When Hutch declines an extremely risky undercover job, the captain of the Organized Crime Intelligence Division accuses Hutch of being on the take. The officer who does accept the assignment is killed; then his family vows to avenge him. When Hutch goes missing, Starsky, now his lover, frantically searches for him, fearing he’s become the focus of the family’s vengeance.
Originally published in the Starsky & Hutch zine Nightlight 2, in 1991 by In Person Press. The story features art by Judy Jones.
A longtime fan generously donated digital scanning, typing, and proofreading to convert this story for its original posting to the web.
Special thanks to M H E Priest for help transferring the story to this archive.
Parker Center resembles nothing so much as a shiny glass box built to stringent Los Angeles earthquake code specifications. It is functional, easy to maintain, and with a lot of tropical plantings, appears typically Californian.
Few Angelenos know or question how closely their lives are supervised by the men who work inside. That is deliberate: there are men with power who choose never to be identified. They work through other agencies… among them, the LAPD. What the average citizen hopes for is a police force composed of incorruptible men who follow its motto: To Protect and To Serve.
The other question Angelenos never ask is: Who protects and serves the cop?
~~~
Room 702 at the Center houses the Organized Crime Intelligence Division — known as OCID. On this Monday morning, at 10:20 a.m., it also seemed ready to house the first skirmish of World War Three. Seated at a large mahogany table were two men from the DA’s office, one from LA, Captain Harold Dobey, Metro Division Homicide, Captain Martin Shemansky, OCID, his second-in-command, Lieutenant Jerry Tozukawa, and Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson.
Although skies were sunny, temperatures mild, inside the room the atmosphere was one of chilling frustration. The person responsible for the temperature drop, Hutch, sat quietly, eyes fastened on the OCID captain.
“Admittedly there is some danger, Sergeant, but by the time it arises we’ll have the goods on Leon Keating and his bunch,” said Shemansky in a conciliatory tone. “After all, you do fit the description perfectly.”
“Plus, you speak German, look German, and know the territory,” finished Tozukawa, earning him a nod from his boss.
Hutch glanced at Dobey, read the dark eyes, then said quietly, “Like I said, sir, I’ve no objection to going undercover, and I do fit your qualifications. However, I’m exercising my right to turn down an assignment that I feel is dangerous in the extreme.” He leveled a hard stare at a grey-haired, distinguished-looking man in a brown pin-stripe suit and addressed his next words to him.
“Mr. Templeton, you may think you’ve got all the bases covered, but from what I’ve heard there are holes big enough to drive my car through.” He shook his head. “I’ve been on the force for nine years now, and done my share of dangerous work. I’m no coward — ”
“Some might take issue with that, Sergeant,” retorted Shemansky, face red. He was a large, burly man who never looked comfortable in a suit and tie. His ginger colored hair matched his disposition, and right now he was furious with the hotshot detective from Metro.
“Hutchinson’s right,” declared Dobey firmly. “He’s up for lieutenant and I don’t want it on my conscience that I let one of my men put his life at risk because you haven’t done your homework!” He coughed, patted his tie in a vain attempt to flatten it, then slowly got to his feet. “Sergeant Hutchinson has turned down the assignment. Take some good advice, tighten up your plan of attack before you go looking for some other cop to be your Judas goat.”
Expression grim, Hutch rose and followed his captain out.
The mood in the room was heavy with disapproval, several of the men exchanging glances that boded ill for the departing officers.
When the door behind them closed, the grey-haired man spoke, turning to the man from IA. “Saunders, get me the dossier on Hutchinson. The DA’s going to hit the roof when he learns he refused the assignment. What kind of a record does he have, anyway?”
Saunders shrugged, rubbing his knuckles over his balding head. “Hate to tell you this, Templeton, but he’s clean… ran a quick check on him before I came here.” He smiled nervously. “Oh, he’s been in hot water once or twice — he and his partner — but he’s never been on the take.”
Shemansky lit a huge cigar, not bothering to ask if anyone cared. “You mark my words, Bill,” he said, pointing the stogie like an extended finger, “that cop knows more about Fass then he’s telling… and I wanna know what it is!” He turned to his aide, blowing a large ring of smoke into the air. “Jerry, haul in a few contacts. Find out what the street thinks of Hutchinson. Any cop who’s been on the force for nine years has stepped on a lot of toes.”
One person who’d remained silent now cleared his throat. He was small-framed and wore a modest grey suit. Wire-rim glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, reflecting back distorted images of the other men’s faces. His eyes were the color of his clothing, and just as lackluster. “Gentlemen, we’re forgetting the point of this meeting. Sergeant Hutchinson has turned us down — and he was within his rights — so, who can we get to take his place?”
Templeton stared at his fellow attorney with contempt. “I suppose you believe his remarks about our plan being full of holes,” he said accusingly.
“That’s immaterial. There isn’t time to change things now.” Thin nostrils quivered and the glasses dipped down his nose in a slow slide. As he rescued them, he said, “Three days. That’s when our man must go undercover. We need someone by Thursday or it will be another year before we’re in this position again.”
Shemansky nodded. “Al’s right. Start calling the precincts. Only this time we stay away from Metro!”
There was a scraping of chairs, the rustle of papers as they were shoved into attaché cases, then the men filed out, leaving behind no evidence of their meeting except an ashtray filled with cigar ash.
~~~
Captain Shemansky’s secretary was a tall, thin Latina with lustrous brown eyes and a wide smile. She could spell, type, answer the phones, and lie for her boss. She brewed the best coffee in the department — and made the bosses pay through the nose for the kind she liked. She also never dated anyone who wasn’t from her own barrio.
The man sitting outside the closed door to Shemansky’s office was sorely testing her determination on that rule. He was tall, had a head of dark curls, and beautiful, expressive blue eyes. He was bronzed from the sun, and was wearing a pair of tight slacks and a well-cut jacket. Earlier, while he’d been toying with the leaves on her favorite fern, she’d noticed his hands. They, too, were beautiful.
He accepted a cup of coffee, flashing her a big smile, but his gaze kept drifting back to the conference door, and soon his expression was serious, almost sad. She knew instinctively he was a cop.
“It’s supposed to be over around eleven,” she offered, wanting to see him happy again.
He nodded, finished the coffee, and set the cup down, his glance back on the door.
Which swung open, and two men strode out. Her unknown companion leapt to his feet, barring their way. She saw another emotion soften his features, but couldn’t quite place it.
“What happened? Did you take it?” His voice, while pleasant, had a decided edge.
The taller of the two, a blond man, stepped forward, extending his hand, laying it on the dark man’s arm. “No. No, I didn’t. Let’s get the hell outta here.”
The second man — whom she knew was Captain Dobey — paused, glancing at his watch. “Glad you made it, Starsky. I’ve a meeting at eleven-thirty. You two head back to the station and I’ll see you about one.” He gave her a brief smile and was off. She wasn’t fooled; she could tell he was pissed about something.
The one named Starsky hadn’t moved. If anything, he stood even closer to the blond. “That the truth? You turned ’em down?”
This time a slight smile turned up the corners of the blond’s mouth. It took away some of the tension from his face, making him look much younger.
“Scout’s honor. It’s a suicide mission, partner, and I’m not about to volunteer.” He looked into the watchful face. “I gave you my word, didn’t I?”
She moved away, embarrassed without knowing why. What they were talking about seemed too personal to be shared, and she was certain that what they were discussing wasn’t meant to be over-heard. She didn’t look back until the door to the hallway opened and shut, and the office was empty.
Her curiosity piqued, she did open the outer door and peek down the hall, just in time to see Starsky’s hand drift down the other man’s back. A gentle shove and they were on the elevator and out of sight. Smiling, she ducked back into the office and heard the captain bellow for her services. The door to the conference room opened and its occupants filed out, all of them wearing grim expressions. She was shrewd enough to guess that whatever the blond had refused to do must have been important — and now these lobos would be after his blood.
Then she remembered his handsome partner and smiled. Too bad if Shemansky and crowd were furious… the cop named Starsky had seemed pleased by the refusal.
~~~
“Ya gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to wait for the six o’clock news?” Starsky slowed down for a light, then headed for the station. Hutch had been strangely silent, glancing over at him now and again, sometimes smiling, sometimes not. He knew better than to push his lover of three years, but right now his curiosity was killing him.
“Not much to tell, actually. They need someone who can pass for Wilhelm Fass… and I fit the bill.” He shrugged. “Right height, weight, age, coloring, background… everything.” He looked out the window, falling silent once more.
Something was wrong. It wasn’t like Hutch to brood once he’d made up his mind. Starsky had to admit, however, that he couldn’t remember the last time his partner had turned down an undercover assignment. “You refuse because of our promise?” he asked abruptly, wondering if that was what was chewing away at Hutch.
“Yes and no,” came the instant response. “Yes, because we swore we’d never again take stupid risks, and no because the goddamn plan they had was unworkable.” He turned toward Starsky, angry now. “That shithead, Shemansky, actually had the guts to admit they hadn’t had time to let their mole know a ringer was coming in to play Fass!” He clenched his fist, almost hitting Starsky as he slammed it onto his knee. “And you should have seen the goddamn phony papers they had — a kid of ten wouldn’t spotted them as queer. I-I tell you, Starsk, I had the damnedest feeling the whole thing was a set-up. One that would end with this cop being iced.”
Starsky said nothing, mulling over his partner’s recitation, committing it to memory. He and Hutch had rehearsed this very scenario time after time, arguing the pros and cons, the consequences to their careers such a move might make, each time coming to the decision that nothing was going to threaten them again. His being shot and nearly killed had brought home to both of them how truly short a cop’s life can be under the best of circumstances. They had vowed that if need be they’d quit the force rather than act hastily. Hell, they’d quit before. Still, today was the first real test of that vow.
He parked automatically, then spoke. “Thanks, Hutch. It musta taken real guts to turn them down. It would’ve looked good on your record, especially with your promotion comin’ up.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll have to see about that little deal, now. The way John Templeton was glaring at me, I’m not certain I’ll get it.” Hutch looked strangely undisturbed by his pronouncement.
“Templeton was at that meeting? Jesus, just who is Wilhelm Fass and why is he so important?” Starsky looked at Hutch and sighed. “A real cherry assignment, huh? And you had to turn it down.”
The face Hutch turned to him was smiling now, and after casting a quick glance around, he lightly tapped Starsky’s thigh. “Idiot. Can you imagine me as that Teutonic, probably certifiable, gangster? Do you know anything about Wilhelm Fass’s background?”
“Neo-Nazi?” hazarded Starsky, trying valiantly to recall the mystery man. He couldn’t even remember hearing about him before.
This time Hutch laughed. “Thank God, no. Wilhelm Fass sells chemicals. Hard-to-get, government-banned chemicals and pharmaceuticals.”
“Drugs? He’s a lousy drug dealer?” Starsky stared in disbelief. “What in hell’s all the fuss over a drug merchant?”
Hutch unlocked the car door and got out, rubbing his back as he stretched. His expression was grim. “Sorry I didn’t make it clearer, Starsk, but the drugs Fass sells aren’t for the street trade, they’re far more exotic. Drugs that can paralyze a city if they get into the water supply. Or wipe out an army with certain gasses. In fact, Gunther may have had dealings with him.”
Starsky moved as if in slow motion; the very idea of Hutch impersonating someone that dangerous scared the hell out of him. “And what were you supposed to do? Have they got Fass stashed somewhere?” His mind was buzzing with a thousand questions, yet he wished he could take Hutch aside and make him lose that rather forlorn look. Surely, his partner hadn’t wanted to accept the job. “Wanna stop for lunch? We’ve got forty-five minutes before that briefing.”
Nodding, Hutch locked his door, waiting until Starsky joined him. “Okay. But let’s eat in the cafeteria. Minnie told me today’s special is roast beef and gravy.”
They joined their fellow officers in line, joking and teasing one another about the probable ancestry of the steer and how it had met its demise. To their surprise the meat was tender and moist, the gravy composed of more than fat. Starsky cleaned his plate, then reached for Hutch’s.
“You through? Too rare for you?” Hutch had eaten half his portion, and left the mound of mashed potatoes untouched.
“Hmm? No. Just wondering who’s going to be the unlucky cop they call on next.” His head drooped a bit, and he scanned the nearly full lunchroom as if searching for a suitable replacement to impersonate Wilhelm Fass.
“You ain’t gonna find him here, Hutch,” came the quiet admonition from Starsky. “‘Cause none of these other blonds look like you. Therefore, they can’t look like Fass. Right?” He tried to smile, but deep inside he understood that while Hutch had turned down the foolhardy assignment for the best of reasons, he’d yet to convince himself he’d done the right thing. Suddenly not hungry anymore, Starsky pushed away his plate. “Come on. Let’s get outta here.”
~~~
They lay in bed, a tangle of arms and legs, warm bodies pressed together in sated pleasure. Hutch, barely awake, had just enough energy to kiss Starsky’s nose. The act earned him a chuckle and a groan, plus a swipe at his ear.
“Sorry, babe, there’s not even enough left to kiss you,” Starsky muttered, snuggling closer. “Wake me up in the mornin’, willya? Wanna sleep forever.”
His curls, damp and cool, pressed against Hutch’s chest, and automatically he reached up to fondle them. He loved this man with all his heart and soul. Loved him so deeply it frightened him sometimes… yet any alternative was equally terrifying.
They’d beaten Gunther, defied society in their own quiet way — letting Dobey know they loved one another — yet still hadn’t made the commitment of living together. It was a final step they simply weren’t ready for and they knew it. There wasn’t enough room in either apartment for them both, and so they spent their weekends together, sometimes not even making love. They had actually come that far.
Hutch pulled the sleeping man even closer to him. This time had been different; he’d needed Starsky, needed to claim him, needed to know he was loved even if he had run out on a job. Starsky had understood, had responded to their lovemaking with the same sort of desperate energy he, himself, had used. They were literally fucked out, and yet he couldn’t sleep. Some part of his subconscious was still wondering about the meeting he’d been to, and why it was suddenly so important to have Fass’ close appear to set up a buy of rare chemicals.
He shivered, fighting off a sense of dread he knew threatened to wear him down. Starsky was all that truly mattered to him, but he was proud of his hard-won reputation as a brave man… what had he done to that reputation?
Careful not to disturb Starsky, he relinquished his hold and moved away, sitting up on the side of the bed. After a moment of staring blindly into the darkness, he rose, intent on taking a shower. As he lathered soap across his chest, he wondered if he was simply getting clean, or trying to cleanse himself of guilt.
~~~
Lying very still, Starsky tried to rouse from sleep. He listened to the sound of running water, noting that Hutch wasn’t humming or whistling as he usually did. Sleepy as he was, he knew better than to intrude on his lover’s privacy. This was something Hutch had to work through, and when he was needed he’d be there. He closed his eyes, drifting back into an unfinished dream wherein he and Hutch were walking along a beach somewhere. He smiled; he knew the rest of the dream by heart.
~~~
Wednesday dawned clear and fair, perfect weather with windswept skies of April blue. As Hutch drove in to work he could see the mountains in the distance, some still wearing the last traces of a late snow. His spirits rose accordingly; perhaps he and Starsky should get the hell away, go up to Arrowhead for a few days. They could both use the break, God knew, and maybe he’d be able to forget this Fass thing entirely. It certainly wasn’t fair to Starsky for him to be acting this way, especially when their partnership was in its final stages.
That hurt. No matter how much they’d talked this step through, no matter how often he’d tried to deny he wanted this promotion, it was something they’d always known would happen. Neither wanted to remain sergeant, either, any more than they intended spending the rest of their lives on the streets.
He shifted gears, soaking in the sun, smiling to himself. The one truly good thing about their separating was Starsky’s going back to pick up the credits he needed for the lieutenant’s exam. He was fast approaching the age limit to qualify, so it had been fairly easy to persuade him to crack the books. Hutch grinned, recalling the challenge shot his way in those blue eyes. Starsky had the smarts to do anything he set his heart on, all he ever needed was the proper motivation. His own heart thudded hard in his chest; had he really agreed to buying a house together? Jesus! They both must have been drunk! He sighed, not denying the pleasure the idea gave him. Living together… more than he’d ever dared hope for.
He parked almost automatically, taking time to watch the passing parade at Metro. Unlike Parker Center, there were no big limos here, no fancy-dressed phonies eager to tell all to the vultures in the press. Metro was the best… and its entire squad knew it, that made him feel better, and he hurried into the building, senses tingling at the thought of seeing his lover again. It was a feeling that never went away. Didn’t matter which one of them got there first, there was always a welcome that was spoken only with their eyes. He began whistling… nobody could say good morning like Starsky.
A very tall, very blond patrolman stopped him by the elevator. “Excuse me, are you Sergeant Hutchinson?” The voice was deep, with a slight mid-western intonation. The hair was wheat pale, the eyes winter-cool.
Hutch felt the hairs on his arms prickle. “Yeah. Who needs to know?” He kept staring at the smooth face with its youthful, rather hard features.
A slow grin melted the reserve. “I do, sir. I’m Lud Anders, from Hollenbeck Division. I’ve been assigned to the Fass case.” From his extra height he looked down at Hutch.
Who saw the unspoken pity in those pale eyes. Saw it and flushed. Goddamn punk… who was he and what did he know about life?
“I see,” he replied. “And just what do you need from me? Hasn’t Shemansky filled you in?” God, this one’ll never make it, he thought fleetingly. He shrugged as the elevator door slid open. “C’mon up to the squadroom… meet my partner. Then ask away.”
Within five minutes all the amenities had been observed and the three of them were seated in front of a stack of files. Anders was obviously out of his league, and Starsky flashed Hutch a puzzled look. “Uh, how long have you been a cop?” he asked, fingers closing around his pen.
Anders looked from one to the other, then said, “Three years in June. Long enough to have gone undercover a couple of times.” He was clearly defensive, not willing to give an inch.
“Did Shemansky send you over here to talk to me?” Hutch wondered aloud. “Because if he did, there’s no way I’m going to change my mind.”
This time the glance Anders gave him was almost contemptuous. “I’m here because I need to know what you know about this Fass character. They said I look enough like him to pass, but you know all about his personality — his quirks.” He drew out a pack of cigarettes, asking silently if he could smoke. Starsky nodded, but Hutch’s hand shot out, snatching them away from the startled man.
“Better get ready to go cold turkey, pal. Fass doesn’t smoke, never did. In fact, he’s a health freak.” He cast a critical glance over Anders. “He’s also at least ten years older than you are — so be careful. His compadres go back a long way.
This time it was Anders who turned red. “Shemansky told me that with make-up they can age me good enough to last for four days. That’s all the time they need, you know.”
Hutch looked away, tapping his fingers angrily on the desk top. when he turned back to face the other man, he fought to keep his temper leashed. “I have to be honest with you, Anders. I’ve got a gut feeling about this — that you’re being set up. Just as I was. The DA and that whole, ignorant bunch don’t know who or what they’re dealing with!”
Starsky was watching now, eyes narrowed, face impassive. “If Hutch says this is a lousy set-up, ya better believe him, pal. That’s why he turned it down.” His glance slid over to his partner, approving.
Their words had no effect on the younger man. Clearly impatient and obviously thinking Hutch was simply scared, he pulled out a small notebook and clicked his pen, jotting the date and time in the upper right-hand corner. “All I need are the basics. I don’t have to go under until 6 a.m. tomorrow.”
“You married?” Starsky asked abruptly.
Surprise registered on the even features. “Yeah. Been hitched a year and a half.” He grinned, showing white, perfect teeth. “Wife’s due in about six weeks. A boy…” He ran his fingers through thick hair. “She wanted to know so we could decorate the room.” Eagerly, Anders reached for his wallet, bringing out a folder with snapshots of a dark, intense-looking girl. “She’s Creek — from a big family. Says we’re late getting started.” He laughed self-consciously, then patted the billfold while putting it away. “Got lucky, I guess. She and her brothers sort’ve adopted me before the wedding… I don’t have any family.”
“Anders — ” Hutch began in a halting voice, ” — perhaps it would be better if I did take this… He looked helplessly at his partner. “Christ, she’s gonna have a baby, Starsk. Maybe I’m just worried about n-”
Anders frowned, sitting upright. “Sorry, sergeant, but this is my big chance for some recognition. You know how hard it is down where I work to land something like this.”
“He’s right, Hutch. Let the man have his moment in the sun.” Starsky’s smile was genuine, but there was a hard light in those blue eyes. “You’re already too famous… somebody’d be sure to recognize you. Just tell the man what he needs to know and let him get back to that pretty wife.”
Starsky was right, of course. He’d warned the guy, warned everybody, for that matter. It was in the hands of the gods, now. Clearing his throat, he began sharing his knowledge with the far-too-eager cop, some small, inner voice cursing all the Shemansky’s and Templeton’s in the world.
~~~
“Wanna catch the news?” Starsky asked, pulling away from Metro. It was going on six p.m., and the evening rush was still in full force. Friday traffic out of L.A. was the worst, so tuning in on the pilots who flew the traffic watch had become a necessity.
“So are you gonna tell me how come you know so much about this Fass sleezo? You been moonlighting for Interpol or something?” Starsky’s tone was light, but his expression was serious. “I mean, it’s one thing to know his M.O. and the fact he’s an international crook, but that stuff about him bein’ a health nut and not smoking…”
“Yeah, it’s no big deal, actually. Believe it or not, he got a big write-up in Newsweek, back when there were all the scares about how vulnerable cities are to biological and chemical sabotage. He was numero quatra on the list of bad guys.” Hutch saw Starsky nod, his eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the traffic. Why admit the idea that he resembled someone who was a real warpo bothered him? Hell, Starsky would only chew him out for worrying about something he couldn’t help.
Hutch settled back, listening absently to a rough spot in the Torino’s engine. If he said something to Starsky, he knew the weekend would be spent on tuning the engine — something he didn’t really want to do. But not telling him wouldn’t be kosher. “You’ve got a miss — might be a plug,” he said finally, looking over at the dark, vital features. The curls were wild, thanks to the April wind, and were beginning to get too long.
“Yeah. Gonna take it into the shop tomorrow morning. Took you long enough to say something.”
Hutch caught the amused glance and smiled. “Didn’t want to spend the weekend ass over teacup tuning your engine,” he declared, then turned crimson when Starsky roared with laughter at his statement. “Just drive, you jerk,” he muttered, flicking on the portable Starsky always had on the seat. “You know damn well what I meant.”
“Your feet are big, partner, but you still manage to shove ’em into your mouth once in a while,” Starsky chuckled. “Along with other things.”
“Mmm. Not hard to guess what’s on your pitiful mind. Now, shut up and let me listen to the air watch.” Hutch turned up the volume and closed his eyes. All the same; slow-moving, but no major pile ups. Something to be grateful for, he supposed. “Looks like clear sailing for us -”
He froze when Ines Pedroza’s voice announced, “The body of an unidentified man has been washed up at Point Mugu. Authorities are refusing to release any details of his death. All KNX has found out is a general description; late twenties, over six foot, and blond. We will bring you all the latest as soon as the news breaks.”
“It’s Anders,” Hutch finally whispered, the ache in his chest so painful he could barely speak. “Jesus, Starsk, I know it’s him.”
“There’s no way of knowin’ that!” Starsky said sharply. “Shit! There’s a million blond guys in this city — so don’t go gettin’ paranoid on me.” Starsky hadn’t taken his eyes off the road, but his right hand reached out and gripped Hutch’s leg. “It’s not him — can’t be.” But this time he sounded less convincing. “We’ll call from your place,” he finally said, his hand remaining on Hutch’s thigh.
~~~
It was another twenty-four hours before Anders’ name was released. A grim-faced Chief Davis promised swift and heavy retribution to his murderer’s, yet offered no hint as to who they were. Behind him stood a phalanx of L.A.’s finest, trim, tough, and by their very uniforms, vulnerable.
Cursing softly under his breath, Hutch switched off the TV, then flung himself into the chair, chin on his chest. He had gone to work that morning, pale, quiet, answering questions in monosyllables. Even Starsky was barely able to coax a smile onto his haggard features.
“Hey! How many times do I hafta tell you it wasn’t your fault?” Starsky knelt beside his lover, hand resting on one knee. He searched Hutch’s face, and was finally rewarded when cool fingers ruffled his curls.
“So they say. But I know different.” The fingers trembled, then withdrew. “They tortured that poor bastard until he died… and he probably couldn’t tell them one goddamn thing.”
The cry came from Hutch’s heart, and Starsky swallowed the lump in his throat. “It could’ve been you, babe, and then what? Huh?”
Eyes, red-rimmed and narrowed, stared blankly at him. “You think I don’t know that? I thought about you — and me. That dumb jerk didn’t think about his wife and baby! All he thought about was the job, like we would’ve done a few years ago.”
“And you think your turnin’ down that fuckin’ assignment put temptation in his way? Shit, man! That kid was hot for it, wanted to grab for the gold ring.” Starsky eased up, then drew Hutch to his feet, putting hard arms around him. “I know what’s going on under that blond hair. You’re wondering if he was a better cop than you are, ’cause he took the chance. Right?”
Hutch hugged him back, forcing a smile. “Never could fool you. And before you ask me how I’d be feeling if you’d taken the job, I’ll tell you…” Soft kisses rained on Starsky’s head and face. “I’d be planning your funeral, and then — who knows?” He averted his gaze.
Starsky drew back, wisely letting the subject drop. “It was his time, babe; when it’s ours, well — ” he shrugged.
“I don’t want to live without you!” Hutch burst out, pulling his lover into a desperate embrace that caught Starsky by surprise.
He felt himself drowning in loving warmth, and struggled to surface before they both broke down. “Who says you’re gonna get the chance? Just start saving your nickels and dimes for a down payment on a house.” His fingers found a spot in Hutch’s ribs and dug in, turning tears to laughter, then curses.
