood type are inherited, and what am I gonna do if he’s my son?

“Come on, Dave, let’s go collect him and call Hutch.” Lizzie’s gentle voice brought him back. “Thank you, Doctor Ensfield.”

“I’m sure everything will work out for the best.”

“Of course.” Lizzie smiled, linking her arm with Starsky’s as they walked to the door.

Pediatrics was down the hall, but even before they reached it, they heard a child’s voice raised in a fierce combination of Spanish and English. Starsky scowled. No kid of his was going to be rude like that. No kid of his? He shuddered inwardly and strode forward.

Michael was standing on a chair, pointing to one of the nurses and yelling. Starsky swept him up under the arm, threw him over his shoulder, and gave him a good solid swat on the bottom.

“And shut up!” he ordered the astonished face that turned to his. He caught Lizzie’s grin out of the corner of his eye and heard one of the nurses exclaim a heartfelt thanks, but didn’t take his attention from the child. Michael tensed as if to wiggle out of his arms, his mouth screwing up, tears imminent. Starsky held him out at arm’s length and fixed him with a stern gaze. “You heard me,” he warned.

A cunning look swept over the boy’s face and his arms reached out. Sweetness so piercing it was indistinguishable from pain shot through him and he hugged Michael close. My son… my son…

Resting his cheek against the silky curls, he turned silently and walked to the elevator.

* * * *

Hutch sat back in the Torino, his shirt sticking immediately to his spine and shoulders. The concierge of the Chateau Marmont had insisted that Ms. Malone had left no forwarding address—until Hutch had produced a fifty dollar bill. At that point the woman had picked up a piece of hotel stationery, written Rosey’s name on it and disappeared into the back office. Two minutes later she was back, the sheet in an envelope, her dark eyes daring Hutch to bribe her again and compromise her integrity.

When he’d torn open the envelope to read the paper, he had learned the interesting information that Rosey Malone’s forwarding address was the firm of Langley, Jarret, and O’Laughlin, offices in Century City and the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco. His brows rose; LJO was one of the most prestigious law firms in California.

A brief conversation with Minnie revealed that Wentworth was indeed strongly suspected of involvement in organized crime; suspected, but never caught. Hutch chewed his lip and gazed up at a billboard advertising the Rolling Stones’ latest album, Emotional Rescue.

“It stinks,” he told Mick Jagger, and drove to Century City.

He spent fifteen minutes wandering around the shopping mall instead of going directly to the office of Langley, Jarret, and O’Laughlin, and dawdled away another ten minutes having a beer in Harry’s Bar on the promenade. He told himself he was being virtuous about his waistline by limiting himself to a single Coors, but his real reason for not downing at least a six-pack was that he knew a buzz would not help him in the upcoming interview.

Squinting at the foam that slid down into his empty glass, he kicked himself mentally for stalling. He had two choices about how he would go in—either as a cop, or playing a role. Frankly, he did not consider himself capable of the latter right now; stress would make him too edgy and he couldn’t think of anything to be, anyway. But going in as a cop, without a writ—things might get difficult and he didn’t think he could deal with that very well, either.

What he wanted to do was walk in and demand to know where the hell he could find Rosemary Malone.

No. What he really wanted to do was get staggering drunk and wait for some lab tech to tell him that the blood types didn’t match and Starsky wasn’t Michael’s father.

No. What he really wanted was for the evidence to be irrefutable and the child to be Starsky’s.

No. What he really wanted—

He left two dollars on the bar and got to his feet. He went into the men’s room, splashed water onto his face, rinsed his mouth, tucked his shirt neatly into his jeans, and told himself to stop being a fool and start being a cop.

The offices were spread over two floors of the North Tower of the complex. Hutch was directed to Mr. Jarret’s suite by a secretary whose attitude improved dramatically when he showed her his badge. Jarret kept him cooling his heels for precisely ten minutes before a harassed-looking law clerk escorted him into the main office.

It was the same as a million other lawyer’s offices and Jarret was the same as a million other lawyers. Fourteen exquisitely subtle shades of tan were layered walls to carpets. Jarret’s suit was a fifteenth, equally subtle, shade of tan. Hutch’s own blue plaid shirt and white jacket were riotous with color by comparison.

“Yes, Sergeant Hutchinson? You wished to talk with me about some private matter?”

Jesus Christ, a tan voice. “The Chateau Marmont provided me with your offices as the forwarding address for Ms. Rosemary Malone.”

Jarret nodded and lit a cigarette. “We handle Ms. Malone’s affairs, yes.”

“I understand her father left her with quite a lot of money when he died last year in Mexico City.” Hutch let the information slide casually into the room.

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss a client’s financial status with you unless you have a warrant.”

“How about answering two very simple questions. Before I bother the D.A. and Judge Greenbaum for that warrant you mentioned.”

Jarret did not appear overly impressed with the two biggest names in L.A. City justice. “If the answers are not prejudicial to mv client’s interests, I would be happy to answer any questions you have, Sergeant.”

“Thank you.” Hutch sat back in his chair and smiled slightly. “Is there a trust fund set up for Ms. Malone’s children?”

“All funds are in her name. There is no such trust fund.”

“Is there a necessity for one?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Did she become a mother about two years ago?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Jarret didn’t even blink.

“One more question. Where can I find her?”

“I’m afraid f can’t—”

Hutch planted both feet on the floor and placed his hands on the edge of Jarret’s desk. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to. There’s a little boy sitting in Metro Headquarters right now who may or may not be Ms. Malone’s son. If he really is, I think she’s going to want to know he’s here, don’t you? And if he isn’t, I think it would be in your best interests and hers to find out who’s trying to pass him off as her son. What do you think?”

“I gather that question was rhetorical.”

“You got it.” Hutch sat back again. “Where is she?”

Jarret crushed out his cigarette and closed his eyes. He was silent for a longtime. When he finally spoke, his voice was devoid of the challenging arrogance of a highly-paid professional. He sounded like a concerned family friend. “I have no reason to think you would invent a story like that. She hasn’t had an easy time the last few years. I don’t quite see how she could have given birth to a child without our being informed of it, but….” He shrugged. “She was never involved in her father’s business ventures, Sergeant. That much you must know.”

“What a polite term for it,” Hutch commented acidly.

Jarret ignored the words. “I haven’t seen her personally since late August of 1977.”

“She was down in Mexico with her father until he died, then went to Europe. She was also in Los Angeles last winter. What I need to know is where she is right now.”

“La Jolla,” he answered flatly. “I can’t give you the name she’s living under or her address. I will contact her, however, and ask if this story is true.”

“Not good enough. We have to get her into town. Face to face. No intermediaries.”

“Impossible.”

“Completely possible. What if the boy is hers? What’s he doing up here without his mother? And if he’s not her son, who’s playing what game with a child’s life?”

Jarret allowed himself a slight smile. “You would have made an admirable prosecution attorney. All right. Where do you want her to meet you?”

Where? Not the station—not the house—oh God, no, not our home! Neutral ground. Someplace public, with no chance to see Starsky alone.

Afraid, Hutchinson? Jealous?

Yes. forgive me, babe—yes.

“Here,” he said. “The plaza in front of the Schubert Theatre.”

Jarret nodded. “When?”

“Eleven tomorrow morning.”

“All right.” He scribbled something on a notepad. “I’ll call her this evening.”

“Thank you.” Hutch got to his feet, feeling tired and old. “I’ll be there.”

“I’m sure everything will work out for the best, Sergeant.”

“I’m sure it will,” he replied, fully aware of the inanity of the words. He left the office, took the elevator down, and went back to Harry’s Bar for another beer.

* * * *

When Hutch arrived home, Starsky was sprawled morosely on the living room couch, a beer in his hand and a pillow clasped against his chest. Hutch paused in the doorway, then descended the three short steps as he removed his jacket and holster.

“Hi. I tried to call to tell you I’d be late, but I guess you weren’t here.”

“I been home.” Slim fingers worried a loose thread of needlepoint.

“Any more beer in the fridge?”

“Should be.”

“Where’s Michael?” He paced into the kitchen, frowning.

“At Lizzie’s house. She fixed it with Susie so she could take care of him tonight.”

Hutch twisted the cap off the beer bottle and walked slowly back into the living room. “I was hoping you’d bring him home.”

Starsky stared at him. “What the hell would we do with a little kid?” His gaze slipped away to focus sullenly on the patio. “He wouldn’t even talk to me,” he muttered. “Talked a mile a minute to Lizzie. But the minute I got around him he shut up like a double-crossing snitch.” He slammed a fist into the arm of the couch. “Damnit, Hutch, where were you all day?”

“You know where I was and what I was doing.” He sat down in a chair opposite the couch, elbows on his knees, the beer bottle chilling his fingers. “I chased all over town looking for—” The name stuck in his throat and he took a long swallow of beer.

“You find her?” Starsky asked tensely. “Did you ask her if she’d had a kid?”

“Not exactly. I got in touch with her lawyers and a meeting’s been arranged for tomorrow. They didn’t know anything about a child, but that doesn’t mean anything one way or another.”

“You’re not gonna tell me where or when you’re meeting her, are you? Jesus Christ, babe—that was all over a long time ago and you know it!”

“It’s not over,” Hutch murmured. “I thought today would’ve proved that to you.” He hesitated a long minute, then asked quietly, “What are you going to do if he really is yours?”

“I don’t know! Why the shit does everybody keep asking me that?” Starsky threw the pillow onto the floor and began to pace the room in long strides, muscles tensed in his back and shoulders. “I can’t be real around him, not knowing. It drove me crazy today. He just stares at me—doesn’t say anything, doesn’t cry, doesn’t smile, nothin’. Just stares at me.”

Hutch sat back, sighing. He understood. Starsky adored children and could talk with them on their own level, for the child in him was ever-alive. But with Michael things would be different, the possibility of parenthood stifling all naturalness. He thought of those eyes, so like Starsky’s own, and drained his beer.

“How did you get to her lawyers?” Starsky stood quietly now, early evening sunlight shining through the back windows to silhouette his rounded shoulders and bowed head.

Hutch gave a brief account of his visits to Wentworth, the Chateau Marmont, and Century City, ending with, “Minnie says there’s a connection between Frank Malone and Wentworth’s liquor store franchises through Malone’s younger brother, Joseph. Seems he slammed into a telephone pole one night about four years ago, and his secretary raised holy hell about a briefcase or papers or something being missing from the car.” He paused, watching his partner carefully. “That’s why I was late. It took a while to dig up the report.”

Starsky nodded. “I talked with Dobey this afternoon. Paco spent some time with Señora Esquivel and he says she’s telling the truth as she knows it. Gave him detailed descriptions of Rosey and her father but doesn’t seem to know jack shit about anything else.” He shrugged. “Hutch…. Does it feel all wrong because it is wrong, or because I want it to be wrong?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” Another pause, then he turned, backlit, his face in shadow. “Take me to bed, Hutch. Make love to me. I want to stop thinking tor a while.”

Heat threaded his veins, weaving love and a desire to restate his claim into a powerful need. But he shook his head. “No, love. Don’t use me like that.”

Starsky was very still, the fading light limning his body in red-gold. “Are you telling me ‘no’?” He took three quick steps forward, the movements explosive. “Are you?”

Hutch said nothing.

Starsky surged past him and out the front door, his running footsteps pounding on the flagstones and then the concrete of the sidewalk. After a time, Hutch got wearily to his feet and closed the door. Starsky would be back. Where else would he go? As much as they angered and hurt each other, there could never be anyone else for either of them.

Except for that blue-eyed child and the woman who had borne him.

The fabric of his life began to unravel at the edges and he was powerless to stop it. It was as if he could see the light and dark that was the pattern of Starsky slowly disappear, thread by thread. Without him, life would shred like rotted cloth. He tried to think of all the days and nights, all the moments when they’d woven magic around each other to shut out the world—but all he could see were Starsky’s eyes in a little boy’s face and the hazy image of the woman who had borne him.

* * * *

He awoke before dawn, fighting against a dream and against the covers that tangled his legs and arms. A soft voice whispered his name and he shook his head, pushing at the warmth that wanted to twine around him.

“Hutch. Wake up, babe. Come on, it’s only me.”

“Starsk?” He blinked in the darkness and swallowed the fear in his throat.

“Yeah, just me. You were expecting maybe Linda Ronstadt?”

The feeble joke trembled a little on its way out, but Hutch grabbed at it, a lifeline to their normal teasing. “She’s too short for me.” He drew Starsky’s head down onto his shoulder and lay back, wrapping his arms around the muscular body.

“Yeah, I don’t think you’d be able to compete with Jerry Brown for her, anyway.” A stubbled cheek nestled closer and a hand stroked soothingly over his chest. “Hutch? I’m sorry. About what I did earlier. You were right.”

He waited a moment, then kissed the tumbled curls. “You know something? I hate being right.”

A chuckle rippled through Starsky. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Warm touch on his thigh, instant delight seeping through his bones. “Serve you right if I’d worn myself out with my run to the park.”

“I gather you didn’t,” he replied, trying to sound calm while quivers shot down his legs.

“Whaddya think?”

He buried both hands in the thick hair and pulled Starsky’s head up. “I think you’re crazy.”

Starsky smiled and nodded. “It’s infectious, too.”

“Oh, good, just what I need—a definition of love that boils down to a… a case of measles—oh, God!” He arched into a long caress and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Shhh. More like malaria—that keeps comin’ back if you’re not careful.” Lips played gently with his earlobe.

“So who wants—to be—careful?”

“Not me, babe. Shut up and kiss me.”

He obeyed willing, losing himself in the taste of midsummer on Starsky’s tongue. A thousand shared pleasures hummed through his veins, threading the past with the present, reassuring him of the future.

“I ever tell you…”

“What?”

“I’m glad you got rid of the lip-warmer.” Starsky chuckled again. “Makes things a lot more interesting.”

“Bastard.” Hutch used his greater strength to flip Starsky over onto his back. Pinning him to the bed, he grinned down at him. “Maybe I’ll grow it back.”

“Wouldn’t dare.” Fingers curved around his ribs, tender and possessive. “I don’t wanna kiss a porcupine. I want your mouth. You gonna give it to me?”

“You don’t deserve it.”

The fingers wriggled a silent threat, black brows arching, eyes dancing with bright hot lights in their depths. Hutch gasped.

“Don’t tickle! Okay, okay, where do you want it?”

“Where d’you think?”

“David Michael Starsky!” He knew he was blushing, felt his cheeks heat up as Starsky laughed aloud—rich and throaty, undercurrent of gathering passion.

“C’mon,” he urged, hands sliding down to Hutch’s hips, locking their bodies together. “Kiss me like you mean it, or I’ll—”

“I always mean it, love.” He captured Starsky’s mouth, loving the purr that vibrated through the slender body. Mine, he told himself with sweet certainty. His lips and his body open for me, just for me—

Hutch reacted violently when the bedside phone shrilled, wrenching away from Starsky’s arms. “God damn!”

Starsky fell back onto the pillows. “Yeah.” he said bitterly. “Answer the lousy thing—tell ’em we’re not home, tell ’em it’s a wrong number. Tell ’em anything.”

But as the phone rang again Hutch knew that the carefully-woven feelings had snapped. He reached for the receiver. “Yeah? ”

Lizzie Thorpe’s usually warm voice was thin and tense. “Michael’s gone, Hutch. Somebody got into the house and took him. You’d better get over here right away.”

“You called Dobey yet?” Horror swept the last of desire from his body.

“He’s on his way. Hutch—oh, God. I’m sorry—”

“It’ll be all right, Lizzie. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He hung up the phone and took both of Starsky’s hands in his. “She says somebody’s kidnaped Michael.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Starsky scrambled from the bed, reaching for the jeans and shirt that lay on the floor.

“We’ll find him.” Hutch rose and began to dress rapidly. “We’ll find him, love.”

“If we don’t—”

“We’ll find him,” Hutch repeated for the third time, and followed his partner downstairs and out the front door.

* * * *

“Yeah, back door’s been jimmied—expert job, too,” an officer from Robbery Detail said, grudging admiration in his voice. “Professionals, Captain—and talented ones.”

Dobey grunted. He wore an ancient cardigan sweater over a pajama shirt, and a pair of trousers that looked like they were saved for doing yardwork. “Dust everything down for prints,” he said. “Not that you’ll find any.”

“That’s what I figure too, sir. But we’ll get onto it.”

Hutch approached his captain. “Neither Pete nor Lizzie heard anything, but Joni got woken up by some noise. Michael was sleeping in the extra bed in her room.”

“What time?”

“Around two, we think. Seems she’s an astronomy buff, knows all the stars and what time the moon rises and sets and so forth.” Hutch rubbed at the line between his eyebrows, glancing around for Starsky even as he continued to Dobey. “Joni sleeps with her window open and the moonlight was shining right through onto her bed. Which puts the time she woke up at about two o’clock.”

“According to whom?” Dobey glared at him over the shoulder of a passing lab tech.

“According to her,” Hutch replied mildly. “I wouldn’t sell her short, Captain. She’s a smart kid.”

“Okay. okay, so we have somebody getting into the house at two, taking the boy, and where the hell does that leave us?”

Hutch shook his head. “Just about nowhere. Lizzie woke up at three and thought she’d go in and check on Michael.” He followed the captain through the tidy kitchen into the dining room. Crystal glinted from an antique cabinet, the light hurting his eyes. “That’s when she found the bed empty. She called you, then us, then the lab team.”

Starsky’s voice came from behind them. “She’s a good cop,” he said quietly. He walked around the large table, pausing to allow a uniformed officer through to the kitchen. “She’s also upset as hell. Thinks it her fault.” He glanced at Hutch, eyes hooded.

“It’s not,” Hutch said. “Did you talk with Pete at all?”

Starsky nodded. “They put the kid to bed about nine, and when Joni went up at ten-thirty he was asleep. The house gets locked up when Pete and Lizzie go up to bed—that’s around eleven fifteen, give or take. Regular locks and deadbolts on all the doors, deadbolts on the glass patio doors. I’d like to know how they got around the lock and chain on the kitchen.”

“Dave?” Lizzie, dressed in a dark amber velvet robe, entered the dining room and took his hand. The cop was back in her face and voice although her cheeks were pale. “You remember when we were driving back here from the station?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“I’m not sure, but I think we may have been followed.”

Hutch exchanged glances with his partner. “Let’s have it, Lizzie.”

“When you made that wrong turn on Woodman and had to go back around, I saw a blue Porsche 924 pass us.” She raked her long hands back through her hair. “I think I saw the same car when we were taking Michael into the house. And then this evening when I took the dog out for a walk, I saw a blue 924 parked at the end of the next block over from us.”

“You think?” Hutch asked Starsky, using the two words and his eyes.

“I think,” he replied flatly. “Can you focus in on a license number?”

She was silent for a minute, then shook her head. “I’ve been trying. They were California plates, I’m sure of that, because you always notice out of state colors. They weren’t ‘ego plates’…” Lizzie trailed off, lids drooping as she concentrated. Then, green eyes wide, she said urgently, “They must have been new plates. You know, the seven-digit ones just coming out. One A something something… oh, damn, there must be half a million Porsches in L.A. County—”

“But how many of ’em with brand new plates?” Dobey nodded. “You’ve got a good memory, Sergeant Thorpe.”

Her brows shot up. “It’s one of the things the city pays me for, Captain.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky again, a faint smile curving his lips. Dobey had the grace to look embarrassed, and to cover the silence Hutch said, “We’ll get an APB out on it tonight and check with DMV. Starsky, go take care of it, okay?”

“Sure.” Starsky guided Lizzie to the door. “Show me to a phone?” His voice faded as they went through the hallway to the living room.

Hutch looked at Dobey. “All we can really do is wait to be contacted.”

The captain nodded tiredly. “That’s always the bottom line in kidnap cases.” He tugged at the sagging waistband of his pants. “What time did you say you’re meeting Ms. Malone today?”

“Eleven.”

“All right. We should get some word before then, but if we don’t—”

“All I want to do is find out from her if she’s Michael’s mother. The rest of this doesn’t concern her.”

“I think it does,” Dobey said pointedly. “If she’s not the boy’s mother, then someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to convince us that she is.”

“To bring her out into the open,” Hutch said softly, the polished wood of the table blurring as his gaze turned inwards, following slippery paths of speculation. The room became sharp-edged again as he looked at Dobey. “Put a tail on me tomorrow, Captain. Plainclothes. Somebody so good they’ll be invisible even to me. If this is all a plan to find her, we could both be walking into a trap.”

“And surveillance at Wentworth’s too.” Dobey nodded, following Hutch’s train of thought. “The connections are a little too neat there.”

“Yeah. If everything’s wrapped up here, I’d like to get down to the station and do a little more digging on Wentworth and Frank Malone.”

“You ought to get some sleep.” It was a token protest and they both knew it.

“Can’t. But thanks for the thought, Captain. Goodnight.”

He found Starsky in the living room, standing by the door and talking softly with Pete Thorpe. The ex­-Ohio State linebacker turned L.A. County Sheriff was nodding intently at something Starsky was saying, but looked around as Hutch walked up to them.

“Pete’s gonna use his contacts in the Sheriff’s Department and the CHP for us, Hutch, about that Porsche.”

“Thanks,” Hutch said. “Can you get them to route any calls for us through Metro? There’s some digging I’d like to get done tonight.”

“Will do,” Thorpe said in the soft drawl of his Tennessee origins. “I’m damn sorry about all of this, Hutch.”

“Not your fault.” He shrugged. “I have a feeling they would’ve gotten to the boy wherever he’d been.”

“Says a lot for us, doesn’t it?” The large, handsome face hardened. “With two officers in the house Michael should’ve been as safe as in protective custody.”

“Hey,” Starsky said gently. “Nobody could’ve known.”

Wide shoulders lifted and dropped. “He’s a fine boy, Starsky,” Thorpe said after a moment.

Hutch watched his partner’s face lose all expression. “Yeah. Goodnight, Pete.” He turned abruptly and walked down the brick path to the Torino.

“It’s rough on him.” Thorpe murmured. “Lizzie told me something about it. Helluva mess.”

“Not knowing is the worst,” Lizzie said from the stairs. She descended the last two steps, one arm around her tail, freckle-faced daughter. “Try to get some sleep tonight, Hutch. And take good care of Dave.”

“I will. Goodnight.” He went out the door, down the walk to the curb. He paused before getting into the passenger’s seat of the Torino. Husband, wife, and daughter stood in the doorway, illuminated in the scatter-burst of revolving light from the three patrol cars parked in the street and driveway. The picture of family solidarity hurt. He got into the car beside Starsky and put one hand gently on a bent shoulder. It was shrugged away.

“We gonna check out Wentworth and all that shit?”

“Yeah. Better stop off at Denny’s or someplace for coffee, though. We’re gonna need it, and you know the night shift makes the worse coffee in town.”

Starsky didn’t respond to the attempted humor. Hutch sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

* * * *

Starsky straightened up from splashing cold water onto his face and stared at the man in the mirror. He looked worse than he’d anticipated. His hair hung in lank, sweaty curls almost down into his bloodshot eyes. Faint sunlight through the transom window of the men’s room washed his face in pale colors, accenting a growth of beard that looked like an unmown field. He ran his tongue around his teeth, tasting stale coffee. It was six-forty-five in the morning and he’d had less than an hour’s sleep in the past twenty-four. He looked it.