~~~
The weather had changed by Tuesday, the day of Anders’ funeral. Over her doctor’s advice, clad in heavy black crepe from head to toe, Helena Anders toiled slowly toward the row of chairs reserved for the family of the deceased. Her son kicked within her womb, and she caught her breath. Supported on one side by her brother, Miklos, she steadied herself and moved forward. So many policemen, so many flags, but nowhere did she see the face she loved the most. She knew Lud lay asleep under that blanket of spring flowers, but it made no sense. He was too young to be dead.
“Careful, Sis, the ground’s soft here.”
Big Stavros, the gentlest of her brothers, held her by the elbow, keeping away the press of bodies. Was it only a few days ago that he and Lud had wrestled in the living room, each wanting to win her approval? She’d felt like a queen then. And now, what was she? A widow — a crow destined to pick over other women’s leavings. She remembered her grandmother; and the stories she had told of the old days back in Greece, and the family’s obligation to follow the old customs of mourning and revenge.
She looked down at her black coat; God, she was supposed to wear this color for a solid year! To mourn the man who had loved her in reds and yellows. She moaned low in her throat, stifling the sound immediately, as Miklos and Stavvy became concerned. “I’m all right. Please, let’s get this over.”
The baby kicked again, and she thought of his room; pale green, bright orange, such a happy place… and a mother condemned to wear black! Her mind screamed its outrage at such irony. Someone would pay for her grief, for Lud’s pain, for her son’s losing a father… if there was justice, someone would pay.
Helena heard the whirr and click of camera shutters as she took her seat and adjusted her veil. She was glad they couldn’t see her red eyes and pasty skin… like a dead fish, she thought. Another widow, years ago, came to mind, one who’d had to face the world in her sorrow. She sat straighter, taking comfort in the comparison. Her husband had died in the line of duty… for his sake she would be strong. She clutched at her brothers’ arms as her son, protesting her change of position, turned abruptly.
The priest stepped forward and she quietly bid farewell to her husband, resting her gloved hand on her stomach. As surely as God would receive Lud into heaven, she would devote the rest of her life to making his killers pay. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she ignored them. They were washing away her agony, leaving her filled with the white fire of vindication. Lud’s death would have meaning, after all. A name seared itself in her brain — Lud had mentioned it the night before his death. A coward — afraid to die.
She accepted the flag with outward calm, murmuring her thanks, watching while the coffin was lowered into the ground. Poor Lud, who loved the sunlight, was going into darkness. Oh, no! That was wrong! “Lud!” she screamed, falling onto her knees. “Lud! Ah, Jesu!”
Miklos slid his arms around her misshapen body, and got her to her feet. Stavvy tossed a small white flower into the grave. It was then a plan took shape — just as her baby had taken shape. Only her whole family would help to bring forth this one; his name would be revenge.
They led her to the limo and as she glanced out the window, she saw row upon row of men wearing black, shields glittering as her Lud’s shield had once glittered. She smiled sadly; Lud would have appreciated the respect of his peers.
~~~
The atmosphere in the squadroom was hushed, the mood somber the day after Anders’ funeral. A copy of the Los Angeles Times with its headline story lay on top of a file cabinet. On one of the chairs was the Santa Ana Register featuring a similar layout and headlines. More than one officer started to say something, then fell silent when Starsky shook his head. Some of the glances that came Hutch’s way were sympathetic, others cool.
Starsky glanced at his partner, then got slowly to his feet. Hutch was sitting hunched over his typewriter, pecking furiously away at an overdue report. Beside him sat two stacks of confidential files on Leon Keating and his suspected dealings with Wilhelm Fass. Hutch had read each one, cursed, then lapsed into moody silence. It was time to talk to Dobey, Starsky decided, and he went quietly into the captain’s office.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Dobey gruffly, pushing aside a disorderly heap of papers. “Can’t you knock like everyone else?” Since hardly anyone ever knocked on his door, his tone was rather plaintive.
Starsky closed the door, leaning up against it as if to keep intruders at bay. “It’s Hutch. He hasn’t slept since Anders’ funeral. I’m worried.” He no longer concerned himself with what Dobey thought about their relationship; the man seemed to believe they could handle it, so they did. “He’s out there now going through all those files… hell, it isn’t even our case — it’s Hollenbeck’s!” He knew he was being unfair. When a cop was killed the entire force did what they could to catch his murderers, but again, the niceties didn’t concern him; Hutch did.
Harold Dobey nodded. “I know, but I’m between a rock and a hard spot, Dave. The DA’s office is giving me a lot of flak because I didn’t insist Hutch take the damn assignment in the first place.”
He wiped a fly spot off his calendar, then gestured toward a chair. “Sit down. We need to talk and I don’t want to yell.” Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s going on. One of our patrolmen came in yesterday all steamed up. Seems someone’s put out a rumor that Hutch had prior knowledge about a hit, and that’s why he refused the job.”
“That’s a fuckin’ — excuse, me, Cap’n — lie!” Starsky snarled. “You and I both know it. That whole bunch down at Parker Center is just pissed off because he was right and now they’ve got a dead cop on their hands.” His eyes gleamed with a hard, cold light. “Hell, they had that poor kid so hyped about this bein’ his big chance… Hutch warned him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
He pushed his chair back, and began pacing about the room. “Did you see Anders’ widow on TV? Jesus, the press was on her like flies on a carcass.” His expression changed, softened. “I was watching Hutch when the eleven o’clock news came on… he looked like he was going to toss his cookies.”
A note of worry crept into his voice. “If Anders told her about Hutch’s turnin’ the case down, and she tells the press, they’ll crucify him — and the whole department as well. Can’t you see the headlines?” He stopped pacing long enough to fill a cup with water, finishing it in one gulp. He tossed the cup into the wastebasket with an expert flip.
“Sit down and stay put! And just listen, will you?” Dobey’s face settled in sober lines, concern shading the brown eyes. He hesitated, wiped his upper lip, then said, “I’m going to ask you something that will probably make you mad, but I want you to hold on to your temper. What do you know about Hutch’s finances?”
The detective’s eyebrows arched in surprise, but he didn’t raise his voice. “What do you mean? He lives on his salary, same as you and me. Hutch ain’t on the take, Captain!”
Dobey withdrew a folded piece of paper from the desk drawer. “Read this,” he ordered.
Taking the paper, Starsky scanned it quickly, then handed it back. “Lies,” he said evenly. “Hutch never accepted one red cent from anybody. He doesn’t need the money.”
“Can you unequivocally state that you’re familiar with Hutch’s finances… that you’ve actually seen his bank statements?” The captain’s tone was almost conciliatory, but his eyes bored into Starsky’s.
Reluctantly, Starsky replied, “No. But I know — ”
The grizzled head wagged. “Feelings don’t count, Dave. In fact, given your, ah, involvement with Hutch, a lawyer could say you were lying on his behalf.” He stuck a large finger inside his collar, then loosened the knot in his tie, clearly uncomfortable.
There was a dangerous calm about the detective. “So. Because we love each other, nobody can trust us anymore?”
“Don’t get on your high horse! To my knowledge, your personal life is off the record.” Dobey drained the last dregs of coffee from his cup, peering into it in frustration. “Keep this to yourself, Starsky. Apparently, the DA’s office has a tail on your partner… so a word to the wise…”
Staring, open-mouthed, Starsky started to say something, then saw the look in Dobey’s eyes. The man was right, there wasn’t any reason to get mad at him, besides, hadn’t he just clued them in? “Gotcha, Cap’n,” he said casually, “but what happens when Hutch spots the tail — and he will, you know.”
A broad smile lit the dark features and the captain chuckled. “That’s what I’m counting on, Dave. That’s what I’m counting on.”
~~~
Two days later, at a busy downtown intersection, Hutch said to his partner, “Drop me off at Parker Center, will you? I’m going to meet Jack Lockwood for lunch.”
Starsky turned to give him a quick, critical glance, then quipped, “Gonna step out on me, huh?”
Hutch favored him with a broad grin. “Jack? Jesus, the man must have eight kids by now… he hasn’t got room for me.” He relaxed a bit, finally volunteering, “Don’t look now, but I think some weirdo’s following me. He’s good — ”
“But not good enough. You think IA’s responsible?” Starsky remembered Dobey’s warning just in time so said nothing more, but a heavy weight settled in his gut. This was Hutch!
The smile faded. “First noticed him yesterday, but thought it was my imagination.” He kept his head turned, adding, “See that blue Camaro to our left? Old guy in the maroon shirt? Well, that’s him.” Hutch patted his jacket. “For two cents, I’d pull him over and scare the shit outta him. You game?”
Starsky shook his head. “No. Wait until you talk to Jack. This bozo doesn’t look like anybody from IA.” But just the same he memorized the license plate, and the large dent in the Camaro’s right rear fender.
He heard Hutch’s chuckle, and smiled. “Yeah, I know. Gettin’ to be a pair of old fogeys. Right?”
A warm hand squeezed his knee, sending shock waves through his system. God, so much love.
“Not too old, I hope?” Hutch’s tone was soft, caressing, and the look of promise in his eyes made Starsky flush.
“Ya wanna ditch Lockwood and share a burrito with me?” He knew Hutch would turn him down, but at least he’d made the offer, and, while his partner was busy, he’d run a make on the Camaro’s tags.
“Can’t. The guy broke another appointment just to see me. Besides, I have to go to the bank, afterwards.”
Starsky felt his skin prickle. “Bank? It’s not payday… you broke already?”
Did Hutch hesitate a moment too long? “No. I’ve got some business to attend to, that’s all.” He sounded distant, his voice deliberately formal.
When they pulled up in front of Parker Center, Hutch got out and slammed the door, leaning in to talk to him. “See if that fat ass follows me inside. Oh, better run a make on his tags.”
“Will do,” was all Starsky could say. He watched his partner stride up the steps, those long legs eating up the distance. Why would anyone want to frame a good cop?
The driver of the Camaro got out to drop some coins in the meter. When he settled down behind the wheel again, Starsky frowned. Apparently the man figured as long as he sat here, Hutch wasn’t going to slip away. Grinning to himself, Starsky revved his engine and whipped out of the parking lot, burning rubber all the way. As soon as he was out of sight, he parked the Torino and ran back to see if the Camaro was still there. It was, and the driver was still behind the wheel. So, who in hell was he, anyway? Turning, he slowly walked back to his car. If he was from the DA’s office… what was he looking for?
He called DMV, then put the mike down. No DA, no IA. The Camaro was registered to one Miklos Collis, private citizen. And just who was he? A bill collector? Or one of Keating’s boys?
His glance narrowed, and he settled his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. Lockwood would probably drop Hutch off at his bank, in which case the old guy should follow them. The Torino stuck out like a sore thumb, but there were always other cars… like white Caddy convertibles. The Pits wasn’t that far away. He let out a low whistle; he’s always loved playing pin-the-tail-on-the-jack-ass. But before he could make any plans, a call came through from Dobey. Sighing, he put his plans on the back burner and drove back to the station.
~~~
Lunch with Jack Lockwood had proved two things; IA, while not after his butt, knew he was in some sort of trouble, and Lockwood had the same culinary tastes as Starsky. Hutch had always liked Jack, a laid-back, easy-going man in his forties. The short, rather pudgy figure belied a keen mind. More compassionate than most of the IA staff, Lockwood had always seemed on the cops’ side — sometimes too much so. Nevertheless, he had no information to share.
After a meal of burnt, chopped sirloin, limp fries, and wilted lettuce, Hutch was ready to call it quits. Jack willingly dropped him off on South Union Street so he could go to the Credit Union. With his lunch resting like a rock in his middle, he paid scant attention to the milling crowd around him. As for the Camaro and the tail, well, Starsk would take care of that problem.
His thoughts were on money, namely if there was enough in his savings to use toward a house. He grinned self-consciously as he started up the steps; must be all kinds of a fool to even think about setting up housekeeping with Starsky. But, then, he was a fool in love and that made all the difference in the world.
“Excuse me?”
He stopped on the steps, looking down at a clean-cut young man who held out his hand.
“Yeah? What’s the problem?” Funny how he always expected someone to want help.
“You’re Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson?”
“Right. Look, I’m in a hurry, so come to the point…” Before Hutch could say anything else, a fat envelope was shoved into his hand and the other man hurried away.
Christ. A process server? Or was he being subpoenaed for some damn case? He sighed in exasperation, then ripped open the envelope, gaping when he saw it contained a thick stack of bills.
The breeze caught at several corners, whipping them out of Hutch’s hand. He heard several people yell as they gave chase, but hadn’t the sense to refuse the returned money. “It’s not mine,” he finally muttered. Since more than one passerby was now staring at him, he decided to go inside to examine the envelope and its contents.
There was a note which read, ‘Thanx… W.F.’, but since the initials were unfamiliar, he was none the wiser. Seventy-five hundred dollars in new bills — all in sequence. The odd amount made him frown, but until he talked to Dobey there was nothing to do but finish what he’d come to do.
He spotted a line with only two people in it and hurried over, filling out a request for his account balance while he waited. After signing his name he stared at his checkbook. One of the deposit slips was missing… had he asked Starsky to bank his last paycheck? No. Perhaps he’d simply torn out two instead of one — he’d done that before.
“Ah, Sergeant, back so soon. The city must have given you a raise.” The teller greeted him warmly, and Hutch smiled, wondering if she’d gotten him confused with someone else.
His confusion mounted when she handed him a slip with his latest bank balance. “There’s some mistake,” he said, tapping the counter to get her attention. “This must be somebody else’s — not that I wouldn’t like it…” He pointed to the wooden plaque with her name on it, “…ah, Sandra.” No reason to upset her when he needed more of her time.
She was large and motherly, and she beamed at him as she took back the slip. “Honey, look here…” She swiveled the monitor around so he could get a better view. “…see? That last deposit was for seventy-five hundred dollars. How could you forget you made it?” Behind her gold-rimmed glasses, her eyes sparkled.
He felt nauseated. Felt the blood drain from his face. There, in glowing green numerals was a deposit dated the Friday before his meeting with the OCID. It couldn’t be; and yet… Reluctantly, he took out his badge case and showed it to her. “LAPD,” he said tiredly, “I’ll need to see the original deposit slip and talk to the teller.”
But her attention was already elsewhere, looking behind and beyond him with apprehension. He spun around, hand snaking toward his Magnum, when a familiar voice said, “Don’t go for it, Hutchinson! We’ve been expectin’ you.” It was Shemansky and his sidekick Tozukawa, looking immensely pleased with themselves as they covered him with their guns.
“You’re scaring the other customers!” Hutch hissed, hands already at his sides. “You wanna start a panic?” He was tempted to add ‘you assholes,’ but held back.
“Shut up!” Shemansky ordered, “What’s that stickin’ outta your pocket?” He reached over and withdrew the envelope.
The sick feeling spread, and Hutch could do nothing but stare at the two men. “It’s a frame-up, isn’t it? A stupid, little frame-up!” Still, for the first time, he felt afraid. Where was this going to lead?
Shemansky riffled through the bills, then replaced them in the envelope. “Cool it, Hutchinson. Every cop can use a little extra incentive pay. You ain’t the first.”
“Let’s go. I want to talk to Dobey.” More to the point, he wanted to get away from the onlookers and their curious stares. “Are you placing me under arrest? Because if you are, you’d better be prepared to speak to my lawyer.”
Tozukawa cleared his throat and looked uncertainly at his captain. “We arresting him?” His bristle-cut black hair stood on end and he appeared decidedly unhappy. Three very large, brightly dressed matrons huddled behind him. Hutch thought he resembled a small mouse being pursued by three calico cats.
He smiled reassurance at them, then muttered, “Let’s get out of here! I’ll tell you my side of this, then you can explain why you’re on my case.” He made a move toward the front entrance.
“Hang on, wise guy!” Shemansky went over to the teller’s window where Sandra was white with shock. “You waited on Sergeant Hutchinson, right?”
Her glance was anything but friendly now. “Yes, I did — before you came in. He wasn’t trying to rob the bank, you know!” Her voice ended in a little squeak, and she dabbed at her mouth with a lacy handkerchief. “He said he was a p-policeman.”
“I am,” Hutch soothed, “There’s been a mix-up, that’s all. You go ahead and locate that original deposit slip, then this’ll be cleared up. But don’t give the information to anyone without my consent. Is that understood?”
Shemansky turned livid. “You got a helluva nerve! OCID’s got a right to see — ”
That did it. Hutch pushed aside the .38’s barrel, then snapped, “You want to see my account, you get a goddamn court order! Either we leave now, or I’m going to leave without you and raise hell down at Metro! If you want to make the headlines, then you’re going to get them in spades.” He recognized his mood, yet wasn’t willing to control it; Hutchinson arrogance even in the face of big trouble. However, things had gone too far — he’d hidden his past for as long as he could — time to pay the piper. He smiled sourly; at least he had the money to do it… no matter what the bill.
They left quietly after his outburst; Shemansky and Tozukawa putting their weapons away. Hutch was ushered into an unmarked city car and whisked away.
~~~
Harold Dobey had indigestion. Two Alka-Seltzer plopped and fizzed in a glass while he idly scanned a report on the latest perils of smoking. He was glad he’d given that dangerous vice up, except now Edith was after him to cut down on his calories. In all His wisdom, why had the good Lord made those who should eat the least like food the most? He swallowed the concoction without thinking about it, and turned the page.
The phone rang, shattering the calm, and he grabbed it up, irritated because it had startled him. “Dobey,” he grunted.
“Captain Dobey? This is Captain Shemansky, OCID. We picked up one of your men an hour ago. He’s in the DA’s office, right now. Maybe ya better come down here — and bring Sergeant Starsky with ya — ”
Dobey jerked the receiver away from his ear as the connection was abruptly broken. It was Hutch, of course, and as his belly rumbled and grumbled from the seltzer, he snatched up his coat, yelling for Starsky.
“Yeah? What’s up?” Even as he asked the question, Starsky was on the move, hooking holster and jacket on his fingers. “Where’re we goin’?”
The captain looked into the dark blue eyes with sympathy. “To rescue your partner, Dave. Shemansky’s got him at the DA’s.” He watched Starsky’s expression change, harden into lines that meant trouble for anyone who got in his way. He was proud of this man, proud of the battles he’d fought and won. Starsky was a good cop. Belonging at his side was another good cop; one who right now must be feeling all alone. “Let’s get those fuckers,” Dobey said under his breath.
Starsky smiled. “Not to worry, Cap’n. Whatever mess Hutch is in, he’ll be okay.” The smile disappeared as he shrugged into his holster, “Or somebody’ll pay.”
~~~
Natalie Scott, assistant DA, made a face as she waved away a noxious cloud of cigar smoke. “Kill that stogey, will you?” She was well educated, ambitious, and knew exactly what tone of voice to use when she wanted something. Right now she wanted to toss the blowhard from OCID out the window, along with his cigar. Then she could interrogate the tall, blond cop with the ice-blue eyes. Her glance took in his clothing; camelhair jacket, tan cords that looked custom-tailored, expensive cowhide boots that were scuffed… this was no dime store yahoo.
He shifted position, his glance meeting hers, sober, but not unfriendly and she liked that. On her desk lay his shield case and an envelope with a thick wad of money in it.
“You did call Captain Dobey?” she asked again, seeing Hutchinson look up, alert, expression wary.
Shemansky nodded. “Yeah. Told him to bring his partner, too.”
That got a reaction. Scott saw the blond bite his lip, and slouch down in his chair. Funny way to feel, she thought. “What’s your partner’s name, Sergeant?”
“Starsky. David Starsky.” Hutchinson’s voice was soft.
“Does he know what you’re being charged with?” Might as well see how he felt about that remark. But the anger blazing in those eyes shocked her. What had happened to the gentleness?
“And just what is the charge, Miss Scott?” Each word had a knife-edge.
“Knock it off! We caught you with the goods, plus an equal amount in your account. And you put it there! Who paid you off?”
“Go play with yourself, Shemansky.” Hutchinson turned to glare at the older man, his distaste obvious. “When Dobey gets here you’re gonna choke on that weed!”
They stopped talking after that, the woman wondering just how she was supposed to handle this mess. It stunk — and that was only her first reaction. Why wasn’t IA handling this? She’d never trusted the OCID cop; his type belonged in an old movie.
Her gaze drifted back to the detective who sat flexing his fingers. They were long and shapely, with well-manicured nails. His mouth had the corners turned down… she wanted to see him smile. He interested her.
“Captain Dobey and Sergeant Starsky, Miss Scott,” the box on her desk droned. She pressed the intercom, “Send them in, please.”
She settled herself, waiting for them to come in. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hutchinson straighten up, color mounting in his cheeks. Shemansky looked like a hypertensive bulldog as he faced the door.
A dark-haired man was first in the door. He ignored her as he hurried to Hutchinson’s side, placing his hand on his partner’s collar. This had to be Starsky.
“Can’t leave ya alone for a minute, can I?” he said, a slight smile lighting up his features. “They rough you up at all?”
She decided it was time to intervene. “Have a seat, please. And you, too, Captain Dobey.” She reached across her desk, shaking the big, ham hand, smiling. This was another legend in the LAPD.
Both men took seats near Hutchinson, barely acknowledging Shemansky’s presence. “Now, then, Miss Scott, what’s this all about? Why is one of my detective’s being held? What’s he charged with?” Dobey sounded stern, but his expression was neutral.
She wasn’t fooled. The Metro captain’s loyalty to his men was well known. She responded carefully. “Sergeant Hutchinson was seen accepting an envelope — in a public place — from a man who then disappeared. Eyewitnesses reported that a gust of wind scattered some bills from that envelope on the steps of the bank, and when they collected them and handed them to the sergeant, he took them. He next went into the bank and asked for his bank balance.”
She nodded toward the smirking Shemansky. “OCID has reason to suspect that the sergeant had already received a payoff for turning down an undercover assignment.”
“‘That’s a lie!” Starsky leapt to his feet, rounding on the captain. “You know Hutch wouldn’t take a bribe if his life depended on it!”
She almost smiled. He was a good-looking, impassioned man, obviously loyal to his partner. “Thank you,” she said evenly, “I’m sure you’ll make a good character witness, Sergeant, but the truth is your partner needs more than that to clear his name. These are grave charges.”
A steady gaze held hers, and she felt compelled to ask, “Do you want to make a statement, Sergeant Hutchinson?”
He nodded switching his attention to Starsky. “First of all, ma’am. I didn’t take a bribe… I want that clearly understood. Second, if I were going to take one, fifteen thousand isn’t enough to persuade me… I don’t need it.”
Scott stared at him, hearing the slightly haughty tone in disbelief. Even Captain Dobey looked bewildered. “What do you mean, you don’t need it?” she inquired.
He let out a long sigh before reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. With a deft touch he removed a card and placed it on her desk. “Call that number and ask for James Dunlap.” He looked apologetically over at Dobey. “Sorry, sir, somehow I never expected this to come up.”
“What’s going on here?” exclaimed Shemansky, getting up and leaning over the desk. “James Dunlap is head of one of this town’s biggest brokerage houses. What’s he got to do with this?”
Hutchinson gave him a look of such deadly contempt that Scott felt the chill, and so hastily dialed the number, asking for the gentleman in question. When a deep voice answered, she extended the phone to the detective.
He got up, propping his long frame against the desk, his back to Shemansky. “James? It’s Ken Hutchinson. Listen, can you do me a favor? Thanks. I’d like you to tell a couple of people in the DA’s office my approximate worth.” He laughed. “No. Two cents won’t help me a bit, I’m afraid. How long do you need? Yeah, trust fund, annuities… the whole shot.” He put his hand over the receiver, “Can he call back in about fifteen minutes?”
She nodded, at a loss for words. She saw more than this stupid case sliding down the drain. God, how she’d love to throttle that cretin, Shemansky!
“That’s fine, James. The number’s 974-3888. Yeah, well I don’t have any choice.” He handed back the receiver and went back to his seat, huddling with his partner and Dobey. The three of them talked quietly.
Shemansky lit another cigar and headed for the door. “Gonna make a pit stop,” he said crudely, “so don’t start the party without me.”
Scott shook her head, then began making notes to bring her boss up to date. She raised her glance to see Hutchinson staring somberly out the window. She watched him a moment, then went back to her writing.
Dobey leaned back, clearly uncomfortable in the small chair. “Hutch, do you want me to call one of the PA lawyers?” He rubbed the top of his head, started to say something else, but instead stared at the telephone.
Shemansky came back, blowing out a large ring of smoke as he closed the door. When he set his cigar in the ashtray on Scott’s desk, she picked up a small vase, lifted out the flower, and poured water over it. The look he gave her was one of astonishment.
She smiled sweetly. “You want another one, go outside.” Then she turned to Hutchinson, “Do you wish an attorney present? I mean, a defense lawyer?”
Something about him had changed, lending him an air of resolution she hadn’t noticed before. She decided things were going to get worse insofar as her case was concerned.
“Why don’t I wait until Dunlap calls back?” was his reply. He shook his head, smiling at his partner.
On cue, the phone rang and she snatched it up, waving for Shemansky to remain seated. “This is Natalie Scott, Assistant District Attorney, Mister Dunlap. May I have that information before you talk to your client?”
He named a figure which made her stare hard at the blond. “That much?” She was glad she was sitting down.
“Let my captain talk to him, too. Please.” He looked at his hands. “I don’t want him to have any doubts, either.”
Dobey got to his feet, leaning over the desk to take the receiver. ‘This is Captain Dobey. Hutch is one of my men.” He listened, sending a puzzled glance Hutch’s way. “I see. Well, thank you very much.” When Hutch stood to take the phone, Dobey averted his gaze.
“James? Thank you. I suppose you’d better get copies of all the paperwork — taxes, too. Send the DA one, and one to me.” He fingered the cord, expression troubled. “Yeah. Maybe it’s for the best. ‘Bye.” He hung up, clearly uncomfortable.
Scott couldn’t help but ask, “With all that money, why did you become a law-enforcement officer?”
“I happen to like the work — ” he smiled at Starsky, ” — and the people. Most of the people, that is.” He shrugged, rubbing his palm against his thigh. “It’s a good job.”
Starsky came to his rescue. “Hey. I dunno how much we’re talkin’ about here, but did it convince you that Hutch doesn’t need the money?”
She smiled at his declaration of faith. “Well, it remains to be seen if he can prove that someone else deposited that money in his name. I do have to admit this changes things.”
“The hell it does!” snapped Shemansky. “How do we know he didn’t get rich by takin’ bribes? He sure as hell doesn’t have the balls to be a cop in my book!”
The blow Hutch gave him almost broke his jaw.
~~~
The remains of two Big Macs lay on Starsky’s table, along with some soggy French fries. Several beer bottles stood on the drainboard, light glinting off their sides. The TV was on, but no one was watching it.
From the bedroom came the low murmur of voices. One, urgent, persuasive, was Starsky’s; the other, halting, falling to a whisper now and then, belonged to Hutch. They lay on the bed amid a tangle of covers, Starsky on his side, his left hand sifting through Hutch’s hair. “Dunno why you make things so hard for yourself,” he protested. “Why’d you think you havin’ money would make any difference?”
The eyes that met his were too bright. “Not to you, of course, but to the others — like Dobey. Did you see the way he looked at me when he found out? He was sick.”
“Not half as sick as he looked when you clobbered Shemansky. I thought he was gonna have a stroke!” He hugged his lover close, dropping a kiss on the cool shoulder. “Someone up there likes you, babe, ’cause right now you should be on suspension instead of on report. Thank God, Scott felt you’d been provoked.” He chuckled. “You wait until that four-flusher tries to explain his swollen jaw.”
Hutch ran a finger down Starsky’s chest, smiling ruefully. “That was sheer stupidity on my part… even if he did have it coming.” He pulled Starsky’s hand down to his mouth, pressing a kiss on each fingertip. “I never touch the money, you know. It simply gets reinvested. Dunlap handles the whole mess. Not that he doesn’t get paid for it…”
Starsky didn’t want to talk about Hutch’s money. He recalled his feelings about Jack Mitchell and how jealous he’d been watching the two ‘rich’ boys rehashing their memories. He put his chin on top of Hutch’s head, heart full to overflowing. Hutch was worth more to him than all the money in the world, anyhow, so who gave a damn? “Bet he does… most of those guys make a mint.” He paused, then asked softly, “What’m I worth to you?”
The warm body he held stilled a moment before Hutch raised his head. “More than I’ve got, Dave, you know that.” Hands roamed over his torso, tenderly separating his chest hair to rub at his scars. “All I really had to give was my heart — ”
“Shh, that was all I wanted in the first place.” He smiled down at Hutch. “In fact, I’m damn glad you are loaded, otherwise…” he shook his head, “…Scott might’ve believed Shemansky’s cock and bull story.”
Hutch didn’t answer him, merely nodded, then kissed Starsky’s upper arm, nuzzling gently along the muscles. He let out a long sigh, finally relaxing. “When I was first assigned to Metro, Dobey looked me up and down and grumped about my ‘image’ not being exactly what he’d had in mind for Homicide. Since I was still in uniform I thought I looked like every other cop — what was the problem?” He rolled onto his side, reaching over the plump up the pillow, then laughed. “He told me that his ‘men’ had to work some of LA.’s toughest neighborhoods and anyone who looked ‘soft’ was in trouble. He almost teamed me with Malone until I reminded him about you.”
“Yeah. Never thought either one of us was gonna get our transfers. What with you in Venice and me sweatin’ my buns off at Rampart…” He slid down beside his partner, rubbing his nose in Hutch’s neck, snorting and nuzzling until Hutch snickered. “You remember all those nights we spent talkin’ to each other? Bitchin’ and complainin’ about the other guys — ”
Hutch stopped the flow of words with his mouth. “Mmm. You had the worst district, but I had Iron Mike on my ass day and night.”
They exchanged glances, understanding and pity for the dead man bringing a halt to the conversation. Then, Starsky buried his face in Hutch’s middle. “I better not catch anyone after your ass these days. B’longs to me, now.” He reached around and slapped the tempting derriere possessively.
“Damn straight,” confirmed Hutch, grabbing the hand before it could do any more damage. Arching up, Hutch settled it on his groin, gasping when Starsky immediately closed his fingers around the flaccid cock. “Hey! I may have money, but I can’t buy another one of those… take it easy.”
Starsky merely smiled, eyes slitted. “You’re right. Not one as good as this one, anyway.” He bent over to brush his mouth across the hardening organ. “My mom always said I was a lucky son-of-a-bitch. Look at you; rich, gorgeous, hung like a horse — ” his voice dropped to a growl, ” — and all mine.” His lips closed around warm flesh, and he heard Hutch moan. When he felt hot, hard fingers close around his own cock, he began a gentle, insistent sucking. The memory of things past receded almost to oblivion.
~~~
There was a mocking bird singing somewhere in the distance. Helena woke with a start, trying to roll over to see what time it was. Birds didn’t sing at night back in Philadelphia — at least not in the city. Sparrows, starlings, pigeons… they had the good sense to sleep when the people did. She ran heavy fingers through her hair, trying to sort through its tangles. Now that Lud was gone she was going to get it cut. With the baby coming she wasn’t going to have time for all that braiding and brushing. Besides, after he was born there would be the tremendous job of packing and moving back home. She couldn’t stay here — too many memories of her husband. Tears ran down her cheeks, disappearing onto the pillow where they would turn as cold as her heart had turned.
There were two reasons she was holding onto her sanity: Lud and her baby, and the all-consuming need for revenge. The other cop lived; her husband was dead. She placed her hands around her swollen abdomen, feeling the life beneath the taut skin. He was in a hurry to get here, her little one, and by the time he drew his first breath the man responsible for killing his father would have drawn his last. It seemed a fair exchange. Stavros and Miklos agreed with her; the others would fall in line when they learned the truth. She listened to the bird song, wondering why on earth it sounded so happy. She hated it.
~~~
Harold Dobey sat up straight in bed, staring with dry-eyed exhaustion out at the night. Edith lay beside him, covers pulled up over her head to show her exasperation. He knew she wasn’t asleep; she was far too smart to hope for that when he was this restless. But she hadn’t been at all surprised to learn about Hutch’s money — or should he say ‘investments’? He’d seen the stricken look on Hutch’s face, followed by an expression of pure guilt. He’d also seen Starsky’s features; eyes wide with surprise, then that fiercely defensive look had reappeared. He grudgingly let out a grump of laughter, causing his wife to clutch at the spread with an even firmer grip. That made him laugh harder until the bed shook. When she sat up, eyes flashing in the darkness, he held out his hand. “Don’t yell. I can’t help it. I’m so damned mad at that fool cop I want to go down and — ”
” — eat the rest of the chocolate cake,” she finished for him.
Her fingers were warm and comforting on his arm. “Harold, you know as well as I do that that boy never intended to deceive anybody! He wanted to be a cop! And I can remember what you said the first time — ”
He felt her nails dig into his forearm as she warmed to her subject. Starsky and Hutch were her favorites, with Starsky having a slight edge. He grimaced as his flesh was probed even harder, probably because she knew he knew what was going on in her mind. He had to admit to favoring Hutch, God knew everyone else was quick enough to point it out to him. But there had always been something very basically decent about him, plus a finish that had been unusual. He was a good, honest cop, with a mind like a steel trap. But this… he placed his hand over Edith’s, stilling her attack. “I know he didn’t do anything wrong but he shouldn’t have been so secretive about his background.” He brushed his mouth over her hair, seeking comfort from her closeness. “That bulvon Shemansky had better not press charges,” he muttered, eyes closed as he replayed the scene in the DA’s office.
“You’ve been listening to Dave,” Edith chided sleepily as she settled down. “Get some rest, honey. Please.”
But the moment had passed and Dobey found himself once again staring out the window. He thought about his own beginnings and how hard it had been in those early days. Hell, he and Edith had counted every dollar before paying a bill. Other, darker memories began crowding in, and hard-faced men with lOUs — his — stood in shadowy cadres. His gambling on the ponies had nearly wrecked his life, and he knew what poverty was all about. What sort of temptations had been laid at Hutch’s feet? What was it like to be rich? Worst of all, why hadn’t Hutch trusted him enough to tell him?
It was only after Edith had coughed once, dug her elbow into his side, and turned over that he surrendered his personal hell and went to sleep.
~~~
The review board took less than an hour to dismiss all charges against Detective Hutchinson. The brouhaha in Scott’s office never even came under consideration. Several pairs of hostile eyes glared at a livid Shemansky as if he belonged on a slide under a microscope. Starsky’s barely controlled whoop of glee didn’t help matters, but resulted in a slight softening of some expressions. Hutch, clearly nervous, thanked each board member personally before leaving the hearing room. He was also careful to avoid any contact with the OCID man.
“Didn’t I tell ya? Didn’t I say that there was no way they were gonna believe any of that bribery crap?” A jubilant Starsky snapped his fingers to dismiss further discussion. “I’m starved. Where do ya want to eat? My treat.”
Hutch had to smile. “Why in hell aren’t you a lawyer? With that kind of faith you could win every case.” They were walking down the freshly waxed hallway, Starsky’s soles squeaking as they scuffed the floor.
A typical shrug was his partner’s response. “Never had the dough. I got an uncle in Florida who’s a real estate lawyer, and a cousin in New York who specializes in class-action suits, but that’s it.” His smile returned. “Now, let me ask you the same question. You had the bread, and the college… so why aren’t you a lawyer?” He dug in his pocket, bringing out some change and several crumpled bills. “Either Huggy’s or someplace I can use Diner’s Club… so name it.”
How I love you, Hutch thought for the thousandth time. Starsky’s zest for life, his insatiable curiosity, his surprising patience when it really counted. He grinned at his irrepressible companion. “Didn’t want to be a lawyer. Didn’t give a damn about the dough, and Huggy’s’ll be fine. That answer your questions?” He wanted to grab him, hug him until he gasped for breath and then run as fast as he could, Starsky in hot pursuit. They’d done that once when they had first become lovers, racing along the beach, splashing in the surf, hearts so full and heads so empty that nothing else existed in all the world except the two of them.
Something in his expression must have given Starsky a clue as to his thoughts for he came to a halt near the fire exit and said, “Beat ya down the stairs… you game?” Challenge fired the blue eyes and he fairly danced as he waited for an answer.
Caution was thrown to the winds; they locked gazes for a moment, then Hutch pulled open the heavy door. “My legs are longer,” he announced as Starsky braced himself against the steel, “and I’m younger.” He knew what the reply was going to be — it was always the same.
His statement was met with the scorn it deserved. “Maybe so, pal, but I’m faster!” With that Starsky was off, a streak of jeans and leather, feet moving so fast they were blurred. But it was the rear end that was the lure, and as Hutch passed him he delivered a swat to one pocket. “Great moves, but don’t wear yourself out.” He was almost to the landing when he slipped on something unseen. Grabbing the rail, he jerked himself around, colliding with the descending Starsky. The breath was knocked out of them both and they collapsed in a laughing heap.
“You were losin’ and you knew it!” Starsky accused, chest heaving as he righted himself. “Same as back in the Academy. Your feet are too damn big!”
Using Starsky’s knee as support, Hutch got to his feet, shaking his head. “Slipped on something, turkey, that’s all. You always were a sore loser!” They were alone, surrounded by concrete walls and hidden from view. It took only a second to see an answering need in Starsky’s eyes before Hutch reached for him. He bent to kiss the warm mouth, shutting out everything else. When he pulled away, Starsky was smiling.
“What’s so funny?”
A hand stroked his cheek. “You. And me. Us. You still hungry?”
For more than food. However, this wasn’t exactly the place to get careless. And, with both of them frustrated, tonight would be wonderful. “Yeah. But Huggy’s is closer. I promise not to eat any onions…” Hutch allowed himself one final touch to those curls, then sighed. “C’mon, partner. We’ve work to do.”
Starsky nodded, and they went down the remaining stairs side by side. “No onions, huh? Should I wear a tie tonight?”
Hutch laughed, “Sure. And nothing else. So don’t break the speed limit getting to my place.”
Fingers touched his hip. “No to worry, darlin’, I’m not gonna break anything before I get there.”
Sunlight nearly blinded them as they opened the fire door, and they stepped briskly out into it, putting on sunglasses. Starsky dug out his keys, then glanced at his watch. “An hour at Hug’s, then let’s go shake down a snitch or two and see what they know about that guy who gave ya the money.”
“You know, I keep seeing his face — not just from our meeting — but from somewhere else. I think I know this guy, but I can’t place him.”
Nodding, Starsky got into his car, frowning at Hutch’s words. “You don’t s’pose he’s in one of the mug books, do you? Hell, that would be real piece of luck.” He yawned, running his fingers through his hair. “God, I could use some sleep. You as tired as I am?”
Hutch shook his head, admitting, “If I say ‘no’ I’m lying. If I say ‘yes’ you might not come over.
How’s about ‘maybe’?”
The Torino coughed, sputtered, then died. Starsky pumped on the pedal until the smell of gasoline filled the air. “Damn it to hell! I just had this thing overhauled, what the hell’s wrong now?”
Hutch closed his eyes and put his head back. “You and I both know the answer to that, partner. She’s like us — getting on in years.” He turned to observe the strong profile, studying it intently. “Time to retire the Tomato, maybe look for something a little less conspicuous, eh?”
Instead of the usual tirade, Starsky merely sat still, head down. “You’re probably right, Hutch, but every time I think about even lookin’ at another car, I — I can’t.”
He wanted to take Starsky in his arms to soothe away the hurt. Even with all the damages repaired, a new paint job, and shiny new leather upholstery, the car wasn’t the same. It was harder to start, slower in the stretch, and now parts were getting scarce. Hutch felt like bawling. He’d never in his life loved a car like Starsky loved this one. He thought fondly of the LTD and its successor, but compared to the Torino they had merely been conveyances. “You could always keep her, Starsk,” he murmured. “She’ll be a classic one of these days — and in beautiful condition.”
“I hate growing old, Hutch. I hate the whole fuckin’ idea of aches and pains and gout…” He turned the key in the ignition and the engine turned over, purring like a kitten. He grinned, patting the dash. “Atta girl. Let’s show this damn town just what you can do.” But behind the excitement, behind the determination, there was the slightest echo of sadness.
Hutch heard it, acknowledged it, and asked, “Wonder if Huggy’s got any of that Tecate beer left? Maybe I can buy a six-pack for tonight.”
The look Starsky gave him was just this side of lecherous. “You know you can’t drink that damn stuff! You always end up on your can…” Realization hit him and he began to laugh as he sped down West Temple street.
~~~
“They let him go. Why? Because he’s loaded, that’s why. What d’ya mean what do I mean? He’s got bucks, moola, cabbage. Jesus, don’t you understand anything? He’s fucking rich! Yeah, rich enough to paste me in the kisser in front of an assistant DA and get away with it. Hang on for a minute — ”
Shemansky’s secretary stood in the doorway, her pretty face as smooth and bright as new honey. She was a lulu — and smart, too. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you’ve got two visitors in your outer office. They say it’s important.” She arched a perfect brow and smiled. “But they don’t look important. Shall I have them wait?”
Her chutzpah always cheered him up. “Only a minute or two, honey. They’re from IA… don’t like to be kept waiting. I’ll be off the phone in two shakes.” He put his hand over the receiver until she was out of the room, then said urgently, “Listen. This business is getting sticky! Have you heard from your contact yet about the delivery? I’m not gonna be able to sit out here on this flagpole much longer, you got that? Anders getting blown away the first night made it look bad on the department. The chief’s having a thorough investigation of the whole affair — so you get things rolling from your end or I might have to cooperate with IA!” He stopped, listened, lit a cigar and blew the smoke into the receiver. His collar felt too tight, his gut was twisting in knots, and suddenly he was very, very tired. “For your information there are two creeps from IA in my outer office, very anxious to talk to me — ‘nough said? Yeah. And you see to it that something’s done about that cop. Why’n hell didn’t your boys know about his money? Right.”
He hung up without saying good-bye. Jerks, all of them. Always thinking they could buy and sell poor working stiffs and never get their hands dirty. Just like that asshole from Metro. He rubbed his jaw, tenderly palpating the discoloring bruise.
Finally, laying his cigar in the ashtray, he pressed the intercom button. “Send them in, please,” he said in his most controlled voice, “and bring us some coffee.” He sat back, watching the smoke rise in the room. Viciously, he hoped at least one of the bastards had asthma. If that wasn’t a possibility, he hoped and prayed they had an axe to grind with Hutchinson.
~~~
Usually neither Starsky nor Hutch gave much thought to their office mail, especially if they weren’t waiting for results of lab tests, or inquiries to departments back east. So, while Hutch checked, Starsky went on ahead, stopping at the candy machine for his morning snack. He had just decided on a Three Musketeers bar when he heard Hutch striding toward him. He hid a grin, feigning deep concentration. He could almost feel the descending hand, fingers curving above — but not touching — his rump as he bent over. There was a pause, a muttered “Shit!” and his partner hurried on. That was one of the biggest turn-ons he had: Hutch’s admiration for his “killer buns.” He tilted his head so he could watch the blond walk up the hall, noting the handful of mail he carried. To look at Hutch nobody’d guess how bad he still felt about Anders, and his wife. They’d seen her and her family at the funeral; pale, solemn, sort of like his own people when his father had died.
Starsky hated funerals; hated the flowers, the cold faces of the dead, the pain of the living. He’d watched Hutch cry for Gillian, for Van, and for him. Those tears had hurt more than the bullets.
He was suddenly aware he was standing in the hall crushing a candy bar to a pulpy mess and Hutch was nearly through the squadroom doors. Damn. Then he remembered that they were having a briefing that morning on Anders’ murder, which meant all the detectives would be there. He stuffed the bar into his pocket and sprinted up the hall, managing to slide into his seat just as the captain left his office. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hutch casually sorting the mail, tossing most of it in his direction.
“Good morning, men,” Dobey said, looking straight at Starsky. “The first item on the agenda concerns the murder of a brother officer — ”
What was it called? Starsky tried to remember but the word escaped him for a moment. He was looking at Dobey, yet seeing Hutch as well. Yeah, peripheral vision, maybe that was it. Hutch was holding a legal-sized envelope, staring at it with a puzzled expression. He looked at the captain, then back down at the paper, studying the front before turning it over. Why didn’t he just open the stupid thing, Starsky wondered.
The details of Anders’ death were unpleasant, but not out of the ordinary. Shot in the head while his hands were tied behind his back — typical execution, followed by disposal of the body in the ocean — what the hell would these mothers do without the Pacific? He turned to stare at his partner, and in doing so caught several others doing the same. Hutch’s expression was so remote Dobey might have been talking about a stranger, but Starsky knew better. He saw Hutch’s neck bend ever so slightly, exposing his nape. Jesus, how vulnerable he was.
He had to look away, afraid he’d betray his feelings. Shame had nothing to do with it, merely the desire to hold close their secret. Hell, they’d been accused of being lovers when it had been laughable, when any two guys who stood next to one another for more than five minutes were considered fags. They had teased each other, steadfastly refusing to give up their need to touch. Until that one day when the touch of a hand wasn’t enough.
Dobey was busy passing out flyers, giving Starsky time to pick up his mail. Before he could open the first envelope, he saw Hutch holding something between his thumb and forefinger.
It was a white feather.
Somebody had sent his partner a chicken feather — but what for? The question died unsaid when he heard someone behind him whispering.
Coward coward coward! Chicken.
Furious, he turned in his chair just as Dobey handed him a flyer. With blind deliberation he crushed it into a ball as the captain moved away. He knew the other men saw what he’d done, but he didn’t care. All he could see was Hutch’s face; pale, stern, and incredibly remote.
“Let’s get outta here, partner,” Starsky said bluntly. “I need some fresh air.”
Hutch got to his feet without comment, following him out into the hall. He still held the feather.
“That thing come with a note?” Starsky asked, taking it from ice-cold fingers.
“No. I think it’s self-explanatory, don’t you?” Typical Hutchinson reaction; haughty, sarcastic.
Starsky ignored it and put his hand out for the envelope. “Let me see that.” When Hutch complied with a shrug he examined it closely, noting it was postmarked Ventura. “You made any enemies in Ventura?” he asked. “I mean, this ain’t exactly your ordinary greeting card.” He sniffed the feather, then made a face. “God! This is right off a chicken… smells like a barnyard.”
“Which means the sender may keep chickens,” Hutch added automatically. “Or, this is simply another one of Shemansky’s classy touches.”
They began walking down the corridor. Starsky placed the feather back in the envelope. “Maybe S.I. will find something for us to check out.”
Hutch merely stared at him, shaking his head. “Starsk, I hate to point this out, but the white feather is only a symbol, not a warning. It means somebody thinks I’m a coward…” He looked away, frowning.
“Goddamnit! You know better than that! It’s nothin’ but a lousy feather, sent by some sicko.” He couldn’t imagine even Shemansky pulling a stunt like this. Surely, nobody at Metro had done it.
“No. Don’t try to sugarcoat it. It’s something I have to live with. I wonder if they know you’re supposed to send more than one.” His laugh was bitter.
“The point is, pal, just who would send somethin’ like that to you? Not to your home address, but here!”
Hutch came to a halt, eyes narrowed. “You’re right,” he said slowly, “which means whoever sent it must want me disgraced in front of the other cops so they’ll believe I’m yellow. Of course, there’s always the chance there’s another one waiting at home.”
“Fat chance. Hell, everybody here knows better than that.”
His loyalty won him a brief smile and a wink. It was reward enough.
“Nevertheless, we’re going to find out what we can from this little token and see who’s behind it.” Hutch sounded more like himself again, and it was obvious from the look in his eyes that the responsible party was going to regret it. He strode along, nodding as they passed three patrolmen.
Starsky nodded. “Maybe we’re looking too close to home, Hutch. Maybe it’s somebody with an old score to settle.” He held open the elevator door for the ride down to Forensics, trying to recall anyone with a big enough grudge to do this.
“Give it up.” Hutch held up the envelope. “Most of our street friends aren’t familiar with the significance of a white father. It’s got to be someone who thinks he’s justified… and my refusing to go under has to be the reason.”
“What about Anders’ family?”
Hutch glanced sharply at him, all attention, but as he held open the door to the lab he said, “I don’t think so. Hell, first some jock tries to frame me with money, then this. Doesn’t sound like a family out for revenge. More like someone wanting to make me look bad.”
“Just keep it in mind, partner,” was all Starsky replied. He looked around the forensics outer office, a heavy ache in his heart. One of these days Hutch would be here; it was where he’d always dreamed of working after their street days were through. He felt a hand placed on his shoulder, turned to meet a pair of blue eyes and had to smile. “Not gonna change your mind, are you?”
“Don’t think so, but you can try again if you want.” Hutch was smiling back. “By the time I get here we’ll be living together, won’t we?” he murmured. “That should help some… for me it will, anyway.”
“Can I help you?”
They both jumped, then hurried over to the desk. The black woman who sat behind it wore a vivid blue smock that was in sharp contrast to the neutral colors in the cluttered room. “Haven’t seen you two for at least a week,” she offered. “What needs looking at this time?”
Hutch seemed to lose his air of confidence as he extended the envelope. “This was delivered to me here at the station. I’d like it dusted for prints — other than mine and my partner’s — and — and the feather inside examined.” He took a deep breath.
She eyed him quizzically, but merely jotted notes on a piece of paper before removing a plastic bag from a drawer. “Drop it in here. How many people handled the envelope,” she asked a trifle dryly.
Starsky chuckled, “Probably half of Metro, but give it a shot, willya? This is important.”
Her mouth curved slightly as she taped the baggie closed. “Always is with you, Starsky, always is.” She stared at the both of them, then pointed at Hutch. “I hear you’re considering S.I. when you make lieutenant — ” Her dark gaze raked over him. “Well, we can always use new blood — even if it is the honky kind.”
Hutch grinned at her sarcasm. “Hopkins, it’s people like you who make me want to stay on the streets.” He leaned over the desk to shake her extended hand. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Starsky watched the exchange, feeling a little of his grief lifting. Hopkins had always wanted a street assignment, but she had joined the force back in the days when female cops were either office personnel or meter maids. Now, in her late forties, she knew more about forensics than many of the specialists. She’d mother Hutch, bully him, and keep him away from the wolves… what more could Starsky ask?
“I hate to break this up, but me’n Hutch gotta see a man about a feather — and other things.” He walked toward the door, then looked back. “You and Millie still play poker on Thursdays?”
She got to her feet, hands on hips. “You got a mouth to match those ears! Now get lost and let me see if we can find out what happened to the rest of this chicken!” She held up the envelope and made a face.
~~~
It was raining; not the soft-breezed misty rain of spring, but a true storm whipping in from sea. The hills were obscured by the low cloud cover, and in the cemetery the grass was the color of jade. A lone, black-clad figure toiled up a slight incline, black hair plastered to her face. In her hands she bore one white rose and a paper bag already soaked through. Her features were hard, her eyes jet set in white marble. All her attention was concentrated on a tarp-covered mound strewn with fading flowers. She began making a whining noise deep in her throat as she neared the plot. “Such a mess,” she whispered. “Lud hates things all messy.” Her swollen body made it impossible for her to bend over to pick up the dead bouquets so she struggled to her knees, ignoring the mud and cold. With shaking fingers she set the flower at the head of the mound, brushing away the rest of the tributes. Her head bent as she prayed.