He dried his face with a rough paper towel, trying to scrub some color back into his cheeks. All he accomplished was tingling irritation of his skin, and he swore softly. The past three hours had gleaned some useful information, but he was sick of waiting for someone else to jerk his strings. Kidnaping cases were always the worse; the cards were all in the abductor’s hand.

He pushed open the door of the men’s room and walked back down the hallway, pausing at a candy machine to dig into his pocket and buy a chocolate bar. He needed the energy, he argued with his reluctant stomach, and forced the sticky-sweet Hershey’s down his throat.

Stopping near the file cabinets just inside the door of the squadroom, he watched his partner for a few moments. The blond head, bright in the growing light, was bent over a folder, the brow deeply creased. One hand lay flat on the desk, the other cupped his chin. Large hands, yet slender: strong yet gentle. He had spent years watching those hands, knew every bone and nail and callous, had felt their touch first in friendship and then in love. He thought of the supple dance of those hands over the strings of a guitar, their power when wrapped around the Magnum, their tenderness as they stroked his face. And he was suddenly starved for the touch of those hands.

Feeling the scrutiny, Hutch glanced up with a slight smile. Starsky approached him, but instead of seating himself on his own side of the desk walked around to stand beside his partner. As he’d hoped, one hand took his own for a moment, pressing with comforting strength. But then, ever-alert for eyes that might see what they were not meant to, Hutch glanced around the squadroom and released Starsky’s hand.

The action annoyed him, fraying his nerves. Why shouldn’t they touch each other? He placed a hand on the nape of Hutch’s neck, rubbing gently, and knew that he was guilty of the same need to hide. There had to be a reason for the touching when someone might be around to see, and he was pretending that Hutch’s muscles needed a massage rather than admit his need for the physical reality of his lover. His own duplicity irked him further and he had to concentrate to hear what Hutch was saying.

“—so I guess we wait on the APB for the Porsche, huh? The DMV finally kicked back while you were gone and the car’s registered to Bretta Appleton in Marina del Rey. I called R&I to check her out and so far she’s clean, but I’ll bet she’s got some kind of connection with Wentworth or Malone. All we can do is wait on it.”

“Yeah.” He struggled to order his thoughts, then realized that weariness was not the only thing dulling his brain. The feel of Hutch’s skin and the softness of his hair were causing short circuits. His lips twisted at his body’s constant response to Hutch, but at the same instant he laughed shortly. He’d come full circle from his original resentment at not being able to touch his partner whenever he wanted. There was a very good reason why they kept the physical contact brief while in public. Definitely he was going crazy.

Hutch turned, looking up at him with questioning eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothin’, babe. Us. Me.” He offered no further explanation as he went to his own side of the desk. “Somethin’s been eatin’ at me for a while now,” he went on. “How come Michael didn’t yell when they took him out of the house?”

Hutch sighed. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of child who’s used to one bed or one house or the same people around him all the time. Yesterday morning when I picked him up, he didn’t struggle at all like kids usually do, and I’m a total stranger to him.”

“I don’t know,” Starsky murmured, trying to shut out the idea of a child—his child—lacking the security of familiar people and places. “At the hospital he almost started to cry when Lizzie handed him over to the nurses.”

“You think maybe somebody he knew was there to take him from the house?”

Starsky nodded. “And I’m thinking that maybe it was his mother.”

Air hissed from between Hutch’s clenched teeth, his eyes darkening, but before he could frame a reply his extension rang and he picked up the phone. “Hutchinson—what? Yeah, right away.” Slamming down the receiver, he was on his feet as he spoke. “Somebody’s downstairs with a package for you.”

They took the stairs. Starsky bounding down them three at a time, careless of his easily-twisted ankles, and arrived half out-of-breath at the front desk. “Where is it? Who brought it?”

“Right here, Sergeant Starsky,” the older cop on duty soothed. “The little girl who brought it is sitting on the bench.”

He turned, any hope of getting information still­born. A ten-year-old wearing a yellow dress that glowed against her cafe-au-lait skin sat swinging her thin legs, sorting out a selection of jawbreakers into her skirt. Starsky glanced at Hutch, who nodded and went over to the girl.

Starsky turned to the paper-wrapped box bearing his name that rested on the desk. “Anybody touch it?”

“No, sir.”

Starsky was peripherally aware that the man was offended, but didn’t much care. “Get the bomb squad down here,” he ordered. Staring at the box, transfixed, wanting desperately to open it but not daring to, he kicked his brain into gear noting details. It was the size of two packs of cigarettes, wrapped in what looked like paper cut from a shopping bag, tied with bright red yarn. His name leaped out at him in bold felt-marker letters. There was no other writing on the box.

He turned away as two men in heavy coveralls arrived to escort the little girl to a safe place for examination. Impatience itched at the palms of his hands, drying out his lips and speeding up his heartbeats. Calm down, he told himself. Follow procedures, Davey-boy, or this whole thing’ll blow up in your face.

“So what did the man do then, sweetheart?”

Hutch’s soft voice carried to him and he closed his eyes, listening to the gentle interrogation, allowing the measured tones to calm his nerves.

“After the man gave you the box, what did he say?”

“I gots to go home, Mister Man,” the girl answered uneasily. “My mama, she sent me to the store and—”

“I’ll have somebody drive you to the market and then home, how does that sound? What happened after the man gave you the box?”

The reply was mumbled around a piece of candy. A crack and a crunch, which jolted through Starsky’s body, then: “He say for me to give it to the dude behind the desk at the po-leece station. Then he gave me this here bag. But my mama, she gonna skin me alive if I ain’t back soon.”

“We’ll explain to her what happened,” Hutch assured her, his voice never changing in pitch or intensity. Starsky suddenly wondered how his partner would talk with Michael. “Can you tell me what the man looked like? What was he driving?”

“One of them little flashy rides, y’know?”

“What color? Blue?”

“Maybe,” she allowed.

“Was he an old man? Gray hair?”

“No, man, he was green an’ had big purple spots! I gots to go home now, and ain’t nobody gonna keep me here!”

The girl’s inbred distrust of police coupled with her mother’s threats had ended her tolerance. Starsky opened his eyes in time to see Hutch placidly helping the child load the jawbreakers into a paper bag, the questions over. He felt another stab of irritation, but knew they had been lucky to get the girl to stay this long.

“Starsky?”

He turned back around again as Tom Chernek spoke his name. “You got anything on it yet?”

“Patience, patience.” Chernek possessed that quality in abundance; his work in Bomb Disposal demanded it. “My boys are working on it. Who’s sending you presents?”

Wordlessly, Starsky moved toward Hutch and looked down at the black girl. “Need a ride home?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in no po-leece car!” She grasped the sack with blunt, dirty fingers and left the station, dodging uniforms like a guerilla fighter.

“She wouldn’t have told us anything, Starsk,” Hutch murmured, staring after her. “She’s too young.”

“Yeah. Probably why they picked her.” Tension was pulling his scalp tight. “Damn.”

“Starsky? All clear.” Chernek approached them, the still-wrapped box in his hands, his crew’s mysterious rituals of safety completed. “It’s clean. If you want to bring it down to the lab later we can find out what kind of paper and so forth if you’re interested. But there aren’t any prints to lift.”

“I just wanna know what’s in it.” He cut the yarn with his pocket knife. The brown paper fell away easily to reveal a box covered in tin foil. Taped to the box was a sheet of note paper, and typed on that were the words. A token of good faith. Stay at your desk. Starsky ripped the tin foil off and lifted the lid of the box.

Inside was a matched pair of very dark brown eyes.

Someone choked. Starsky felt a large gentle hand slide around his waist, but he was beyond touch now. He ran for the nearest men’s room and fell to his knees on the tiled floor and was very, very sick.

* * * *

“Señora Esquivel’s, of course,” Dobey said heavily.

Hutch nodded. “She was probably the one who took Michael out of his bed. He knew her, so he didn’t put up any fuss.” He glanced at the closed door to the squadroom. “Starsky’s about ready to drop, Captain,” he said quietly, “I can’t stay with him. I’ve got to be at Century City in a few hours.”

“I know, I know.” Dobey knuckled his red-rimmed eyes.

“Why don’t they call?” It was less a question than a protest at the agony his partner was trying to endure. “Why the fuck don’t they call?”

“They will. They have to. It’s the pattern.”

“What the hell do patterns have to do with it?” Hutch knew he was near explosion and bit down hard on his tongue. When he had control of himself again he said, “If I could just figure out why they took him. If all they wanted was to smoke Rosey out, they could just tail me today and—”

“HUTCH!”

The frantic call came right through the door. Hutch leaped to his feet and ran. “Starsk?” His partner was hunched over the table, the phone to his ear, eyes huge.

“They called Huggy.”

Hutch picked up the other phone. “Hug? What’s—”

“Shut up, man, and listen.” Huggy’s voice was uncharacteristically crisp. “This dude called me two minutes ago and said to phone Starsky and tell him if he wants to see the kid alive again, be at Griffith Park Observatory at noon with the briefcase.”

“What briefcase?” Hutch stared at his partner.

“How the hell do I know what briefcase?” Huggy exclaimed. “You wanna tell me what kid they’re talkin’ about?”

“My son,” Starsky snapped. “What else did he say, Hug?”

“Just that, and the kid’s all right and you’ll get him when they’ve got the briefcase. Starsky, what’s the hell’s goin’—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Starsky threw the phone onto the table and swung around to slam his fist into the file cabinets.

Wincing, Hutch said quietly, “Get somebody to take over for you at the Pits today, Huggy.”

“Are you gone crazy, man? What in the name of Almighty—”

“Huggy, please.” He glanced at Starsky, seeing that he had folded his arms atop the filing cabinet and rested his head on them. In a few quick sentences Hutch explained the basics of the case. When he was finished, the other end of the line was silent. “Well?” Hutch prompted. “Will you help?”

“You gotta ask?” Huggy’s voice was very soft. “You want me to come with you to meet the lady or stick with Starsky?”

“With him,” Hutch said briefly.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The phone slid gently into its cradle. Hutch closed his eyes, deliberately thinking of nothing.

“You get him to play nursemaid?” Starsky asked bitterly.

“Stop it,” Hutch told him, not looking at him. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start being a cop.” Hadn’t he admonished himself with those words just yesterday? “There’s work to do and you’re going to need help. I can’t be with you. If there’s anybody else you trust more than Huggy, speak up.” He opened his eyes then, in time to see Starsky square his shoulders and the skin over his cheekbones stain with angry color. “All right, then,” Hutch said, more gently. “The briefcase. What do they mean?”

Just as suddenly as it had appeared the blood rushed from Starsky’s face. “Joseph Malone.” He made a dive for the desk and the folders strewn across it. Hunting, swearing, he finally found what he wanted and his eyes flew over the typed report. “His secretary swore all over the place that he’d taken a briefcase from his office the day he died. But it wasn’t in the car after the wreck.”

“Okay. What’s the secretary’s name and address?”

“Grace Brewer.” He retrieved the telephone receiver from the floor and started punching out a number.

“You and Huggy check her out and—”

“I’m gonna call the DMV first and see if she’s changed addresses.”

Hutch nodded to himself. Sergeant Starsky was back. “I better get moving or I’ll be late.” He started for the door, but Starsky’s voice stopped him.

“Hutch?”

He turned. “Yeah?” Dreading some message to be given to Rosey Malone, he waited.

“What I said, about Rosey.” His eyes were wide and tender. “It’s true. Always will be.” He shrugged, a smile touching one corner or his mouth. “No room, Hutch. You know that.”

The tightness in his chest dissolved into a familiar warmth. “I know,” he murmured. “Take care, partner.”

“You too.” The smile widened for a moment, then vanished as the phone demanded his attention.

Hutch left the squadroom, taking five minutes to shower and change into the spare shirt he kept in his locker downstairs. He still looked like hell, but somehow it was important to present a reasonably decent appearance.

Because despite Starsky’s words, despite the fact that he believed them, he was and always would be jealous of Rosey Malone.

* * * *

The knowledge that he was being followed made him nervous even though the tail had been assigned at his own request. Still, he reflected as he took a parking chit from the automatic vendor, the thought that someone was watching would at least make him behave himself. He drove Huggy’s white Caddy into a parking space, got out, smiled grimly, and told himself he was a fool.

His admonition to Huggy outside Metro applied equally to himself. He considered it as he took the escalator up to the promenade level. “Be careful, and don’t let him do anything insane.”

Huggy had blinked, nodded, and replied, “I’ll knock him out or shoot him in the leg with his own gun if I have to.”

That had brought a chuckle from Hutch. “Hug. you couldn’t hit the ocean with a slingshot if you were standing on the beach, and you know it.”

Don’t do anything insane.

He walked out into the breathless heat, scanning the concrete plaza, his heart beginning to pound. A few shoppers milled around; scattered executives and secretaries on an early lunch strode into the restaurants and bars; a bearded youth stood outside the Schubert’s entrance tuning his fiddle. Hutch chose a spot near him that afforded an unobstructed view of the promenade and listened as the young man began a mediocre rendition of “Orange Blossom Special.” He decided that the pottery jar at the musician’s feet would be a long time filling up with contributions from appreciative listeners.

“Sergeant Hutchinson?”

He turned slowly, keeping his face smooth. She was older, and still beautiful. “Hello.”

“Mr. Jarret said you wanted to see me.” She twisted the thin gold chain around her neck. “Why?”

“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested, and she silently fell into step beside him. They passed the fiddle-player as he went into a slightly out of tune “Heart Like a Wheel.” Hutch paused, reached into his pocket for some change, and tossed the coins into the pottery jar. The young man grinned and nodded without breaking the rhythm of his bowing, and Hutch walked on, Rosey Malone beside him.

A faint breeze stirred from the sea, ruffling her long gold-lit hair, touching the skirt of her sleeveless blue dress. The melancholy strains of the song echoed off the buildings, followed them as they moved toward the central plaza. Inhaling, Hutch could detect a perfume of summer flowers.

“Why?” she repeated softly. “Is it something about David?”

He gestured to a stone bench but she shook her head. “Did you—” There was no graceful way to ask, so he said flatly, “I want to know if you had a child. Starsky’s child. A son.”

“And what if I told you I did?”

Rending pain and frightening joy lurched in his chest. He grasped her arm with bruising fingers. “Did you? The truth!”

Her eyes ran contemptuously over him. She said nothing.

“Answer me, Rosey!”

“No.” She pulled out of his grip. “No,” she said more clearly. “I didn’t have a baby. if that’s all you wanted to know, you could have written me a letter.”

He blinked rapidly, unable to sort out his feelings, waiting for a semblance of calm to return. When he was balanced again, he saw that she was gazing at him with a look of speculative bitterness. Loss and loneliness had scarred the corners of her mouth, taken the softness from her face. She was beautiful still, but cold, almost lifeless.

“Is that all, Sergeant Hutchinson?”

“No.” He reached for her hand, taking it softly this time. “Somebody’s trying very hard to convince Starsky that you had his child—a little boy named Michael. Right now he’s—”

“Heart Like a Wheel” had another chorus to run but the music suddenly stopped. A slight movement caught Hutch’s attention and he whirled to stare for a split second at the fiddle player.

Rosey cried out as he grabbed her and threw them both to the pavement. Two shots cracked out, one of them gouging a path through the stone bench a foot away from where they sprawled. Hutch heard the splintering of wood and the twang of broken strings.

He rolled to his feet, drawing the Magnum. “Stay put,” he ordered harshly, and ran, crouching low. Halfway to where the bearded man lay groaning on the concrete, his violin shattered beside him and a spreading stain on his shoulder, Hutch slowed and stood straight again. A slim figure wearing a tan suit held a pistol pointed at the prone gunman, and one booted foot rested atop a Smith and Besson automatic. Hutch approached, easing past the small crowd of frightened and curious bystanders.

“Thanks. Lizzie.”

She tossed her hair out of her eyes and grinned almost ferally at him. “Any time, Hutch. I sent my partner for a backup and ambulance. You and the lady all right?”

“Yeah.” He smiled slightly. “You are one fine cop, Sergeant Thorpe. I didn’t even see you following me.”

The man on the ground shifted, and Lizzie kicked the S&W over to Hutch before prodding the man into passivity with the toe of her boot. “I could say that I’m part Indian guide, Kemosabe, but the truth is that I know you.” Her eyes sparkled. “You’re a leg man, Hutchinson—you’d never notice a woman in long pants.”

He tried to choke back his laugh of relief, but couldn’t. “I’ll have to pay more attention next time.” A siren’s wail drew his gaze to the street. “Handle things here, Lizzie. I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Hutch—”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me.” Her eyes held no laughter now.

He shook his head. “Starsky isn’t Michael’s father. Which makes it all the more dangerous.”

She nodded. “Vaya con Dios, Hutch,” she said softly.

He returned to where Rosey was now seated on the bench, trembling. Holstering his gun, he took her arm and coaxed her to her feet. “It’s all right, Rosey. But David and the boy could be in a helluva lot of trouble. What do you know about a briefcase your uncle Joseph had in his car the night he died?”

Confusion warred on her face with the recent terror. He admitted grudging respect when she calmed herself and answered in a voice that did not shake. “We’ll have to go up to my lawyer’s offices. It’s there, in the safe.”

* * * *

Griffith Park Planetarium attracted tourists and locals in hordes during the summer months. Aside from its location—perched on the side of a hill above most of the smog, affording a vista of the shrouded L.A. Basin—it boasted a Laserium show as well as the more staid amusement of looking at the mineral collection or watching the seismograph jiggle. Parents with young children in tow wandered the lawns, teenagers idled from school hid beer and hash pipes when the occasional guard passed by on rounds, and tour buses disgorged Midwesterners who would return to their homes blessing the clear flat skies of Nebraska.

Starsky, finally having found a parking space, watched as a pot-bellied man wearing a T-shirt labelled “I love New York” tried to snap a picture through the lens of one of the telescopes set up around the grounds. Starsky wished him luck. He tapped his fingers on the heavy leather briefcase in his lap and turned his attention to Huggy, who ambled along the grass parkway with sunglasses hiding his eyes. Three other cops strolled by the car, all of them in casual clothes and all of them with Wentworth’s, Bretta Appleton’s, and Rosey Malone’s features memorized.

Starsky looked at his watch again. Eleven fifty-three, and why the hell hadn’t Hutch called in?

Hutch.

Sunday—two days ago—he’d spent the afternoon pruning his roses in the back yard of their home. Hutch had lounged in a hammock beneath the tree and heckled him until he’d threatened to clip something besides flowers. Laughter, a brief wrestling match, and—

A flash of blue in his rearview mirror caught his eye, but it was a wheezing old Detroit boat, not the sleek little Porsche. He knew he should be out and walking, but also knew that whoever was behind this was not ignorant of the car he drove. They knew everything about him, it seemed, from his brief affair with Rosey to the brand of toothpaste he used, probably. Did they know about him and Hutch, too?

Hutch.

He wanted desperately to be home, kicking back on the patio with a can of beer in his hand, good music on the stereo, admiring his roses and listening contentedly as Hutch griped about the cost of whatever. By now Rosey had told Hutch the truth about Michael. Maybe. If she’d shown up. Why hadn’t Hutch called in?

He swore viciously and got out of the car. He had to move. If he sat in the car one more minute doing nothing, he’d go crazy.

Hutch was meeting Rosey for the second—no, third time. Once when the whole thing began, walking into her gallery and saying God knew what to her. “She doesn’t even know who I am,” Hutch had assured him.

Who were you then, babe?

The second time in the rain at the L.A. County Art Museum. She knew who you were then, didn’t she, Hutch? You made sure she knew. Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen her?

And now—now to ask about the child. My child. My son. He didn’t know when he’d started thinking of Michael as his own. Maybe the moment he’d found out about the kidnaping. Maybe earlier, at the hospital. Holding the boy, feeling the arms wrap around his neck to hold on tight, rubbing his cheek to soft curls. Maybe then. My son.

Rosey, why didn’t you tell me?

The gray image of her father appeared before his and he stopped in front of the huge brass sundial, eyes blurring. You left me. My baby inside you and you left me.

“God damn!”

He snatched his fingers away from the fiery metal and turned quickly. Be a cop. Do your job. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

Hutch, where are you?

I need you.

His eye was caught by four children tumbling across the smooth lawn. Two brothers and two sisters in stairsteps from age four to age nine, all of them blond as butter and carbon copies of the young woman who laughed indulgently at their antics. Starsky’s heart suddenly throbbed against his ribs.

What if it’d been Hutch’s kid, instead of mine?

Intricate mixture of joy and swift pain. Is this how it feels for you? Wanting and not wanting? Scared to death. And you haven’t said a thing to me. Just been loving me, been there for me. Just like always. Ahh, babe, how can you stand this?

You’re a selfish sonuvabitch, Davey-boy. A real Class A bastard. Not thinkin’ about anybody but yourself and what you’re going through. Could you handle it like he’s been handling it? Shit, no! Do you love him enough to let him have his son?

And the woman who gave him birth?

Terror clawed at him and he shied away from it. He’d been so wrapped up in his own misery he hadn’t been watching his partner. But he suddenly could see Hutch’s eyes, and knew that no matter what he himself said, no matter that Rosey no longer held any part of his love, Hutch would be seeing a future that held no place for him.

Hutch, you idiot—you don’t understand! I don’t want her, I want a life with you—

And what about Michael? Where will he fit in, this unexpected son of mine?

What if it’d been Hutch’s kid? What would I do? How noble d’you think you could be, Davey-boy? How selfish? How—

“If you stop right there and don’t move, Starsky, everything’ll be just fine.”

He froze, new questions skittering through his brain. The voice behind him was maddeningly familiar but identification eluded him. The sun broiled his back and shoulders but had no power to seep through his veins as he stood immobile, feeling eyes rake over his body from every corner of the lawns. He shifted his weight slightly, ready to turn.

“No. I think you better stay where you are,” the voice said. “I’ll take the briefcase and—”

His fingers clenched on the handle. “Not until I get my son back.”

“Set it on the ground and I’ll hand over the kid.”

Blood iced into small hard crystals. “No.”

Nervous impatience shaded the voice for the first time. “You got your priorities all wrong, cop. Gimme the goddamned—”

Shelby?! “You don’t get nothin’ until Michael’s safe!” He swung around to face the man who had “inherited” Frank Malone’s organization two years ago. The fight to keep it showed clearly in the lines framing the little eyes.

“You’re in no position to argue with me,” Shelby grated. “There’s four guns aimed at you right now, not including mine. I can have you shot and take what I want, and all your cop friends can’t stop me. Hand it over! Now!”

A brief snort of laughter sounded to Starsky’s left. “Oh, really, this is quite amusing. My dear Shelby, aren’t you even going to check the contents of the case?”

Starsky glanced at the handsome, carefully aging face he knew was Wentworth’s. The picture the DMV had given them didn’t do justice to the chill of his eyes. And now he could feel cold gun barrels watching him, too. From somewhere a group of children laughed, and a mother called out to them, and Starsky’s skin chilled on his bones.

“What the hell—?” Shelby spluttered.