After a minute or two she looked up and began loading the old flowers into the bag. “They told me the turf goes on tomorrow, honey. And Miklos said the headstone will be here right after that.” Tears welled, fell, were ignored. “I miss you so much, so much. So does the baby.” She labored to her feet, picking up the bag. Without looking at the grave again, she began the downward journey toward a car parked on the winding drive. Three large men dressed in dark suits were waiting for her there. Without speaking they settled her in the vehicle and slowly drove away.
~~~
It was the first night Hutch had been alone since Anders’ death. In a way he was glad; it meant there hadn’t been time to think about the events of the last few days. Starsky always claimed he did too much ‘thinking’, but it was how he maintained his sanity in trying times. He was blessed with a fair amount of common sense — thanks to his grandmother — and many a night he’d come home and hibernated while the world went spinning along without him.
All of it except Starsky, who never let him forget that he wasn’t alone, not really, or that he was the most important part of Starsky’s own world.
The only world I really want. He poured himself a scant ounce of brandy and went outside to look down at the patio. There were still diners there so the myriad aromas of French cooking wafted up, masking the delicate scents of the flowers.
He was careful not to stand out on the landing, not wanting the patrons to see a man in white shorts peering down at them. Since he and Starsky had become lovers the place had taken on new significance, and at night, when customers and staff were gone, they often sat near the fish pond and talked about the future.
Two middle-aged men were sitting there now, wine glasses in hand, staring at the koi. It was obvious they were close — and comfortable with each other. He smiled, then went back indoors, feeling a little lost. More and more he found himself wanting to have a home, a place where he and Starsky could share their lives.
He put on the stereo and pulled the blinds, sitting in the dark, listening to a selection of Rampal favorites.
He was shocked when he saw it was almost ten o’clock. His first impulse was simply to go to bed, but he wanted to hear that lazy chuckle of Starsky’s one more time. He pulled the telephone onto his lap, then punched the familiar number.
“Knew you’d call.”
He grinned, cradling the phone closer. “Yeah? What makes you so smart?”
There was that chuckle. “Got you, didn’t I? That makes me go to the head of the class.” The voice grew deep and incredibly inviting. “I can be there in two shakes. Want some company?”
He hesitated, finally pushing aside the truth. “No. But only because I’ve some heavy thinking to do and you wouldn’t let me do it.” Behind him, the music swelled and ebbed, song of the sea. He wrapped the phone cord around his hand.
“Damn straight, babe. Those kinda thoughts make you crazy. Besides, if I’m there ya can bounce ’em off me.”
My rock and my fortress. “Yeah, and if I have to I will, but tonight let me do this my way.”
There was an audible sigh before Starsky replied. “Want me to pick you up in the morning? I could come over a little early…” Again, the words were a velvet invitation.
Hutch laughed, spirits lifting at the blatant sexuality. “Make it early enough and I’ll cook breakfast for a bonus.” His muscles tightened as he stared down at his groin. Jesus, his lover had only to speak and he was lost.
“I love you,” he said softly.
Silence for a long moment, then, “What’s not to love?” The husky tone was Starsky’s way of masking his true feelings.
Hutch wasn’t fooled. “Nothing, babe, that’s why it’s true. Now say good-night and get some sleep.”
“See you about six, that okay?” Starsky was himself again. “Oh, I want a stack of pancakes on the side with lots of syrup.” Laughter, then the connection was broken.
“Sure you do,” muttered Hutch as he returned the phone to the coffee table. The record had shut off, and the room was dark and silent. He heard murmurs of conversation from the restaurant, but he was so used to it that it really didn’t register.
Down time.
He thought about the white feather; the report from SI had stated crisply that it was from a White Leghorn and had been plucked from a living bird rather than picked from the ground, which meant there was no soil attached to it.
Strike one, he thought. Strike two had been the envelope, which came as no surprise… a mass of smudged prints, nothing more. Ventura was the only clue and it was a nothing one. He had no friends up there, and insofar as he knew, no enemies. Starsky had suggested they look for someone who raised chickens, but he knew it was a mere shot in the dark because a lot of the citrus growers kept small flocks of hens for bug control.
Shit! He got to his feet and began pacing. For some reason the two events that were driving him nuts didn’t seem connected. Starsky was ready to corner Shemansky and shake him until some answers fell out, but Hutch knew instinctively he hadn’t sent the damn feather. There wasn’t an ounce of subtlety in Marvin Shemansky’s whole body.
He bumped his shin, cursing his clumsiness as he hobbled into the kitchen. What he needed was a cup of coffee; what he wanted was a bedful of Starsky. His partner was right.
Despite his mood he had to smile. If he’d said yes to Starsky’s offer they could have made love both tonight and in the morning. His imagination took over and he spent the next few minutes playing out a sexual fantasy that left him hard and aching. He refused to beat off; he’d use that tension in the morning when both of them could appreciate it.
That made him feel better, so he turned on the light and brewed some coffee, drinking it strong and black to clear away the cobwebs. Of far deeper significance was the matter of someone trying to frame him. He took his cup into the living room and sat at the piano, stroking the keys. He thought back to the seemingly endless lessons, taken only to please his mother. He wasn’t sorry now — especially since Starsky loved to hear him play — but how he’d despised them at the time.
Hutch scowled; he was doing everything but concentrating on this mess! Was it a sign of age, or was it because it mattered only to him? No, that was vastly untrue. Dobey had begun his own quiet inquiry into the confrontation at the bank, asking if Hutch minded. The captain had been businesslike and a little reserved, and Hutch had felt the gulf widening between them. Something had to be done before he and Dobey lost their very special rapport.
Begin at the beginning, Hutchinson. Go back to that first meeting at OCID. Who was there? Moving over to the couch, he sat down and closed his eyes, leaning back so he could picture the room and its occupants. It had all started then.
The downstairs door slammed, and he jumped to his feet, listening for the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. Damn fool! Starsky must’ve had a hormone attack — as he called them — and decided to spend the night. Hutch realized suddenly the entry was dark and hurried over to switch on the hallway light. It was only when he opened the door that he discovered no one was there.
So, who had slammed the door? He stared down, gut tightening when he saw a long, white envelope on the bottom riser. Of course, the door hadn’t been slammed by someone coming in, but by a messenger leaving. A messenger who wanted him to find the envelope right away.
Ignoring the fact he was clad only in his skivvies, he went down the stairs two at a time, throwing open the door and looking out, hoping to catch a glimpse of his new mailman.
Not a soul was in sight, naturally. Chez Helene was closed, the staff busy inside with clean-up. Just his everloving luck!
With nerveless fingers he picked the envelope up by the corner, noting there was no postmark this time. He knew what was in it; knew what had to be in it, and felt bile rising in his throat. If only Starsky were here! Slowly, he climbed back upstairs, jaw set so hard his teeth ached. Sonuvabitch! Whoever it was knew where he lived, and knew he was home. He’d been watched before — by experts — but this gave him the creeps. No threats, no note at all.
How do you know this one isn’t different, moron? He turned on the light, holding the envelope up to it, seeing nothing except the very distinct silhouette of a small, curled, chicken feather. Who needed a note? Someone had passed a decision and he had been found guilty of cowardice.
He was filled with an icy calm; perhaps his judge was right and he’d better come to terms with it. The one, fucking time in his life he’d turned down an assignment… had he lost his nerve?
He began shaking with emotion, identifying it as anger; hell, it was fury! He wasn’t yellow and he knew it. He had his police record to prove it, his commendations.
But a man was dead because he’d turned down a job. No! Anders is dead because he accepted the job! That was what he had to keep uppermost in his head. He dropped the envelope into a baggy and set it on the table, then sat down so he could get back to thinking about the rest of this goddamn puzzle. Fact: OCID had contacted Dobey because he could pass as Fass. Fact: Posing as Fass would get him into Keating’s confidence, and when Keating bought whatever the hell Fass was selling, OCID would have an eyewitness to the transaction.
Fact: He was positive the real reason for asking for him was because they needed a body… Hutch’s head snapped up, and he leaped to his feet, smacking his forehead with the palm of his hand. Whoever it was didn’t want a dead cop, they wanted a body that could pass as Fass! His gaze narrowed; Anders didn’t fit the bill so he was murdered. His mouth stretched into a grimace, and he whispered, “Oh, I’m gonna find out who you are, you mothers, if it’s the last thing I do.”
He stripped off his clothes, then showered, leaving the bathroom light on for Starsky in the morning. It wasn’t much of a start, but he was certain he was right. He and Starsky would begin digging into the proposed buy with Keating and see exactly who was responsible for the hare-brained scheme. The austere features of John Templeton came to mind, followed quickly by those of the mousy little man named Al Somethingorother. Satisfied, he settled under the covers, getting up momentarily to drag out the tube of gel and place it under Starsky’s pillow.
It would be put to good use.
His last thought was not about the white feather.
~~~
The buzzing of a bee woke Starsky. Since he’d once had a bad reaction to a bee sting, he sat up immediately, wondering where the little bastard was. It was on his bedside table, buzzing angrily — and continuously. The alarm clock, of course. Even as he shut it off he had to restrain himself from tossing the thing. His mom had used one of those Big Ben alarms that sounded more like the local fire department but never left you wondering what was making the noise. Now there were snooze alarms, ‘bird-call’ alarms, and the buzzer types.
He yawned, riffling his hair. For his money the best alarm was the blue-eyed-blond kind that kissed you awake and sort of nuzzled your neck. That never failed to wake him up. Grinning, he headed for the shower.
It was early enough that traffic was still sparse as he sped toward Venice. How many times had he been to Hutch’s? How many nights had he stayed? Not enough, never enough. Their loving was so good, so complete, that they often wondered why they hadn’t seen the writing on the wall sooner. Maybe the reason it was so good now was because they’d waited.
He turned onto Ocean, studying the early-morning street people as he drove. For the life of him he couldn’t understand Hutch’s fondness for this neighborhood. He knew part of it was the lure of the beach, which was only a couple of blocks away; but the truth was that the little hole-in-the-wall businesses and homes had been showing their age even before the sixties flower-power days. Hutch was so damn stubborn, though, you couldn’t budge him. He smiled when the soft pink of his lover’s apartment building came into view. That stubbornness translated into dogged determination on the streets, and something else when it came to their loving one another.
He pulled around the corner seeking the shade to preserve the Torino’s paint job. He’d probably have to get another car soon, but he wasn’t going to trade this one in. He got out and locked the car, thrusting the keys into his pocket. Nope. Was going to restore it to its original beauty and keep it as a classic, just like Hutch suggested. With a loving pat on the hood, he headed for Hutch’s.
He knew as soon as he let himself in that his partner was asleep.
The shades were still down and a comfortable silence pervaded the place. He smiled, removed his Adidas and dropped them beside the couch before stripping off his clothes. As he padded into the bedroom alcove, Hutch turned over, sprawling on his back. One hand held the sheet over his groin, the other rested on his chest. Starsky stood silently, smile gone, another emotion building fast. He knew if he was very quiet he could slide into bed without waking Hutch. They were so attuned to one another that recognition was subconscious. That was what he wanted today; wanted to wake Hutch up by loving him… by taking him while he slept. Nice work if he could get it, he thought wryly.
Before he moved, though, he glimpsed something white — an envelope — in a plastic bag. Instinct told him what it contained, but he needed to see for himself. Hutch hadn’t even opened the fucking thing, had he? Starsky did it for him, lifting the feather out, placing it in his palm, staring at it. Nothing but a symbol, nothing but a stupid feather. But it stripped his partner of his pride, made him feel small and cowardly. Before he could stop himself, he’d crushed the feather and ripped up the envelope. He dropped them into the trash and made his way to the bed, slipping in beside Hutch. More than ever he wanted to make love, extra-hard loving, not rough-and-tumble, but close.
He slid his hand under the pillow, seeking the tube of gel. There was enough light in the room for him to see and he prepared himself rapidly, his fingers bringing his cock to respectable hardness. Hutch’s breathing changed, his eyelids fluttered and his hand moved across the sheet, curling over his genitals. His clean smell carried across to Starsky and he committed it to memory for the thousandth time.
“Come on, darlin’, ease over on your side,” he whispered, hands slipping under the relaxed torso. Obediently, Hutch moved, long back curved and supple. Starsky followed, positioning himself close to the warm body. Proximity was having its usual effect; his cock was engorged and throbbing. “Good, babe, so good,” he crooned, fingers stroking over Hutch’s ass. He laid his head on a hard thigh, then pressed a kiss onto the flesh. “So easy, so easy, Hutch. Gonna make it good.”
Hutch gave a long sigh, but didn’t wake. Starsky smiled to himself; maybe he thought he was dreaming. He felt under the covers, seeking the soft cock. He wasn’t surprised to find it stirring from its nest of fine curls.
He brushed himself over Hutch’s hips, then smoothly parted them, easing into position. Wordlessly, he pushed, knowing he would gain entry without difficulty — three years had made things easy for both of them. “Ah, babe,” he murmured, pulling Hutch down on him, shuddering at the heat.
Hutch woke up, hands gripping Starsky’s for a minute. “Jesus, you that hungry?” he asked sleepily.
Starsky chuckled and thrust deeper, feeling the responding, contracting muscle pulling him in. “Always wanna make a meal outta you,” he declared, setting to work to make Hutch forget breakfast and everything else. He fucked with long, slow strokes, listening as Hutch moaned and swore his pleasure. “Yeah, that’s it, darlin’, make me work for it… move that ass, babe.” His fingers reached down to lift the puckering sac, pulling it up and back. Hutch arched and cried out, further impaling himself.
“You bastard, I’m gonna be minus my hardware if you do that again,” he groaned, hands tightly gripping Starsky’s.
“No way. Just hold on tight and enjoy the ride. Here we go…” He changed rhythm, alternating slow, deep thrusts with fast, shallow ones. Hutch reached around with those long arms and dug his fingers into Starsky’s buttocks until he couldn’t pull back. “Oh, so ya want it that way, huh? Well, you got it!”
He struggled to his knees, pulling and helping Hutch at the same time to lie on his stomach. Freed of the extra weight, he slid out of the slick channel and waited until his breathing was back to normal. After planting a loud kiss on each mound, he used his knee to spread Hutch’s legs. “Mmm, dunno about you, but I’m damn near the edge.”
Hutch’s only response was a lifting of his ass and the waggle of his middle finger. Grinning, Starsky thrust hard, closing his eyes in ecstasy as strong contractions began squeezing him. He didn’t open them until he felt Hutch stiffen and gasp, calling out his name as he came.
He buried himself as deeply as he could, swept away by his need to control the bucking figure beneath him. The distinct odor of sex now mingled with the sharper smell of their sweat, filling his nostrils. “Gonna come… gonna come…” he cried, molding himself to Hutch, his seed jetting into welcoming heat and oblivion. Hutch had raised up, supporting him, murmuring words of love that burned themselves into his brain. He remained where he was, body pressed tightly to Hutch’s, hands touching, caressing whatever they could reach.
He drifted in and out of sleep; using Hutch’s larger body as a hammock which offered comfort and warmth while he rested. When he slid from Hutch, he was turned and cradled, kisses showering down on his curls and face. Smiling foolishly, he asked, “What’re chances of getting a shower and some breakfast?”
“About as good as mine are of getting a ride to work.” Hutch let him go, got out of bed and headed for the shower. “Me first, then you.”
Starsky nodded, pulling the sheet over his head to keep the light from his face. From the bathroom came the sound of water and Hutch brushing his teeth. After a few minutes, he called out, “Hey, I shoulda come over last night, huh? Then you could’ve fixed dinner, too.”
Something warned him he was in trouble, and he opened his eyes to see a towel flying his way. It was very damp and heavy, and dropped on his face with a splat. “Yuck! Is that any way to treat the guy who just fucked ya blind? Some lover you are.”
“Yeah, well next time I’m returning the favor… only you can’t cook like I can.” Mischievous blue eyes peered around the corner at him. “What can you do, Starsk?” came the purring question.
“I’ll show you, you egotistical bastard! Get outta that shower and — ” Another towel, wetter than the first hit him smack in the midriff, knocking the wind out of him. “Jesus! You always this ornery in the morning?”
Laughter, followed by a washcloth. “Only when my sleep is interrupted by a sex maniac like you.”
“Yeah? From now on I’ll make sure you’re wide awake,” Starsky retorted in an aggrieved tone, picking up towels and washcloth as he made his way toward the bathroom.
He was ambushed by a damp figure that grabbed him and began smothering him in kisses. “Don’t you dare wake me up another way,” Hutch growled, wet hair leaving a trail of water across Starsky’s chest. “That’s the biggest turn-on in the world.” He smiled, eyes filled with love. “You’re a walking, talking, Kama Sutra, and I’ll probably be in my grave in another year,” he laughed, kissing Starsky’s mouth, “but I’ll die happy, babe. God, I’ll die happy.” One final, very long kiss and Hutch was getting dressed.
Starsky stood stock still, dazed by the whirlwind assault. He could do nothing but grin, so headed for the bathroom, showering and shaving slowly, body tingling where Hutch’s fingers had dug into his flesh. Christ, he felt ready for anything.
The smell of fresh coffee and bacon drew him to the kitchen where he stood watching his lover prepare breakfast. Their eyes met and he smiled, suddenly embarrassed.
“I don’t serve naked hunks as a rule, but in your case…” Hutch grinned suggestively and tilted the coffee pot toward Starsky’s exposed torso.
He took the hint, dressing quickly and returning to a table loaded with bacon, eggs, toast, and his favorite jam. Hot coffee steamed in his cup. Hutch tossed him a napkin as he sat down, pushing the cream pitcher closer.
He took it, added sugar and began stirring the fragrant brew absent-mindedly. If they had a house they could start every day this way. He looked up. “I love you,” he said softly. “I wanna live with you.”
Hutch’s expression didn’t change; instead he placed his hand over Starsky’s, nodding his head. “I know. That’s why I was in the bank the other day.” The fingers squeezed his. “Anytime, Dave. We can start looking anytime.”
Discarding the spoon, Starsky got to his feet, coming around to look down at Hutch. His heart was so full that once again he was speechless. Crouching so he could stare into Hutch’s eyes, he finally said, “You sure? I mean, you wanna take a stab at it?”
They both began laughing, and Starsky drew Hutch out of the chair, their lips sealing the pact.
~~~
John Templeton’s walnut-paneled office was as neat as his hard-working secretary could make it. His law books were in order, the papers on his desk in their proper boxes, and a small carafe of coffee sat full of fresh-brewed Jamaica Harrar.
The room’s two occupants ignored their surroundings, concentrating instead on a sheaf of papers spread before them.
Templeton cast a long-suffering glance at Al Caulkins. They had both worked together on other cases, winning most of them, but lately Al seemed preoccupied, almost disinterested in his job. Templeton felt restless; colleagues and friends were urging him to run for Attorney General and he was actually giving it serious consideration. This fiasco with Fass and Keating might spell finis to his plans if they didn’t accomplish something soon. District Attorney Busch wasn’t known for his patience, especially in an election year.
“Al, you told me that our mole was certain Keating and Fass were going to meet. Why hasn’t he contacted you?”
Caulkins shook his head, his expression concerned. “I waited until eleven last night and he never phoned. He said before he wasn’t in any danger, but I’m beginning to wonder.”
Templeton began sorting the papers in front of him. “I don’t like this at all. The way this case stands right now, that detective was certainly right in refusing us.” He pressed his fingertips together and stared at the smaller man. “He set a bad example, Al, that’s what I object to. We can’t have officers routinely turning down assignments.”
Caulkins got up to pour himself a cup of coffee. He stood with his back to Templeton. “We also can’t have them getting murdered, can we?”
“The blame for that lays at Shemansky’s feet!” Templeton snapped. “That idiot swore Anders would be safe.” He’d only spoken to the eager young patrolman once and had come away impressed by his zeal. His lips compressed.
Caulkins sat down, eyes hidden behind thick lenses. “Maybe he was fingered by a disgruntled detective, eh?” he murmured evenly. “Maybe there’s more to this than meets the eye.” He sipped his coffee, then scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Just a reminder when our man contacts me,” he explained, tucking the note in his pocket.
“You’re wrong, Al. Much as I dislike that type of egotistical hothead, I can’t believe he arranged the murder of a fellow officer. To what end? Just because the man bears a striking resemblance to Wilhelm Fass doesn’t mean he’s cut from the same cloth.” Templeton knew he was defending Hutchinson, but for some reason Caulkins’ remarks irritated him. He hated to think any LAPD officer was involved with the likes of Keating and Fass.
His pronouncement was met with a somber stare. “John, this whole situation is distasteful. Still, we have to consider our list of suspects very carefully. I don’t for one minute think Hutchinson was involved in the actual killing. However, there is his considerable — ah — portfolio to explain.”
Templeton frowned. “So you’re implying his money is the result of underworld dealings? There’s no proof of that, whatsoever.” The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He sat as still as a cat, watching Caulkins.
A shrug, followed by an oblique look. “Did you believe him when he said he never touches it? I think it highly unlikely… unless it wasn’t obtained legally.” He nodded, putting a visible period to his statement. “In fact, I’m thinking of checking further back in his record to see if the resemblance between him and Fass might just be familial.” He smiled, his expression cunning and conspiratorial.
That did it. John Templeton was not a patient man and he’d heard enough drivel. He got to his feet and said cuttingly, “Al, that’s not only ridiculous, it sounds absolutely paranoid! There is absolutely no justification for this line of reasoning.” He gathered the papers up and rang for his secretary. “Put these in my attaché case, if you will. I want to take them home to study.”
Turning back to see Caulkins observing him, he said, “Al, I want to meet this so-called mole of yours. So far he’s come up with nothing — which is why we’re less an officer. If he’s deep under then I’ll meet him somewhere, but it’s imperative I talk to him. Is that clear?”
Caulkins paled visibly. “That’s not possible, John. I can’t compromise his safety! He’s been under for a long time…”
“Then perhaps it’s time we bring him out,” retorted Templeton sharply. “Or we may be less another cop! You have two days to arrange a meet, no more. Now, good day.” He ushered the older man out the door, noting that Caulkins’ hands were shaking. He wondered about his health momentarily, then went back into his office and shut the door. He still had a few contacts who owed him favors. Maybe there was a way to get Keating and Fass without wasting any more policemen.
~~~
The Pits had only two occupants when Starsky and Hutch arrived, and they were already well into their cups. Huggy rolled his eyes, gave an expressive shrug, then said, “I know America’s favorite couple ain’t here for no social call this early in the a.m., so what’s your pleasure?” He smiled benignly. “I mean — your other pleasure?” He watched a swift rush of crimson color Hutch’s face, while Starsky’s eyes grew even brighter. Three years since these two had tied the knot — or whatever it was called now, and they seemed to grow closer every time he saw them. ‘Word on the street is that you are lookin’ for one mean dude, that right?”
Starsky settled onto a barstool, fiddling with a salt shaker. He glanced quickly around the room, then nodded. “Yeah, but we’re also in the market for info on somebody who’s partial to sending feathers through the mail.” He smiled at Hutch. “It’s driving my partner crazy.”
Huggy stared at them both. “Starsky, you’ve come in here more times than I can remember askin’ one dumb question after another, but this one takes the cake. What are you talkin’ about?”
“Somebody’s sending me white feathers, Hug,” Hutch said quietly, “probably because I refused an undercover assignment.”
“You still ain’t making sense. You mean somebody’s saying you’re yellow?”
Hutch smiled. “Streak a mile wide, amigo.” But his eyes held a haunted look.
“That’s shit and everybody knows it!” snapped Starsky. He then proceeded to fill Huggy in, omitting nothing. “See, we sorta made this pact to be more careful, and Anders gettin’ iced was proof Hutch was right,” he finished.
“Leon Keating makes ‘nasty’ a compliment,” remarked Huggy seriously, serving each of them a cup of coffee. “An acquaintance of mine had dealings with him once. Said the dude is loco.”
He held up one hand, fingers pinched together, then made a snipping motion, features pulled up in a grimace. “Keating’s got one foolproof way of punishing anyone who doublecrosses him.” He shook his head. “And that’s castration.”
The detectives stared at one another, Hutch letting out a low whistle. “Before or after he kills them?”
“Who said anythin’ about killing? There’s more capons on the streets, Blondie, than you can imagine. He’s got a lieutenant who’s as good as any vet.”
“Makes sense. That explains why we can t get to him, huh?” Starsky commented, eyes glittering. “But it doesn’t explain why Anders was iced. Why didn’t he castrate him as a warning?”
Hutch reached into his jacket, removed one of his cards and turned it over to write on. “That’s not hard to figure out,” he said without looking up. “Somebody told him Anders was a plant, so what good was he to Keating?” He leaned over the bar, handing the card to Huggy. “Keep this for me, will you? It’s the number of my broker — and a very good lawyer.” He smiled. “Who knows when I might ask you to do me a favor?”
Huggy studied the name, eyebrow arching as he recognized it. But the look he gave the detective was puzzled. “Hutch, if you’re plannin’ to do something illegal in the near future, then I don’t want no part of it.” He flicked the card with a fingernail, and turned to Starsky. “I dunno what our white brother has in mind, but you better think about changing partners, pronto.”
Hutch shook his head, expression serious. “I’ll give you a full explanation later, Hug, just keep it where you can make a call in a hurry if you have to. There’s some heavy stuff being dumped on me right now, and I may need you to contact one of these guys to bail me out.”
“Bail you out? Mmmnn. Starsky, for the last time, take ol’ Huggy’s advice and split! This dude must be in serious shit, man.” Then, seeing the look Starsky gave Hutch, he added, “No dice, right? In that case, Huggy’s next bit of advice is to stay away from The Pits, ’cause I can’t afford this sort of legal aid.”
Hutch didn’t smile at the remark. Instead, he said quietly, “You know if you ever need anything from us, we’ll deliver. And that includes the best lawyer in town.” He placed his hand on Starsky’s back, half-pushing him off the barstool. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
“Don’t we always?” Dark blue eyes met Huggy’s. “That’s gospel, what Hutch said. You call us and we’ll come runnin’.” Then he flashed an irrepressible grin as he headed for the exit. “If any of Keating’s butchers drop by, keep your legs crossed!”
“It’s too late,” Huggy called after him, “Arlene’s ruining me, fast.” Chuckling, he watched them leave, then headed for the phone, intent on calling somebody who knew exactly how sharp that knife was. A man with a long memory and nothing more to lose. If he was lucky, by tonight he’d have good news for his two friends.
Hard fingers on his arm nearly made him drop the receiver. He whirled around, heart pounding. It was Starsky, deadly serious. “Christ, man, you outta your mind, scaring me that way?”
“Sorry, Hug, but I gotta make this quick. Check around and see if anyone’s heard about somebody bein’ in the chicken business. You get my drift?”
So, apparently this deal with the feathers was heavier than it appeared. Knowing Hutch, it was probably eating away at him. “Troubles? I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thanks.” A press of fingers, a nod of the dark head, and Starsky was on his way, broad shoulders filling the doorway, blocking the sunlight.
“Via con dios, amigo,” Huggy said softly.
~~~
“You know I hate driving down here! Why can’t you spend a couple of hours comin’ up to my place?”
The speaker was a powerfully built, swarthy man with a thick mane of silvery hair stylishly cut. Despite the early hour he was sweating profusely. He was dressed in the blue denim shirt and jeans of a rancher; his straw hat lay where it had been tossed onto the couch.
“Simple, dear brother,” Alex Collis drawled, his dark eyes surveying his brother with barely concealed hostility. “This was all your idea — yours and Helena’s, and now it’s all we talk about. Besides, I hate the smell of your goddamn chickens.” He removed his Madras shirt, revealing a bronzed, muscular chest and the well-developed biceps of a boxer. He had a mass of tight, black curls which were neatly trimmed. When compared to his elder brother, Miklos, he looked almost small, yet he was at least three inches taller. Of the five brothers, Alex was the only one who had raised any objections to the escalation of harassment on behalf of his widowed sister.
Miklos dismissed his comments with a sneer. “Those ‘goddamn chickens’ put you through college. You didn’t think they smelled bad then, did you?” He stalked over to the window, glancing at his watch. “Where the hell are they? Betcha that scrap heap of a Camaro couldn’t make it, eh? I want to beat the traffic going home.” He turned back to study his brother. “Talk about stink! Diesel… smog, phew.'”
Alex ignored him, heading into the still-cool kitchen. He was used to Mik’s bitching. He acted as if his fifty acres in Ventura was Irvine Ranch or something. He’d long ago ceased feeling guilty about his college days for the simple reason he’d paid back every borrowed nickel plus interest. He and his wife and two kids didn’t need this sort of trouble, especially since Helena was developing into a real nut case.
He poured himself a large glass of V8 and searched until he found some grapefruit juice for Mik. Carrying both glasses into the living room, he handed one to his impatient brother, a peace offering of sorts. “Sit down and quit fussing. Stav and Nicki are always late — it’s in the blood, and Harry wasn’t sure he could get away. What’s this all about, anyway?”
He took a long swallow, licking his lips in appreciation. Eyeing his elder brother as he levered himself into the big contour chair, he felt an increasing apprehension. “Mik, you and I both know Helena’s sick, don’t we?”
“And why is that?” Huge fingers curled around the glass, flesh white over the knuckles. The juice disappeared in two gulps, but he held onto the tumbler. “She’s a driven woman these days… and we’re going to see she gets justice.” Mik looked at his watch again, scowling. “Lud was a good man… family. We aren’t going to forget that!”
Christ, how he hated this caveman mentality! This was today; his brother-in-law had died in the line of duty under mysterious circumstances, nothing more, nothing less. With each meeting of the family, Alex’s distaste and fear grew. He was beginning to feel sorry for the poor bastard who’d turned down the job.
He was spared further thought on the matter when he heard loud voices outside. “Finally. They must have gone to pick up Harry,” he said to Mik. “Get the door, will you?” He didn’t add that otherwise Stavros the stevedore might just barrel through it with Nicki following and bitching about the mess. Nick the Prick — even when they were kids! He smiled; what a divergent lot they were — and how like a fucking Greek play this had become!
“Hey! Alex, whatcha got to drink? Root beer? Seven-up?” Stavros Collis stood just inside the living room arch, his huge frame dwarfing even Miklos. A dazzlingly white shirt, open at the throat, accented a burst of black, wiry chest hair. When he smiled, his thick and luxuriant mustache barely moved. The smile faded as soon as he saw Miklos, who merely nodded. “Ah, our curator of chickens is here. How’s the family, Mik?”
“Shut up, Stavvy. Let’s get this over with. I don’t want Helena putting in her two bits’ worth.” This from Nick, his garish polyester outfit a distinct contrast to his brothers’ simpler clothing. His grey hair shone with a heavy layer of pomade. Despite his dandified wardrobe, his eyes were hard.
Alex tuned them out, concentrating instead on his younger brother. Harry didn’t look well; his olive skin was positively waxy today, and his glance darted nervously around the room while his thin, bony fingers played with his jacket zipper.
Drugs again. Alex fought down his disgust and went over to where Harry perched on the edge of the couch arm. “How’re things going?” he asked softly, hoping the booming voices of the older men drowned out the question. “You don’t look too hot.”
Liquid brown eyes met his, hell in their depths. “‘m not so hot, Alex, guess it’s a touch of the flu.” He bent over, folded on himself, his longish dark hair hiding his features. Alex patted his shoulder.
“Maybe something to drink’ll help. Come on.” He heard Harry stumbling along in his path, breath catching in a sob, and his heart twisted in his chest. When they were in the relative privacy of the alcove, he spun around, grabbing his brother. “What is it this time? Jesus Christ, man, you’re killing yourself!”
The thin figure shook and Alex pulled him into an embrace, rubbing his back. “Ah, Harry, it’s okay. What do you need?”
“F-fifty bucks, Alex. I’ll make a novena to the Blessed Mother if you’ll just front me this time — ”
Aghast, Alex slapped his face. “You shit! If I give you the dough the best thing you can do is shoot up and die! Don’t you ever bargain with me like that!” He crossed himself. “The Church would never approve of what we’re doing, now, so keep that kind of talk out of here.” He saw the hurt, the mark of his hand on Harry’s cheek and was engulfed with shame. He’d come so close to this himself. Only his wife’s love and support had seen him through the tough times. “I’m sorry, but you scare me so damn much! Come on, have a drink.” He pulled out a decanter of Canadian Club, pouring two fingers into a paper cup.
Like a dumb animal, Harry nodded, eyes fastened on him. He gulped down the whiskey, following with another, finally whispering, “I’m scum, Alex. Better off dead, better for the whole family
Alex didn’t try to stop the flow of bitter words, merely stood dose, offering his presence. When the diatribe stopped, he fished in his wallet and brought out two twenties and a ten. “For what it’s worth, Harry, I understand. But we need you now, so don’t let us down.”
Harry snatched the money, counted it, and then tucked it into his pocket. “Sure, sure. Where does this next one get delivered?” Now that he could see relief ahead, his hangdog demeanor disappeared and he actually smiled. “Bet that cop wonders what in hell’s happening, right? Man, I’d like to be a fly on his wall.”
Alex didn’t laugh. “The smartest thing we could do would be to convince those three to let this go. I know you liked Lud, but nothing we do is going to bring him back.”
His words fell on deaf ears; Harry, for all his problems, had loved the man married to his sister. Maybe Lud had sensed that the youngest Collis boy was different than the others and had made an attempt to become his friend. It was Harry who’d moved in with Helena — and who wanted to see this Hutchinson character punished even more.
Alex could stall no longer. They sat around the dining room table, faces somber as they discussed their sister’s future and the detective’s fate. Mik, still sweating, produced the final feather, smiling as he placed it on the table. “Plucked from a virgin,” he boasted, chuckling at his brother’s stares. “Well, they’re as good as.” He grew stern. “Enough small talk. After that cop gets this last feather, we’re gonna get down to hard business. Helena’s due to deliver real soon, and I want somethin’ positive to tell her when she goes to the hospital.”
Alex groaned, putting his hand to his forehead. “And what’s that supposed to mean? If the poor slob isn’t bleeding from all parts she isn’t gonna have the kid? I swear, Mik, you sound like something out of a bad movie!”
He couldn’t believe it. His brothers were glaring at him as if he’d come in on the bottom of somebody’s shoe. “What, short of murder, is going to satisfy her?” he demanded. “You know, the police department has a real nasty way of making life miserable for people who harass them. I’d hate like hell to be in jail if and when Helena really needs my help.”
“Come off it, Alex! You know damn well that cop isn’t sayin’ anythin’ about no chicken feathers!” snickered Harry, “so don’t go tryin’ to scare us into changing our minds.” He snapped his fingers, his gaze going from face to face. “It’s what Helena wants,” he said somberly.
Finally admitting it was useless to argue, Alex gave in. He was too close to his family to walk away; which was what any sane man would do right now. “Okay, what’s this great and wonderful plan? And what am I supposed to do?”
Immediately, the tension in the room evaporated and smiles appeared on the strong, dark faces. Alex knew they were blaming his education for his behavior, because what else could it be? He wondered absently if the blond cop had any family. God, what if they were as crazy as the Collis’ were!
~~~
Hutch sat in the observation room, watching his partner question Huggy’s friend through the one-way mirror. The only way the man would agree to talk to them was to be treated like any other suspect. He was a large black man, thick gold chain gleaming against dark skin, electric blue nylon shirt almost luminous under the bleak neon lights. Custom-made yellow snakeskin shoes were molded to his broad feet. The man was a ladies-man; it stuck out all over him. He went by the nickname of Ramrod, now a hideous misnomer in light of what had been done to him.
Nevertheless, Huggy had warned them to treat him as if nothing had happened until Ramrod was comfortable with them. Hutch had deliberately kept his gaze on Ramrod’s face, yet he felt almost compelled to see for himself just what showed under those snug-fitting dark pants.
Just then, Starsky got to his feet, leaning against the wall, scowling at their ‘suspect’. It was Hutch’s cue to go into action, but he took a moment to study the graceful drape of his partner’s body, the well-defined swell of worn denim. He smiled, what a turn-on the man was! Almost eagerly he strode over to the door, opening it to meet that amused, affectionate gaze that made him weak in the knees. “This the guy?” he said roughly, shoving pity aside in order to show compassion. He knew all about self-respect, and how it felt to lose it. “My partner tells me you know something about Keating.”
Brown eyes met his, locked, sparked, and then Ramrod said quietly, “Huggy tells me you got questions.”
“Go get us some coffee, Starsk, and whatever Mr. Ramrod wants to go with it.” He smiled as Starsky stared at him. “Misery loves company, partner. Trust me.” He sat down, exchanging another searching glance with the black man. “Help us get this scum. It won’t undo anything, but when Keating’s sent to prison, I’ll bet he doesn’t sit down for a year!”
Ramrod’s face split into a huge grin, his strong teeth so white it hurt to look at them. A hand slapped the table, and Hutch felt the reverberations shake the rest of the furniture.
“You got a deal, white bread! The brothers will make life hell for him, man. Shit! Who’ll be the woman then? I like it!”
Starsky grinned, shaking his head as he left the room.
Hutch grew serious, leaning forward until he and Ramrod were nose to nose. “Leon Keating’s never seen the day when he was as much a man as you are, and don’t forget it! If you’d been shot in ‘Nam, or had had cancer, or even shot on the streets, you’d have ended up the same way, but you’d feel different, right?”
The black man was silent, rubbing calloused fingers over his close-cropped hair. “Yeah, but knowing that don’ help me deal with losing my balls to a motherfucker like Keating.”
Hutch nodded. “If we nail the bastard, maybe one of the bloods will send you his.” He had to reach this man, who, tough as he was, was near tears. “Help us. Huggy can tell you nobody’ll find out.”
Once again, Ramrod was silent, then his hand snaked out and Hutch grasped it in a street greeting, grateful for Starsky’s insistence that he learn to do it properly. “His ass is grass, man. Just tell us what we need to know.”
Just then Starsky came back with his hands full and pushed against the door with his shoulder. Hutch got to his feet, holding the door open while his partner hurried to the table. “I got three coffees, a steak sandwich, and fries,” Starsky announced.
A tall, grey-haired man, passing by in the corridor, shot a sharp glance his way. Hutch’s guard went up and he quickly closed the door, barring their ‘guest’ from view. “Guess who I just saw?” he remarked.
“Yeah. Must be slummin’,” was all Starsky said. He pushed the food toward Ramrod, then wiped his fingers. “I put sugar and cream in the coffee. Don’t want ya claimin’ we’re tryin’ to poison you.” He smiled, cocked an eyebrow at Hutch. “Believe it or not, the special is chicken salad, and I didn’t have the guts to bring you a sandwich. With your luck it might have a stray feather in it.”
Hutch shook his head at Starsky’s humor, then reluctantly sipped the muddy-looking liquid. “Ugh. To hell with the chicken. This stuff’ll ruin your guts without any help.” He set down the Styrofoam cup. “Seriously, partner, our man here has decided to help us make Keating’s life miserable.”
“All right! Ramrod, you’re one smart dude.” Starsky sat down, pulled a smashed chocolate bar out of his jacket pocket, and peeled back the paper. Looking up, he saw both men staring at the candy. “Got it the other day, forgot it.” He grinned.
God, I love you so much, Hutch thought. Never taking his eyes from his partner, he explained, “See, Sergeant Starsky has this thing about never throwing anything away… and that includes dead chocolate bars.”
Ramrod’s mouth was full of steak and onions, but he managed to make a face. Nearly choking as he swallowed, he said, “You two are nuts. Huggy’d tol’ me that, but since he’s a wiffo himself, who believed him?” A handful of fries followed the steak. “But you’re all right.” The coffee cup was drained in one huge gulp, then Ramrod sat back, eyeing them shrewdly. “Okay, ask away.”
All frivolity vanished as the two detectives, heads together, began picking the man’s brain.
John Templeton continued down the corridor, remembering the look on Hutchinson’s face while he’d closed the door. He’d seen the curly-haired detective in the hall and recognized him as another of Harold Dobey’s men, probably Sergeant Starsky.
At another time he might have asked who they were interrogating, but he was on a mission that might produce the name of Al Caulkin’s mole. It had been three days since their meeting, and the man still hadn’t surfaced.
Caulkins was avoiding him and he knew it. So he was going on his own hunt. A few calls had led him to Metro, leaving him with the suspicion that Al’s mole came from here, which might explain why Hutchinson had been suggested as a ringer for Fass.
He smiled to himself as he signed in at the desk. The R and I clerks wore their usual harried looks as they scurried around the office, searching for files that everybody wanted yesterday. He watched the hubbub with interest, then spotted a short, slender officer with piercing, dark eyes, and raised his hand, finger pointing toward himself.
The man nodded and walked over. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I think so.” He looked at the officer’s ID. “I’m John Templeton, Sergeant Rodriguez.”
Mention of the name brought a spark of interest to Rodriquez’ eyes. “Sorry. Should have recognized you right away. What can I do for you?”
“Well, save me some time, for one thing. Can you recall anyone who has been transferred to OCID without the requisite paperwork?”
The cop slowly shook his head. ‘I’ve been here for more’n three years and we haven’t sent anyone over there — most of our guys retire on a stress or injury disability.” He shrugged. “Frankly, workin’ for Captain Shemansky’s not high on anybody’s list.”
Templeton nodded. “Perhaps I’m not phrasing this right. Maybe somebody from — say, Narcotics, was sent there — they spend more time undercover. Have there been any — ah — unusual requests for transfers to other divisions within the last ten months?”
He knew Rodriquez was curious, so he pressed on. “Our office is afraid that one of your men has gotten himself into trouble while working deep undercover — and may need rescuing.”
The brown eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t you be looking through personnel files, sir?” He indicated a pile of mug books. “These are criminals, not undercover cops. You sure you were told your man is from Metro?”
He sighed, silently cursing Caulkins and his secrecy. “More or less. Are you positive you’ve had no transfers?” He reached for one of the books. “Take ten, sergeant, and see if you spot anyone who used to work here.”
Light dawned, and Rodriguez whistled. “Why didn’t you say that’s what you wanted? It just so happens we’ve got a special book for cops who’ve crossed the line… and been convicted.” Almost eagerly, he took down a slim volume and flipped it open. “Take a look at these, sir. Maybe your man’s in here.”
Templeton felt his heart begin to pound as he pulled the book toward him. “Thanks. I’ll need you to answer some questions, but not for a little while.” He fell to work, searching the pages with a strange feeling. These were former officers, men who’d somehow fallen through the cracks, choosing crime after years of working for the law. Funny. They looked just like all the other criminals. A familiar face stared blankly out at him, and he remembered the case. Murder, arson, blackmail, all from a man who’d worked long and hard for sixteen years on a beat. Quickly, he turned the page.
“Find anything?” Rodriguez asked, obviously wanting to get on with his work. “I’m afraid there’s no thin’ else here that’ll help you.” He waited a minute then sat down at a paper-strewn desk.
The DA took the hint, admitting defeat at this point. That admission, however, only added fuel to his curiosity. Caulkins had to have used a cop, that was a foregone conclusion, and since Metro seemed to be the matrix for all the contention, then it should follow that the mole was from Metro.
But what if Caulkins is lying? What if there isn’t any mole? Stunned by a flash of insight, John Templeton stepped back, gaze rigidly fixed at the wall. Peripherally, he could see Rodriguez staring at him, getting to his feet, coming over…
“You okay, sir? I mean, you want a drink of water or a cup of coffee — anything?”
“No. Thank you, sergeant. I just remembered an appointment — an extremely important one. Thanks for your help.” The lawyer carefully closed the book and handed it back. “Sorry to have wasted your time. It seems I may have been mistaken.”
He left the room, head bent in thought. He barely noticed that the door to the interrogation room was wide open and its former occupants gone.
~~~
“It’s not enough!” Helena Anders spread her fingers across her belly, feeling the muscles contract. “I tell you he hasn’t suffered enough!” A tiny moan gusted from her lips and she reached for her brother’s hand. “He must pay, before my son draws his first breath! Please, Stavros… please.”
“Shh! Shh! The baby only shifts a little, ‘lena. It’s not your time yet.” Huge fingers curved around her small ones. “I gave you my word, so he will pay. Now, rest. Better yet, sleep.”
She closed her eyes, pillowing her head on one of Lud’s old sweatshirts. Perhaps Stavvy was right and she worried too much. The doctor had told her she must get more sleep for the labor ahead. “I want to talk to Harry,” she murmured, “as soon as he gets home.”
“Of course,” came the soothing reply. Clumsy fingers patted her head. “Now, take a nap.”
Black eyes stared feverishly at him. “I will shoot him down myself if you are afraid.”
“No!” he said firmly, drawing away. “Would you bring shame to your husband’s name by becoming a murderer? Your baby has already lost his father, will you force him to lose you, too?” He looked down at her, brows beetled in anger, shaking his head. “We will find a way, little one, but you must stay out of it.”
He stroked her hair, managing a tired smile for her. “He will pay… in time.”
She sighed, then turned away. “There must be blood, Stavvy. Enough to pay for Lud’s life.” Behind her closed lids she pictured a pool filled with the betrayer’s blood. She smiled.
Her brother stared at her, frowning. He shivered when he saw her expression and crossed himself as he left the room.
Harry was sitting on the couch, removing his shoes. He looked up when he saw his brother. “Thought I heard your voice. She all right?”
“No. Worse than before. We have to speed up our plan or she’s going to try to kill him, herself.”
A crafty look crossed Harry’s face. “Might be the easiest way out in the long run. Hell, look at her! She could plead insanity and mean it. No jury’s gonna convict someone in her con-”
Stavros slapped him hard, fury darkening his features. “You slime! After what she’s been through, you’d expose her to a public trial! God, Momma’d be proud of you, wouldn’t she?”
Harry rubbed the reddened mark on his cheek. “And what would she say about you slappin’ me around?” He got to his feet, out of reach and taunted, “Take care of Harry for me, he’s the baby…” He snatched up an apple from a bowl on the table, teeth biting deep into the rosy flesh. “You always were too damn quick with those hands of yours. How many times did she hafta bail you out, huh? You’re nothin’ but a bully. Always were — ask Helena.”
Stavros winced, and turned on his heel, fists clenched. Harry’s mouth was too tempting a target — he longed to smash it, bust open a lip, knock out a tooth or two. Shoulda done it years ago. He needed something to hit, and soon. As he grabbed up his car keys, an image of Hutchinson standing with a group of detectives at Lud’s funeral came to mind. Maybe he should use the fucker for a punching bag; that would shut up the whole crazy family, wouldn’t it?
He started the car, cursing when the engine failed to catch. When it did, he backed out into the street, leaving a patch of rubber ten feet long. He’d show that drugged-out, pitiful excuse for a brother just who had Helena’s interests at heart! Between Alex’s contempt and Miklos lording it over them with his stupid chicken ranch — he’d had it. A few beers at Diver Joe’s and he’d be fine — then he’d start looking for the yellow-bellied coward who was responsible for Lud’s death.
~~~
They had stopped by Huggy’s to thank him for locating Ramrod and persuading him to spill what he knew about Leon Keating. The man’s story had been sobering and edifying. Starsky, noting the set of Hutch’s mouth while he related the tale to Huggy, leaned forward and smiled at his partner. “Wanna play a game of pool? Five’ll get you ten, you lose.” It was an invitation his partner seldom refused.
He watched as Hutch considered the challenge. It was a no-go, he knew as soon as their eyes met. “You got something better in mind?” he asked softly.
That brought a wide smile, but the answer was still no, and so he shrugged. Lights out would be early tonight… it had happened before. He slid off the barstool. “Well, if I can’t take your money, or seduce you, I’m goin’ home. You do have your car still parked in the back, don’t you? Bad as the LTD — nobody would steal that, either.”
“That’s my secret, Starsk. You buy the flash, and naturally everybody wants to steal it. In the meantime, my cars sit safe and sound.” He patted his stomach, looking vastly pleased with himself. But when Huggy moved away to answer the phone, he lightly touched his lover’s shoulder, looking deep into Starsky’s eyes. What was exchanged was between the two of them only, but it was enough to relax the tension in Starsky’s stance. “I’ll pick you up in the morning, okay?” Hutch said.
A thrill ran through him as his lover, unsmiling, nodded. More than anything in the world, Hutch wanted him at that moment, wanted to hold the beauty, the leashed power and sweetness of the man. When Starsky looked at him like that, those wonderful eyes shining with love — and trust — he felt so damn good about life that nothing could ever threaten them. He stared back, captivated momentarily, then the feeling was gone, all the safety and warmth fleeing with it. “I may call later,” he murmured huskily as he fished for his car keys.
Strong fingers clasped his elbow. Features still solemn, Starsky said quietly, “Just be careful, Hutch. Check the shadows for once, willya? Some chickens work at night, and so do some surgeons.”
His wrist moved in a gesture almost too quick to comprehend, but Hutch knew the meaning. Castration. He shook his head. “Hey, there are certain parts of my anatomy that I hold very dear, and those happen to be a couple of ’em.”
They were walking toward the rear exit when Huggy’s voice intruded.
“Better listen to your main man, Hutch, ’cause he’s right. Talk on the street is that Keating’s only waiting for the word and then he makes his move.” The thin shoulders hunched, and the owner of The Pits looked them both over. “Be a shame if Starsky lost the only person dumb enough to play pool on his terms. The man would starve…” Eyebrows arched over eyes bright with empathy. “Go softly, blond brother, it’s a mean world out there.”
Hutch nodded at their friend. “Not to worry. My luck’s gotta change. Dobey’s sure Leon’s going to make a mistake and Fass will bury him for it.” He opened the back door and peered up and down the alley, which at this early hour was packed with workers’ cars. “G’night, you two. Trunk’s full of dirty clothes, so I’m going to stop by the laundromat on the way home.”
This was addressed to Starsky, who stifled the urge to ask if the ‘laundry’ was all sheets. Sometimes Hutch didn’t appreciate his sense of humor. “Got change?” he asked instead.
Blue eyes sparked with mischief. “By some miracle I do… you haven’t been mooching it all for your damn candy. I’d be rich if you ever paid me back.” He stepped into the alley, his hand jingling the pocket change.
“Stuff it, Crosius. You’re already loaded,” Starsky retorted before closing the door. Huggy was gesturing for him to join him at the bar, so he hurried over. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“Didn’t want to say anything in front of Hutch, but one of my contacts says that there’s trouble brewing in the DA’s office.” Huggy turned around and drew off a glass of draft beer, pale gold in the amber light, and slid it across to his friend.
Starsky hitched himself up onto the barstool, savoring the first swallow of cold beer before answering. “Don’t take this personally, Hug, but who in the hell do you know who’s got an in at the DA’s?”
Huggy snorted. “Starsky, your ignorance is showin’. You’re forgetting the little people who work in the halls of glory.”
He resembled a crafty trader as he leaned across the bar, his aquiline nose a prominent cipher on the brown skin. “My contact happens to work the hours from six to midnight cleaning up after the big-wigs. You’d be surprised at how many of them stay after work to make phone calls.” He refilled Starsky’s glass. “My man, who has reason to dislike your brothers in the DA’s office, overheard Templeton talkin’ to somebody who was apparently giving him all the wrong answers. Templeton threatened to expose something and somebody, then slammed down the phone and got his gun outta his desk… he was definitely a man in a bad mood.”