“Listen to me, my little gadfly,” Wentworth sneered, ignoring Starsky’s presence. “That isn’t even the briefcase you want. I assure you it’s still quite safe and you will never have access to it. Neither will I, of course, but I must admit I found your little scheme to get it quite entertaining.” Wentworth smiled. “Amateurish, but showing more intelligence than you’ve displayed since Frank Malone departed for Mexico.”

“Where is it?” Shelby’s face turned the color of bread mold.

“Forgive me if I don’t share my information.” He looked at Starsky for the first time. “I’m sorry about your partner, Sergeant. It was necessary to remove him and the lovely Rosemary before they could secure the briefcase. I hope it will comfort you to know that my man is an excellent shot—they can’t have suffered at all—”

“Has the hunter brought you his heart?” Starsky asked, and saw Wentworth’s face change subtly. Starsky breathed again.

“You have an inclination towards blonds,” was all Wentworth said before turning to Shelby once again. “Why don’t you hand the boy over and we can go home and sleep soundly in our beds tonight?” The little mocking smile was back.

Bewilderment competed with frustration for a moment. “I could have you shot right now,” Shelby tried.

“I don’t think so,” Wentworth said imperturbably. “Take a look around you, my friend. You’ve spared me the bother of setting you up—you’ve done it all yourself. Most gracious of you, Shelby.” He smiled. “There are certain things I require from you, and if you do not give them, then….” He shrugged and gestured with one thick hand.

As Shelby’s eyes flickered nervously around the parking lot and lawns, Starsky took a single step backwards, a movement that flowed so smoothly that neither of the two men noticed. Wentworth’s attention was on Shelby, enjoyment of his victory twinkling in his eyes, and Shelby’s attention was involved in a frantic count of his men. Starsky moved back another step, glancing swiftly around him. For every man in a strategic position, another was right beside him, no guns in evidence. Teenagers, tourists, and children mingled unknowing among the syndicate soldiers. Starsky risked another, smaller, pace backwards, looking now for the three cops and Huggy. MacKee, Hindenach, and Tibbets were all maintaining their cover, yet had moved into position to protect not Starsky but the civilians; Huggy was nowhere in sight.

“Stand still,” Wentworth ordered him. “And let me handle this. You’ll get your precious son back as soon as this fool makes up his mind that—”

“HEY, BLONDIE!!”

Huggy’s voice shouting Hutch’s nickname from the entrance to the Planetarium. A signal of some kind, God knew what, but he trusted it. With insane force he swung a corner of the heavy briefcase into Shelby’s groin, at the same time hauling out his .38 to point it at Wentworth’s heart.

“FREEZE!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “POLICE!”

The familiar call was echoed by Mackes and Tibbets. Hindenach adding cautions to the scattering frightened bystanders. Shelby curled on the ground, groaning. Starsky quickly plucked his gun and kicked it away, then turned to Wentworth.

“What exactly is it I’m supposed to do?” the man asked mildly. “Run? I’ve done nothing illegal, Sergeant. May I return to my car and leave this in your quite capable hands?”

“Shut up,” Starsky snapped. “I’m goddam tired of listening to you talk.” He lifted his head and shouted, “Huggy?”

“All clear, man?” the voice floated back, fainter this time, from inside the building.

“Not yet!” Starsky waiting while four very confused guards approached him. Ignoring their questions, he said, “One of you call this in and get a couple more squad cars up here. The rest of you help the officers round up this bunch.” He nodded to Shelby. “And do something for this goon, will ya?”

“You mind telling us what’s—”

“Yeah, I mind. Just gather everybody into the parking lot and we’ll send you a copy of the report, okay?” He gestured with his gun at Wentworth. “Let’s you and me have a little talk.”

“You have no grounds upon which to detain me.”

“I don’t think we’ll need the black-and-whites, Sergeant,” one of the guards said. “Somebody already called it in. Look.”

Two patrol cars announced their arrival with sirens and flashing red and blue lights. Starsky sighed and nodded, privately thanking whoever had shown concern. “All right. Has anybody seen a—”

“Starsk? You lose somethin’?”

Huggy’s question hit him at the same time as a knee-high embrace. He twisted around and gathered Michael into his arms, holding tight.

Long black fingers slid the gun from his hand and he grasped the boy even closer, eyes shut, words thick in his throat. “Shh, shh, it’s all right now. I’ve got you, you’re safe. Ah, God—” He rocked the child, his knees threatening to break like burnt-out matchsticks as the small arms twined around his neck.

“Yeah, found him watchin’ the world go by from behind the Laser show ticket booth,” Huggy was saying casually. “Looks like whoever was s’posed to be lookin’ after him got distracted, one way or ‘nother.”

Starsky opened his eyes. “Thanks, Hug,” he whispered. Gazing at his friend’s shrewd, innocent eyes, he could imagine what the “distraction” had been.

A shrug of thin shoulders, a murmured, “Por nada, amigo,” and Huggy sauntered off to light a cigarette with hands that shook, just a little.

“Touching,” Wentworth remarked. “Your son, I take it?”

“Yes.” He glared into the dark eyes. “God damn you,” he said quietly. “God damn all of you for playing this game with his life. I don’t know what I’m gonna get you on, Wentworth, but so help me God I’ll nail you if it takes the rest of my life.”

Genuine interest showed. “You strike me as a man who fulfills his promises, Sergeant.”

“Count on it.” He shifted Michael in his arms, one hand buried protectively in the dark curls.

But Wentworth’s eyes had wandered away, and in a distant voice he said, “I should have waited until my hunter had brought me his heart.”

Huggy’s white Cadillac slewed to a halt in the middle of the parking lot. Sunlight glinted off blond hair, rippled over wide shoulders and lean thighs as Hutch got out of the car and started towards him, a large briefcase in his hand. Slowly a knot of pain he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge unwound in his chest. He took a step forward, his eyes locked to his partner’s.

“Both their hearts,” Wentworth added.

Rosey, willow-supple figure in a slim blue dress, cascade of gold-lit hair. “You made me believe in that dream again, Rosey…”

Ultimate irony that she should enter his life again at Hutch’s side. He felt the weight of the child in his arms and walked forward.

* * * *

Starsky and the boy. Safe. Hutch drank of them, and only when he sensed the woman at his side and saw dark blue eyes turn from him did the taste become bitter. Close enough to touch, now, and he could neither touch nor look away.

“Rosey.” Pulse shifting in the tanned throat. “Is he ours?”

Tell him the truth, Rosey. Or a lie. It doesn’t matter. Either one will break his heart.

“No.” Softened, a voice to listen to late at night while enveloped in darkness and warmth. “I wish he was, David.”

Starsky nodded quietly. “We gotta talk.”

Drifting tender scent as she moved forward and they left him. He glanced at Wentworth.

“You’re under arrest,” he told him coldly.

“I thought as much—and I quite comprehend, Sergeant Hutchinson.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “A pity I didn’t send a better shot.”

“Yeah.” Hutch kept his eyes from Starsky’s back. “Between you and Shelby the courts should be busy for a couple of years. Kidnaping, murder, attempted murder—and that’s not even counting the documents in here.” He lifted the briefcase, saw Wentworth’s eyes linger on it almost wistfully.

“Frank Malone’s insurance policy,” he murmured. “She doesn’t know what’s in it, does she?”

“No.” Bitterness tightened his throat. “She’s always been protected.”

“Yes. Her father’s weakness. And, I would think, your partner’s as well.”

Hutch glanced sharply at him, then beckoned to one of the uniformed cops. “Read him his rights and cuff him,” he said. “And get him the hell out of here.”

“Till we meet again in court, Sergeant.” Wentworth’s smile widened even as steel bracelets clicked shut. “In two or three years.”

Hutch nodded, his face schooled into professional lines again. “I’m looking forward to it,” he replied, watching as Wentworth was led away.

“Hutch.” Starsky’s voice was tired, slightly hoarse. “Let’s go, huh?”

“Sure.” Rosey was nowhere in sight. He looked a question at his partner.

“She’s catchin’ a ride with Steve Hindenach down to the station. She’ll give a statement, then leave town.”

Hutch nodded, then reach out to ruffle Michael’s hair gently. “Somebody from the State Department will be waiting for us. Have to get Michael back to his parents.” He cursed himself for the sudden bleak pain in Starsky’s eyes, and hurried on. “I’ll tell you about it in the car. Come on. I’ll drive.”

“Yeah,” He held the child closer and looked away.

Hutch spent the half hour’s drive down the hill into L.A. wrapped in silence.

* * * *

“…so Wentworth arranged Joseph Malone’s accident but didn’t get the briefcase. Frank Malone stashed it with his lawyers as insurance that he and his daughter would be safe.”

Dobey nodded at Clements, the representative from the State Department, and took up the story. “Shelby learned about the goods Malone had on Wentworth and put together a plan to smoke the girl out of hiding. He stole the Porsche from the Appleton woman to throw suspicion onto Wentworth—she’s his sister.”

Hutch hated debriefings in general, but this one had escalated the pounding in his head to full-scale Howitzer salvos every two seconds. Dobey was looking at him expectantly. Clearing his throat, he said, “Shelby figured that even if we did find out at once that the boy wasn’t Starsky’s son, we’d still go along with it to protect his life. As for Wentworth—he had me followed the minute I left his place, and arranged for a gunner at Century City to prevent us from getting our hands on the briefcase.”

“Just what’s in it, Captain?” Clements asked.

“Enough to make the D.A.’s office sing Hallelujah.” Dobey nodded in satisfaction. “Not just papers on Wentworth’s liquor store chain. Frank Malone also had material on Shelby himself.” He looked at the slouching figure in the chair next to Hutch. “I don’t like to think what might have happened if he’d known about that stuff as well, Starsky. You took a helluva chance in the first place, and if Shelby had—”

“Chance, shit. I got used. Everybody got used.” His voice was low, sullen. “Me, Hutch, Rosey, especially Michael. Jesus, when I think of what that kid went through—”

“He’ll be flying home to his parents in Puerto Vallarta tonight,” Clements said. “His father represents a big New York conglomerate down there. They’ve been frantic for the last two weeks.”

“Do They know about any of this?” Hutch asked.

“No.”

“Don’t tell them,” he urged. “It would only scare them.”

“We’ll see, Sergeant. There may be some trauma—the boy is at County-USC right now with a psychologist, and if she finds it necessary, we’ll have to inform the parents of all particulars.”

“Evidently they had several children under surveillance,” Dobey put in. “Shelby’s been talking to anyone who’ll listen, trying to get the charges reduced. He had his contacts in Mexico keep an eye on at least three boys and a little girl before Señora Esquivel found Michael for them.”

“Really lucked out, didn’t they?” Starsky said flatly. “Looks, blood type, even the name.” His gaze had not left the floor in the last two hours.

“Well, I can tell you it’s going to be one sticky case for the Department.” Clements sighed. “Kidnaping of an American citizen from a foreign country to be brought back into the States, murder of a Mexican national on U.S. soil—plus God only know how many crooked border guards to be investigated…”

Starsky looked up, eyes hooded. “Then I guess you’d better get busy, huh?”

Hutch saw a reprimand hover on Dobey’s lips, but the State Department representative had taken no offense.

“Yes, it looks that way.” He glanced for effect at his watch. “Nearly four-thirty—maybe if I’m lucky the phones will have quieted down in Washington and I can get a call through. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”

“Certainly.” Dobey was on his feet, escorting the visitor to the door. “We appreciate your help in this.”

“I’m just glad everything turned out for the best all the way around. Goodbye, gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.”

The door closed behind him and Dobey’s chair gave its familiar creak of protest as he sat down again. Hutch wondered if one of these days it would simply fall apart under him, then decided that the captain’s dignity would never permit it. He rubbed at his temples, which would blow to bits if he didn’t get a large brandy and several aspirin very soon.

“Doctor Ensfield called a few hours ago with the test results, Starsky,” Dobey said, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

“That makes it all nice and official, don’t it?” His interest centered once more on the carpeting.

“Everything gets tied up with a nice neat bow; the D.A. gets Shelby and Wentworth, and everything’s just terrific.”

Dobey hesitated, then added, “Do you know what Miss Malone’s plans are?”

“No. She just said she’s gonna disappear again. A lotta people would still like to get their hands on the money her old man left her—either that, or get her real dead. Makes no difference that she was never involved with his business and doesn’t know anything to tell.”

“A rotten life for a young woman to live,” Dobey observed, then harrumphed noisily. “I’m sorry. About all of it.”

Hutch caught the captain’s eye and shook his head. Starsky was balanced on a high-wire right now. Understanding saddened the dark face, and the chair creaked once more as the captain got to his feet.

“Well, I still have an appointment over at Parker Center, and if I don’t get moving, I’ll be late.”

Hutch picked up the cue, blessing him. “Yeah, you’d better hurry, Captain. The Chief hates to be kept waiting.”

“So does my wife—I promised her I’d be home for dinner on time tonight, so I’d appreciate it if you’d lock up my office for me, Hutchinson.”

He nodded gratefully. “Will do. Drive carefully.”

The door snicked shut once more, and they were alone. Hutch waited a moment, then stood up and stretched some of the tension from his shoulders. He gazed for a long time at the bent dark head. I know now what we gave up, Starsk, when we chose each other. But what I don’t know is—is what we have enough?

“Babe?”

“Was kinda nice, y’know? Thinkin’ I had a son.” Starsky pulled in a deep breath and raised a careful face to him, his lips attempting a smile. But his eyes were wide and liquid, and too bright. “Never woulda worked out, though—I mean, you’d never let anybody near the blender to mash carrots, and I really can’t see me changin’ a diaper—or teachin’ a kid how to ride a bike—or lettin’ him play with my model trains—or—or—”

“Ah, babe,” Hutch murmured, and held out his arms.

Starsky’s eyes closed and as he stumbled to his feet Hutch caught him, folding him to his heart.

Enough? Dear God, it’s everything. “I love you, Starsky. Let’s go home.”

 

COLORADO

Rocky Mountain High
—John Denver

 

August 1981

He lay back in a deep armchair, determined not to think about the drive back down to Denver and the plane to LAX that awaited him tomorrow. Vail in the off­season was an odd choice for a vacation, but he had thoroughly enjoyed himself. Still, even though his skiing days were over, he looked longingly at the empty slopes and imagined them covered in snow. Eight in the morning, he mused as he built the picture in his mind with eyes closed. Runs fresh with new powder, sun glistening bright enough to blind. Downhill speed stinging his cheeks, body moving in a ritual as classic and beautiful as the ballet and much more dangerous. Clusters of pine trees, rocks to be avoided—and then a sudden wide vista of mountain, valley, and sky that took away whatever breath remained. His thigh muscles tightened and his shoulders turned slightly as if he inhabited not a daydream but a snow bright reality, and he smiled.

A door slammed, and Starsky’s voice called out something about taking a shower before going out for drinks and dinner. Hutch opened his eyes and looked out the window of their rented condominium, almost surprised that there was no snow. The aspen trees were in full summer display, not yet shivering golden in autumn breezes but swaying silver-green on the hillsides. At this time of year mountains were for climbing. There were trails that wound up into alpine meadows, where daypacks were gratefully shrugged off to divulge wine, crusty bread, cheese, and dry salami for lunch.

There were deep forest paths as well, streams to hike along for miles, broad pools for chilling the beer while swimming naked in icy water, lazy meals on grassy slopes and long dozes in the sunshine. Lupin, columbine, tall mallow, paintbrush, and tiger lilies that hid around mossy banks; pine forest scent that clung to hair and skin; a dozen kinds of birdsong, eagles that sheered away from the tall trees while hawks circled in the hunt—all these things and more he had experienced with Starsky in the last two weeks.

They had done the usual resort things, too, window shopping, dining at the excellent restaurants, riding horses, playing tennis, swimming, staying in the condo for evenings of firelit conversation in each other’s arms. Hutch stretched, arching his back, and smiled again. This was their last night here, the last in a series of perfect days. New offices, new rank, new jobs, and new responsibilities waited for them on their return to L.A., for Monday morning they would be in official charge of recruitment for the LAPD. But for now, the rest of this night, there was freedom, and Starsky.

His nose wrinkled as the object or his affections began to sing in the shower, a raucous version of the current Coca-Cola jingle with lyrics altered to accommodate the vilest obscenities. So much for romance, Hutch told himself, and laughed. He extended his legs to prop his feet on the brick fireplace, surveying himself with what he told himself was not egotism. He wore nothing but cut-offs, and since the mosquitoes had obligingly stopped biting after the first few days, his tan was unblemished and spectacular. He patted his stomach, noting that night after night of good eating had been offset by day after day of physical activity. It was a miracle his back hadn’t acted up—especially considering his other night after night activities. Inventive at home, Starsky had been positively inspired here.

The singing stopped, and Hutch wondered what they would do to make this last night special. It was Starsky’s turn to choose dinner, and Hutch prepared himself for another exotic meal. He himself had stuck to restaurants featuring lobster and prime rib. They had gone bar-hopping a few times—”a drinking dinner” Starsky called it—but hadn’t even made a dent in the sixty-plus bars between Vail proper and Lion’s Head, less than a mile down the road. Where would they go tonight? he wondered. Greek food, or Italian. Chinese, Russian, Japanese, Mexican, Indian, German?

After all, it was his birthday.

He stretched again, listening to sounds that told him of the familiar routine. First a shave, accompanied by exhortations to the razor not to decapitate the moles. Then a brisk toweling of the curly mop and muttered threats to the brush that would refuse to go through the tangles. Next a series of lurid oaths as Starsky, incredibly vain but never admitting it, tried to find something to wear. As a particularly rude phrase came from the bedroom, Hutch grinned.

When the swearing turned to silence Hutch knew Starsky was finished and he would now be in for a constant barrage of “Come on, Hutch!” and “We’re gonna be late!” and “Hurry it up, or I’ll leave without you!” until he threatened murder. He yawned, checked the time, and started to rise.

“No—don’t move. Close your eyes, babe.”

Hutch started to turn to the bedroom door. “What—!”

“No! Stay there and close your eyes!”

The sharpness of the command surprised him until he recalled again that it was his birthday. Starsky was about to give him his present. He settled back into the chair, eyes shut, anticipating something either terribly lewd or impossibly romantic—and probably one of each. He heard the catlike steps, smelled the warm fresh scent of clean skin and spicy cologne. “Mmmm. You always smell so good.”

“Keep your eyes closed.”

“Yessir.” There was a rustling noise, as if a piece of paper had been folded, and then Starsky moved away. “Can I look now?”

“No.” The front door opened and closed.

“Starsky?” He sat up and looked around. Starsky had gone. The paper he had heard earlier was on the coffee table to his right, a sheet from a notepad folded twice. He picked it up, spread it out, and read three words in Starsky’s lefthanded scrawl.

The Cinnamon Cup.

Every ounce of blood in his body rushed to his cheeks and loins. They had passed by The Cinnamon Cup last Saturday night on their way to a seafood place in Lion’s Head. The facade featured a hand-hewn wooden sign, softly lit, bearing the name of the restaurant and a depiction of a brown pottery mug. The nature of the clientele entering the place had been unmistakable.

“Starsk?” he murmured, heart racing, for he already knew the answer to his unspoken question. They had been inside a few gay bars, never in Los Angeles or environs, but on vacation. Starsky had teased him about going into the classiest gay bars in each city they’d be visiting on their recruitment trips in the future. Only his idea was to go in separately. Pretend they had never met until that night. Pick each other up. Play a very adult game.

Hutch had no objection to the bars. But then, he always had Starsky at his side, and one glance from those smoldering eyes was enough to warn off anyone who might try to hit on him. It was this necessity for projecting possession that had irritated Hutch, and he preferred for that reason to go to straight bars and restaurants.

“Whatsa matter, babe?” Starsky had taunted with sparkling eyes. “You scared of the competition? Maybe I’ll see some other gorgeous blond, huh?”

“I might not notice if you did.” Hutch had grinned back. “After all, there could be another curly-haired, blue-eyed Jew waiting for me out there, with an ass even better than yours.”

And they had laughed together, for of course it was absurd to think that either of them would ever pick up on anyone for a night’s fucking.

Hutch refolded the paper, rolled it into a long tube, smoothed it out again. He could refuse to go. He could stay home or go out to eat by himself. After all, there would be no Starsky at his side in The Cinnamon Cup to broadcast No Trespassing. He would be alone, and if he understood the game correctly, Starsky would wait a long time before approaching him. There would be no sign out that they belonged to each other or even knew each other. There would be no rules at all, except those followed in every bar, gay or straight, in the world.

Dozens of men of all descriptions, from Denver businessmen on vacation to local ski instructors to visitors from out of state who could be anyone or anything. Like him. The worst that could happen would be that he’d get an offer he’d have to turn down.

Hutch bit his lip. The worst that could happen would be to watch Starsky slant those fiery blue eyes at someone else.

He got to his feet and headed for the bathroom. After showering and washing his hair, he gave his body a rubdown that left his skin flushed and tingling. This was absurd, he told himself as he rubbed Aramis onto his nape and the small of his back. Ridiculous to spend a full two minutes inspecting himself in the mirror, noting every flaw. Insane to think that Starsky could be attracted to someone else.

It was a new and shattering concept. Never, even during their worst times, had he ever doubted his lover. There had been women, yes, although not in the last year and more—but never any other men. He was so certain of that he had never even thought about it.

But who wouldn’t want Starsky?

Hutch dressed carefully, feeling a complete fool. But as he pulled on pants, shirt, and a light sweater against the evening chill, what he saw was more than equal to the challenge he now recognized had been in his lover’s eyes as they’d discussed this game. He jeered at himself as he put on his boots and went into the bathroom for a final inspection. And he’d accused Starsky of being vain?

The jeans were new, fitted to him like skin. The shirt was a soft, subtle plaid of green-black-tan that lent a greenish tint to his eyes. Over that was a black sweater that clung to his shoulders and contrasted startlingly with bright hair, tanned skin, and the wide pale eyes that gazed back at him. He smiled with a touch of grimness. So Starsky wanted to play a game, did he? So he thought Hutch wouldn’t be able to endure a gay bar without him there to fend off predators? Hutch’s smile turned into a tight, anticipatory grin, and he left the condo to catch the tram for Lion’s Head.

* * * *

“I’d like that table, right over there,” Starsky said, pointing to the wide windows that looked out on the mountains. He smiled winningly at the maître d’ who appeared unimpressed. Getting too old for this kind of thing, Davey, he told himself, and slid a ten dollar bill into the man’s jacket pocket. He hoped that would be enough; he wasn’t going to part with twenty bucks, not even for that table.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the maître d’ said smoothly, and crossed out a name on his Lucite clipboard. “What name will the reservation be under?”

Starsky hesitated a moment. It wouldn’t do to give either his name or Hutch’s—not only would it spoil the fantasy, but years of inbred caution could not be ignored. ”Cassidy,” he said. Banks in Bolivia, he told himself with an inner chuckle.

The plucked brown eyebrows rose, the pen scribbling. “How very butch,” the maître d’ drawled, and Starsky gave him his sweetest smile.

“Wait’ll you get a load of Sundance,” he advised, and turned to descend the stairs to the bar.

The Cinnamon Cup had elegance. The banister was gleaming brass, the carpet the color of the spice for which the place was named. No hustlers here. Starsky paused at the foot of the stairs, enjoying the sheen of well-polished wood and brass, the flawless long mirror behind the bar that reflected shining bottles and glassware, the muted scents of good food from the kitchen upstairs and cigar and cigarette smoke from the lounge area in front of him. It was rather early yet, the tables not covered in drinks and the chairs uninhabited by beautiful bodies, but there was enough to look at just the same. The music was strictly middle-of-the-road—no disco, no rock ‘n’ roll. And as much as he loved that kind of music and dancing, he appreciated the atmosphere created by Linda Ronstadt’s sultry soprano.

He asked for white wine and soda, asking that a tab be started for him as he would be dining upstairs later. The bartender, who obviously skied his heart out during the winter months and had no interest in anyone or anything during the summer, simply nodded and turned to fill another order. Starsky sipped his drink, gazing around the lounge. Hutch would feel comfortable here.

He immediately chastised himself for the thought. Hutch wasn’t Hutch tonight, he was just another blond man looking for a drink, company, and a lay. Starsky’s lips twisted in a wry smile. He had never doubted for an instant that Hutch would eventually arrive. He knew his Hutch too well.

“Hi,” a voice said from behind him, and he turned to look at a man several inches taller than himself. Brown eyes smiled at him. “If it were winter, I’d ask how’s life on the slopes.”

“Really. Bet conversation is boring as hell between November and April.”

“Skiing and screwing,” the man replied. “One of them is not my favorite topic. What brings you up into the mountains?”

“The scenery,” Starsky deadpan, and then couldn’t help a chuckle as the man’s browse shot up, gaze roaming expressively around the room. There were more people now, and the bartender had called out his reinforcements. Starsky grinned at his companion.

“Do you want to dance?” the man asked abruptly as Streisand began a fast song.

Starsky gave him the once-over, liking what he saw. Broad shoulders, muscular body, interesting if not exactly handsome face topped by sun-lightened brown hair. “Sure.”

They found a table, left their drinks, and went out onto the dance floor. It had been a long time since Starsky had danced with anyone who wasn’t soft, curvy, and female, and as he felt his body catch the rhythm he tried to recall exactly when he had last danced with another man. He nearly laughed as he recalled the idiotic pas-de-deux with Nikki at the disco; tripping the light fantastic with one’s younger brother hardly counted. His last experience like this had been years ago, before he and Hutch had become lovers. Maybe even before that. The bars he’d frequented then hadn’t been of the dancing variety. No Nonsense about those places—display your wares, go shopping, and buy.

“You’re good,” the man said, and there was no mistaking the admiration in his eyes. “You get much practice?”

Again, he fought the laughter. What a polite way of asking him if he tricked often. “No—this is a long ways from my particular closet.”

That brought a knowing nod of agreement. The record changed to a slower ballad, and Starsky found himself being drawn into unfamiliar arms. He went along, not unwillingly, and was held loosely but with authority. He glimpsed the other men in the lounge as he danced, enjoying the gazes he had drawn. He still had it, by God. Most of these guys were ten to a dozen years younger than he, but he could still make them look.

“I’m Glenn,” came the offering close to his ear.

“David,” he responded automatically. The strong arms pulled him closer. It was nice, and Glenn smelled good, and his body was firm and confident. But he wasn’t Hutch. Starsky drew fractionally away, hoping Glenn would take the signal, glad when he did. They finished the dance and went back to their table to sit down.

He chatted with Glenn casually, knowing the man was aware by now that this wasn’t going to go anywhere. The ice in his glass had melted by the time Glenn had found someone else to interest him, and Starsky watched, smiling, as Glenn excused himself to refill his glass. He didn’t come back. The encounter and the dancing had primed Starsky, giving him the assurance that he wasn’t impossibly elderly by Cinnamon Cup standards. He saw his own reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall as he raised his nearly empty glass to his lips, the wedding ring gleaming on his finger. But that meant nothing here—half the men probably wore rings, visible but ignored evidence of wives at home. A slender Chicano approached, asked for a dance, and since it was a fast song and thus without danger, Starsky got to his feet.

He didn’t sit down for the next half hour. The music had altered in deference to those on the dance floor, with fewer ballads and slow numbers. Those would come later on, Starsky knew. As he begged off another session with the talented and viciously quick Chicano, he found himself breathing hard. His chair had long since been taken, but his drink was still there, and he gulped at the weak, watery remains of wine and soda. The man occupying the chair laughed and stood, saying that Starsky looked like he needed a rest.

“Thanks,” he said with a heartfelt sigh, and sank down. “Man, I’m getting outta shape.”

“Not in the least,” the man said. “May I order you another drink? White wine on ice?”

“And soda,” Starsky added. “Thanks.”

“Mark, fetch this gentleman a white wine and soda.” A crisp twenty was extended to the young man opposite Starsky, who faded away into the growing crowd. The other man slid into Mark’s seat. Starsky inspected him while he got his breath back. “You like what you see?”

This sardonic question made him blush. Slighter than himself, dressed in an exquisite silk shirt that looked handmade, he practically breathed money. Starsky suddenly understood the casual order to Mark and recalled the time, long ago, when it might have been himself running to fetch and carry for a man like this. The memory stiffened his spine.

“Obviously not,” the man answered his own question. “But I’ll let that pass, for I really did enjoy watching you. I’d like the chance to do so again. Perhaps when Mark gets back and you’ve refreshed yourself with the drink, you’ll be so kind as to dance with him.”

He started to refuse, drawing on the haughty tone of voice he’d picked up from Hutch over the years. But just then his eye was caught, as every other eye in the place was caught, by a tall, lean man in dark clothes whose hair captured the light and tossed it back in a dazzle of gold. Starsky’s throat tightened with knowledge of possession. Desire was a physical ache, and hatred, too, for all these covetous eyes.

Another figure, just as slender and blond but without the strength of broad shoulders and powerful thighs, intruded on his vision. Mark, returning with the drink. Starsky took it, sipped from it, needing it now. He looked up at Mark to thank him and saw blue eyes that could have been his own twenty years ago. He put down his glass and got to his feet, looking down a good four inches at the boy.

“Dance with me?” he asked softly, and Mark’s eyes went wide. After flickering glance at the other man, not to ask permission but to communicate triumph, Mark extended his hand shyly. Starsky took it, feeling the thin fingers grip his own.

The music was slow, and he held Mark lightly, surprised to find so much grace and assurance in the way he danced. Starsky’s body, inflamed as always by the sight of Hutch, slowly calmed down. Mark evidently understood that the tense excitement at the beginning of their dance had not been for him. But he leaned his forehead to Starsky’s neck as the song wore on. Starsky could see Hutch still, fleeting glimpses of the golden head and black sweater, and tried desperately to remember that they were supposed to be playing a game as he saw Hutch accept a drink from some ski-bum type. Had Hutch seen him? What in the world were they doing here with all these strangers?

* * * *

Hutch’s assurance faltered and fled for an instant as he walked into the lounge. Color flared in his cheeks and he told himself this was no different from any place else. He’d always gotten stares—he never fit any image anyone had of him, not as heir to the Hutchinson business, nor as medical student, nor uniformed cop, nor detective sergeant, nor anything else. He damned all the men in the bar, Starsky more than any of them, for subjecting him to this. But at the moment he caught sight of the unmistakable tumble of black curls. A dark red sweater he’d never seen before molded to each flowing muscle of shoulder and chest, clung to slim ribs and waist, rode at the hip line of cream-colored chords so tight he had trouble forcing himself to look away. He went to the bar, needing something strong so he could go through with this. He ordered without thinking, and a voice next to his shoulder said, “Are you always that subtle when you walk into a room?”

His cheeks burned anew and he turned to give a scathing retort. But the green eyes set in skin wrinkled from squinting into snow glare laughed with him, not at him. He found himself smiling back. “Not my fault.”

“Oh, not at all. Let me give you a hint, my friend, because you’re so new at this it breaks my heart. Enjoy it while you can. Because it won’t always be this way, you know.”

Hutch bristled at the inference of his amateur status, then frowned. “What’s average life expectancy?”

“You’ve got a few years, I’d say. Don’t worry about it yet.” Hutch’s drink was set on the bar and before he could move to pay for it, the other man produced a bill and handed it to the bartender. “Keep ’em comin’, Rex.” He picked up Hutch’s drink and went on. “Let’s find someplace to sit down. I been makin’ cupcakes all day and my feet are killin’ me.”

“Cupcakes?” Hutch asked before he could stop himself and followed his drink to a miraculously vacant table. He sat. reclaiming his glass, and sipped; it turned out to be a vodka tonic.

“Yeah. I sell skis in the winter, and I work in a bakery in summer. It pays the rent.”

“Oh.” Hutch shook his head to the offer of a cigarette. “Tell me something else. The bartender—his real name?”

“Christ, no. His real name’s Archibald or Angus or somethin’ real Scotch.”

“And he calls himself ‘Rex’?” Hutch asked wonderingly.

“Turns him on, I guess. Me, I got stuck with Virgil Eustace by my old lady, and the best I could do with it is Gil.”

“It’s better than ‘Rex.'” Hutch grinned. “What else do you do beside ski and cook?”

Gil nearly choked on his drink. “You tryin’ to put the moves on me?”

“I’ve got a few more straight lines, if you’d like to hear them,” Hutch replied with a perfectly composed expression, enjoying the grin he received.

“‘Do you come here often’ has been overdone.”

“How about ‘I’m just here to research an article.'”

“Not bad, not bad. I got one. ‘Funny, you don’t look queerish.'” He drained his beer and got to his feet. “Wanna dance?”

Hutch shook his head. The rest of the game he would play, but not that part. He’d never even danced with Starsky, not even in the privacy of their own home. He wasn’t going to give this stranger something he’d never given his lover. “But thanks anyway.”

“No big deal. Hey, I see a friend of mine just comin’ in. Nice talkin’ to you.” Gil wandered toward the bar.

Hutch felt a little ashamed of himself for the put-down. Maybe he should have taken Gil up on his offer. It would have been fairly painless. He glanced over the dancefloor, frowning to see Starsky holding some skinny blond kid much too closely. And it was only after scanning the room for the third time that he realized why he wasn’t even remotely tempted to find a partner for himself. He was compering all the men present to Starsky.

When the next dance began, something slow and torchy, he got to his feet. Catching sight of himself in the mirrors, he discovered why no one had hit on him yet—he looked like some blond aristocrat on the walk to the guillotine. He approached Starsky, who was still smiling at the washed-out blond kid.

“Is your dance card full, or do you have room for me?” Hutch asked.

The dark blue eyes were hooded as Starsky turned casually. “Might be able to work somethin’ out,” he drawled, giving Hutch an outrageous once-over.

“Good.”

Ignoring the kid, Hutch drew Starsky into his arms and refused to be nervous. As they danced, for the first time ever, he began to relax. Starsky hummed softly in his ear, the dark curls against his cheek. Hutch had been half-afraid they’d have to battle for the lead, but somehow their bodies understood each other perfectly without the usual signals of the dance. Ridiculous song, stupid mushy lyrics, infuriating music that made Starsky’s hard body supple and pliant in his arms. This was a nightmare. It was wonderful. He caught himself drifting and chastened himself for sloppiness. The song changed, but Starsky made no move to leave him. And, with the kind of insanity Hutch had come to more or less expect when Starsky was around, Frank Sinatra began to sing a classic Cole Porter song. With Starsky’s soft baritone echoed the lyrics in his ear, it was a tossup whether Hutch was going to laugh or trip over his own feet. Those reactions he could control, but not the rush of blood to his cheeks as Ol’ Blue Eyes—both of them—sang to him.

“…Only you beneath the moon and under the sun, whether near to me or far, doesn’t matter, darlin’, where you are, I think of you Day and Night, Night and Day, why is it so…?”

“Did you pay them to play this?” Hutch hissed at his lover.

“No, but it’s a thought. Wanna hear ‘Anything Goes’?”

“NO!”

Starsky shook with repressed laughter, and it was all Hutch could do not to groan.

* * * *

It was very strange, dancing with Hutch. He knew this body, knew every silken inch of skin, every bone, every muscle and sinew, but it was as if he held a stranger. Hutch’s arms were as familiar to him as Glenn’s had not been, yet dancing with Hutch was like touching someone he’d never touched before. It confused him for a time. How odd it would be, he mused, to be with a Hutch who was unfamiliar to him. And how exciting.

And then the record changed to “Night and Day,” making him laugh. A silly coincidence, but why not make the most of one’s opportunities? So he sang along with Frank and had a terrible time keeping himself from collapsing in hysteria when Hutch accused him of bribing the deejay.

He drew away when the song ended, his lips still twitching at the corners in an incipient grin, and with difficulty remembered the role he was supposed to be playing. “Buy you a drink?”

Hutch’s eyes widened, his cheeks flaming. “Buy me a drink?” he echoed faintly.

“Yeah. You know—liquor, ice cubes, maybe somethin’ you can suck up through a straw—”

Hutch made an inarticulate sound and turned away. Starsky was about to take pity on him when the Chicano sidled up to him, eager-eyed and a little bit crocked. By the time Hutch had both control of his expression and the use of his voice, Starsky’s former partner was dancing a blatant invitation.

“Maybe later,” Hutch said, ice in his eyes now. “You’re wanted elsewhere.” There was the slightest emphasis on the “wanted,” which made Starsky blink.

“Why, you—” But his shoulder was taken in a wiry hand and his eyes left the view of Hutch’s jeans as he turned to his next partner. “Keep it simple—I’m getting’ old.”

The Chicano laughed mockingly and did not keep it simple. Starsky knew he was making a fool of himself by accenting the challenge one more time, and swore that this would be his last dance. He had better things to do—like pursuing Hutch.

When it was finally over, he was exhausted. His partner surged in closer, whispering an invitation already displayed by his body. Starsky backed off, forcing a grin, and shook his head. Narrow hips moved suggestively, and Starsky’s grin faded. He walked off without another word.

Mark and his protector were nowhere to be seen, for which Starsky was thankful. He went to the bar, ordered a plain club soda with a twist, and finally found Hutch. The blond head was thrown back as Hutch laughed at something said by a man Starsky recognized as Glenn. Grabbing his drink, Starsky snaked his way through the crowd and stood by the table where Hutch and Glenn sat having such a good time. Hutch didn’t look up.

“Hello, David,” Glenn said, surprised. “Will you join us? This is Ken.”

“Hi,” Starsky said, and took the chair vacated an instant before by someone at the next table. He sat, drank, and smiled at Hutch. “I enjoyed our dance.”

“Perhaps we can try again later,” Hutch replied coolly. “You were saying,” he went on to Glenn, “about the Broncos’ chances for this season?”

Starsky listened to the conversation, offering a word here and there when Glenn asked his opinion. It wasn’t often. He could see the man wishing he hadn’t been polite, wishing he still had the gorgeous blond all to himself. Starsky tried to recall when he’d last seen that particular expression on Hutch’s face, and finally he had it: that stupid amnesia stunt Hutch had pulled on him a few years ago. He recognized the arrogant tilt to the head, the sardonic arch to the brows. Ken Hutchinson. Bitch Queen, he thought savagely, crunching ice cubes between his teeth because he knew Hutch hated it when he did that. He didn’t even rate a glance this time. Starsky considered, then smiled slowly. All right, love of my life. Let’s see how much you can take.

“My favorite song,” he said suddenly to Glenn. “Want to dance?”

The brown eyes met his, startled, then strayed to Hutch. Starsky restrained himself from grinding his teeth. That golden perfection was too good to leave, obviously; Glenn had received some encouragement or he wouldn’t be looking at Hutch like that. Starsky forced the issue, pushing his chair back to stand up expectantly. Glenn was too polite to refuse.

Starsky ran his eyes over Glenn’s body, telling himself Hutch couldn’t possibly be attracted to him. They danced silently, each holding a stranger when both wanted, Starsky knew, to be holding Hutch. Damn his blondness and his proud face and his tall leanness and his ice-blue eyes—

But as Glenn turned them in the dance, Starsky found those eyes regarding him. There was no hint of glacial hauteur, only a calm, solemn question. Hutch stood at the end of the bar, clearly visible, asking quietly with his eyes. The music ended and Glenn was forgotten. Starsky answered the question by walking over to his lover and taking his hand.

“Beloved,” he whispered.

The endearment seemed to release Hutch, for he bent his shining head and his fingers tightened around Starsky’s palm. “Starsk…”

“Let’s go have dinner. It’s getting late.” He kept Hutch’s hand in his as they climbed the stairs to the dining room.

* * * *

Starsky lay back, gasping, and Hutch grinned down at him. “Shit, Hutchinson, I sweat more in bed with you than liftin’ weights for two hours!”

“Or dancing?” He sank his fingers deep into the curls, annoyed at the snug grin that crept across the mouth. “What were you trying to prove, anyway? That nobody could turn you down? If that was it, I’ll tell you something, sweetheart. I’ve known that forever.”

“That wasn’t it. You think I’m some kinda conceited—”

“Yes,” Hutch interrupted. “Answer the question. What was tonight supposed to prove?”

The grin disappeared. “That there’s nobody else for either of us. That we woulda picked each other no matter what. That Me and Thee is more than just an accident of department assignments.”

Amused, Hutch gave the head a gentle shake. “I knew that all along, too.”

“Did you?”

The serious tone made him frown. “Yes, love. And I believe it. I sat there tonight looking at all those men and compared them all to you.”

“I did the same thing,” Starsky admitted. “Nobody else, babe. Ever.”

Hutch settled beside Starsky, drawing him into his arms, savoring the words. “There’s a problem here though.”

“What?” Starsky’s lips wandered along Hutch’s collarbones. “What problem?”

“Where’s my birthday present?”

Starsky twisted away from him, voice rising in outrage. “You greedy, conniving, lousy bastard. I feed you a twelve-pound lobster and a thirty-buck bottle of wine and—”

“And something else that tasted even better.” Hutch grinned, licking his lips.

“—and you want another present?” Starsky climbed out of bed and. complaining all the way to the living room and back, eventually returned with a large box wrapped in blue paper. It looked very heavy.

“Where’d you hide it?” Hutch asked as he accepted it, astonished at its weight.

“Some place you’d never think of lookin’. The broom closet.”

“If that’s a comment on the fact that I wouldn’t sweep up the glass you broke last week—”

“Open the box.” Starsky sat back on his heels amid the covers. “And if you don’t like it, I can get somethin’ else. It’s just I thought maybe you’d need this, now we’re gonna be hotshot lieutenants and all—”

“Shut up and let me open it.” Hutch propped pillows behind his back and pulled off the ribbons. Inside the box was a coffee-colored leather briefcase. Elegant, functional, the tag on the handle bore the simple legend “Gucci.” The gold lock was inscribed with Hutch’s initials. “Starsk—it’s beautiful!”

“Open it up.”

“What’s in it? Starsk, you’re gonna go broke getting me presents.”

“Will you open the goddamned thing and quit worrying about my bank account?”

There was another box inside the briefcase, wrapped in the same blue paper. This, not the briefcase, was the source of the weight, for it contained a leaded crystal vase of graceful, unadorned curves.

“It’s Orrefors,” Starsky explained diffidently. “You’re always complainin’ that we don’t have anything really nice to put my roses in, so…”

“Perfect,” Hutch murmured. “It’s perfect.” He glanced at his lover, bemused yet again at the unexpected quirks of Starsky’s personality. “How’d a street-kid like you ever get such terrific taste?”

“So you like it.”

“What am I gonna do with you? You’ll drive me crazy in the long run, you know.”

“Did my best tonight,” Starsky chuckled.

Hutch paused to set the briefcase on the floor and the vase on a pillow beside it. Then he turned to Starsky, reaching out to run the tip of his finger down the long nose. “You loved flaunting yourself tonight, didn’t you?”

“And you didn’t?”

“Well…” Hutch grinned. “But I didn’t like watching them all watch you. You’re mine, lover.”

“Prove it,” Starsky challenged softly, his eyes blue-black.

“Oh, I will, don’t worry. Prove it about twice a night for the next fifty years. Prove it until you beg for mercy, sweetheart.”

“Oh. yeah?” Starsky stretched, the complacent smile back on his face. “Gettin’ pretty sure of yourself, Blondie. Maybe you’re gettin’ it too regular and too easy.”

“Is that so?” He narrowed his eyes. Grasping Starsky’s wrist suddenly, he yanked, oversetting Starsky’s balance so that he tumbled close. Wrapping his arms around him, Hutch grinned wickedly. “What did you say your name was?”

THE ONLY CHILD

Boy of mine,
As your fortune comes to carry you
Down the line,
And you watch as the changes unfold,
And you sort among the stories you’ll be told,
If some pieces of the picture are hard to find
And the answers to your questions hard to hold—
Take good care of your mother
When you’re making up your mind.
–Jackson Browne

 

November 1982

“Mr. Jarret? The lieutenant will see you now.”

Nelson Jarret didn’t bother to straighten his tie or shrug his shoulders to adjust his jacket. He paid his tailor enough to make such actions unnecessary. He looked and was the quintessence of the discreet, expensive attorney; it had taken him years to perfect and he rarely thought about it anymore. Still, he could not help but contrast his own elegant suit, his own tasteful and orderly office, with the man and the room now before him.

The desk was huge, but papers and files overflowed it onto the typing table set at right angles to it and the short, broad coffee table along one wall. Nothing in the office matched anything else. Metal shelves and filing cabinets took up an entire wall, seeming ready to spill their contents onto the city government issue green carpeting. Two easy chairs faced the fine old oak “partners” desk, a beautiful thing which would have graced any lawyer’s office. But the chairs were garage-sale standard, mismatched; one a dark green Naugahyde and the other black with brass rivets and overstrained seals. A tall wooden hat rack from any of a dozen discount furniture chains stood in a corner by the open windows and was decorated with a brown corduroy sports jacket. The walls were eggshell white, the mistakes of an incompetent painter not quite disguised by the usual certificates, commendations, and a diploma hung in odd places. There was also a grouping of photographs of Los Angeles landmarks and vistas, three of which were very good.

The owner of the jacket and the office sat behind the massive desk, gold-rimmed half-glasses perched far down a long nose. A brown and gold tie was loosened from the unbuttoned throat of a pale blue cotton shirt whose sleeves were rolled up powerful forearms. The lieutenant probably would have done full honors to the kind of suit Jarret himself wore, but it was obvious that he couldn’t be bothered to spend any time on image. There was even a pair of ancient slippers tucked half-under the short sofa by the coffee table, evidence of after-hours work in this untidy place.

Jarret experienced a brief, unusual moment of regret. The office and the man exemplified the life. His own existence had been as orderly and civilized as his clothes and personal space from law school to junior partner to his name prominently displayed on his firm’s letterhead. But this man and this life—twists and turns had been the rule for him, quirks of time and fate. They showed in his face, his clothes, his office. Jarret knew himself to be supremely competent, but unexceptional. Before him, removing the half ­glasses and standing to hold out a friendly hand and offer a welcoming smile, was a man who was not only skilled at his job, but an exceptional human being.

“Hi. You’re Mr. Jarret? I’m Dave Starsky. Have a seat.”