Waiting until a party of bowlers was seated and served, Starsky had time to think over what Huggy had just told him. Never in a million years would he have believed John Templeton would lose his cool — the man was reputed to have a heart of ice. What had happened to make him angry — correction, furious? Maybe he ought to do a little snooping around.
He glanced at his watch. Almost nine; should he call Hutch and let him know about this? Or should he just forget about it until tomorrow when they were on duty? He drained his glass, left three bills on the bar for his beer, and sauntered out the entrance, a man with no particular destination in mind. It was only a twenty-minute drive from here to Parker Center and the traffic would be sparse now. Maybe he and Templeton should have a chat; and then again, if the DA was already gone, maybe he should inspect the premises — talk to Huggy’s snitch. One thing he did know; that business about the gun… who had Templeton been talking to?
~~~
Harry Collis parked his Mustang in such a hurry he took up two parking spaces, but he didn’t care. Thanks to Angel, his pusher, he was about to make a little bread — maybe even score enough to sell some coke himself. Angel had looked him up, driven over and told him all about the muy mal hombre who was looking for a driver who could keep his head. All he had to do was show up here, on time, and make a good impression. He’d been surprised as hell when Angel had knocked on the door, but it sounded too good an opportunity to pass up. The job promised hard cash, a little nose candy, plus he would be at the wheel of a seventy thousand dollar Mercedes. With that as an incentive, who cared what the fuckin’ job was? He grinned at the doorman, and straightened his tie. “Tell Mr. Keating that Harry Collis is here — he’s expectin’ me.”
The doorman nodded and opened wide the door to the lobby, ushering Harry into a world he had only seen in the movies. Huge crystal chandeliers glittered high above his head, their light reflected in gold-veined mirrored walls. Pale carpets, inches thick, softened his every step, and he had to look hard to see the entrance to the penthouse elevator. Once inside, with the door closed, he noticed a pale yellow vase filled with peacock feathers next to the emergency panel. Now that was class! There were no buttons to push, but the elevator rose smoothly toward its destination, and suddenly Harry began to sweat. Why had Keating sent for him? As for that, if he was such a big shot, how did Angel know him? His pusher was nobody special; well, he’d hinted he had some good connections, but who believed pushers? They were the scum of the earth… didn’t Alex keep telling him that? He giggled nervously, maybe, if this guy liked him, someday he’d be selling to Angel. Now, that would be a trip.
As the elevator came to a stop, and the door slid open, he had already made up his mind to do whatever was required of him. Anybody who lived like this had to be doing something right — this made Miklos’ stinking little ranch look like a pigsty. This was what money was all about.
“Come in, Mr. Collis. Mr. Keating’s been waiting to meet you for some time.”
Stepping out into a marbled foyer, Harry blinked. The man speaking to him was a stranger — a mousy little guy wearing coke-bottle glasses. “Sorry, don’t know you, do I?” He saw himself reflected in more mirrored walls, and wished he’d changed into his good suit. He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The gesture was ignored. “Come this way. What would you like to drink?” The little man led him down a long hall into a very large, softly lit room where two TV’s played the same show.
“Uh, tomato juice, if you got any.”
For the first time the man smiled. “I like that — a driver who believes in staying sober. That’s promising.”
Then and there Harry vowed to stay on the wagon the rest of his life. He’d heard the word opulent used before this, but had never seen it in action. He knew the gold trimming on the lamps was real, the blonde dame in the chair watching the smaller TV was real, and the man watching him through grey, eagle eyes was real.
“Mr. Keating?”
“That’s right. And you’re the brother-in-law of that cop who got killed.”
Harry’s jaw dropped. “How’n hell do you know that?” he blurted out. “Lud was married to my sister.”
Keating got to his feet and extended his hand, grasping Harry’s cold fingers in a hard fist. “Terrible thing when fine young men like that get murdered. My partner and I sent a contribution to the Widows and Orphans’ Fund.” His smooth features permitted the appearance of a brief smile, then cut it off. Thinning dark hair, once wavy, lay in straight, sprayed lines across the top of his head. “You have my sympathy, and my support.”
“Is that why you sent for me? To tell me that?” Disappointment sped through Harry’s body, leaving him tired. He took the tomato juice offered him by a servant and looked around. This was all a dream, had to be, and all he was going to get out of it was a glass of fuckin’ tomato juice!
“Sit down, Harry. My contacts tell me that you are quite anxious to see that justice is done for your loss. Is that so?” Keating went over to where the blonde sat and switched the TV channel. “Watch that, you’ll learn something.”
“Why? Then I’ll be smart enough to leave you, sweetie. You don’t want that, do you?” Red lips puckered into a kiss, and five perfectly manicured fingers gave Keating a familiar salute.
He laughed, then reached down and grabbed her by the breast, squeezing until she screamed. “Funny, aren’t you? Well, if I turn you over to Alonzo, that’s all you’ll be.”
“Leo! Jesus, don’t even joke about him… I didn’t mean it.” Big blue eyes filled with tears, and she rubbed her breast with careful fingers. “Asshole,” she muttered, before turning back to the program. She didn’t change the channel.
Harry stared at Keating as if he was from another planet. In all his days he’d never seen anyone behave like that, except in the movies or on the boob tube. He felt slightly ill, but gamely finished the tomato juice and looked around for somewhere to set the glass. When the servant appeared out of nowhere, he handed it over and relaxed. “You sure got a nice place, Mr. Keating,” he remarked, trying to act as casual as he could.
“Yeah. Comes from hard work and good business sense. You got a good head for business, Harry?”
Keating sat down on the couch.
That made Harry laugh. Looking down, he laced his fingers together before answering. “No, sir. Money runs through my fingers like water, man. Helena yells at me all the time about that.”
“Yes, drugs are an expensive habit.” Keating settled back against the pillows, watching him with those eagle eyes. “If I hire you, Harry, you can have all the coke you want — when you’re not driving. I don’t hire hotheads or drunks, so if you indulge in either pot or booze you might as well leave now.” His right hand toyed with the tassel on the closest pillow.
“Can’t handle the headaches pot gives me, and I only have a drink once in a while. My whole damn family barely touches the hard stuff… soft drinks, mostly.” Why in hell was he telling this hard case that?
Keating smiled, looking five years younger. “It’s good to hear you say that, my information bears that out.” He leaned forward as if he was eager to share some secret. “My information also says you want someone very badly, Harry. And that happens to fit right in with my own plans.”
A chill crawled up Harry’s spine. “I-I dunno what you mean, Mr. Keating. What’re ya talking about?”
“Don’t waste my time, Harry. My boys hear everything going on in this town — that’s what they’re paid for. They tell me you and your brothers want revenge on a certain cop. Are my boys lying?” There was a terrible menace in his tone.
For a fraction of a second, Harry toyed with the idea of leaping to his feet and getting the hell out of Leon Keating’s life, but as he met that steady gaze his will seemed to drain away. The family had thought he was nuts because he’d said it might be a good idea to let Helena do her own dirty work, but he was willing to bet they wouldn’t object to letting a big shot like Keating take care of it.
“We’ve talked about working him over — ‘eye-for-an-eye’ sorta thing…” He shrugged. Sitting here, staring at all this wealth and power, it sounded like some schoolboy prank. “We all really liked Lud,” he finished lamely.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blonde get to her feet, switch off the TV and approach Keating. She was wearing a silk robe with nothing but a pair of satin panties under it and Harry averted his eyes as she stopped beside his host.
“Leo, I dunno where you find ’em, but you better watch out for the family type.” She looked over at Harry, blue eyes hard. “You from L.A.?”
“Not originally, ma’am. Tarpon Springs, Florida’s where we come from.”
The blonde curls bobbed as she nodded, her red mouth forming a brittle smile. “Thought as much. Well, if you go to work for Leo, here, you better check your balls every few hours ’cause he’s got a way of — Ouch!!”
Keating had grabbed her wrist and was bending her arm so that she had to kneel in order to keep it from being broken. “You little tramp! That’s the thanks I get for saving your hide. Go pour yourself into some clothes and get me something to eat. Now!” He let go suddenly and she bit her lip as she rose to her feet, her gaping robe revealing perfect breasts, the left one showing a darkening bruise.
As if nothing had happened, he turned back to Harry and continued their conversation. “Like I said, Harry, if you want to work for me, I’ll take good care of you, but I demand absolute loyalty.” He smiled, eyes shutting like a cats. He reached into his shirt pocket and tossed a small packet onto the coffee table. “You do a good job for me and you’ll have one of these, plus one grand a week.”
Harry took the packet, let it sit on his palm for a moment before he opened it. Coke; hi-grade, more than he saw in six months. He dipped a finger into the white powder, tasting it delicately. Shit! It was uncut! Startled, he glanced sharply over at the watchful Keating. “It’s uncut… you mean it?”
Once again Keating played with the tassel on the pillow. “Sure. Why shouldn’t you fix your own poison?” He dropped his affable mood, and leaned closer to the fascinated Harry.
“Just you remember one thing, Collis. Once you work for me, you got no other family unless I say so. You don’t open your mouth, or ask questions, and above all, you stay sober. My boys don’t make headlines. They don’t get picked up for being out of line, because once the cops get them, they’re marked for life. And then I got no use for them. That clear?”
He was probably going to regret it, but for the life of him, Harry couldn’t turn down Keating’s offer. He’d be able to save enough money to get his own place, maybe even help Helena and the kid. Besides, it wasn’t forever. “You gotta deal, Mr. Keating. When do I start?”
Keating got to his feet, and disappeared through a doorway. When he came back, he had the little old guy with him. “This is Mr. Caulkins, he’ll handle the details.” His expression changed, was cool and appraising. “And Harry, don’t ever show your face here again, or you’ll lose it. Understand?”
All Harry could do was nod. Bewildered by Keating’s sudden animosity, he asked, “Did I say something wrong?”
“Forget it,” snapped Caulkins. “Did you bring your car?”
“Yeah. It’s out front…”
“Take it to this address, then get into the Ford sedan you see parked behind the Taco Bell on Third and Marenga. Here are the keys. There are instructions taped to the dash and a pair of surgeon’s gloves on the seat. Wear them!”
Something began winding very tight in Harry’s stomach, but he managed to look assured. “Then what?”
Caulkins gave him a withering look. “There’s a body in the trunk. Take it out and do as the instructions tell you.”
“Jesus Christ! You already killed Hutchinson?” He felt, robbed, betrayed. What was Helena going to say? He longed for a line or two of coke, but knew better than to fool around now.
Caulkins shook his head. “No. Just follow the instructions to the letter, have you got that? Then go home and forget this happened. We’ve already got an alibi for you should you need one.”
It was too much to comprehend. Harry slipped the keys, coke and the address into his pocket, then was ushered to the elevator by the old geezer. Keating was nowhere to be seen. When he got back out onto the street, he noticed absently that somebody had re-parked his car so that it was legal. That cheered him up, and as soon as he was in it, he switched on the light to look at the little map. The glassine envelope with its tempting contents crackled against his shirt and he bit his lip in order to keep from using it. Uncut; what a high that would give a guy! Still, with cash and pure coke, he’d be able to make a few deals of his own… Keating never had to know. Grinning, filled with a joy he hadn’t felt in years, he started his car. With a big mother like Keating after Hutchinson, the cop didn’t stand a chance. He shot across the street, just before the light turned red. This was the life!
~~~
The Laundromat smelled of damp clothes, detergent and perfumed fabric softener. Hutch began sneezing and couldn’t stop. At first, the customers had looked sympathetic, but now their glances were more annoyed than anything. He wiped his streaming eyes and vowed that Starsky would have to take the stupid sheets for the next month. He began loading the already dry loads into the back seat of the car, when he heard the squeal of tires and a familiar voice.
“You fall into a machine?”
Exasperated as he was, Hutch had to grin. “Get stuffed, you jerko. It’s my damn allergies… getting worse every time I come in here.”
Starsky got out of the Torino, nodding. “Get in your car and tell me which dryers are yours. I’ll bring the rest out.”
“You got a deal. Four and nine. Bring out four’s load first and I’ll fold ’em.” He stared straight at his lover. “Towels. We’re always out of towels.”
He watched the color deepen on Starsky’s cheeks, then the beloved grin appeared. “Yeah, we’ll probably need some tonight, huh?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Never give up, do you?” Hutch muttered as he pushed Starsky toward the building. “Make sure they’re dry.” He cleared a space for the next basket… “Dunno why I care, damn things’ll be damp by morning.” He watched through the big window as Starsky pulled the little cart over to the dryer and opened its door. As he leaned in a bit to grab the farthest towels, his neat ass was exposed to view. Hutch grinned, eyes taking in every curve of the delectable rump, the narrow waist. The grin faded, though, when he noticed a lanky individual seated on one of the washers appreciating the same view. “Stay planted, asshole, or you’ll join your shorts in the tub,” he growled. He moved a little closer, absorbed in what was going on. Absently, he reached in his back pocket for his handkerchief, cursing when it got tangled with his comb. Yanking hard, he heard it snap and swore at the sound. One piece fell to the ground as he freed his handkerchief and he bent to pick it up. As he did, there was the sound of tires moving slowly over the gravel-strewn asphalt and he froze, keeping out of sight without knowing why. When the car had passed, he crept around to his trunk and crouched down still further. He saw a white Volvo estate wagon parking in front of the bakery, which was closed. It had tinted windows so he couldn’t see inside, but all of a sudden he whirled, heart pounding, and looked for Starsky who was coming through the doorway of the Laundromat. He flashed on that day several years ago and yelled his partner’s name as he pulled his gun from its holster, standing up to attract attention away from Starsky.
“Jesus, Winnie, it’s a hold-up!” shrieked someone as the Volvo’s door opened. “Here! Here’s my wallet, my credit cards… take whatever ya want… just don’t hurt us.” The articles were tossed out of the car.
“What’s goin’ on?” Starsky asked breathlessly as he joined Hutch. “You okay?” The towels lay in a pile on the sidewalk, and the Beretta’s barrel gleamed in the neon light.
Fighting to ignore his pounding heart, Hutch addressed the driver of the Volvo. “Sorry. You startled me when you drove in here so slowly,” he said, kneeling to retrieve the scattered credit cards and wallet.
A very pale, very obese young man peered out at him. “Shit, man, I just got a ticket five minutes ago for speeding. My ball and chain’s been chewing my uh, butt off so I was being — like — careful, ya know?” A pudgy hand accepted his belongings. “You the guard here, or what?”
Starsky, eyes narrowed, stared at the speaker. “Yeah, there’s been some trouble with prowlers so the management hired us. What’re you doing here?”
A woman’s face, round as a small moon, appeared at the man’s shoulder. Frowsy brown hair framed her features, and she chewed gum with the ferocity of a tiger eating its first meal in days. “If it’s any of your business, we were tryin’ to get to the bakery before it closed. Woulda, too, if Mr. Speedo here hadn’t got a ticket!” She glared at the hapless man, jaws working the gum even harder.
Hutch waved his hand, and she stopped talking as if he’d stuck a cork in her mouth. “Well, everything’s closed now except the Laundromat, so unless you’ve got clothes to wash, don’t loiter. Go home, bake a cake, eat crackers and cheese. Just don’t drive too fast getting there. You got that?” He tried to sound as stern as he could even though he’d seen Starsky turn away to laugh as he scooped up the fallen towels.
The Volvo’s engine roared to life as the couple rolled up their windows, closing them from view once more. With a clash of gears, the Volvo lurched off the lot. Judging by the speed the man was driving, he’d have another citation before he got home. Hutch sighed, then felt a warm hand on his arm and turned to face a somber Starsky.
“What the hell happened, Hutch? I thought someone was-was — well, maybe a hit — ” His voice trailed into silence while his grip tightened.
Hutch covered his hand, shivering from the added adrenaline in his system. “I heard the tires on the gravel, and you were just coming out the door… and I remembered the sound of that other car — ”
He locked glances with the partner he’d almost lost and whispered, “I panicked, Dave. Pure and simple panic after all this time.” He tried to smile, but failed miserably. “I thought I had it all behind me, but — ”
The towels were tossed into the back seat and Starsky took him in his arms, pressing him close, sharing his warmth, his strength. He slowly pushed away, gradually releasing the fear. “Just like a goddam movie, right? The part where the girl is scared for her lover’s safety…” This time the smile was genuine.
Starsky, eyes glowing, whooped his scorn. “Girl? I gotta check this out, pal.” His gaze, critical now, swept over Hutch and he shook his head. “Nope. Feet’re too big, the plumbing’s all wrong, and I don’t date girls who hafta shave every morning.”
“No? How about the one your Aunt Rosie introduced you to? Hell, she had five o’clock shadow — ”
A hand pressed against his mouth, followed by another sweeping up his back under his jacket. “Let’s get outta here, Hutch. I want to make love, not waste time standing in a parking lot talkin’ about old times…”
For a moment, Hutch stood studying Starsky’s face. The neon light, despite its harsh glare, accented the deep-set eyes with their long lashes. The curls, thick and slightly rumpled, softened the hard, strong features. “Hey, handsome, wanna spend the night?” he invited. He felt a slow, familiar tingle that warmed and chilled him at the same time. “I live right around the corner — ” he added, smiling at the unwavering gaze.
“Persuade me,” replied Starsky coolly. He might have been talking to a stranger, except his eyes gleamed with suppressed hunger. He didn’t move.
Game time… if that’s what you want…
There was no one around, and the walkway between the bakery and the Laundromat was dark and secluded — a perfect spot for what Hutch had in mind. “Come on,” he said breathlessly as he drew the supple body along with him. Once out of sight, he pushed his lover against the bakery wall, pressing against him, seeking oblivion in a deep kiss. Starsky was all hard muscles and soft shadows, smelling of leather and aftershave. It was intoxicating. Hutch ran his fingers through the thick hair, murmuring, “You turn me on faster than a light switch.” His hands slipped behind Starsky’s waist, then slid to cup his beautiful ass. He felt their bodies touch and flow together. “Jesus! You’re so… so…”
He closed his eyes as a hot mouth claimed his, and Starsky began to return the embrace. “I’m persuaded,” he finally growled. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
It took five minutes to retrieve the contents of the dryer, another eight for each of them to reach Venice Place and carry the laundry up the stairs, and less than three minutes for them to strip and tumble into bed.
“I want to make love to you,” Hutch whispered as he caressed Starsky’s body. Great, dark eyes widened when he slid his hands under the firm hips and began massaging the flesh.
“What are you doin’, kneading dough? That ain’t what I had in mind. Start by takin’ care of this, will ya?”
Starsky bucked his body higher until Hutch could no longer ignore the hardening cock waving so temptingly just below his mouth. With a groan, he settled his lover back onto the bed and knelt to kiss the hot, straining flesh, only entering him when Starsky threatened to die on the spot, otherwise. God, how he loved to make love to this man; in all the world there was nothing he desired more than the lean, bronzed body beneath him.
Starsky’s voice urging him to fuck slower, deeper, harder, only served to excite him until his last anchor with reality was the ultimate sensation of his lover’s climax before his own oblivion. He didn’t withdraw immediately; he couldn’t bear the separation. Instead, he turned them onto their sides, legs laced together, and stroked the quivering flanks, massaging Starsky’s semen into their skin. Sometimes that action alone restored the need for more sex; slow, delicious, exhausting, but tonight was different. Hutch felt the gradual relaxing of muscles and heard a long sigh. He smiled, then allowed himself a few little pushes back and forth before gently withdrawing.
“Thanks, babe,” he murmured, as he groped for one of the clean towels.
It was handed to him by Starsky, who said softly, “You’re welcome, darlin’. Feel free to call again.”
“Ass.” Hutch pulled the blankets up to cover them both. He slipped his arm around Starsky’s middle and hugged him close, nuzzling his shoulder. “You feel like doing a little house hunting after work tomorrow?” he asked, holding very still.
There was the faintest intake of breath, but Hutch heard it and added, “I love you, you know,” he said quietly, “for what it’s worth.”
Starsky turned within the circle of his arms until they were face to face, then reached up and stroked Hutch’s cheek with gentle fingers before whispering, “I’ll have you know, Sergeant Hutchinson, that your love is worth a helluva lot to me. It’s what made me get outta that hospital bed and come back to work.”
A kiss planted itself on Hutch’s chin. “It’s what keeps me alive from mornin’ to night, just so I can return the favor… and love you back.” He laughed aloud. “Of course I want to go house hunting! Haven’t I been after you for a month of Sundays to start readin’ the ads?” Another kiss landed on Hutch’s neck. “But first of all, tell me why you changed your mind about waitin’ until I made lieutenant? Why now — not that your answer’s gonna make any difference, I just wanna know.”
There were no lies between them, no excuses. “Ander’s death, frankly.” He traced along the curve of Starsky’s upper lips. “I figured we’re just wasting time…” He averted his gaze.
A forefinger lifted his chin, and a warm mouth covered his own. “And maybe we don’t have time to waste, right? I’ve been thinkin’ that way all along. Glad you finally tumbled, babe.” He smiled, mood changing. “Now, where d’ya want to look first?”
Hutch shrugged, suddenly feeling very foolish. “Dunno. Where do you want to start? It was your idea, after all.”
His lover became thoughtful, the animated expression changing as he frowned. “Damn! How much of a commute do you want? You wanna be near a lot of stores?”
Hutch groaned, and rolled over onto his stomach. “God! Is this what it’s going to be like? Starsk, pick an area and let’s worry about the other details later.”
“Right! Let’s start downtown. I’ve always wanted to live in one of those condos.”
“Oh, no, you don’t! I want a house with a big yard and trees and privacy!” scolded Hutch. “I’m already living in a fuckin’ apartment.”
There was a deep chuckle as Starsky pulled him into his arms. “See? You tell me to choose, so I do and you yell. I can see it’s not going to be easy trying to please you. Let’s sleep on it and talk about it tomorrow.”
Hutch let his head rest on his lover’s chest. “Don’t give me that line of bull. Just because I want a yard doesn’t mean we have to live in the boonies.” He rubbed his face against the silky chest hair and sleepily said, “We’re gonna need a big bedroom, and a bathroom with a tub and shower… Oh, and our own washer and dryer.”
“Shut up! Or I’m gonna go sleep in my car.”
“In a pig’s eye,” Hutch grunted as he was gripped even more tightly. “And I get the shower first in the morning.”
An audible sniff was Starsky’s response, then he grunted, “Sure thing — you need it more’n I do.”
Hutch was too tired to do anything but jam his elbow into Starsky’s midriff. There was no more talk after that.
~~~
Albert Caulkins carefully replaced the damask drape as Harry Collis pulled away. When he turned to face Leon Keating his face was a twisted mask of fury. “All right. Now that that gullible fool’s gone, explain yourself. What do you know about Fass’s disappearance?”
Keating began laughing. “Get off your high horse, Albert. Where in our little deal did it say I couldn’t do things my way if I wanted to?”
But the smaller man wasn’t amused. “So help me, Leon, if you’ve queered this operation by raising Fass’s suspicions, I’ll personally run you out of town!”
Keating stopped laughing and looked Caulkins up and down. “Yeah? With what I know about wasting Templeton? Just take it easy, big man. Fass is dead… and he had it coming.”
The effect on Caulkins was immediate. He turned chalky white, swallowed, then his features contorted. “Dead? My God, do you realize the chance we’re taking? Can you comprehend at all what you’ve done?” He yanked off his glasses and proceeded to wipe them with a silk handkerchief. “Whatever possessed you to kill Fass, of all people? I thought we’d agreed that you were going to set him up, then let my office arrest him for conspiring against the government.” The glasses were settled back on Caulkins’ nose. “That was how you were going to remain free, remember?”
Keating sighed, and ran his hand over his scalp before answering. “Like I said, the bastard had it coming. He reneged on the price we’d set, plus he wanted a cut of my operation. Tried to muscle in on my organization. Well, I been dealin’ with weirdoes like him for years; I could see what was coming.” He sucked his teeth, grinning. “I waited until his back was turned and blew a hole in him big enough to park your car in.”
Caulkins scowled. “Bodies with holes in them tend to bleed, may I remind you. What have you done with the, ah, corpse?”
Ice cubes dropped into a glass, were covered with bourbon, then swirled with a swizzle stick. “Al, you must think you’re dealing with some kind of moron. There’s nothing left of Wilhelm Fass but some bone ends and a gold pivot tooth. Which, I might point out was saved because Alonzo figured Hutchinson might not have one — smart, right?”
A very small smile strayed across Caulkins’ face, then fled. “I apologize, Leo. Acid would have been my choice, too. You did your homework.” He folded the handkerchief and stuck it in his breast pocket, the ends in perfect points.
Leo’s grey eyes fixed on the older man. “But you’re still wondering why I need Hutchinson, aren’t you? Well, Mister Mastermind, I did some thinking, and if Fass’ partners knew he was coming out here — and they probably did — and all of a sudden he’s missing, they’re likely to get curious and come snooping. I want that blond cop because he looks enough like Fass to pass for him, especially if he’s dead… and he’s messed up real bad.” He drained his glass, and walked over to a closed door.
“Coral? You got your ass ready to pick up some food? Get out here!” Turning back to face Caulkins, he continued, “See, I had to ice that first cop because there’s no way he woulda passed for Fass.” He snorted his contempt. “You still got everybody convinced you got a mole in my organization?”
Caulkins shrugged. “I did until Templeton stumbled onto the fact I couldn’t produce one…” He sounded the faintest bit regretful. “There’s going to be one hell of an investigation when he turns up dead. Of course, like so many smart men, he tripped up by phoning me when he was all alone.” His features took on a predatory look. “He wanted to meet me at Chasen’s, of all places. Thought it would be safe there.” His laugh held no mirth. “What he didn’t realize was that when he called me, my answering service transferred the call to me in my car. He thought I was home. I was waiting for him in the parking lot — and made him get into my car.” He was like a storyteller relating a story; lost in its telling. “Strange, the things you pick up in the DA’s office. I gave him a lethal dose of insulin; my wife’s a diabetic, you know. He died quietly… and it will look like an accident when they find him in the car.”