He shook the strong, slim hand and eased himself into the black chair, noting that one of the arms had a crack in it through which little tufts of cotton emerged. He hoped the effluvia wouldn’t affix itself to his suit. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Lieutenant. I’m sorry I can’t promise that my business will be brief.”

“Your secretary and mine had a little discussion on the phone, I’m told,” the lieutenant said with a quick, lopsided grin as he sank back into his desk chair. “Sorry about that. LaTonya is a little over-protective of my partner and me sometimes. Oh—was this something you needed to see both of us about?”

“No. My business is with you alone and doesn’t involve the department at all.”

A puzzled look crossed the face that looked perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four of its nearly forty years. “But your secretary told LaTonya—”

“When it became apparent that her ‘protectiveness’ extends to a precis of each visitor’s business, Mrs. Church hinted that my firm was interested in your recruitment work for the LAPD. But it was no more than a hint.”

The icy seriousness, so useful in courtroom and boardroom, had the desired effect in this cluttered, eclectic office. Lieutenant Starsky’s expression became wary, though it was mostly an effect of the eyes. Fingers raked back through a mass of curls, different from the photograph in Jarret’s possession in that they were shorter and sprinkled with silver. Jarret waited for the questions, because it was his habit.

“Then tell me what you came here for.”

The terse request oddly pleased him. “You know of course that my firm represents a large variety of clients.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not in the habit of drumming up new business, but before I begin I wish you to know that you may count on me for any legal assistance you may require.”

“Legal assistance?” A snort of sardonic laughter. “My last arrest as a street cop came to trial in April, Mr. Jarret. I’m not likely to need a lawyer, and if I did, Police Protective has a whole slew of them.”

“As I said before, this matter has nothing to do with the department.”

“So?”

“I have the unhappy duty of informing you that Rosemary Margaret Malone passed away on October twenty-seventh.”

The reaction did not show at first—only a lowering of the eyelids. Jarret watched carefully. The left corner of the mouth twitched and the features drew tighter as if to hold in some emotion. He approved of the man’s control.

“I remember now,” Lieutenant Starsky said softly. His eyes opened, dark and flat. “You’re her lawyer. That briefcase Shelby and Wentworth wanted was in your safe.”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence. At last, the lieutenant asked, “How did she die? No—wait a minute.” He rose and went to the door. Jarret noted that there was no intercom on the desk, only a telephone of but one incoming line and no hold button. The door behind him squeaked slightly as it opened, and Jarret wondered sourly if the cutbacks in the LAPD budget included oil. “LaTonya? I’m not here to anybody for the next two hours. No, not even Hutch. If anybody asks, I’ve gone downtown and got stuck in traffic. Okay?”

Jarret used the time to take from his briefcase several items. The first was a thick number ten envelope addressed in IBM Letter Gothic to David M. Starsky. He remembered for an unguarded instant how Mrs. Church had almost cried while typing the letter, then drew out a large manila envelope containing various documents and papers. When he looked up again the lieutenant was back in his chair, his face composed and his eyes still flat.

“Rosemary died of injuries sustained in an automobile accident in upstate New York, where she was visiting friends. She was driving at night along a country road when her car was struck by a pickup truck carrying three young men. She was taken to a hospital but expired several hours later without having regained consciousness.”

“And the others?”

“The arrest report is here, and you may read it at your leisure. It seems the driver was a juvenile, seventeen-years-old. His companions were slightly older.”

“He was drunk, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. The statements of all three young men are enclosed as well.” He held up the manila envelope for a moment but did not hand it over.

“Was she murdered?”

Jarret blinked. “Certainly not. There was no evidence of foul play whatsoever.”

“How do you know? She was Frank Malone’s daughter. Not all his enemies are in jail. Shelby and Wentworth were lightweights compared to—”

“I repeat, Lieutenant, there is no evidence to support a theory of that kind.” He spoke severely, wanting to squelch any wild notions. “My own investigators flew back to New York and their report—also included here—was very thorough and most specific.”

Lieutenant Starsky leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Jarret, you got any other Frank Malone types among your clients?”

“Even if I did, that information would be unavailable to you.”

“How do you know it wasn’t a hit? You familiar with the code governing people like Frank Malone? How do you know Rosey wasn’t murdered?”

“I know,” he said shortly, suppressing his impatience. “Shall I proceed?”

Lieutenant Starsky nodded.

“Very well. In addition to the reports mentioned earlier, I have included several documents and other papers you will wish to study. But before we get to them, there is a letter I must give you.”

For the first time there was a flicker in the eyes. “From Rosey?”

“Yes.” He placed the thick white envelope to one side of a rather nice, though fake, antique-style brass lamp. “If you would prefer to be alone while you read it…”

“No. Yes. LaTonya will get you some coffee.” He stared at the envelope, not touching it.

“Please let me know when you’re finished. There are many matters to discuss.” Jarret snapped the briefcase shut, got to his feet, and left the office. Outside in the tiny reception area, the pretty black girl who looked more like a member of the Harlem Dance Theatre than a secretary gave him a cup of surprisingly decent coffee and a plate containing a selection of fresh home-baked cookies. Jarret sat and waited, reviewing the letter in his mind.

* * * *

September 17, 1980

Dearest David,

You’re reading this letter because something has happened to me, either that my lawyers have not heard from me in six months, or that they have certain knowledge of my death. This has been delivered to you by Mr. Nelson Jarret, who has handled all my business affairs for years and is now entrusted with this last letter to you. It will be his most difficult chore, and I ask that you be especially kind to him.

I’m sorry for what I have to write to you now. As you can see by the date, I’m writing this on the day I saw you for what I know is the last time. I’m planning to go to Europe and spend some time with friends there. I hope to make a new life for myself, but since you’re reading this, I suppose I haven’t made much of a success of it. Your partner was right about me, when he told me last January that I need someone to lean on.

David, I lied to you about Michael. He is ours. I was carrying him, even though I didn’t know it, when I left you to go to Mexico with my father.

Michael was born on June 1, 1978, at 2:30 in the morning in Mexico City. Mv father had his birth records removed from the hospital. Mr. Jarret will deliver to you a copy of Michael’s birth certificate. The original is in his safe. I couldn’t name you as Michael’s father but you should have no trouble proving he’s yours. I gave Mr. Jarret a signed and witnessed statement today that you are Michael’s father, and he tells me it will hold up in court.

I know all about the tests you and Michael went through and that they show he’s not your son. But he is. My father was a very powerful man, David, and his friends still have influence. It was very easy for me to arrange for the doctors to tell you what I wanted you to believe.

Michael spent his first two months with me in Mexico City. My father loved him in his own way, but things began to happen that made it impossible for us to keep him. We didn’t dare. I wanted to, please believe that. He was all I had left of you. But for his own safety I had to give him up.

My father arranged for him to be “adopted” by Max and Cathy Bergman, friends of ours who live in Mexico. They know he’s mine, but they don’t know his father’s name. Every month they sent pictures of Michael and a long letter about him to Mr. Jarret, and these were passed along to me. I went to see him a few times, but each time it was harder to leave my son, so I stopped going to visit. I couldn’t stand to be with him and then give him up.

Everyone thinks that Max and Cathy are Michael’s parents now. But I never gave up legal custody of him. He still belongs to me. I’ll be writing them a letter after I finish this one, to tell them why Michael was kidnapped and who his real father is and to try to explain this whole thing. They’re good people, David, and they love our son as much as they love their own little girl. I wouldn’t have given Michael to people I didn’t trust.

I don’t know how Shelby found out about Michael. I don’t know how he found Señora Esquivel. She was Michael’s nurse until he was ten months old, and I believe she acted in innocence when she took him from Max and Cathy and brought him across the border. Her death is on my hands.

I’m going to instruct the Bergmans to give Michael to you if you want him. Since you’re reading this, you’ll have to make that decision now. But think carefully, David.

I know you want him. I could see it in your face today when you asked me if he was ours. It killed me to have to lie to you, but I had to do it. Do you understand? I had to protect all of us. Maybe I was wrong to keep him from you today. Maybe I should have told you the truth. Maybe I should have called you the minute I found out I was pregnant. But I couldn’t, at first because of my father, who needed me, and then to protect all of us, and then because of what I learned about you and your partner.

I came to Los Angeles this year to see you again. I think I wanted to find out if we could make our lives work together, and if we could, I was going to tell you about Michael. But then I met your partner by chance and I knew I could never have you the way I wanted to, and needed to. I don’t blame him for what he told me. He was right, and I should never have left you. But I made my mistake a long time ago and I’ve had to live with it.

I saw today how your eyes reached out to him even after you saw me standing beside him. You looked for him, not for me. I can’t fight that. I know you well enough to know that you’d turn your life upside down for Michael and me, but you and I would never be happy with each other. We had our chance, and the time we had together was beautiful. I think the happiest I’ve ever been was when I was carrying Michael, feeling him grow inside me and knowing he was alive because we had loved each other. I love you both so much. I wish things were different and that we could be a family, but that’s not possible.

But please think about what it would mean to have a child in your home. This year he’s only two, but maybe by the time you read this he’ll be five, or even ten. I don’t worry about what kind of father you’d be to him or if your partner would welcome him. I think he wanted Michael to be yours even more than you did. I know that our son would have a good and loving home with you both.

My concern is for your life and your happiness, David. Please think carefully about what it would be like to have Michael with you all the time. There’s school and a million other things to think of, and I’ve got some idea of what a cop’s life is like. And would the relationship between you and your partner grow stronger or be destroyed by raising a child? I can see how much you love each other. But will Michael come between you, or will he add to your lives?

Everything has been arranged in my will so that the money and securities my father left me will go into a trust fund for Michael, to be administered by you and Mr. Jarret. He has written instructions from me to follow your orders in providing for Michael’s needs. If you decide not to keep Michael, please sign the trusteeship over to the Bergmans and they and Mr. Jarret will take care of everything. There’s more than enough to pay for Michael’s education and anything else he may need. I know the money won’t make a difference in your decision, but I wanted you to know about it. It seems the only thing I can give Michael is enough money to see to his material wants.

I don’t know what you must think of me, David. A mother who gives up her child must shock you, and even more since it’s me giving up our son. But I couldn’t do anything else. I’m sorry for lying to you today and for keeping the truth from you for so long. I didn’t have any choice. I’ve tried to explain a little. I hope you understand and forgive me.

If you keep Michael, please love him enough for both of us.

With all my love always,

Rosemary Margaret Malone

Witnessed by: Nelson A. Jarret

Jane Lewis Church

* * * *

Jarret’s thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of a man he instantly recognized as Kenneth Hutchinson. There had been a few changes in two years—hairline a bit higher, perhaps, body slightly leaner, a couple of new lines around his eyes. Here, he told himself sardonically, was another exceptional man. Much good it had done him.

Jarret was given a cursory glance and a nod before the secretary was ordered with cheerful belligerence to produce on the instant every phone message and piece of interdepartmental mail received that morning. The black girl folded her arms across her chest, eyed her boss, and countered with a question about where he’d been.

“Trying to find a secretary with better legs.” Hutchinson grinned. “Couldn’t do it, LaTonya, my little flower. Cough up the goods or I’ll have you fired, terrific legs or not.”

Jarret listened disapprovingly. Too great a volume of important business went through his own office to permit such unprofessionalism. But he felt a tremor of pity for Hutchinson, which surprised him. There the man stood, exchanging friendly abuse with a secretary who obviously ran his LAPD business life, his attitude easy and relaxed, when his personal life was about to receive a severe shock. Why should he feel even remotely sorry for an arrogant, annoying policeman whose lifestyle was nothing if not unsavory? But even though he deplored the man’s private habits and retained a degree of irritation from their previous encounter, he could not stifle that twitch of compassion.

Hutchinson was looking at him again, a flicker of puzzled curiosity crossing his face. It was the kind of expression worn by someone who vaguely recalls but can’t quite remember where, when, or in what context a subject had been encountered before. But the handsome face cleared, as if the memory-search had been dismissed as unimportant. Hutchinson turned to the door of his own office, paused, and swung around again.

“LaTonya, where’s Starsky? He said he’d be in early today.”

The extravagantly-lashed brown eyes wavered not at all. Jarret silently complimented the young woman on her aplomb as she answered. “He was here and split. Don’t ask me where, since neither of you ever tells me anything. How do you expect me to run this zoo when I never know where either of you are?”

Hutchinson held up a placating hand, the wedding ring on his finger catching the light. “Take it easy! Don’t yell at me. I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Only a matter of time,” the secretary’ sniffed, then picked up the phone as it buzzed a demand for her attention.

“If that’s for me, LaTonya—”

“It isn’t.” She pressed the Hold button. “For you, sir,” she directed at Jarret. “Your office calling about some papers they want.”

Hutchinson smiled. “Helpless without you, are they? It’s the same in this place.”

Jarret nodded noncommittally; the words had not been for him but to tease the secretary, who glared a response at her boss. As Jarret took the phone he heard the office door close, and was glad to be rid of him.

The papers, as it turned out, were in the possession of one of his partners. Irritated, he snapped out directions and set the phone back down, returning to his seat. He was not accustomed to waiting on police lieutenants, no matter how good they were at their work or how much the city hierarchy appreciated them. He began to wish he’d brought something along to read. He fought the urge to glance towards Lieutenant Starsky’s door, and instead inspected the manicure given his fingernails just that morning.

“Mr. Jarret—please, come back in now. I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long.” Lieutenant Starsky, his face closed and expressionless, held the door open. Jarret passed through without trying to read beneath the set features. “LaTonya, has Hutch come in yet?”

“He’s in his office. You want me to—”

“No. I’m still out to everybody, including Hutch.”

The door closed as Jarret resumed the black chair, whose stuffing had bled just a little more. Some of it got on his sleeve and he picked it carefully off. Depositing the wadding in a graceful blue pottery ashtray on the desk, he sat back and made himself as comfortable as possible. This would probably take some time.

* * * *

The clamoring doorbell caught Lizzie Thorpe right in the middle of taking her husband’s birthday cake out of the oven. She glanced at the clock—six-fifteen, much too early for her in-laws to show up for dinner—and swore.

“Joni? Jo-ni! Get the door, please!” she called as she maneuvered the large pan onto the cooling rack. There was no response from upstairs, and the doorbell sounded again. “JONI!”

“Coming, Mom!”

The clatter of a downstairs sprint made her smile. Her daughter never did anything except in a hurry, a symptom she recognized from her own teen years. Pete was always singing some woeful song or other about being trapped between two whirlwinds. Lizzie heard soft voices from the entry hall as she washed her hands and took off the ‘For This I Spent Four Years In College?’ apron. Running her fingers through her short, cropped hair, she paused to rub at the back of her neck before calling out, “Who was it, Joni?”

“It’s Dave, Mom. Dave Starsky.”

“Dave!” Lizzie hurried into the hallway and held out both hands in welcome. A smile and cheerful words died on her lips as she caught sight of him. He looked haggard, pale, with something hurt and bewildered in his dark blue eyes. “Come in and sit down,” she ordered instantly. “Joni, get us something to drink, will you?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Dave, come sit down,” Lizzie repeated. ”And tell me what’s wrong.”

He shrugged and made a little rueful smile as they went into the living room. “Good thing I didn’t go home, huh? If I’m that obvious, Hutch’d have me at a shrink’s in thirty seconds flat.” He sank into a corner of the couch and rubbed his hands over his face. “Lizzie, could I have something a little stronger than iced tea?”

“Of course.” Retracing her steps to the kitchen, she found her daughter had already diagnosed their friend’s condition. Joni was pouring a liberal dosage of Pete’s favorite Kentucky bourbon into a glass full of ice. “Good girl,” Lizzie said gratefully. “Can you fix up Dad’s cake, honey? The frosting’s in the pantry, and in about fifteen minutes the cake should be cool enough to frost.”

“No trouble.” Joni handed over the whiskey. “Is he gonna tell you what’s the matter or are you gonna have to play cop?”

Lizzie narrowed her eyes at her offspring. “Would I do that to a friend?”

Joni shrugged her shoulders. “You do it to me, and to Dad, and everybody else we know—”

“That bad, hon?” Lizzie grinned. Taking a sip of the drink, she grimaced. “Put a little soda into that.”

Joni obliged. “Want one, Mom?”

“No—not yet anyway.”

“Tell me what Dave says.”

Returning to her guest, she handed him the glass and watched him drink from it in gulps. She waited him out. At last he looked up with a little more life in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I should get outta here before Pete comes home. You in the middle of cooking dinner?”

“No, we’re all going out at about seven thirty. It’s Pete’s birthday. David Starsky, don’t you dare get up from that couch! I’ve got time to listen.”

“Do you have time to read something?” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her. His fingers were shaking just a little.

The first few lines made her blood run cold, but she managed to keep from gasping until she got to the first words about Michael. She had to force herself to keep reading, as memories of a dark-haired child coalesced at the back of her mind—and memories of Hutch’s face, and of Dave crying out that of course he wanted his son, and of the young woman who was now dead. The pages dropped into her lap. “Good God.”

“Lizzie—what do I do?”

The face she saw bore a remarkable resemblance to her memories of his son. “You tell Hutch,” she said evenly.

“I can’t. I’m scared to.” He got to his feet, gulping again at the whiskey. “Scared—that’s a joke. I’m petrified.” Pacing, his movements quick and nervous, he went on. “I want Michael, he’s my son. He belongs with me. But why did she lie to me like that about him?” He stopped at the front windows. “She’s dead, Lizzie. Car accident. But I can’t be sure it was an accident—they smoked her out before, they coulda done it again. Set her up.” He drew in a breath so deep it lifted his shoulders and tightened his jacket around his ribcage. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

Lizzie replaced the letter in the envelope, weighing her words carefully. “She had her reasons, Dave. She’s not bitter, you know—not in this letter. She didn’t do it to hurt you. I think she truly believed she was acting for the best.” He turned to face her, and in his eyes was that same hurt, bewildered look. “How could she have felt, two years ago? You were the father of her child, and she couldn’t tell you. I pity her so much… As for the rest of it, you have to talk to Hutch. I can’t help you, Dave. I want to, but this is something you have to decide for yourselves. Don’t shut him out.”

“He hated her,” Dave said slowly. “Did you know that? When I first met her—Hutch and me weren’t even—but he hated her anyway. I always knew it.”

Lizzie followed that thought as Dave had obviously done, and anger flared through her. “If you tell me that because Hutch didn’t like the mother he’ll resent the child, I’ll belt you right in the jaw. Don’t be an idiot! He wanted Michael as such as you did—and you know it. My God, even Rosey saw it! She says so in her letter. Now you either tell me what’s really bothering you or get out and don’t come back until you’re ready to be honest.”

The sharp tone reached him. He set the glass down and faced her fully, saying. “Okay. What happens to Michael if we take him, me and Hutch? He’s got parents. How can I take him away from the life he’s always known? What’ll happen in his head if I do that? And what happens to us? How the hell do I ask Hutch to help me raise a child? Lizzie, I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t ask me these things, Dave,” she replied in a softened voice. “Go home and ask them of Hutch.”

“I know, I know—I oughta be talkin’ this out with him but scared to face him. I saw how it ripped him apart two years ago—and I’ve hurt him enough in our lives. I don’t want to hurt him again—”

“And what is it two people do for each other when the hurt can’t be avoided?” Lizzie went to him, framed his long face between her hands. “Who else is there to share with? If your life with each other means anything at all, it means you’re there for each other. Especially now, Dave.”

His hands came up to hold her wrists. “I’m scared, Lizzie.”

“I know. You think Hutch won’t be? Go home and talk to him, Dave. You can’t solve this all by yourself.” She gave his head a little shake. “You dumb jerk,” she went on fondly. “You men are all alike—you think you have to play tough guy every minute of the day. I’ll tell you something, Dave Starsky—gorgeous you may be, but Superman you ain’t.”

After a long time he sighed, another little smile at last touching his lips. He turned his head to kiss her palm lightly. “You’re beautiful, Sergeant Thorpe.”

“Go home, idiot. And drive carefully. That was a big drink.” She smiled back and drew away from him. “Joni’s going to be the best bartending astrophysicist in the space program—if Cal Tech accepts her next fall, that is.”

She walked him out to his car and leaned in the passenger side window of the blue 280ZX. As the engine revved and he fastened the seat belts around his chest and thighs, she wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t call Hutch to warn him. No, Dave would have to do the talking himself, and she couldn’t interfere. But she’d call later, she decided. She owed herself that much.

“Tell Pete Happy Birthday for me, okay?”

“Sure. Number forty for the big lunk, and I’m rubbing it in like crazy.”

“Me, too, next year.” He shook his head. “Kinda old to be starting a family.”

“Dave—”

“Yeah. yeah. I know. Go home. Talk to Hutch.” He gave her a grin which didn’t reach his bleak, unhappy eyes. “Give Joni a kiss for me.”

“Sure ’nuff.”

She watched the car drive away then went back into the house. Her daughter was in the final stages of decorating Pete’s cake, and Lizzie dipped a finger into what was left of the frosting.

“So?” Joni asked. “What’s up?”

“Grandpa and Grandma are due any second now, and we’ve both got to get dressed and made up. I’ll finish here. You get a move on.”

“Don’t avoid the question, Mom.”

Lizzie laughed, then reached out to hug Joni close. She rested her cheek to the red-gilt hair, feeing the comfort of a return embrace. “I love you, honey.” Then she drew away and eyed the girl skeptically. “And where’d you learn to mix a drink like that?”

“Oh, come on. Mom—”

Lizzie laughed.

Many hours later, after dinner out and cake and presents at home, after Joni had gone up to bed without finding out from Lizzie what Dave had said, and after Pete had winked on his way upstairs and told her not to be too long about his favorite birthday gift, Lizzie sat at the desk in the den and dialed Dave’s number. Hutch answered, and after apologizing for calling so late, Lizzie asked if she could talk to Dave.

“Sorry, he’s not home yet. He called about seven or so to say he’d be working late. He probably went to the Dobey’s to con some dinner out of Edith. You want me to have him call you when he gets back? ”

She bit her lip. She knew Hutch, and every inflection of his voice told her he was telling her the exact truth as he knew it. “No, that’s okay. Just wanted to know if you guys want to come over some night next week. Joni’s making curry again.” She lied—improvised, she corrected herself—deftly: part of being a cop.

“Sounds great. Next Thursday?”

“Fine. And bring your appetites. If you don’t help eat it all, we’ll be having leftovers for the next month. Say hello to Dave for me.”

“Sure will.”

“Goodnight.”

She hung up the phone and sat for a few moments chewing at a hangnail. Dave was being an idiot and there was nothing she could do about it. At last, she got to her feet, stretched, and sighed. “David Starsky, you’re a real jerk,” she murmured and went upstairs to her husband.

* * * *

Hutch woke from a hazy sleep. Frowning as he squinted at the bedside clock. Twelve forty-eight, and the bed beside him was still empty. He rolled over, intending to reach for the phone but all at once there were hands on his shoulders, pushing him gently down onto his back. A warm body flowed over his own and Starsky’s low, musky voice whispered his name. Hutch turned his face into the kisses, still a little fuzzy with sleep, and wrapped his arms around his lover.

“Where’ve you been all day?” he whispered. “Not to mention all night?”

“Missing you—wanting you—Hutch, love…”

The plea from lips and body was unmistakable. The token struggle between need for sleep and need for Starsky was over in an instant. Tangling his fingers in the thick curls, he brought Starsky’s head up from his chest.

“What do you want babe?”

“You know what I want. Now, Hutch.” The eyes were huge, glittering with fever and urgency. “Please. Make love to me, Hutch—oh, damn you, fuck me—”

He didn’t understand the half-veiled desperation, but he understood very well the quiver that ran through Starsky’s body. Hutch knelt between splayed thighs and stroked possessively down the chest and belly, pressing down on the flat abdomen. Starsky’s legs locked around his waist, head already thrashing on the pillow, small plaintive moans escaping from between clenched teeth. Hutch smiled. He knew this mood, this swift, sweet explosion that would come after the building pressure of desire kept in check all day long. He readied himself, and his lover, then guided his cock into the heat that gripped at him, urged him on, burned away at his sanity in an exquisite flare of climax.

A long time later he opened his eyes and shifted to one side of Starsky, gathering him into a loose embrace. One of his lover’s hands lay on his chest, still quivering in little spasms. “What brought all that on, hmmm?” Hutch whispered. “You missed me that much?”

A sleepy snuggle nearer to him was the only response, and Hutch smiled wryly. He rubbed sweat and semen into Starsky’s skin, sticky-smooth, infinitely precious. Starsky grunted and wriggled, then settled back into sleep.

“Out like a firecracker,” Hutch murmured. “Next time we play Fourth of July, sweetheart, give me a little warning first, okay?”

Settling the dark head more comfortably on his shoulder, Hutch yawned widely and closed his eyes.

* * * *

Sheriff Steve McElhaney looked up as his deputy entered the tiny office. “What is it, Lou? The squad car needs a lube and oil?”

“No, a visitor’s here. All the way from California.” Lou put his foot on McElhaney’s spare chair and pulled his sock down to scratch at his ankle. “Goddamn wool socks—I told Sharon not to buy any more of these things.”

“Allergy?” McElhaney grinned. “Ragweed in the summer and wool socks in the winter. You’re a walking disaster, Lou. So, who’s my California visitor? If it isn’t that lady lawyer from Hill Street Blues, I’m not interested.”

“You should be so lucky. It’s some cop From L.A. Name of Starsky.”

He sifted the name through his mental file of Californians and came up with nothing. “What does he want?”

“Wants a couple of minutes of your time.” Lou pulled his sock up, stood straight, and shrugged. “Maybe you’re out for the day?”

McElhaney looked at the pile of bulletins on his desk, the directives about economy from the State Office, and a stack of budget reports. “I’ll see him,” he decided, and when Lou had gone, took the time to readjust his tie. It wasn’t every day he met one of L.A.’s finest.

Lou returned with a slim, dark-haired man who wore too many layers of clothing—a dead giveaway to his West Coast origins. McElhaney got to his feet and extended his hand. “I’m Sheriff McElhaney. Welcome to East Hollander. What brings you so far from the sunshine?”

“David Starsky—Lieutenant, LAPD. Thanks for seeing me, Sheriff. I know you must be busy.”

“Have a seat. Lou, you can go mind the store now.” McElhaney sat down as the door closed, watching Lieutenant Starsky settle himself in the extra chair. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant Starsky?”

“I’d like some information about a traffic accident that occurred in your jurisdiction late last month. Rented car and a couple of kids in a pickup truck. There was a fatality.”

“Oh. You investigating for…” He let the question trail off, hoping to find out why a tragic, though essentially routine, occurrence should bring this man three thousand miles.

“Just investigating,” the lieutenant smiled, but his eyes were cold and remote. “I’ve seen the accident reports, but I need a little more information.”

“Okay. Hang on a second, and I’ll get the relevant files. My clerk’s on vacation—though how she affords the Bahamas on her salary I’ll never know.”

The other man nodded pleasantly enough, but McElhaney realized that this was no friendly fellow officer ready to trade stories or talk about much of anything except his business. Damned high-powered city cops, he thought, entering the locked file room and digging among the stacks yet to be properly placed. Ellie would come back tan, relaxed, and happy, and within five minutes would be bitching about the amount of work no one had done in her absence. McElhaney dug through the unalphabetized folders, one portion of his mind trying to decide if he’d really heard a trace of New York City in the lieutenant’s speech. He hated downstaters even more than he hated the “winter complaints” who were beginning their yearly exodus to his placid little town. He hated their accents, their money, their cheapness, their pushiness, and most of all their cavalier treatment of the natural beauty around them.

“Oh, shit—where the hell— here it is. Malone. ” He dragged the folder out, upsetting the top of the stack as he did so, and spent another few minutes trying to rearrange things neatly. Ellie would be furious when she got back. He shrugged. That L.A. cop had probably never opened a file drawer in his life—they had computers in the cities, especially in an open-air sewer like L.A.

“Here—sorry it took so long,” he heard himself saying as he handed the lieutenant the file. “I’d like to know why you’re so interested.” Direct approach, he told himself.

“Just interested.” The man opened the file, glanced at McElhaney, then relented slightly. “I handled a case a few years ago involving her father. He was a big-time racketeer.”

“Yeah?” McElhaney knew that the resorts in his county hosted any number of East Coast crime lords on vacation but catching them wasn’t his problem. He stuck to petty thieves, drunks, traffic violations, motorists in distress, family arguments, and the like. He much preferred it that way—although he followed all the state and national crime news avidly, he didn’t envy men like the one in his office now. They lived too fast, no time for kicking back and taking it easy. The lieutenant, for instance, couldn’t have been more than thirty-five at the outside, yet there was a good deal of gray in his hair.

“Yeah.” Lieutenant Starsky flipped through the file. “I’ve read this before, Sheriff. Would it be possible for me to have the names of the young men who—”

“They were juveniles,” McElhaney said warily. “And what could they have to do with a hood’s daughter?” A horrible idea hit him. “Was she running dope? Is the Mob trying to move in here?”

He resented the condescending little smile that crossed the hot-shot’s face. “No, nothing like that. She was never involved in her father’s business at all. I doubt if you have anything to worry about, Sheriff.”

“Then how come you want those boys’ names?” McElhaney hid his relief in case it should provoke another smile and leaned forward aggressively. “They’ll pay for what they did, make no mistake. Judge Risenhoover’s tough, especially on the young folks around here. That’s why we don’t see such city-type crime.”

“I envy you your beat, Sheriff. When’s the trial?”

“Starts tomorrow.” He clamped his jaw shut and frowned, knowing too late that he’d been trapped into revealing not the boys’ names but a sure-fire way to acquire the names.

“Would Judge Risenhoover mind if I sat in for a little while? It’d be nice to watch somebody scare the crap out of kids for a change. Usually all they get is their wrists slapped.”

McElhaney wasn’t going to fall for any more of this guy’s line of patter. “The county courthouse is over in Hollander proper. I’m sure you could walk in if you wanted to. It’s a free country.”

“Thank you.” Lieutenant Starsky got to his feet and placed the file on the desk. “I appreciate your cooperation, Sheriff McElhaney.” He nodded, zipped his leather jacket over a wool shirt and thick sweater and left the office.

Lou was in almost as soon as the lieutenant was out. “Well? What’d he want?”

“Something about the car crash last month. The woman was some big crook’s daughter.” Swiveling his chair around, he looked out the window to the parking lot. The snow had turned to mud-brown slush, thick and ugly. But the hills and mountains beyond were perfectly white in the morning sun, glistening, beautiful. A green Mustang swung out of a parking space, and McElhaney smiled. It had to be the cop’s rented car. He waited for the inevitable swerve as its driver, unused to snow driving, made the usual mistakes. But maybe there really had been New York City in the man’s voice, for the car drove smooth and supple out of the parking lot, not a shimmy or a slide to be seen even though it was being driven much too fast for the condition of the roads.

“He came all the way from L.A. for nothin’?”

McElhaney turned back, annoyed. “No, I think he’ll get what he came for.” He tossed the Malone file atop his out-basket stack. “When you get a minute, will you go through the file room and straighten it out? Ellie will string us up if she comes back and it’s still in that mess.”

* * * *

“…irresponsibility and lack of even the most basic good sense in driving under the influence, a young woman not thirty-five years of age is dead.” Judge Risenhoover’s malevolent blue eyes glared at the courtroom. “Not even thirty-five! Twice your own age! Think of it, all of you—what if you knew at this moment that your life was half over? Hmm? Hmm?” He coughed, sipped water, and went on. “Lack of a prior criminal record has very little to do with it, despite the eloquent pleas of the defense counsel. You’re all three guilty as sin and you know it. The only thing—and I do mean the only thing!—which mitigates the circumstances at all is that you didn’t compound your criminal behavior by running away. Had this been a felony hit-and-run, I’d throw you three into the nearest jail and toss the key into the river! So—Daniel Joseph Talbot, Lawrence William Van Vronkel, and Prescot Hall, Junior, I pronounce you guilty as charged on all counts. Sentencing will be given out one week from today.” The gavel banged down with angry force. “Court’s dismissed.”

Josephina Talbot wiped her eyes with a cambric handkerchief and shook off her husband’s restraining arm. She hurried out of the spectator’s seats and confronted her eldest son. “There! I hope that teaches you a lesson!” She swung around to the other two boys. “And as for you—I don’t want to ever see you around my house again! You hear me? Not ever!”

Pausing for breath, she fixed her son’s attorney with a furious gaze. “You shyster! You said there was nothing to worry about! ‘No criminal record’!” she mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “‘They’re all good boys, Mrs. Talbot. Risenhoover will be lenient.’ Because of you, my Danny will be in jail for years and years!” She stormed down the aisle and out the courtroom doors. Once outside, she sat on a bench and began to cry in earnest.

“Mrs. Talbot?” A soft voice at her shoulder made her look up. A man stood there, tall, blue-eyed, very good-looking in a Jewish sort of way. “Excuse me. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”

She was angry and humiliated, and she wanted nothing more than to sit here and cry in peace where everyone could see her and know how her son had broken her heart. But the man was very good-looking, and his voice was so nice. She shrugged, dabbing at her eyes, and he sat down beside her. She accepted the plain white linen handkerchief he gave her to replace the sodden one, and after blowing her nose looked at him again. “What do you want?” Panic hit her suddenly and she cringed away from him. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“No, I’m not a reporter. I promise.”

She relaxed. “I didn’t think so. You have too nice a face.”

He smiled slightly. He was even better-looking when he smiled. “But I would like to ask you a couple of questions about your son and his friends.”

“My son? I could just die! My family is one of the oldest in this county and he does this to me! Drunk driving! Killing that poor woman! I don’t care if it was an accident—there’s no excuse for what he did!” She sniffed again but resisted tears. “And that stupid lawyer. He said there was nothing to worry about—hah! And now here’s my Danny, convicted, disgraced—”

“I understand your feelings, Mrs. Talbot,” said the soothing voice. “It must be rough on you.”

“You have no idea what a nightmare this has been.” She wiped her eyes and folded his handkerchief. She extended it to him, but he shook his head with a smile.

“You keep it. Is there someplace we can go to talk for a minute?”

“I don’t know—what did you want to ask?”

“Just some questions about your son’s friends.”

“Those juvenile delinquents! Danny’s a good boy. He never would have done anything if it hadn’t been for that horrible Van Vronkel boy. And as for Scotty—his mother is my best friend, all the way back to grammar school—” Tears welled up again. “Lucille was too upset to even come to the trail today.”

“I’m sorry. Was there anyone else your son might have been seeing recently? Someone new to the area, perhaps?”

She frowned. “No… no. I can’t think of anyone offhand. We’re pretty isolated up here, although so many people from downstate come for the skiing every year. They’re good for the economy, my husband tells me, but their influence on the morals of the young—why, that group renting the old Aushlinker place, they’re out and about every night, spending their money like water—”

“I understand. But could your son have been hanging around with anyone new lately?”

She thought hard, for he was such an extremely good-looking young man, but had to shake her head. “I knew all of Danny’s friends, and all of Larry’s and Scotty’s too, come to think of it. There weren’t even any new students at the high school this semester. New people stick out like sore thumbs here, you know.”

He nodded. He had very black hair, very curly, just a little gray which she decided was premature and very distinguished. “I see. Maybe you can tell me where I might find Judge Risenhoover’s chambers.”

“Around that way. There’s a door at the end of the hall.” She didn’t want to give him up quite so soon. “Why did you want to know all that?”

“I’m not a reporter,” he said again, with another of those smiles that went through her like the two fingers of Scotch she’d snuck this morning before facing the mortification of court. “Just doing some checking.”

“Now that you mention it,” she said hurriedly as he got to his feet, “those people at the Aushlinker house—they’ve been here since late September, and they struck me as being very strange. Something foreign about them, if you know what I mean.”

“Really? Now, that is interesting.” He took out a small notebook and a pen. “How do you spell that name?”

She complied, and added, “And I think that woman who was killed—she was staying with them. Does that help at all?”

“More than I can tell you, Mrs. Talbot.” He put away the pen and paper, then patted her shoulder. “Thanks for talking to me. I appreciate it.”

She watched him walk down the hallway. Such an extremely handsome young man, and so polite. She sighed, caught sight of her husband and son coming out of the courtroom and suddenly began to cry again.

* * * *

“Becca! Leave that and come up here—it’s David on the phone!”

She wiped her hands free of the varnish she was using to refinish a chair for Shauna’s bedroom and hurried up from the basement to the hallway. Andrew held out the phone to her with an expressive shrug which said he had no idea why David called.

“Davey?”

“Hello, Mama. How are you?”

“I’m fine and you sound exhausted. How is everything there? How’s Kenneth?”

“I’m not in L.A., Ma. I’m in New York. I just wanted to call and see if it was okay if I came by.”

“David Michael, what on earth are you doing here? No, don’t tell me over the phone. It can wait until you arrive. Are you at the airport? ”

“No, about half an hour from you, near as I can figure. I’m kinda fuzzy about the directions. But I’ve got a car. You don’t need to come pick me up or anything. How’s Nicky? And Shauna?”

“They’re both well. How long are you here for?”

“I’m not sure. A little while. Can you give me the directions again?”

“Andrew will. Get a pencil, Davey. And hurry over here. You sound terrible.” She gave the receiver to Andrew, who gave concise directions to the house. She heard her husband practically order David to stop worrying about whether he was imposing on them. When Andrew hung up the phone she said immediately, “He never calls me ‘Mama’ unless he’s upset. Why he’s here, I can’t imagine.”

“He’ll tell us when he gets here. You go get that stuff off your hands and I’ll start the coffee.”

She started up the stairs, then stopped to look at him over the banister. “He doesn’t sound like himself.”

“Go on. I’ll get things organized down here. And tell Shauna she can forget her Latin homework.” He smiled. “Her big brother is coming to visit.”

Half an hour later Rebecca welcomed her shivering son indoors and hurried him out of his jacket. “What were you thinking of, coming back here in this weather with only that to keep you warm?” she scolded, her voice sharper than it might have been because of his appearance. Under the California tan his skin was pasty, his eyes huge and dark-circled, new lines carved into his forehead. “Come in by the fire. Shauna, you bring in the coffee. Davey, you stand right there. You should catch pneumonia, the way you’re dressed. What, you think you’re back in Los Angeles, to be wearing only that sweater? Sit down now, right here.”

She settled him in a big armchair pulled up to the fireplace and poured a large mug of coffee. Lacing it with cream and lots of sugar, she wished she could slip in some brandy as well. Color came back into his cheeks after a few sips and light began to return to his eyes. When he smiled at her, she sighed.

“Hi, Shauna,” he said. “How’re the nuns treatin’ you?”

“Sister Margarethe is lobbying hard to get me kicked out,” Shauna grinned. “But Sister Mary Joseph thinks I’ve got great nun potential, can you believe it?”

“So you play them off against each other?” The smile widened, turned up at the right corner. “Are you sure you’re not a Starsky instead of a Flaherty? That sounds like a trick me or Nicky would pull.”

Rebecca let them talk on for a time, reasoning that he needed to relax first and get warm—inside and out. Shauna was displaying the Irish beguilements inherited from her father, and David’s teasing was exactly what she remembered in his father, and once more she thought how very much her blood son and her adopted daughter resembled each other. They had the same black curling hair, the same dark eyes, the same ability to charm.

“You be careful,” David was saying, “or I’ll send Hutch back here to talk Catholic with you. His mom wanted him to be a priest.”

“How’d he get around it?”

“Got kicked out of parochial school. But I don’t recommend it.”

“I wouldn’t mind so much. They already think I’m tainted because—” Her voice lowered dramatically, her eyes dancing— “there’s a heretic in my house!”

“Becca is not a heretic,” Andrew said with mock severity. “She’s an infidel.”

“Arabs are infidels,” Shauna scoffed. “And besides, everybody envies me my two Jewish brothers. Jewish men are sexy.”

“And what would you be knowing about it at your advanced age of fifteen?” Andrew lapsed into an outrageous Irish brogue, and they all laughed.

“Well, Micky’s new girlfriend sure thinks he’s sexy,” Shauna went on. “You should see her, Dave—she’s even littler than me with these great big dark eyes, and she is so Italian she uses garlic for perfume.”

“Mary Shauna Flaherty!” But Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh, for it was a fairly accurate description of Nicky’s latest flame. Thoughts of her younger son were pushed aside as she gazed at her eldest. The strained look had left his eyes, but there was a wound in them, barely hidden, that made her ache.

Warmth and fatigue had their effect, and when David’s lids began to droop, she told him to go upstairs to bed. He smiled sheepishly, apologized, and meekly followed her upstairs to the spare room. She left him to get a pair of Andrew’s pajamas and when she returned, he was sprawled across the bed, fast asleep.

“You want me to stay home tomorrow, Becca?” Shauna asked hopefully from the doorway.

“What for?” Rebecca looked pointedly at the girl. “So Sister Margarethe can confirm her suspicions about the heathen in your father’s house?” She exchanged grins with Shauna and went on. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you take Davey out to dinner Friday night. How about Rousseault’s?”

“Me? At Rousseault’s?”

“Well, a date with a big brother is better than nothing. Think of it as practice for when you turn sixteen.”

“My big brother can take me to dinner anytime. Oh my god—what’ll I wear?”

Rebecca laughed in delight. “We’ll see what we can come up with. You go off to bed now and be sure to brag all day tomorrow and Friday at school.”

“You bet I will. Thanks, Becca.”

She received a swift hug and shut the door behind Shauna. The dinner date would keep Davey here until Saturday at least, and if she worked it right, she’d be able to con him into staying through until Monday.

Pleased with herself, she maneuvered him out of his clothes and into the pajamas. The last time she’d done that, he’d been about two feet shorter and a great deal lighter. But Andrew’s pajamas, at least two sizes too big, made David look ten years old again. She buttoned the shirt over the scars on his chest, glad to see that they’d faded some in the last couple of years and pulled the covers up around his shoulders.

“You sleep now, my son,” she whispered, bending over to kiss his forehead. She heard Shauna’s excited voice in the hallway telling Andrew about the Friday night date. Brushing the curly hair back, she murmured, “I should have had daughters. They’re so much easier… But I wouldn’t trade you or Nicky for anything, even when you drive me crazy. Sleep well.”

* * * *

When Shauna got home from school, she found her father and stepmother in quiet conference in the living room. They stopped talking when she entered, from which she rightly and irritably deduced they weren’t going to tell her anything. Becca answered her questions about David by saying only that he had slept most of the day, had a huge lunch, and was now napping again. Shauna glanced at her father, wanting to ask several dozen more questions, but then decided she didn’t want them to have to lie to her.

Gathering a handful of cookies while her tea steeped in the kitchen, she pondered the idiocies of parents for a minute, then switched from that familiar topic to that of her stepbrother’s arrival. Becca had looked worried just now, but neither she nor Daddy had learned anything, Shauna felt sure. If they had they’d be doing something. Neither of them ever sat around waiting for things to get better—they both plowed right in to fix what they saw going wrong. Look at all the times Daddy had read the riot act to Nicky.

She snickered under her breath and climbed the stairs to her room, hands full. The trig book sat open on her desk, but she knew the pages would turn to Sanskrit the moment she tried to work any of the problems, so she changed into jeans and sat in the window seat, sipping tea and looking out at the gray trees in the back yard.

Tomorrow at this time she’d be getting ready for her date with David. Big deal if he was her stepbrother and half a century older than she was—he was tall, handsome, lots of fun, and would treat her as a grownup. He always had, even from the first when he’d come to the wedding with his gorgeous blond partner. Nicky, on the other hand, always acted like she was still a little girl, although fairness forced her to admit he could be fun, too—but she wasn’t going to put up with his “kid sister” routine much longer. In February she’d be sixteen, and next fall she’d be emancipated from Sacred Heart’s dismal blue wool uniform and go to public high school for her senior year. And then they could all watch her dust.

“Holy shit!” The thought of her uniform led naturally to the clothes she’d wear to dinner tomorrow night. A wild search through everything she owned produced nothing but a fairly nice bottle-green velvet skirt and a bunch of completely juvenile ruffly blouses. Shauna groaned. You had to be past twenty-five, or under thirteen, or Princess Diana, to carry off ruffles. She was going to Rousseault’s, for crying out loud, not Christmas Mass.

She slammed the door of her room and remembered belatedly to tiptoe past the room where David still slept. But her incautious exit must have woken him because she heard him call out softly, “Mom?”

She cracked the door open and smiled ruefully. “No, just me. Sorry I made so much noise. How’re you feeling?”

“Human again,” he grinned. “Come in and talk to me for a while.”

“Sure.” She shut the door behind her and dragged an armchair over from the windows to the side of the bed. Pulling up her knee socks under the legs of her jeans, she sat cross-legged and leaned her elbows on her knees. “Did Becca tell you we’re going to dinner tomorrow night?”

“We are?”

“Yeah—you and me, to Rousseault’s. It’s fantastic—you’ll love it. They’ve got the best Maine lobster in the world. We were there for Daddy’s birthday last year and it’s incredible inside—tons of candlelight, and miles of white linen and silver and more crystal than—” She broke off at his bemused expression. “That is, if you want to go,” she finished, feeling every one of her fifteen and three-quarter years.

“Sounds terrific. Been a long time since I took a lovely lady to dinner at a classy restaurant.” He sat up, propping pillows behind his back, and rolled up the sleeves of his pajamas.

“You’re a sweetheart!” She swooped down to hug him, then resumed her chair. “Anyway, I’ve gotta find something to wear. Everything I’ve got makes me look twelve.”

“You’ve gotta look at least eighteen, or they’ll arrest me for contribution to the delinquency.” Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Does this mean I gotta wear a suit and tie?”

“We could get you a tux like you wore at the wedding,” she answered slyly and laughed at his heartfelt groan. “Oh, come on! I think you looked cute!”

“And that’s why you had hysterics when you saw me all rigged up in that thing? Shauna, honey, I’ll do anything in the world for you, but there ain’t no way I’m gonna wear a tux. Or even a suit. You’ll have to settle for a sweater or somethin’.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Rousseault’s maître’d doesn’t insist that gentlemen wear a tie.” She grinned at him again. “How is Hutch? Why didn’t he come with you?”

She watched his face go blank for a minute, but the next instant he was smiling again. “He’s fine. Sends his love.”