Fascinated, Keating asked, “So, where’d ya make the pop? If there’re no marks on the body, they’ll do a post, won’t they?”
This time Caulkins’ smile was genuine. “I was a medic in World War II. Give my wife her shot every morning. There’re lots of places to inject drugs that wouldn’t be suspected.”
“Okay, so why couldn’t you just prop him up at his desk and let him be found in the morning? Why all this James Bond stuff?”
The glasses shielded the expression in the older man’s eyes. “A traffic accident means the coroner won’t be looking for much beyond the usual. Heart attack, stroke, those sudden-onset causes that happen to older men — especially ones in high tension jobs.” He smiled his fish smile. “Do you know how many lawyers die from stress-induced causes? John Templeton will simply become a statistic, that’s all.”
Nodding, Keating said, “Gotcha. Well, ain’t that sort of what I’m doing? I want it known that Fass is dead, but I don’t want anybody to suspect me.” He took his wallet out of his hip pocket and bellowed, “Coral! If you ain’t out here in one minute you’re history!”
The door opened and Coral appeared, sans make-up, looking years younger in jeans and an oversized shirt of muted blues. Her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail and her face was scrubbed clean. “So, whatcha want, hero? Reuben? Pastrami with horseradish? Hurry up!” She jerked her thumb toward Caulkins. “Anything for Mister Law and Order, there?” Her contempt was obvious.
Keating slapped her on the side of her face, almost knocking her off balance. “You goddamn slut! You mind your manners around your betters or I’ll — ”
Coral stood up, cheek flaming. “Leo, let’s get somethin’ straight right now. I may be only a whore, but when it comes to my betters you two ain’t even in my league. Now give me the fuckin’ money and let me get outta here.” She curtsied in front of them both, then, laughing harshly, grabbed up her purse and jacket and sauntered out the door. “Two Reubens on rye, one with mustard, one with mayo. And fuck you both!” The door slammed.
~~~
Somewhere far below her she heard Lud’s voice calling. She staggered to the edge of his grave and peered down, the baby tight against her breast. The grave was now an abyss, stretching on and on like the bowels of hell.
“Give him to me,” Lud begged, hands outstretched, “for just a minute. I want to hold him.” His eyes burned in grey flesh.
Even as she knelt there, her hair whipped about her face by the fetid vapors rising from below, she knew she couldn’t relinquish the child. “Darling, please, I can’t do it. He is so tiny — so helpless… I can’t!” she wailed.
“‘Lena, don’t you understand? Only one single minute, that’s all… and he will have all the power he will ever need.” Lud’s voice was like a stake driven through her heart, and she screamed with the pain of it, but as she fell back, she clutched her child even closer, ignoring his struggles to escape.
From below the rim of the abyss, Lud shouted for his son, vowing his safety. “Haven’t I always protected you, ‘lena?” he howled. “I protected everybody!”
She felt unseen hands clutching at her child and looked up, meeting a pair of fire-blue eyes. As she stared, the tall form of Lud’s murderer took shape, his hair white flames that writhed, snake-like toward her. “Give him the child!” he commanded, reaching with blood-soaked hands to grasp one tiny arm. Laughing, the apparition yanked her baby from her and tossed it into the grave. “Keep him… keep him… keep him…”
She began screaming, her hands beating on her abdomen as if to hammer her flesh into an inviolable haven. “Get away! Get away! Jesu! Protect us, protect us!”
The overhead light flicked on and Stavros rushed into the bedroom, pulling Helena’s arms away from her sides, holding them up while she writhed like some mad thing. Pink-tinged spittle covered her mouth as she shrieked her terror. Then, as suddenly as she had begun, she quieted down, slumping against her brother’s huge frame. “He — he threw the baby into Lud’s grave,” she moaned, making no attempt to pull away. Meeting his horrified glance, she whispered, “He must pay a blood-price tonight, or I will die, Stavvy. Lud cannot sleep either. That demon must pay!”
“Shhh. Shhh. Yes, we will see to it this very day. Go to sleep, ‘lena, it was only a bad dream.” With gentle hands he pulled down her nightgown, tucking the covers tight around her before leaving the room. After he turned off the light, he went into the kitchen to make several phone calls… this thing could wait no longer. His final call was to Helena’s doctor. They talked for a long time.
~~~
An accident on the Wilshire Blvd. off-ramp made the ride to Parker Center a nightmare, and Starsky and Hutch were thirty minutes late, which only served to sour Dobey’s already bad temper. As they settled down to work signing off old reports, they kept glancing up and smiling at one another. Even another stack of reports shoved their way couldn’t dim their good humor. After a trip to the men’s room, Starsky came back with a folded section of the Times. He slid it across to Hutch, who opened it up, nodding when he saw it was the Real Estate section.
“Snitch it from Grimes?” he asked.
“He was through with it,” was the cryptic comment as Starsky shuffled a tall pile of folders into the OUT basket.
When their first call came, they said nothing, merely signed out, then hurried to the elevator.
Since it was Hutch’s snitch who had called, they used his car. Starsky began scanning the ads as they sped along, offering a comment or a whistle once in a while. When they were only a few blocks from their destination, the radio interrupted him.
“Zebra Three, Zebra Three, you have a 10-19 from Captain Dobey.”
“This is Zebra Three,” Starsky responded, “we’re answering a Code Six right now. Patch me through, will ya?”
“Sorry, Starsky, this is a possible 187 involving an Officer of the Court.”
“Zebra Three. We are going Code Three,” Starsky replied immediately. He put back the receiver then took his gun from its holster, checking the clip.
Hutch shot his partner a startled glance before slapping the Mars light on the roof. Expression grim, he flipped on the siren, clearing traffic out of their way. “Who the hell d’ya suppose it is?”
“Dunno, but Dobey must want to see us real bad.” Starsky started to say something else, but instead folded the Times section very neatly and slipped it under the seat. “Let’s start looking in Los Feliz, huh? There’s some nice places up in the hills.”
Even though he was concentrating on his driving, Hutch had to smile. It was so typical of Starsky to act as if nothing unusual had happened. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and this won’t take long,” he said. “Be nice if we could find something kinda close to the Greek.”
“Yeah, summer concerts, frisbee in the park… just like everybody else.” Starsky settled his gun back in the holster as they raced through an intersection.
“No. You’re wrong, Starsk,” Hutch said firmly, smiling at his partner’s surprise. “Better than everybody else because it’s you and me.” He shut off the siren as he pulled into the parking lot, then removed the light. He nodded quickly, “Right?”
A big grin, an answering nod was his reward. “Damn straight, partner.” Easing out of the car, Starsky flexed his shoulders, “Only we do the looking in my car, right?”
Laughing, Hutch nodded again. “Right!”
However, when they strode into the squadroom and saw the captain’s grim expression, they put all thoughts of their personal happiness aside. Dobey gestured for them to come into his office, and closed the door.
“What’s this all about, Cap’n?” asked Starsky as he sat down. “Who’d they attempt to murder?”
Before Dobey could answer, the door opened again, and Captain Shemansky entered. “Good. I see you found them.” He leaned against the desk, back to Dobey, and looked at Hutch with smug satisfaction. “Where were you last night, Sergeant Hutchinson?”
Color flamed on the fair skin and Hutch exchanged a quick glance with Starsky. “Before I answer that, I want to know what business it is of yours!” he snapped, eyes narrowing.
Shemansky was visibly trying to control his temper. “At three this morning, Assistant DA John Templeton’s car was recovered from where it had plunged down an embankment. Templeton’s body was in the car.” He reached for a cigar.
“Not in my office!” roared Dobey, getting to his feet. “Can’t you read that sign?” He pointed to the wall across from his desk. “That applies to everyone who sets foot in here.”
The cigar was left in its pocket and the OCID captain reached for a stick of gum, instead. The two detectives waited until the wrapper was safely deposited in the trash basket before daring to look at Dobey.
“I’m sorry to hear about Templeton,” Hutch said with genuine regret. “He was a good prosecutor.” He crossed his legs, unzipped his jacket. “But what does his death have to do with me?”
It was the question Shemansky had obviously been hoping for. He leaned forward, shaking his finger at Hutch. “It’s well-known that you felt Templeton was harassing you. That his determination to find out your real motive for bowing out of the Fass case made you very angry.”
Starsky yawned, then stood up as if to leave. “Maybe Hutch didn’t like him much, but you’re the one he pasted, and you’re still alive,” he said cuttingly. He moved to stand behind his partner. “What’s the estimated time of death, Shemansky?” His fingers rested lightly on the back of Hutch’s chair.
“Coroner’s working on it now,” came back the answer. His glance darted around the room, then rested once again on Hutch. “Where were you?” he demanded.
Hutch shook his head. “Shemansky, let me tell you something. You and I both know that until you have a time of death, and some reason to place me under suspicion, I don’t have to tell you a damn thing. John Templeton had a hell of a lot more people with grudges against him than me, so go chase somebody else’s ass.” He got to his feet, addressing the watchful Dobey. “Captain, I just got a call from an informant pertaining to the Fass case. I think it’s important enough to follow up.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m already late for our meeting. Are we dismissed?”
The dark eyes surveyed him solemnly, then studied Starsky. “Neither of you know anything about this, right?”
“No, sir,” they chorused, crowding one another in the doorway.
“That’s good enough for me,” Dobey said briskly, “but I want to talk to Starsky. You go to your meet, then I’ll talk to you, too. Now, get outta here!”
The detectives conferred briefly; Hutch finally heading for the door. Starsky watched until he was out of sight, then came back to wait for Dobey.
“Harold! What in hell are you doing? There’s a helluva good chance that blond hotshot is involved in some way — ”
Dobey moved swiftly for a big man. With one hand, he reached for Shemansky’s jacket lapel and pulled him away from his desk. “You shut your mouth and listen to me for just one minute! Ken Hutchinson has been under fire from men with a lot more ammo than you have and has come up clean each and every time! If he says he doesn’t know anything, then he’s telling the truth!” He let go and stepped back, adjusting his tie. “I’m going to lunch with Detective Starsky, then I’m going to call the coroner, and if I don’t like what I hear, I’m going to write a letter to the Police Commissioner reporting your harassment of one of my men.”
Livid with rage, Shemansky stalked out of the office, pausing only long enough to toss the gum in the trash. The cigar was jammed in his mouth, lit and a huge cloud of smoke promptly filled the squadroom. Smiling now, he turned back to the other captain. “We’ll see who’s right. My money is that your golden boy’s halo is real tarnished. Be seein’ you, Harold.”
Dobey could only grunt, he was so angry. Starsky put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “You did say lunch, didn’t you? I know this great little place that serves the best chili. Fresh blue corn tortillas — ”
“All right, let’s go. But I’ve got some hard questions for you, Dave, and I want some hard answers.”
Starsky frowned, but said nothing as they strode to the elevator, the odor of Shemansky’s cigar still pungent in the air. “Do you think there was foul play?” he asked finally.
Once again the dark eyes studied him. “I’m not going to start wondering about that until I hear what the coroner has to say. How long do you think Hutch is going to be?”
Shrugging, Starsky thought a minute. “Well, if old Pete is as eager to spill his guts as usual, he should be back in an hour. A bottle of Dago red, a few bucks and Pete’s happy to cough up whatever he knows.”
His glance swept the parking lot as he unlocked the Torino. When he stopped in his tracks and stared, Dobey said impatiently, “Come on, Dave. I want to get back before Hutch does.”
But Starsky was already dashing across the lot to where one particular car was parked. Dobey, hurrying after him heard him say, “Migawd! Hutch!”
The captain’s heart lurched and he stopped in his tracks. Starsky was standing beside Hutch’s car, door open, and the car keys in his palm. “Something’s happened to Hutch, Cap’n… He never went to his meet.”
~~~
The four men in the Camaro were silent, their dark features revealing little of their inner turmoil. The driver of the car drove with extreme care, avoiding the streets where the cops patrolled. It took fifteen minutes to reach the downtown interchange, another twenty before the sign for the 605 loomed ahead, then fifteen more before the turn-off they wanted. The driver was the first to speak. “So where the hell did Harry go last night?”
Stavros, beside him, cleared his throat. “He left about eight, said he had a very important interview with a couple of big shots and wouldn’t be home until late.” A note of worry crept into his deep voice. “He never made it home. Bed wasn’t slept in, didn’t show up for work. That ain’t like Harry.”
In the back seat, Alex sat staring out the window, fighting to keep from throwing up. Beside him sat Miklos, hat in hands, endlessly playing with the brim.
“You realize we may have killed him, don’t you?” Alex finally said. “This is absolutely crazy!”
“Killed who? Harry?” Nickolas uttered a harsh laugh. “That stupid little bastard’s probably killed himself with some damn drug or other.” He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. “Helena’s almost out of her mind with fear. She thinks that the cop snatched him.” He glanced in the rear view mirror when a black and white cruised by. “Shit! I missed the turn-off.”
“It don’t matter,” grunted Stavros, “we got lots of time, so drive slow. When that cop shows up missing there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“So what? Nothing like the hell our sister’s going through,” said Miklos, finally looking at Alex. “Maybe I should take her up to the ranch — let Rita look after her.”
Alex stared at him. “You’re as nutty as she is. Rita hates her, always has. ‘Lena wouldn’t stay there.” He shook his head. “We can’t get rid of Hutchinson until after dark. By then the cemetery will be closed. So what are we going to do in the meantime?”
They fell silent, each lost in thought. At last Nickolas spoke up. “He could already be dead, you know. Stavvy hit him real hard. Maybe we should check?”
“Sure. Just pull into a gas station, open the trunk and look him over. Christ, I think we broke his arm stuffing him in there.” Miklos was sweating now, and wiped it away with his hand. “Roll down the fucking window, will you? We got nothing to hide.”
“Jesus Christ, I don’t believe you all. A man may be dying or already dead, and we’re driving around like a bunch of goddamn saints! I can’t take this — what we’re doing is wrong!”
“Alex, if you don’t stop whining, Hutchinson ain’t gonna be the only one with a busted arm! It’s the blood price… it’s gotta be paid. We all took a vow on Lud’s grave, didn’t we?” Stavros turned to look at his brothers in the back seat. “I don’t understand. Money, education, why should you be so different from us? We’re the same,” he said in a puzzled voice.
“Not anymore,” replied Alex bitterly, “we’ve got more to lose. Good jobs, a ranch, our honor…”
“Only the honor of a debt repaid concerns us,” retorted Nickolas bitingly. “Only the honor of our widowed sister, her peace of mind. Your worries are dirt, dust in the wind.”
Once again they were silent and the Camaro sped through the suburban streets like any other homeward bound commuters.
Like them, the man in the trunk was silent.
~~~
By afternoon the wire services had all broadcast the story of John Templeton’s death. Video film of the retrieval of his car was being readied for the early news channels. City officials had called a news conference for 5 p.m., promising to reveal what little they knew.
However, there was no mention of a missing police officer, Dobey reasoning that OCID would put Hutch’s disappearance down to flight to avoid prosecution, thus incriminating the detective. One look at Starsky was enough to want to spare him that hell. He was going through enough as it was. Lunch had been several cups of coffee, a handful of stale Fritos, and three Tums.
He took five minutes to call Edith to let her know he would be working late and why. Her whispered shock was too painful to bear, so he rang off after swearing to call her if he learned anything.
He sat back in his chair for several minutes, closing his eyes and trying to picture various scenarios in his head. None of them were reassuring, and he knew that the longer Hutch was missing the more likely he was to have met with every man’s ultimate enemy. To snatch a cop at a police station in broad daylight was an act of desperation. Desperate men often committed unspeakable acts. Behind his closed lids, tears burned his eyes. As he opened them, he reached for the phone, dialing Starsky’s extension. “Dave, come in my office, will you? I need some information.” Was that his only reason for summoning the man? Or did he need some sort of reassurance that Hutch was still alive?
He was shocked when Starsky opened the door and entered the room, then wondered at his surprise. Gone was the nonchalant air, the graceful walk, the smile lurking in the blue eyes. They had been replaced by simple fear… and the look of the hunter.
“Yeah? What kind of information?” Even with the captain his manner was wary, as if anyone asking for his time was the enemy, a barrier to be swept away.
Sensing this, Dobey got right to the point. “For starters, what do you think happened?”
“Must be Shemansky’s goons,” Starsky replied without pause. “Too much of a coincidence — the timing.” Yet, even as he was speaking a note of doubt crept into his tone. “We weren’t close enough to the Fass thing for him to be snatched by Keating. Hell, he didn’t even get to learn what old Pete wanted.”
They locked glances, Starsky sucking in a deep breath. “God, what if Pete was goin’ to warn him about being in danger? Maybe I better go find out what he wanted.” He turned on his heel, looking over his shoulder. “If he knows anything, I’m bringing him in.”
“In the meantime, I’ll try the DA’s staff. To have both Hutch and Templeton meet trouble is too damn much of a coincidence, isn’t it? There’s something phony about that car accident. Then I’ll start on Shemansky. And God help him if he knows anything about Hutch’s disappearance.”
“God won’t be able to help him if he’s holdin’ Hutch,” Starsky retorted. Then, just as he was leaving, he snapped his fingers and said, “Maybe you ought to call S.I. and see if they found Templeton’s gun on his person, or in his car. Huggy told me when he left his office, he was mad as hell, and carrying his piece.”
Dobey’s expression didn’t change, but he instantly recalled an occasion several years ago in which Templeton had confessed his distaste for firearms. He’d always dreamed of a police force modeled after the English bobby, but knew it was impossible here.
“Thanks, Dave, that’s interesting.”
He began leafing through his directory, looking for Natalie Scott’s number. The young assistant DA had impressed him with her savvy when Shemansky had taken Hutch into custody during that clumsy attempt to frame him. Maybe she was also interested in helping now; Lord knew he needed help. A man could get lost in the myriad twists and turns of bureaucratic corridors. While Starsky and the other men prowled through the streets of L.A., he would search the offices and memories of the hierarchy. He hadn’t been nicknamed The Badger by his first Captain for nothing. Smiling, he lifted the receiver.
~~~
Pain. Sharp, dull, throbbing, steady… Hutch lay folded up like a broken stick in the stuffy trunk, analyzing the various kinds of pain he felt. He cradled his arm close to his stomach, trying not to move it much. His head hurt worse than the goddamn break did and he knew the sticky stuff on the side of his face was dried blood. It had taken him all of thirty seconds to realize he was riding in the trunk of a car — probably that Camaro he’d caught a glimpse of just before the lights went out.
“Ugh…” He groaned out loud, knowing whoever was driving couldn’t hear him. “You mother — just wait until Starsky gets his hands on you!” Since he had absolutely no idea of the time, he didn’t know if his partner had even missed him yet. Especially if whoever snatched him had moved his car.
It was then that the hopelessness of his position hit him and he felt a sick lurch in his gut. What if he was about to meet the same fate as John Templeton? Despite the blinding headache, he had to think. What did he know about the DA’s death? He hadn’t been found in the trunk of his car, that much was certain, so chances were whoever this was would take him out and stick him in the front seat.
Ignoring his arm, he slowly turned on his side, grunting when his shoulder encountered something very hard. Sliding his hand up, he smiled when he identified the object as a large wrench. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he thought. If he could only get the jump on the bastard, he might have a chance to escape. No matter how long he had to wait, he wasn’t going to go down easy. He closed his eyes and began to take slow, deep breaths, focusing down on one certain person, one special smile.
It was then he realized that the car had stopped and a door had opened. He stilled, willing himself to absolute immobility. His fingers tightened on the wrench, then relaxed. If he didn’t make it, at least Starsky would know he hadn’t gone without a fight. “Come on, you fucker,” he muttered. He was ready.
Shemansky’s secretary barely recognized the hard-bitten cop coming in the office door as the charmer she’d seen only a couple of weeks ago. Quickly masking her surprise, she said, “The captain is in conference. Can you wait?”
Smoldering blue eyes stared at her from beneath close-knit brows. “Just tell him it’s Detective Dave Starsky from Metro Homicide. If he’s busy, I’ll talk to Jerry Tozukawa.” He didn’t take a seat, merely leveled his gaze at the captain’s door.
Sensing something wasn’t right, she left her desk and tapped on the door, easing her way in before Shemansky even answered her knock.
The room was filled with smoke and she waved her hand to push some of the foul air away. “Detective David Starsky wants to see you or Jerry now. Says it’s important.” She put enough of a challenge in her voice to let him know she wasn’t going to leave without an answer.
“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a meeting?”
Her glance swept over his visitor and then back to him. It was that slimy toad from the DA’s office, Caulkins, and she knew they were talking about John Templeton’s death. For a moment, she flashed back on the day the blond cop had met with all the big shots, then left in a huff. Both DA’s had been there, then. “I’m sorry, sir, but he looks like a man who needs to talk. Shall I get Jerry?”
Caulkins got to his feet, smiling at her. “Of course not. No doubt Sergeant Starsky is here on official business. Show him in.” He went over to the window and looked out at the view.
She saw the captain send him a distinctly apprehensive look before she left the room to tell the detective that Shemansky would see him. If anything, the hard features grew even sterner, the eyes darker. For some reason, she was reminded of the movies about the lone gunfighter facing a gang.
~~~
Starsky had no illusions as to what his reception would be as he entered Shemansky’s office. His attempt to question Hutch’s snitch had been a bust; the old guy was three sheets to the wind on muscatel and swore he had simply wanted to hit up his sucker partner for a few bucks by feeding him some old info. Pete was no fool; and when he learned that Hutch was missing, he had gaped like a fish out of water. He had sworn on his mother’s honor that he knew nothing about any snatch, and deep down Starsky knew the man wasn’t lying. He had wished desperately that he had been just so he could haul him in. Now, empty-handed, he was at his next stop.
Shemansky sat at his desk, grinding out the remains of his cigar. A smallish, balding man stood over by the window, features turned away. Starsky frowned, certain the man was no stranger.
“Yeah? What’s on your mind, Sergeant?”
“Where’re you holding Hutch?” he asked bluntly, including the man at the window in his question. “I know you had your gorillas snatch him, but this ain’t funny.” He felt the words sticking in his throat and fell silent, watching both men.
“What the hell are you talkin’ about? Nobody from OCID laid a hand on Hutchinson!” The florid face grew dark with fury as the captain leaped to his feet. “You and that yellow son-of-a-bitch worked this out, didn’t ya? I want him for questioning in this Templeton mess, and he’s taken a goddamn powder, hasn’t he?” A beefy fist slammed down on the desk, sending the ashtray skittering across its top. “You got your nerve, Starsky, accusing me of a stupid trick like that!”
“Marvin, Marvin. Get hold of yourself. Listen to what Sergeant Starsky has to say.” The little man had come forward during Shemansky’s tirade and stood directly in front of Starsky, unsmiling. “I’m Assistant District Attorney Albert Caulkins. John Templeton and I worked together.”
Starsky took a full minute to look the man over. Now that they were face to face, he remembered Hutch’s description of the ‘mousy’ jerk with the cold eyes. He decided he didn’t trust this one, either. “My partner’s missing, and I have reason to believe that he was forced to go with OCID’s zombies.”
Something like amusement glinted behind the thick lenses, but Caulkins turned slowly toward Shemansky. “Well, the detective has made a very serious allegation, Marvin. Is there a shred of truth to it?”
If Shemansky had had high blood pressure, he probably would have died then and there; instead he gave Caulkins a puzzled look and shook his head, slowly sitting down again. He pulled the ashtray back to its original location, then dumped its contents into the trash basket under his desk. “Not a shred,” he said dully. “And you and I both know it.” This time the look he gave the older man was icy.
The exchange wasn’t wasted on Starsky. Deciding to go with an inner voice, he made a conciliatory gesture. This was for Hutch; he couldn’t afford to ignore a single lead. “Sorry, sir, but he disappeared under definitely suspicious circumstances, and we’re afraid he’s met with foul play.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Caulkins make a move, but as he turned, he saw the man was merely pulling a chair up for him to sit down. He shook his head, but managed a smile. The DA took his former seat and gave Starsky his full attention.
“Please continue, Sergeant. There is a slight chance you may be right about him.”
“It ain’t a slight chance, sir. My partner never ran out on a deal in his life. Hutch — Hutch — ” He couldn’t say more about the man he loved, so merely told them about his partner leaving for his meet with his snitch, and later finding his car. “So you see, he never even made it out of the Metro parking lot.”
He was just about to tell them about old Pete when he noticed Caulkins’ expression. The DA had turned a pasty grey, and was leaning forward in his chair. “You okay?” he asked quickly, moving toward him.
He was waved away, and Caulkins shakily got to his feet. “I would like to hear more, Sergeant, but I just remembered I have to meet with the press. Captain, we’ll talk more later on.” He left the room without looking at either one of the men.
“Looked kinda sick, didn’t he?” offered Starsky as he watched the door close.
“Sergeant Starsky, sit down. I think it’s time you and I had a talk about a lot of things.”
Starsky obeyed, puzzled by the usually blunt-speaking captain’s conciliatory tone. He looked almost the same, except he was rather pale.
He glanced at his watch. “Listen, Captain, I’ve got to find my partner. He’s been missing for more than five hours now.”
“Please. This won’t take long. It’s been a long time coming.” Shemansky’s blunt fingers turned a wedding ring around and around, then began tugging at his collar. He called his secretary. “Get Jerry in here, will you? Well, as soon as he gets back.”
Glancing pointedly at his watch, Starsky settled in the chair, giving the captain all his attention.
“Have you ever heard of the SIS?” Shemansky asked quietly.
“Maybe… maybe not,” replied Starsky. “What about it?”