“When are you gonna invite me out to California? Would you mind if I visited next year? In the summer, maybe. I’d kill to see Malibu and Disneyland and Rodeo Drive.”

“Anytime you want to, and your folks say it’s okay, you’re more than welcome.”

She smiled her thanks, then looked down at her hands. Worrying at a hangnail for a minute before realizing she’d have to give herself a complete manicure before going out tomorrow night, she wondered how to phrase her next question. At last, shrugging, she asked, “Why’re you here, David? Becca is worried like crazy about you.” She took a deep breath, still not looking at him, and rushed on. “You’re not—you and Hutch aren’t gonna split up. are you?”

The silence went on for a very long time. At last, she snuck a look at him. His eyes were closed, his lashes a ridiculous long, thick sweep over his pale cheeks. Shauna hated herself for what she had just revealed about her own knowledge.

“I’m sorry,” she said miserably. “It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

“It’s okay, honey. I just didn’t think you or your dad—”

“He doesn’t. I mean, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know anything. And he sure doesn’t know that I—I mean—” She gulped, made an effort, and repeated. “I’m sorry.”

David was quiet again for a long time. At last Shauna felt his touch on her arm and looked up. He wore an odd little smile.

“You’re really worried about me and Hutch, huh?”

She nodded unhappily. “You’re my brother and I want you to be happy. And I care about you and Hutch, just like you care about me.”

“Oh. Shauna—your life is so simple. Keep it that way as long as you can, honey. Don’t get too grown up too fast, huh? Will you do that for me?”

She shook off his hand angrily. “Not you, too! I’m not stupid, and I’m not a little girl! Will some-body please realize that?”

“Hey? Don’t yell at me. I’m not the enemy. I’m not sayin’ you’re a little girl. And I know damn good and well you’re not stupid.”

She hugged her knees to her chest, frowning. “So knock off the ‘don’t grow up too fast’ crap, will you?”

“Okay. Sorry.”

She shrugged. “Are you ashamed of being gay?”

He blinked and, incredibly, blushed. “God, no! What gave you that idea?”

“You’re in the closet,” she replied simply, knowing she was being too blunt but still stinging from his previous words.

“How long could we stay cops if we came out of it? I like my job, Shauna. So does Hutch. And it’s nobody’s business but ours, anyway.”

That hurt even more than his condescension. She sprang angrily to her feet.

“I didn’t mean you! You’re family, Shauna. Come on, sit down and don’t go all Irish on me, lady. Temper I don’t need right now.”

“I’ll show you Irish,” she muttered, but slouched back down in the chair.

“That’s better. So tell me, since you wonder why we’re in the closet—how would it have been if me and Hutch had shown up at the wedding holding hands?”

The sudden rental picture made her giggle. “Not your style,” she said, amused entirely out of her annoyance.

“No,” he grinned. “It’s not. But if we’d acted the stereotype, that’s all you or your dad and your friends would’ve seen. And that’s what happens with everyone. You know what I mean?”

She thought for a minute. “Yeah. Instead of a person, you see a label. I get the same thing around the neighborhood because I go to a Catholic girls’ school.”

“There, you see? If you know somebody, if you care about them and respect them as a person, then you accept what they are.”

“But you could tell Daddy. He likes you and Hutch a lot. He brags about you when his police friends come to dinner.”

“Does he?” David smiled almost wistfully. “That’s nice to hear.”

“Well, I guess you know what you’re doing,” Shauna said, some of her doubt creeping into her voice no matter how much she tried to hide it. “But you still haven’t told me what’s wrong.”

“And you still haven’t told me how you feel about your stepbrother being gay.”

She met his gaze evenly. “There’s nothing wrong about sex between two people who love each other.”

“You didn’t learn that in catholic girls’ school,” he said wryly.

“The sisters would have me excommunicated!” She laughed, then sighed and grew serious again. “I’ve thought about it a lot, after I figured out about you and Hutch.” Looking down at her hands again she searched for the right words. “Loving somebody and being there for them—that’s the most important thing one person can do for another. Becca and Daddy are like that. Daddy and I had a real long talk when he told me he was thinking of marrying her. I think he’d understand about you and Hutch if you ever decided to tell him. I don’t see where you both being men makes such a big difference. When you love somebody, that’s what’s right. But when it’s just sex for the sake of getting your rocks off—”

She broke off as he sat forward and hugged her. “You’re beautiful,” he said softly. She shifted to sit beside him, leaning into the curve of his arm. “And you keep thinking just like that, Shauna. Don’t let those nuns or guys you’ll go out with, or nobody tell you any different. Love is what counts. Sex can be for fun between two people who love each other, or for comforting, or for showing someone they’re beautiful to you, or for making a baby—” He stopped for a minute, a slight tremor running through him. Yet before she could ask, he went on. “But when it’s just for kicks—believe me, I’ve had enough to know—it doesn’t mean anything unless it’s done for love. If you wake up in the morning and you’re looking at somebody whose heart and mind don’t mean anything to you—that’s death, Shauna. Cold and lonely death. Or if you’re in love with the look of somebody. Unless you’re loving the beautiful person inside that beautiful face, it doesn’t mean anything at all.”

She nodded against his shoulder but said nothing. After a long time, she drew away and took one of his strong hands between her own. “Can you tell me what’s wrong between you and Hutch?” she asked quietly. “And don’t say ‘nothing’ because if there wasn’t something wrong, he’d be here, too.”

“Oh, God…” He leaned back into the pillows, looking older and exhausted. “It’s not something you need to hear about, Shauna. Not because you’re too young for it. It’s just—I’m so goddamned ashamed of myself.”

“I can’t believe you’d do anything so rotten. Or that you’d hurt Hutch that bad.”

“That’s another thing about love, babe. You can’t help gettin’ hurt. Or giving hurt.” He sighed. “And part of why I’m ashamed is because I could’ve avoided all of it, and I loused up all the way around. Maybe when I can face myself, I can face you with it. And maybe that’ll make it easier for me to face him. But it’s nothin’ that’s gonna break us up, so don’t give me that kind of look. How stupid do you think I am?”

She returned his sudden smile. “You really want me to answer that? It’s okay, David—if you want to talk about it. I’m here to listen.”

“I know, honey. Thanks. Means a lot to me.”

She hugged him again quickly and bounced off the bed. “Just don’t you dare stand me up on our date. I’ve been telling everybody about it, and they’re all trying to get their parents to take them to Rousseault’s Friday night so they can get a look at you.”

“Geeze—maybe I’d better wear a suit and tie.”

“Nope,” she said, going to the suitcase that lay open on the floor beside the dresser. As she rummaged through it, she reflected that it was good to be able to make someone laugh when laughter was needed. She’d seen Becca and her father practice the same medicine on each other over and over again. It was comforting to realize she had acquired the talent.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Picking out your clothes. You can’t borrow anything from Daddy—you’re swimming in his pajamas and you’d drown in his sweaters.” She rejected a pair of jeans and a pale yellow shirt but held up a black turtlenecked sweater consideringly.

“Oh, no. You’re not pickin’ out my clothes. You were the one who chose that tux. You don’t love me anymore, I can tell.”

“Oh, shut up.” She pounced on a pair of wrinkled wool slacks, holding them close to the sweater to judge the effect of pearl-gray and black together. “Wear these,” she said. “I’ll get Becca to press them for you and you’ll be gorgeous.”

“Yes. ma’am,” he agreed meekly, and she turned to throw the sweater at him, laughing.

* * * *

“Rain’s stopped,” Andrew said, letting the sheer curtains fall back into place at the front windows. “You ought to have a nice drive uptown.”

“If I don’t get lost,” David replied.

“Shauna knows where she’s going. Can I freshen your drink for you?”

“No, thanks. Are you sure you don’t mind if she takes me on the grand tour after dinner? It may be pretty late when we get back.”

Andrew grinned at his stepson. “If you were seventeen, you’d be back by ten or it’d be the last date you ever had with my daughter.”

David began to laugh. “Yes, sir! I was just wondering why I felt so weird—and I just figured it out. Haven’t sat makin’ small talk with my date’s father in forever.”

“Listen, I’m letting you off the hook about what you plan to do after high school and what kind of repair your car is in—all the usual stuff. But I anticipate doing a little too much of it in the years to come.” He settled into his favorite chair and picked up his whiskey glass. “She’s gonna be trouble, mark my words.”

“She’s a good kid, Andrew. She won’t pull anything too outrageous.”

“Outrageous I could cope with. It’s the usual teenager stuff I’m worried about. When I remember what I was like at seventeen with girls, I’m tempted to toss her into a convent.”

“Oh. come on!” David laughed again.

“Well, I’m not serious, of course. But parenting gets rougher the older they get. You keep wondering if your example or society’s is going to win out. And there’s always the problem of having confidence enough in yourself that you’ve produced a rational human being, while you also tell yourself that a child is always a child.”

“Nonsense,” Becca said, coming in with a tray of soup and sandwiches for their dinner. Andrew helped her set up the low table in front of the couch as she went on. “Rational or not, a young person has just as much right to make mistakes as an older one. And just as much right to get yelled at by his parents.”

Andrew saw but didn’t quite understand the glance she shot at David. “But part of being a parent is wanting to protect your child against all mistakes, which is in itself irrational, I’ll freely admit.” He unfurled a napkin onto his lap and surveyed the meal. “Looks delicious, Becca, but I can’t help dreaming of lobster thermidor.”

“Dream all you want,” she said serenely. “Chicken soup and grilled cheese sandwiches is what you’re getting tonight.”

“And chocolate torte for dessert,” David said with mischievous eyes. “She let me lick the bowl.”

“Tattletale. Where’s Shauna?” Becca went to the front hallway, peering up the stairs. “It’s nearly seven.”

“Give her time, give her time. This is her first great appearance and I don’t expect her down a minute before seven-thirty.” He sampled his dinner, not missing the signal of chicken soup, Becca’s standard remedy in times of illness or crisis. “Sit down and eat,” he told her. “Dave, how do you like your new job?”

“Well, it’s not exactly new. We’ve been at it for over a year now. But it’s fun. I didn’t think I’d like it much, all those screening interviews and files and applications. The paperwork is knee-deep all, the time.”

“You miss the streets much?” He passed the plate of sandwiches to his wife.

“Yeah.” David smiled ruefully. “Don’t look at me that way, Ma. What’d you expect? The old warhorse gets put out to pasture, sure, but he still thinks about galloping into battle.”

“I know what you mean,” Andrew agreed. “Still, must be pretty nice, flying all over the country on recruitment trips.”

“I like it,” Dave nodded. “I get to see places I never thought I would—and some I’d rather not. Montana was awful. But me and Hutch found this lady sheriff who’d driven two hundred miles to the interviews in—what’s the capital of Montana anyway?”

“Helena,” Andrew supplied.

“Helena,” Dave repeated. “Anyway, that was the best part of that trip. She joined the LAPD and this year she won the Medal of Valor.”

“You must be very proud.” Becca smiled.

“Yeah, well… the best part is watchin’ some kid turn out to be a winner. They just graduated the first group that we did all the screening for, and the drop­out rate went down twenty-five percent. If we can’t do the job ourselves, we can at least try to find people who’ll get it done anyway.”

Andrew pointed an admonishing finger at him. “Don’t you try to hijack any of my people, David.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He got to his feet and picked his jacket off the back or his chair. “It’s funny sometimes…I get to feelin’ a little useless. And middle-aged.”

“If you’re middle-aged, then I’m old—”

“And God knows what that makes me,” Becca said firmly. “Senile?”

“Ma—Hutch and me came within an ace of disability pensions,” Dave said quietly. “We should never have gone back on the streets after I got hurt.”

“I completely agree,” she answered. “But weeping and wailing about middle age when you’re not even forty—tch.”

Andrew watched his stepson’s restless movements, the smile that never reached his eyes, the shrug of his shoulders. He was about to point out that David had already outlived his father by a number of years when the younger man spoke again, with a real smile this time.

“Okay, Ma, point taken. I’m not ready for Leisure World, yet I guess. And just take a look at the beautiful lady I’m takin’ out to dinner.”

Andrew’s eyes went at once to the doorway where Shauna stood. Pride swept through him, so sweet and strong he couldn’t have spoken a word to save his own life. She wore her green velvet skirt and a plain white silk shirt Becca had bought for her. Becca’s wedding pearls were around her slender throat, her hair was piled in a classic chignon to reveal the pearl earrings that had been her Confirmation gift, and twin gold bracelets chimed softly as she walked a few steps into the room. She moved with exquisite grace in her high heels, and it suddenly seemed to him that no man would ever be good enough to deserve his daughter.

David bent over her hand gallantly, and she spoiled the picture of grown-up elegance with a blush and a giggle. Andrew was delighted. Becca produced the mink-collared jacket he had argued her into accepting as her anniversary present and David helped Shauna into it with a flourish.

As Shauna came over to kiss him goodnight, he managed to say softly, “You’re lovely, sweetheart.” She blushed again and as she walked out the door for her date with her big brother, he felt once more that it would take someone very special to be worthy of her. And smiled wryly at his own paternal foolishness.

He and his wife finished dinner quietly since Becca obviously had something on her mind and Andrew had learned to wait her out. When they finished eating, he threw another couple of logs on the fire and settled back. But Becca brought not coffee and dessert out from the kitchen, but two ice-filled glasses and a bottle of Old Bushmills’ instead. She sat down on the couch and poured grimly.

“You don’t even like Irish whiskey,” he observed.

“I have something to tell you, and it’s going to take a long time. And I don’t want you to interrupt, Andrew.” She handed him a filled glass, took a sip of her own, and bit her lip. “Will you do that for me, darling?”

His brows shot up; she never used endearments except in bed. “So David spilled it all, did he?”

“Yes, and I don’t know whether to cry for him or kill him.”

“That serious? Okay, I won’t interrupt.” He shifted his chair around so he could see her features clearly in the firelight and prepared himself to listen.

It proved difficult to keep his word. The story she told him was painful, senseless, tragic—and all too plausible. He watched her carefully as she talked, drank whiskey, talked some more, got up to pace, fought back tears, paled with anger, twisted her hands, sank round-shouldered onto the couch again, drank more whiskey. And when at last she fell silent, he sat for a long time sorting it all out in his mind.

The first part, the description of how federal agents had preyed on a vulnerable young woman and an equally vulnerable young cop, had a familiar ring to it. Most of the Feds he’d met were only too willing to exploit anyone and anything to reach their desired goal, no matter who was hurt along the way. He could easily see David struggling to protect the young woman from the Feds, from her father, from being hurt, all the while falling in love with her, trapped just as he had helped to trap her. He could even understand how the woman had chosen to go with her father rather than stay with David. There hadn’t been a choice for her.

But the second part of Becca’s story shocked him. Why had the woman lied to David about the child? Not just once, but again and again, each day that she had kept the truth from him. To Andrew, it was not the act of a woman who desperately wanted to protect her son and her lover, but of someone whose love had turned to bitterness and tenderness to spite.

That David and Kenneth were lovers he had known for a long time. But that David could now compound Rosemary Malone’s lies was incredible. Didn’t the idiot see what he was doing? Running away, hiding from Hutch, trying to concoct a conspiracy out of no evidence at all—anything rather than face his lover with the truth. Thus, the trip to upstate New York to claim Rosemary’s body for burial next to her father in Mexico City, coupled with the desire to find a reason for her death. Andrew knew all too well the frantic need to make sense of something as senseless as an automobile accident: he had gone through the same thing when his wife and two sons had died in a car crash nearly ten years earlier. The theory of a paid hit was absurd, of course, as David had discovered when checking out the friends with whom Rosemary had stayed upstate. But he could, upon reflection, almost understand why a shocked and hurt man would clutch at anything rather than stay in Los Angeles and face his lover.

And now this last part, this Michael who was Becca’s grandson. When Andrew got to this point in his thoughts, he acknowledged he really didn’t give much of a damn about how David dealt with the problem except as it affected Becca. He gazed at his wife’s bowed shoulders, her slim hands wrapped so tightly around each other that the knuckles showed white, her whole figure looking just as it had when he had first known her. Then it had been her other son’s trouble, and he had been able to help. He had built up a cushion around her in the years of their marriage, shielding her from Nicky’s astonishing ability to hurt her while at the same time kicking the young man into paths that would be less dangerous to Becca’s peace of mind. But now David had brought that look back, the look of an old woman. Andrew, loving her, knew he had caused her to recapture much of the youth she had lost in her widowhood. But now she looked older again, tired, worn out.

Still—he couldn’t despise David as he did Nicky. What the younger brother did, he did knowingly, willfully, always trusting to luck and connections to bail him out. David, the good cop, the loving son, the decent human being—that this should have happened to him was the really senseless part.

Andrew set his empty glass down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. “I’ve waited a long time for you to tell me about David and Hutch.”

Her head snapped up. “What? You knew?”

“Yes.”

“How? When?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Shrugging, he replied, “I wasn’t sure until they came back here for the wedding. I suppose being in love makes you more sensitive to love in other people. I can’t say I approve of their lifestyle, Becca. I’m a little too traditional and old-fashioned. But it’s their life, and they live it on the other side of the country from us, and—”

“Oh, God!” She recoiled back into the sofa, her eyes huge.

“Becca—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” He went to her swiftly, pulling her into his arms. She was rigid and trembling against him. “My God, woman, don’t be insane. All I meant was that we don’t all have to pretend to each other all the time. It’s obvious they don’t want me to know. I know that their work demands—Becca, what I’m trying to tell you is that it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

He stroked her hair. “If you’re asking me if I’d prefer to see David married to some nice girl and living in the suburbs with half a dozen kids—yes, I would prefer it. But it’s not my life, Becca, and it’s not yours, either.” He held her away from him, waiting until she looked up before continuing. “This isn’t something you can decide for David. I know you want them to take the child and raise him, but you can’t force them to do it. And I also know you told David that we’d take Michael, didn’t you? I’d like that. I’ve always thought how good it would be to have a child with you.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she shook her head. “How could she do this to him? Why did she do it?”

“Did he read you the letter?”

“He let me read it, yes. She said—she said she wanted him to have the chance to know his son. But he should think before taking him because of his relationship with Kenneth.”

“Vindictive little bitch, wasn’t she? No, hear me out. Why did she lie to him two years ago? Why didn’t she tell Hutch when she met him by accident? Look at what she’s done, Becca. She’s set David up to suffer just like she must have suffered. I can understand her not telling him she was pregnant—I ran into Frank Malone years ago when he was still a junior partner in Johnny Roake’s organization, and I can imagine what he’d have to say about his daughter getting pregnant by a cop. He must have made her life merry hell.”

“But—Davey said they loved each other, she loved him. It tore her apart to have to leave him.”

“I’m sure it did. But think what it was like for her later. There she is in Mexico with a father who for all his faults probably loved her the way I love Shauna.”

“No—not that way. You wouldn’t destroy her happiness to please yourself. There’s no comparison.” She sat back, still within the circle of his arms, and raked her hair from her face.

“But he did love her. So she has this child by a man he hates. The baby’s put somewhere safe. Malone dies, and there’s Rosemary, all her sacrifices in vain. Back she goes to L.A. wanting to start it up with David again—”

“Only there’s Hutch to think of now.” Becca nodded slowly. “Yes. That poor girl…and poor Kenneth. He’d fight for Davey tooth and nail.”

“I’ll just bet he did. And all her dreams go up in smoke.”

“But how could she have lied to his face like that? Andrew, you should have seen him when he was telling me—he was holding their son in his arms and she lied to him!”

“Maybe she felt she was protecting them all. But it was probably the habit of sacrifice—it can be very ennobling,” he said contemptuously. “Lover, father, child—she’d lost everything. What else was left?”

“But why hurt him now? Why write him the letter when she knew she’d be dead when he read it?”

“Well, picture it, Becca. There’s her lover and her son—and her lover’s lover. She can’t have her son, she can’t have David back, and all her chances are gone.”

“Yes,” Becca whispered. “I know what it’s like to have everything you love taken from you.”

“Not taken, Becca. You didn’t choose what happened to you. She did. And they were wrong choices every time—her father over David was just the first. I bet her stomach curdled when she saw him and Hutch together. And that’s why she wrote, Becca. I’ll grant she may have been acting generously in wanting David to know his son. But think about how much trouble she could cause? Tossing in that bit about his relationship with Hutch. The set-up is so perfect it’s worthy of her father—only he manipulated for fun and profit, and she did it to hurt David as much as she could.”

Becca was silent for a long time. “And this is the mother of my grandson,” she said at last. “How could life sour someone so much?” She shook her head, then took a sip from her nearly empty glass. “Andrew, what can we do now?”

“Nothing.”

She gaped at him.

“We can’t. They have to decide for themselves. You’ve offered the only help we can give—to take Michael and raise him if that’s what David and Hutch want. I’d like that, and it’d be good for him to be with his blood kin. That counts for a lot.”

“But Davey’s his father! He has to take Michael!”

“Don’t you dare tell him that—or if you did, don’t repeat it. Listen to me, Rebecca. Family means as much to me as it does to you and to that son of yours as well. But you can’t tell him what to do. You can’t pile on the guilt. God knows he’s got a backload of it already, and from the look of him he’s ready to break in half.”

“This is my grandson you’re talking about—my son’s child!”

“And how much of a child is David?” he asked sharply. “My God, Becca, he’s not even mature enough to sit down and tell his lover the truth!” Getting to his feet, he picked up another log and threw it onto the fire. Watching it burn, the flames licking greedily at new fuel, he gradually got himself under control again.

“Becca,” he went on more softly, “he’s got to grow up and accept this responsibility. If he can’t, then he can’t raise Michael. Look at him—running three thousand miles rather than face Hutch. What did you say he’d told Hutch? That Rosemary was dead, and he was going to take the body down to Mexico City for the funeral? How long is Hutch going to believe that? He’s not stupid. It doesn’t take a week to claim a body and bury it. And what happens if David goes home with the kid and says, ‘Rosemary lied, this is my son and we’re gonna keep him.’ Or if he goes home without Michael and tells Hutch absolutely damn nothing?”

“Davey would never do that to Kenneth.” But her voice wavered uncertainly.

“He’s doing just that right now. Becca, darling—” He sat beside her again, taking her hands. “You and I know that a marriage is something that grows and changes or it dies. I’m willing to bet Hutch knows that, too. He went through a divorce.”

“When did he tell you about that?”

He shook his head impatiently. “Last summer, when we visited them on our way back from Hawaii. That’s not the point.”

“No, what you’re saying is that David still doesn’t know how to run a shared life. It’s funny, isn’t it? He’s known Kenneth forever, and they’ve lived together for I don’t know how long, and he’d probably say they were married if you asked him. But I don’t think he knows what a marriage is.”

Her hands slipped from his even as he tried to hold them. She crossed her arms over her chest, fingers digging into her shoulders, and closed her eyes. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, he saw the struggle in her soul clearly in her face. Andrew wanted to hold her. But there was nothing he could do.

At last, he could stand it no more. “Becca—don’t hurt so much, please. Please.”

She shook her head, still hugging her pain to herself as if it were a physical, tangible thing. “He’s my son… I’ve never been there…he was just a little boy when I lost him…I was never any use to him at all.”

“You can help him now by letting him decide this for himself.”

After a long time the tension drained out of her flesh and her muscles and even from her slight bones, and she sagged against him. “All right,” she murmured, sounding again very old and tired. “All right.” She pulled away, wiped her face, and got slowly to her feet. “I’m going up to bed now, Andrew. When they come in, tell them I’m asleep.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“I think so.”

He walked with her to the foot of the stairs and watched her climb them, her hand gripping the polished banister. When she was gone, he returned to the living room and poured another large whiskey. He drank it very slowly.

* * * *

There was no avoiding her fear. Even grief took second place to it, this living thing that looked out of her eyes in the mirror. The serenity of cool beige clothes, light make-up, perfume dabbed between her breasts, her husband’s presence, the silence of their secluded hotel room—none of it mattered. She was afraid.

She loathed Mexico City with its dirt, noise, ugly new hotels, stench, thin air sapping her strength. She hated the contrast of new civic buildings that seemed to apologize for the squalor elsewhere in the city. She cringed at the tangle of cars on the streets. She wanted desperately to be back in her own quiet, shaded home overlooking the ocean. She wanted to smell Luz’s cooking, listen to Rafael’s songs as he tended the garden, feel Rachel’s heavy head against her shoulder as she slept, watch Michael’s comic intensity as he played with his trains. She wanted that stranger out of her life. He had no right.

Max, walking at her side into the little church, had spoken with typical lawyer’s detachment about legal custody, and the stranger who could take Michael away from them forever. Cathy fought back tears of frustration and resentment—and the ever-present fear—as she draped the pale lace scarf over her head. She sat beside her husband in the first pew on the right side of the aisle, gazing at the closed casket and the flowers and priest without making sense of any of it. They were the only ones in the church, although the stranger would be coming soon, she knew. Ludicrous, really, to hold a Catholic service attended only by three Jews.

She thought about Rosemary then, and the last time she had made the trip from Puerto Vallarta. No wonder she always associated Mexico City with funerals. It had been just Rosemary and Max and her that time, just one voice to murmur the responses with the nuns in the back of the church as the priest prayed for the repose of the soul of Francis Joseph Xavier Malone. Cathy hoped that Rosemary wouldn’t mind too much that there would be no one but those same nuns to give the responses at her funeral. She turned to watch them file into the back rows, not an inch of their flesh visible, hands concealed inside sleeves and heads lowered to hide their faces. Professional mourners.

Cathy brushed her forehead free of perspiration and glanced at Max. He looked calm and handsome in his light suit, thick curls too long, blue eyes covered with one hand as his lips moved silently in prayer. He had done that the last time, too, and when she had asked, he had replied that God listened no matter which of His Houses you were in, whatever you called Him in your prayers, or whether you addressed Him in Hebrew, Latin, or Arabic. He began to whisper softly, and she knew he was reciting Kaddish.

Wishing she had her husband’s simple faith, she looked long and hard at the wooden carving of the crucified Christ above the altar. The carpenter from Nazareth who had died for everyone’s sins. For which of her sins was her child to be taken away from her? What had she done that some stranger could walk into her life and claim her son? He had no right.

She heard footsteps at the back of the church and resisted the urge to turn and stare. Slow steps, yet light as a cat’s. The sounds neared and she closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see Michael’s face in his, didn’t want to recognize this man who was Michael’s blood father. She wanted him to remain unreal for as long as possible. It was easier to hate a shadow.

Yet as the priest finally approached the altar and began the service, Cathy had to glance across the aisle. What she saw brought back the fear. Tall, just about Max’s height although without his solid bones and well-fleshed torso, he had Max’s black curls and that indefinable quality which proclaimed him a Jew. The profile was clean and fine, and as she noted how long his lashes were, she suddenly thought of Michael’s eyes with their shading of extravagant black lashes. One hand rested on the man’s thigh, long fingered and gracefully formed, and in this too she saw Michael.

It grew hotter, the scent of flowers and incense sickly sweet, and she longed to turn away and close her eyes. But she had to look at him, study him from the bowed head to the slumping shoulders to the hand that suddenly clenched along his thigh. He seemed to be unaware of anything but himself and never looked up once. Finally, Cathy was able to turn her face away, her head throbbing at the temples as her heartbeat increased. She wished for a breath of fresh sea air, just the scent of it to clean out this terrible, dense atmosphere. The flowers were wilting slowly as the priest droned on, the small lamp burning behind him, the candles rock-steady in the motionless air.

She heard other footsteps, and surprise made her turn this time, wondering who had come to Rosemary’s funeral. Some tall, lean, very blond man walked halfway up the aisle, paused to genuflect and cross himself, then slid into a seat three or four rows back from the stranger. And when the priest began his chants there was another response besides that of the nuns. The soft, strong voice echoed the Latin words, and as it did the stranger’s head turned and his eyes blazed wide. Cathy recoiled from the emotions scrawled on the suddenly pallid face—fury, pain, other things she didn’t want to identify. And a terror to match her own. He turned around again and for a moment their gazes caught and held. She saw him read her fear and her pity. His eyes became black ice as he faced forward.

The service at last ended and the priest approached to murmur something to the stranger. He nodded absently. The blond man walked up, genuflected once more, and only glanced at the silent man who sat with his head bowed. Max got to his feet, holding out his hand, and Cathy took it gratefully. Her heart was pounding so hard she couldn’t hear the soft Spanish of the priest as he said something to Max.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bergman?” The blond man was talking now, and she heard him clearly. “I’m Ken Hutchinson. Is there a place we can talk privately?”

“They have to bury her,” Cathy blurted out. The crystal eyes below sun-gilt hair regarded her solemnly. “She has to be buried.”

“Cath—we don’t have to stay for that.”

“I have to,” she said stubbornly, knowing she could not yet face that stranger and this blond man who was somehow connected to all of this. “I owe it to her.”

“So do I.”

The stranger stood apart from them, his eyes taking hers, holding them, not relinquishing them. “We can go together, Mrs. Bergman,” he went on, his voice flat but curiously gentle. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

She shook her head. Max squeezed her hand, released it.

“Don’t stand out in the sun too long, Cathy. I’ll wait here with Mr. Hutchinson.”

She moved blindly past them to the stranger’s side. He still looked down at her, with dark blue eyes exactly like Michael’s. Hadn’t anything of Rosemary survived in the child?

“I’m David Starsky, Michael’s father.”

She knew, of course, and she hated and feared him. She nodded. Walking beside him to the coolness of the church porch, she was glad of the bougainvillea that twined around the wooden arbor and support beams. The vermilion flowers had no scent, welcome relief after the thick sweetness inside the church.

“Mrs. Bergman—”

“Don’t say anything. Please.” She looked up at him. “I know you’re Michael’s father and I know why you’re here. But we have to bury her first. We can talk later.”

“All right.” She hated the pity in his voice, the long-lashed eyes, the slim strong hands that marked him as Michael’s father. She hated that there was nothing of Rosemary in the boy, that everything had been given by this stranger whose name she couldn’t even say to herself. “I think they’re ready now,” he said, and placed his hand lightly under her elbow.

The graveyard was new, land bought only a few years ago and donated to the church by Frank Malone. Burial space had been non-existent in the old churchyard, so he had provided for himself and Rosemary while earning some points with God into the bargain. Cathy watched the casket being lowered into the ground, her eyes dry, the sun painfully bright, her enemy at her side.

Yet this man was Michael’s father. Rosemary had loved him. It was because of him that Michael was alive.

“Lo siento, mi amiga,” Cathy whispered as the first shovel of dirt was thrown into the grave. “Vaya con Dios.” She turned away and Michael’s father followed her back to the shade of the bougainvillea. During the brief walk she reached a decision she knew was not even hers to make.

* * * *

Hutch opened the sliding glass doors of the hotel room, letting the thin breeze cool the sweat on his face. Early evening had brought a slight easing of the heat, with high, lazy clouds that joined and broke and joined again like lovers. The small balcony overlooked not the clogged streets, but a walled-in garden, some minor genius of an architect having built this hotel around a series of traditional Spanish courtyards. The trees reached up to the second floor where Hutch now stood, watching the clouds and listening to the fountain splashing below.

He had seen Starsky today for the first time in a week. It had been last Monday night when they slept together in their wide bed, made love, shared each other. No, that was wrong—Starsky had lied to him with his body and his silence, for it had been on Monday morning that Jarret had visited the office.

Tuesday, Hutch had wakened to an empty bed and a long note on his pillow. And downstairs on the table next to the couch, a fat manila envelope had been left for him to discover. He had sat for a long, long time reading page after page in stunned disbelief, not bothering to deceive himself about his own feelings. She was gone forever, and he rejoiced. She had lied to them all and he hated her for it. She had left Starsky’s son behind, and he thanked God.

He hadn’t needed Rebecca’s Sunday night phone call to tell him Starsky would be in Mexico City today. Jarret had told him that, and about the Bergmans and everything else, including Starsky’s insane crusade to find a conspiracy behind Rosey’s death. For all the days between then and now, Hutch had gone about his usual business, slept and eaten and worked, while inside his nerves wound tighter and tighter with waiting. Each night he spent alone and bewildered in their bed, he wondered when Starsky would come back, or call, and soon “when” changed to “if” in his mind.

How like Starsky to run away, he reflected now, fingering the soft leaves of a potted plant on the balcony. He never fled from Hutch’s pain, always shouldering more than his share and often more than Hutch was willing to part with. But time and again Hutch had seen his frantic flight from being hurt. Never admit either anguish or defeat—it was part of the stubbornness that was at once Hutch’s mainstay and his despair. He understood it, knew that the toughness had for years been Starsky’s only defense, and that life had reinforced the reaction many times. Starsky was no coward, not in body or mind, but his heart was more easily wounded than he ever acknowledged.

Hutch shredded the leaves in his hands, staring sightlessly at the beginning sunset. Twelve years. So much time as partners, friends, then as lovers—yet still Starsky shied away from him. It was so unnecessary, that solitary pain. “I’m here for you,” Hutch wanted to say. “You don’t have to fight so hard, you’re not alone. Me and Thee, remember?”

He shook his head, grieving and angry. Long hours of thought over the last days had produced only pain. Starsky had shut him out. He no longer knew what his lover might be thinking. There was no exchange of idea and feeling, no communication over that silent instinctive wavelength they had shared almost from the first day of their meeting. They were both alone.

The door opened behind him and his back became a ramrod. He had no idea what mood Starsky was in, what his face would reveal if he turned to look at him. He didn’t turn. The footsteps hesitated a long minute after the door closed, then came softly across the deep carpeting to the balcony.

“I should be down on my knees to you.”

Hutch remained where he was, silently agreeing. He let the torn leaves flutter to the deck and rested his fingers on the wrought iron railing.

“Hutch—please.”

The voice was so thick with misery he could barely make out the words. Yet he was strangely unmoved. This was his own form of running away, he told himself. His emotions would freeze, his own defenses of pride and detachment would protect him from further hurt. They did now from the raw agony in Starsky’s voice.

He heard his own words from a great distance. “I’d like to hear one good reason why I shouldn’t leave you for what you’ve done.”

“Hutch—I need you.”

“Not good enough. You betrayed just about everything we ever promised each other about our life. Not just that, but the friendship, the partnership that everything else rests on.” He paused, tightening his hands around the curling rails. “What gives you the right to come to me now?”

“Please—” Starsky cleared his throat. “Hutch, if you knew how many times I almost called you—babe, I—”

“You what?” He swung around then, not letting himself see the imploring eyes. “You what?” he repeated with deadly scorn. “You need me? Sure you do. You showed me how much. You love me? Want me to tell you it’s all right? You’re sorry and I forgive you and everything’s okay? Do you have any idea how much it hurt to be cut out of your life like that? You put me through a solid week of hell and you expect me to welcome you with open arms? I don’t know what you expect from me. What’s that list you’re always giving me when you make love to me—’friend, partner, beloved, lover’—what is there about any of this that proves those words?”

“Stop it!”

He ignored the sharpened tone. “Friend? Not likely. As for partner— Me and Thee is pretty much a joke right now, isn’t it? You shut me out! ‘Beloved’—oh, yeah, call me ‘beloved’ again, Starsk. Gets me every time.”

“Hutch—knock it off. This isn’t solving anything. I know you’re hurt—I know I was wrong—but we’ve got to talk, we have to—”

“There’s always ‘lover,'” he went on as if Starsky hadn’t spoken. “That’s the best one—turns me on every time you say it. Jesus Christ, I feel like a stranger to you! I may as well be some trick you picked up. Why don’t you go back to that, Starsky? It’s got about the same level of honesty and commitment you’ve been giving me the last week! Why not go back to the bars and find out what the going rate is these days on that tight ass of yours?”

He hated himself the minute the words left his lips, even before Starsky gasped and his hands came up as if to ward off more pain. He had gone too far by reminding Starsky of the days of his youth when he had sold his body for the money to survive. Starsky’s eyes turned black. His hands lowered to his sides and the look he gave Hutch was usually reserved for street scums.

“I was wrong,” Starsky said in a clear, harsh tone. “I came in here to tell you that and ask you to forgive me. I thought we could talk, think out together what we’re gonna do about—about—” He broke off, compressed his lips for a moment, then went on. “It’s been hell for me, too, but I don’t expect you to understand that. I made a mistake. But I didn’t see you comin’ after me to New York, either.”

“Are you out of your mind? You shut me out! How the hell do you think I felt, having to ask that lawyer things you should have been there to tell me?” He forgot all remorse for his previous cruelty in this new fury. “You know how bad that hurt? Like I didn’t count in your life at all—not for something as important as this! Why didn’t you come to me with it? What did you think I’d do, turn you away? Don’t you know me at all?”

“I made a mistake. And I’m payin’ for it. When you’ve decided you’ve hurt me enough to make up for not tellin’ you about—about Michael, let me know.”

“Starsky—this is insane! Where are you going?” he demanded as Starsky turned for the door.

“To tell the Bergmans they can keep Michael. I can’t make a home for him if I got no home with you.”

Hutch’s breath caught him painfully in his throat. Starsky was leaving him—and Michael would be lost to them both. “Starsk—babe, listen to me. You can’t do that to yourself—”

“Oh, so now it’s ‘babe,’ is it?” Starsky whirled angrily. “How do I rate that, huh? Why not try all those words you seem to hate so much?”

“Don’t you dare shut me out again!”

“You threatening me, Hutch?” Starsky taunted. “Got the balls to follow through?”

“Starsky!” He struggled to find words, but there was no time to consider or think. “You walk through that door, and I will leave you—and then what’ll happen to our son?”

Starsky froze, transfixed. Color and expression drained from his face, his eyes glazing over with darkness. A shiver rippled lightly through his body and then, in a voice afraid to hope, he whispered, “Hutch?”

* * * *

December 1982

“Yeah, Ma—it went real well, better than I’d expected. They’re comin’ back up sometime in April, and we’ll probably have him the whole time. Uh-huh. Hey, are you kidding? He’s growing so fast nobody can keep track of him. I’ll send you the pictures when I get time to develop ’em.”

Hutch took a dark green tie out of the wardrobe and held it up for Starsky’s inspection. The dark head shook a negative verdict and Hutch sighed. Switching the phone receiver from one ear to the other, Starsky pointed to his own closet and mouthed, “Blue one.” Grimacing, Hutch ignored the direction and began knotting the green tie anyway.

“Maybe you better wait till next summer. Now, Ma, of course I want you to come out here and see him, but—Ma! I don’t want to freak the kid out just as he starts livin’ with us full time! Shauna said she wanted to visit for a couple weeks, so why don’t all of you come out in—oh, July or so. Michael will’ve settled in and—” He put a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Hutch, “She’s at it again.”

“Be soothing but hurry it up—we’re due at Lizzie’s by seven.”

“Yes, Ma,” Starsky said into the receiver. “Yes, we’re gonna start interviewing housekeepers. Yes, we’ve already started redoing the spare bedroom. No, we haven’t looked into schools yet, but—”

Starsky’s eyes rolled heavenward and Hutch grinned at him. It had been difficult to restrain Rebecca from taking the first plane to L.A. over the holidays when she had found out that the Bergmans were bringing Michael for a visit. It had taken all of Starsky’s persuasive talents, plus Andrew’s, Hutch’s, and even Shauna’s, to content her with long letters and the promise of several dozen photographs. Evidently, she had resigned herself to wait, but had also resolved to make it as brief as possible.

Hutch rummaged around in a sandalwood box for a tie tack, finally found one he liked, and busied himself with fastening it. The plan for their eventual custody of Michael was eminently sensible, all things considered. Cathy Bergman was still resentful, and probably always would be, but Hutch had had a long talk with Max, and he had confided that he was going to convince her to try for a son of their own. They had been friendly enough on their visit, staying not at the house but at a hotel nearby, leaving Michael with Starsky as often as all thought best for the child. There would be another visit in the spring and then, just after Michael’s fifth birthday in June, he would come to live with them for good.

“Yes, Ma. Uh-huh. Yeah, I will. I sent you her address, didn’t I? Yeah, thought I had. Why don’t you write to her? I think she’d be happy to hear from you.”

It was important that Michael know he would not be losing the people who had been his family all his life, so he would be visiting them in Mexico every so often. But the house below Griffith Park would be his home. Hutch knew there would be problems in making the adjustment—they had run into several difficulties during the recent visit, but children survived. Michael had undergone a terrifying experience at the age of barely two and shown few ill-effects, and he seemed an adaptable, matter-of-fact little boy. Hutch could have sworn he remembered Starsky from before, and not just as someone who looked a lot like Max Bergman. Hutch smiled wryly; as if the curls and long lashes weren’t enough, Michael had evidenced a charming guile that made it impossible not to spoil him. Though God knew he could yell loudly enough when he didn’t get his own way.

“You’ll see it when I send the pictures, Ma. But if you want to know now, just take out the scrapbooks. He looks almost exactly like me and Nicky at that age. Taller, maybe—he’s grown an awful lot for a four-year-old. And his hair’s a little lighter. But he’s got your eyes.” Starsky laughed and amended, “Okay our eyes.”

Rebecca would lavish attention and presents on the boy, Hutch knew. She had already started by sending eight packages, one for each night of Hanukkah. containing everything from clothes to toys to books to a small silver mezuzah which Michael proudly displayed around his neck on a chain. Hutch whimsically considered the possibility of the bar mitzvah and what Rebecca would be likely to produce in its celebration and was profoundly grateful that the occasion was eight years in the future.

Eight years. He’d be in his late forties then, maybe a captain, maybe retired from the force and doing something else. Starsky’s voice faded from his conscious thoughts as he looked down at the rain-drenched rose garden. His life had never been very steady, and there had never been a pattern to it, not even in his childhood and youth. He had come to expect the unexpected as much as any human being could, but this new upheaval was something different. The long period of preparation and adjustment was as much for himself and Starsky as for Michael. Parenthood presented a thousand problems he’d rarely considered in the abstract, let alone in specific, personal terms.

They would hire a housekeeper to come in at noon and stay until he and Starsky got home from the office. He wasn’t sure how they’d managed things during this summer, but they’d figure something out. They were already planning the remodeling of the spare bedroom into something suitable for a little boy of five, and certain breakable treasures would be put on very high shelves for their own protection. They’d find a good school, discover what Michael’s talents and weak spots were, and start being parents.

But these things weren’t enough. Scraped knees, measles, fights with other kids, unreasonable demands, tantrums, problems with schoolwork, emotional adjustment—Hutch had no doubt of Michael’s receiving more than enough love and attention, but there were so many things neither he nor Starsky had ever dealt with before. And, looming in the years ahead, was that first time Michael realized that he wasn’t like other kids who had a mom and dad, not two fathers. And no mother at all. Hutch shivered suddenly, worrying about how they would explain to him. Pondering how much to tell him about Rosey, and why he had been born. Dreading the inevitable day when Michael would figure out why his two fathers shared a bedroom.

“Hey.” Starsky’s voice came from behind hm, and warm arms slipped around his waist. “Ma wanted to talk to you and I called you twice. Where you been?”

“The future,” he answered without thinking.

Starsky sighed, his breath tickling Hutch’s ear. The embrace tightened. “Yeah. But it’ll take care of itself, y’know. Always does.”

“Philosophy? From you?” he asked with a lightness he didn’t feel.

“I’m bein’ realistic—more or less.”

“Okay, realist. What’re we gonna tell him once he’s old enough to ask?”

“The truth.” Starsky’s head rested on his shoulder. “I tell myself it’ll never get asked, but I know it will. When the questions come, we’ll answer ‘em together.”

Hutch considered that, then turned to face Starsky. He took the long face between his hands. “You mean that?”

Starsky’s cheeks colored faintly, but he held Hutch’s gaze. “Yeah. No more of that, babe, I promise. We do it together. I learned that much anyway.”

Hutch smiled. Whether or not Starsky had really learned would find its own test, in time. For now, it was enough that he understood the importance of sharing their responsibilities toward Michael. And, truthfully, every decision they’d made thus far had been made together. He traced the resemblances between Michael’s face and the one sheltered between his hands, remembering the shared laughter, the times when he had stood silently watching as Starsky got to know his son. “You’re about to learn something else,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m starving. And if we don’t get a move on, Lizzie’s gonna have a fit.”

“Gotta get my jacket,” Starsky said, but paused long enough to kiss Hutch’s lips. “Will that hold you till we get home?”

“Oh, I’ll do fine. Question is, will it hold you? Most overactive libido in the Western World, and—”

“And you love it,” Starsky finished for him. He pulled a jacket off its hanger, put it on, and glanced out at the rainy dusk. “‘Cept you know we’ll have to slow it down a bit once Michael’s living with us. Can’t have him pickin’ up your example.”

“My example?”

“Gotta stop pinchin’ my ass.”

Despite himself he blushed. “You’d better watch your ass or it’s gonna be in a sling.”

“And the kinky stuff is out, too,” Starsky went on, unperturbed. “No more swinging from the chandeliers—”

“Starsky, we don’t even have a chandelier!”

Halfway down the stairs, Starsky glanced over his shoulder and winked. “You haven’t opened your Christmas present yet, either.”

He knew he was being had, but exasperation won out anyway. “One of these days I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna what?”

He surveyed the sparkling blue eyes, the wide grin, the impish expression. One Starsky was bad enough—but two? “I’m gonna find out from your mother why she didn’t drown you at birth. And then, if you’re real nice to me, lover, I might decide not to remedy the oversight. Come on, let’s go do some research on how a family works, huh?”

Starsky’s eyes went unexpectedly soft. “That’s what we’re gonna be, huh?”

“Me and Thee always were. Now it’s just gonna be better.”

Starsky smiled almost shyly. “I love you, Hutch.”

There was no way to resist that smile or those eyes, and even as Hutch wrapped his arms around his lover, he reflected that Michael, too, was going to steal his heart. Going to? He chuckled. He already had.

 

END

---

Copyright December 1982 by Pacific Fruit Express. The Water is Wide is an amateur publication intended solely for the entertainment of its readers. This copyright is not intended to infringe on the copyrights held by any other holders of Starsky and Hutch copyrights. Any resemblance of the characters herein to persons living or dead is purely coincidental; this is a work of fiction. All rights are hereby returned to the author.