“When that department was formed in 1965 I was one of the men selected to join. I was young, smart, and too damn brash for my own good. It seemed like a great chance to make my mark. To get away from all the control exercised over the average cop…” He sat back, sighing, then shook his head. “We had the run of the city. Still do, as a matter of fact. Only I don’t belong to that bunch anymore. You want to know why?”
“Only if this has somethin’ to do with Hutch,” Starsky said. “The story of your life can wait until I find him.”
“Don’t sell what I’m telling you short, Starsky. You need me and I need to find your partner, too. He knows something and he’s getting snatched for it!”
“Yeah, well, if you didn’t grab him that means he’s in more danger than ever, don’t it? So say your piece and let me get back on the streets.”
“Well, there isn’t a single department in Los Angeles that isn’t hot to nab Fass. Not only will it end his hold on the dangerous criminal market, we’ve been trying to put a man into Keating’s mob for three years, with no success.”
Despite himself, Starsky was interested. “But Hutch told me that you said a mole was already under… and that was part of the trouble. That’s why the DA wanted him to go in as Fass, to see if the mole was okay.” He could feel his head spinning as the realization hit him. It had all been lies, but why?
The phone rang, and Shemansky snatched it up. “Oh, hello, Harold. Sorry to hear about — Sure, he’s here now.” He jotted down an address. “I think I’ve just solved one of OCID’s big mysteries. Stop by when you can. I’ll send him right over.”
Starsky sat staring out the window. It was dark now, and somewhere his lover was being held — or worse, hurt and waiting for help. He flashed back on those days when Hutch had been pinned under his car. Jesus, his bright, beautiful Hutch. But something in Shemansky’s tone brought him to his feet. “What’s Dobey want? Have they found Hutch?”
“We’ll talk later. Your captain wants you to meet him at the West Valley station on Vanowen. Use lights and siren all the way.” He hesitated. “Good luck, sergeant.”
“It’s my partner who needs it, so save your luck for him.”
~~~
Hutch closed his eyes, trying to count the number of voices he heard. His heart had almost stopped when he realized there were more than two. What if they all came at him at once? His chances were shitty at best, but so long as he had the advantage of surprise, there was still hope.
He tried to move his arm just enough to test it. Pain shot up to his elbow like a hot lance, and he swallowed the bile that rose in his throat in response. So much for using it; he was just thankful it wasn’t his right one.
The voices continued their low dialogue, and he wondered where in the hell they were parked. There were no familiar sounds penetrating the steel trunk lid. He could smell little; the dust around him was wreaking havoc with his sinuses. That was laughable… what a time to worry about a stuffy nose!
He wanted to pray, to offer up his tarnished soul before it was too late, but while he had one single breath left he was going to fight. He tried to picture Starsky by his side, but couldn’t… not here, not sharing his hell.
Jesus, help me!
That was all he had time for; keys were being fitted into the lock, rasping against the metal. He wrapped his fingers tight around the wrench’s handle, slitting his eyes so he would look unconscious. He hoped to God none of them had any medical knowledge. The trunk lid opened and he peered up into darkness. Two men were silhouetted there; big as houses, but neither of them held a gun. Maybe… just maybe there was a chance.
“Christ, what if Alex is right and he’s dead? What do we do then?” A deep, slow voice asked the question.
“Shit, Stavvy. If you hadn’t hit him so stinkin’ hard you wouldn’t have to ask. Get him outta there.”
“How? You said he’s got a broken arm… so how do I lift him out?” One of the shadows came closer, peering down into the trunk.
“If he’s dead he won’t care.” Another man speaking in a high, rapid voice, “Come on! If we don’t find out what happened to Harry, Helena’s going to freak out. Drag him out!”
“Where’s the flashlight? I ain’t gonna do nothin’ until I see him,” said the one named Stavvy. “I ain’t lifting no dead man without seeing him first.”
Hutch knew how to take advantage of the darkness. He moved slowly, almost crying out as he shifted his arm and the bone ends grated. He fought back a sudden wave of nausea, then brought the wrench into position.
“Get the fuckin’ flashlight, will you?” demanded someone.
Hutch heard a laugh and waited, trying to get the blood circulating in his legs. What was so funny?
“I’ll give you one guess where I keep it. Yeah, in the trunk. If you want it, you’ll have to get it yourself.” More laughter.
That had to be the bastard who owned the Camaro, but who were these people? They certainly weren’t from Keating’s mob. They would have had him shot and buried by now instead of arguing.
“Hey, Miklos. You haven’t said anything. Why don’t you drag him out? Mister Big Shot chicken rancher.”
One of the shadows moved closer, twitched at Hutch’s pant leg. “See? The big bad cop won’t hurt you. Maybe we should send you one of your white feathers?”
The tone had changed, grown surly, and two of the shadows merged, then were joined by a third. It was worse than Hutch had imagined, for now he knew who his captors were. They were Lud Anders’ brothers-in-law, and they had sent the feathers to him. Revenge; a motive as old and deadly as humanity itself.
His hopes of being rescued faded; Starsky would be chasing Keating’s bunch by now… and never suspect the truth. So… it was up to him. Ever so slowly, he began to move, hoping no light would fall on his hair and give his position away.
He thought about Starsky’s fingers sifting, lifting, loving his hair. He wanted to weep at losing so much love.
“This is just great. We’ve got a body in the trunk and you three assholes are arguing over who’s got the biggest balls! You make me sick!”
Hutch opened his eyes wide, needing to locate each speaker. He wanted to shout at them that he wasn’t the enemy, but knew that amateur killers were the most dangerous. He had to get away because otherwise he was a dead man.
“I’ll do it! It’s my car and I want him out of there. Come on, Stavvy, you can at least get his feet.” A shadow began moving, leaned in and groped for Hutch’s arms.
Hutch swung his weapon full into the shadowy face, then kicked the screaming man away.
“Agghhh!” The form writhed and fell to the ground.
Before anyone could react, Hutch was out of the trunk and staggering away, still clutching the wrench. He’d put one of them out of commission, but he wasn’t so sure that the others couldn’t catch him. Ahead, a black ribbon of road curved gently around a small grove of trees, and Hutch sought shelter in them, sides heaving while he tried to catch his breath. He bumped his arm and let out a low groan, eyes filling with tears. Where in the hell was he?
But he knew, already, simply because his abductors weren’t professional hit me. These four would want to make all their work — if that was the term — assume great significance… as if his death somehow would set to rest Anders’ spirit.
An icy calm settled over him, and he moved quietly toward the great bulk of some of the older tombstones. If he lived through this night, he would add it to his collection of recurring nightmares. In fact, it might be the best one of all. “You bastards haven’t got me yet,” he whispered. And if he could find the fence they never would catch him.
It wasn’t to be. He saw lights approaching on the road, and a flashlight probed the darkness. He began to run once again.
~~~
“There! I think I see him… focus off the ground… about six feet up. Yeah! Drive the car as close as you can.” Alex Collis stripped off his shirt and shoes, then opened the car door. This whole scenario had gone too far. Now Nikki lay back there with a smashed face, and the enemy was trying to flee. He smiled; the cop wouldn’t escape him… he could run like the wind. Even if he had objected to the idea of a blood-price, this was different. His brother had been attacked; he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
He spotted the pale flash of hair and shouted for Miklos to stop the car. Hutchinson had reached the corner of the iron fence and was going to try to climb over it. “Not with that broken arm, you’re not,” he said with satisfaction. “Let me out here, Mikki, it won’t take long.
“Watch the sonuvabitch. He’s got the wrench.”
Alex made no secret of his approach and when the cop whirled around, he laughed. “You’re pretty smart, you know. But because of you, Lud is dead, and my sister’s losing her mind. Now my brother’s lying back there God-knows-how-badly hurt. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”
The cop didn’t say anything, merely turned away, trying to shield his eyes from the light. The broken left arm hung down useless, and Alex sensed then that the man had little reserve energy. His head and face were covered with old blood. He was like an animal at bay, and twice as dangerous.
“You’ll have to put the wrench down in order to climb over the fence, and when you do I’ll get you. Why don’t you give up and fight like a man?” he sneered.
“You cowardly bastard!” Hutchinson hissed, crouching like a fighter. “Four to one, me with a broken arm, and you dare to call me names!”
“Three to one. My brother’s face is caved in, thanks to you. But when we’re finished nobody’ll recognize you, either.” He moved a little closer when he heard Mikki behind him, and he began to smile. “If you’re lucky, you won’t die. All my sister wants is a piece of your hide.”
The tall blond straightened, staring at him with an air of fierce determination. Alex knew a fleeting minute of grudging respect; the man was no coward, but it was too late to change what must be done.
“My partner will track you down, one by one. God help you then!” the cop snarled.
The words were uttered with such terrible conviction that they gave Hutchinson an even more menacing aspect. Alex heard Miklos suck in a breath. Another few seconds and the pendulum might swing in the blond’s favor. “He’s only one man, Mikki. Let’s get him!”
They charged, and Hutch swung the wrench in a deadly arc, catching Alex on the wrist. He heard the crunch, felt a dozen tiny bones shatter, and fell, screaming in agony. “Kill the bastard… kill him!” he howled. Through a red haze, he watched as his brother, head down, made for their desperate prey. He saw one beefy hand reach out and grab the broken arm, and it was all over.
The snap of bone echoed through the still night. Overcome by a wave of pain, Alex lay down, listening to the sound of Miklos extracting the blood-price. The cop never made a sound, never cried out as the blows kept smashing into him. Finally, Alex heard a body slammed down on the car, and lifted his head. Miklos, shirt covered with dark stains, was putting the cop back into the trunk.
Alex struggled to his feet, clutching his wrist. “Let’s get Nikki and Stavvy and get out of here.”
“We’re not done yet,” said Miklos grimly, wiping his hands on his pants. “Just get in the car.” He closed the trunk, then went to retrieve the wrench.
The car took off circling the cemetery slowly. It stopped once to pick up the two other men, then again as a limp form was carried to a gravesite and dumped on top of it. Moving like a shadow, it sped out of the cemetery gates and off toward the city.
The night wind stirred through the trees, drifted over the blades of grass, cooled the blood oozing from the body sprawled over the grave. From the hills came the lonely call of a coyote. It was answered by a siren somewhere in the distance that wailed, then faded away.
Here and there, crickets began a slow, April dirge.
~~~
There was no parking in front of the West Valley station, so Starsky drove past the already full lot, looking for a spot on Vanowen. A small van scooted out into traffic and he slid the Torino into the space with barely an inch to spare. He’d made the run from Parker Center in record time, but even as he ran toward the building, he felt he was too late. It was almost six and dusk was settling over the city. The lights were already on in the station, and as he climbed the steps he felt like a rat on a treadmill. If only he knew — if only somebody new what had happened to Hutch!
He stopped at the front desk, flashing his badge. “Where’s Captain Dobey?” he asked curtly, looking down the hall.
“Room 401. Take that corridor and turn left. The sign’ll say Interrogation — go right in, they’re expecting you,” came the equally terse response.
Starsky glanced sharply at the man and nodded. “Thanks,” he said, then strode toward the interrogation rooms.
Dobey looked up as he opened the door and entered the room. It was stuffy; the odors only slightly masked by Lysol or some other cleaner. “Whatcha got?” he asked, slightly breathless now that he was here. “Anything about Hutch?”
“Starsky, I want you to meet Lieutenant Barnham. He’s the man who called me. Barnham, this is Detective Sergeant Dave Starsky, the missing officer’s partner. He’s one of my boys.”
Oh, Hutch, is that what you are — a missing officer? Starsky nodded, unable to speak. Barnham was about fifty; a stocky man with sympathetic brown eyes. Starsky knew if the man said he was sorry about Hutch, he would probably start to bawl.
The lieutenant took a deep breath, then began. He never took his glance away from Starsky. “About two hours ago we got a phone call, they found a man hiding in an empty dumpster behind a shopping center.” Barnham stopped suddenly, and gestured for Starsky to sit down before he continued. “The guy was strung out on coke and it took two more men to subdue him, but we had a doctor look him over and then brought him here to book him.” He smiled over at Dobey, who sat there with an intent expression on his heavy features. “To make a long story short, Sergeant, the prisoner suddenly broke down and began confessing something very interesting. He claims he’s the one who pushed Templeton’s car off the road…”
“What?” Starsky leaped to his feet, pulse racing. “Jesus, maybe he knows what happened to Hutch. Where is he?’
“Take it easy, Dave. Let the man finish his story,” Dobey cautioned, but Starsky’s whole body bristled with excitement.
“Well, naturally, we wanted to make certain everything was strictly legal — and since he was acting so off-the-wall, we called in legal counsel and a shrink.” He regarded Starsky warmly. “Not more than twenty minutes ago he told us Leon Keating was looking for him because he was supposed to snatch a cop and somebody beat him to it.”
“Please,” Starsky whispered, “let me talk to him… just let me look at him.” He turned to his captain, begging, “If he knows anything, he’ll tell me. I won’t lay a finger on him.” So close, God, surely this nightmare would end and he’d have Hutch back safe and sound.
A young police matron tapped on the open door. “‘The prisoner’s ready, sir. You want him in here?” She saw Starsky and asked, “You carrying your weapon?”
He flushed. “Yeah. Forgot to check it in, sorry. Where do ya keep the lock-ups?”
She smiled. “About five feet away. See?” She pointed to a row of grey metal lock-boxes, some fitted with keys. Turning back to Barnham she repeated her original question. “You want him in here?”
“Please, and send in a stenographer, too.” The lieutenant looked over at Dobey after she left. “Stop me if I’m wrong, but this missing man is Hutchinson, right? Part of the Starsky and Hutchinson team from Metro,” mused Barnham, running a finger over his upper lip. “You think he’s still alive?” he asked abruptly.
“He’d better be…” answered Starsky, returning with a key in his hand. “Or I’m gonna bust this town wide open.” He smiled a fierce, challenging smile, but his eyes betrayed his fear.
Barnham motioned to the Metro captain. “Harold, why don’t we go up to the observation room and let Sergeant Starsky have the first round with the prisoner? Since Templeton’s already dead, maybe it’s not too late to save Hutchinson.”
The two older men gave Starsky a few, cautionary words, then left the room. Starsky began moving the chairs around to suit himself, then sat down to wait, rehearsing the questions crowding his mind.
By the time the prisoner and his guards arrived, he was ready. The steno got there a minute or two later and took a seat behind Starsky. “Don’t take anything down until I tell you to,” he said.
The prisoner stood before him, heavily manacled, face haggard from the ravages of the coke. This was no hardened criminal, merely some two-bit punk who’d been unlucky enough to get mixed up with the big boys. Starsky almost felt sorry for him. “Name,” he asked softly, hoping the guy would spill his guts.
“I asked you what your name was,” he repeated, leaning back in the chair. He knew from years of interrogating prisoners that if they got the impression you were going to take all night questioning them, some of them sang right away. He prayed this sick-looking creep was in a hurry to get back to his cell and toss his cookies.
“Collis — Harry Collis.” The words were mumbled, eyes focused on the once-shiny shoe tops.
Starsky wrote the name down, frowning. “That two l’s?” he asked, searching his subconscious for the reason the name sounded familiar.
“Yeah. Two r’s in Harry.” He giggled at his own cleverness.
“Try that again and you’ll be sorry!” Starsky snapped. “I want the name of the cop you were supposed to snatch… and don’t even think about lyin’ to me.” He glanced over at the jailer leaning against the wall and saw approval in his expression. He was young, but mean-looking, and Starsky almost smiled. A punk like this would think twice about messing with that guy. “You got a hearing problem? I asked you his name!” He got to his feet and leaned across the desk, barely controlling his fury and desperation.
“Keating wanted him — and that little runty guy with him — they told me to — to use the dead guy’s gun to persuade him to come with me.” Harry’s hands shook and a thin trail of saliva drooled down the side of his mouth. “But I never had a chance — ”
“Why the hell not? What stopped you? Lose your nerve?” Starsky taunted, studying the man’s face intently. Why the fuck did he look so familiar? Where had he seen Collis before?
“I ain’t afraid of nothin’, you pig face!” Collis retorted. “Least of all a chicken cop — ” He stopped, a look of horror replacing the bravado.
“If you don’t spell out the name, you’ll be eatin’ your dinner through a straw!” This time Starsky came from behind the desk, removing his jacket and tossing it on top of the desk. “C’mon, big mouth, fight me!”
But there was no fight left in the prisoner. He flinched, then stuttered, “H-Hutchinson… that’s his name.”
Starsky wanted to smash the mouth blaspheming his lover’s name, but with Hutch’s life at stake, he couldn’t risk it. “Okay. That’s more like it. Now, you say you didn’t snatch him, but if he turns up dead, you’re our prime suspect. It’ll be Murder One for you, and you can guess what happens to cop-killers before they go to trial?” He smiled the smile he knew put the fear of God into men like this.
“I didn’t go anywhere near him! I swear to God he was already gone!”
Starsky’s voice dropped, becoming silky smooth. He reached out and patted the quivering man on the shoulder. “But you know who did snatch him, don’t you?”
“NO! On my mother’s honor — ”
“Your mother didn’t have any honor. She had you, didn’t she?” Starsky accused with withering scorn, noting the ugly red flush at the insult.
“You watch it, pig!” Collis said hotly, hands balling into fists, “or I’m gonna — ”
Starsky’s fingers wrapped themselves around the clenched fingers and began to squeeze. “Say one more word that don’t tell me what I want to hear and you won’t be able to hold your spoon any more, little boy! You goddamn better talk because that missing cop is my partner, and we go back a helluva long way!”
He saw beads of sweat appearing on Collis’ upper lip and let go, satisfied. “Who’d got him, Harry? Before things get worse, tell me.”
To his utter amazement, Collis fell to his knees, rocking back and forth in a spasm of grief. He crossed himself several times, crying out, “God forgive us! God help us! Helena — we did it for Helena.” He buried his face in his hands, body still wracked with gut-wrenching sobs.
He was too late. Hutch must already be dead, and this bastard had known all the time. “I’m gonna tear you limb from limb,” he whispered, “and then I’ll get the rest of them.”
“No, they weren’t going to kill him.” Harry raised a tear-stricken countenance to Starsky. “It was for Lud and Helena, that’s all… the blood-price.”
“Oh, my God!” The room swam as Starsky fought to keep from passing out. Anders, reaching out from the grave, his mad family vowing revenge. He knelt beside Collis, eyes burning with hate. “You telling me he’s alive? You listen, scum, ’cause I’m gonna give you one chance to live — Where is he? Where’d they take my partner?”
Harry’s head was down, but at the question he managed to look up. “We were suppos-supposed to take him to Lud’s grave and l-leave him there. We were just gonna work him over — ” He fell silent.
Starsky remembered now. The huge brothers and their pregnant sister, all filled with hate. And, as he remembered them, another piece of the puzzle dropped into place. The time he’d gotten the registration on the Camaro… it had been a man with the last name of Collis. Neither he nor Hutch had ever made the connection with Lud Anders. They’d just taken it for granted he worked for Shemansky or Templeton.
“Take us there,” he said dully, retrieving his jacket. Even if there were just the four men, Hutch wouldn’t have had a chance. He felt sick; sick of all of it. So much goddamn pain. What in hell was wrong with the world?
“Watch he doesn’t get away,” he cautioned the guard. “I gotta talk to my captain.”
Less than five minutes later, phones were ringing in precincts all over the Los Angeles basin with orders to pick up Leon Keating and friends. At the same time four units from Valley, and two from Metro were streaking toward the hills.
~~~
“So what do you think you’re doing?” Leon Keating asked angrily. “You ain’t going nowhere.”
Coral sniffed, “Leon, honey, if there’s one thing I know, it’s when to split. You can slap me around, beat me until I drop, but your best bet is to slip me a couple of grand and let me get out of town. That way I don’t get arrested, and I don’t tell the boys in blue what I know about you.” She smiled her little girl smile before holding out her hand. “Make it three grand and let me keep the diamonds.”
He cocked his head in disbelief, finally realizing she was dead serious. “I ought to kill you right now — ”
She shook her head, still smiling. “Maybe you should, but now ain’t the time, and we both know it.” She turned to the man watching them and said, “Am I right or not, Al? I bought a ticket under a false name yesterday, and paid cash for it. If Leon is as smart as he’s supposed to be he’ll pay me off and kiss me good-bye.” Her blue eyes glittered with a hard light that her young face didn’t reflect.
Caulkins shrugged. “Pay her, Leon. The last thing you need is for Coral to disappear the way Fass did.” He walked toward her, nodding his approval. “You’re a survivor, my dear, I like that.”
He reached into his suit coat and drew out a leather case. “Here’s the number of someone who can forge a passport to anywhere in the world. Mention my name and he’ll give you a good price.” He handed her a blue-embossed card.
“You mean I should let this bimbo walk out on me?” demanded Keating, aghast. “Nobody does that! It’s bad for business — ”
“Shut up, Leon!” Caulkins warned. “Pay her and let her go. She’s clever and she’s not going to talk. You’re wasting time!”
While Coral finished packing, Leon opened the safe and withdrew a stack of bills, counting them out with care. When he reached three thousand he sighed, then placed a small velvet box on top of the bills. “She don’t deserve that much,” he said stubbornly, fingering the box.
“She deserves a thousand more. Give it to her. That will ensure her silence and loyalty,” Caulkins said evenly.
“No shit! As soon as she’s out that door, she’s dead. Like I said, nobody walks on me.”
Caulkins crossed the room, his face blank with anger. “What is it with you types? Do you honestly think you can strew dead bodies all over and get away with it indefinitely? I’ve covered for you as long as I can, Leon. If John Templeton was onto us, then others must be, or will be before too long.” His grey eyes bored into the gangster’s. “Let Coral go. You won’t regret it.”
The girl, who had been standing in the doorway, came in carrying her suitcase. She put her arms around the smaller man and kissed his cheek. “You’re a slimeball, Al, but underneath it you respect the little guy. Thanks.”
She took the stack of bills, opened the box to check the jewels, and grinned saucily at the glowering Keating. “It wasn’t all bad, honey. You’re a great lay, but then, so am I.” She drew his face down, kissing him with genuine affection. “I hope they don’t catch you, baby.”
The money and diamonds were slipped into her purse, and she waved as she left them standing there.
“I’m going to send Alonzo after her — ” Keating vowed, reaching for the phone. “He’ll carve her into mincemeat.”
“Leon, put the phone down.”
Keating turned and saw Caulkins standing with drawn pistol. “You outta your fuckin’ mind?” he shrieked. “You can’t kill me!”
“Actually, I can — with the law’s blessing,” Caulkins replied gravely, “but I don’t want to. What you and I have to do is make certain we have alibis for two murders. Templetons’ and Fass’.” He laughed dryly. “All in all, I’d rather face a grand jury than the friends and clients of Wilhelm Fass. Your greed’s made your brain go soft.” He put the gun away and pointed his finger toward Keating’s study. “The first thing we have to do is destroy anything linking you to my office.”
The younger man was silent for a few minutes, but as he pulled out one sheaf of papers, he turned, lip curled. “And who in hell’s gonna pay me back that fifteen grand I shelled out to frame the cop? Your eager-beaver assistant was quick enough to take the dough, but I ain’t seen one red cent of it back.”
“Don’t worry. The SIS will see you’re reimbursed — if I handle it right. How were we to know Hutchinson had that kind of money?”
This time it was Keating who heaped on the scorn. “You guys have got spies up people’s asses, but you didn’t even know he was rich… whose brain went soft then, eh?” He locked glances with his accomplice. “I want that money back, because so far I got nothin’ to show for my investment. That’s bad business, Al.”
Before Caulkins could reply, the phone rang and Keating grabbed the cordless receiver. This was his private line and when this phone rang, he knew it was important. “Yeah.” He flipped on the amplifier so Caulkins could hear, too.
“Trouble, Boss. I was following Collis, like you said, and the little asshole got picked up by the cops for disturbin’ the peace.” It was Alonzo, his nasal whine jarring on the ears.
“So? You go his bail and get rid of him?”
“No dice. The heat is holding him incommunicado. No bail, no nothin’. I couldn’t get near him.” There was the sound of a sneeze. “Shit! My ass is freezin’ out here.”
But Keating ignored his complaints. “What’re you talking about? How come the cops didn’t just toss him in the drunk tank?” He began to sweat, and saw Caulkins frowning.
“That’s what I’m coming to, boss. He musta been coming down from that coke, ’cause he started yellin’ about how he didn’t snatch the cop — that you wanted him to, but somebody beat him to it — and that he’d pushed Templeton’s car off the road.”
Keating was on his feet, face pale as old milk. “How do you know that? Who told you?” he snarled.
“Gimme some credit, man. I stood bail for one of the drunks in the tank and he heard the whole damn story right from Collis’ mouth. And if Harry told the boys in the tank, then he musta sung like a canary for the squeezes, right?” Another ear-shattering sneeze before the hit man continued. “I been waiting out here for over an hour, and something must’ve happened because a whole goddamn army of black and whites just took off. Funny thing is, they didn’t all head in the same direction. I was wondering if they were coming to pick you up. Thought I better tell you — Boss? Hey, what was that noise? Leon? You got somebody there — That sounded like a shot! Hey, Boss!!”
Albert Caulkins gingerly stepped over Keating’s body and scooped up a bundle of papers. Taking them into the bathroom, he dumped them into the tub, then liberally doused them with Coral’s perfume before lighting them. While they burned, he raided Keating’s safe, making certain he dropped enough money around to make the motive look like robbery. He moved quickly and quietly, taking Coral’s picture out of the frame and tossing it onto the fire… she was a nice girl and had been kind to him in her own way. The smoke alarm went off, its insistent buzzing an irritant. Since it was merely an alarm, he ignored it, going about his business until he’d removed all connections of his dealings with Keating. When he was satisfied, he let himself out of the penthouse, rode down the elevator to the basement, going out the service entrance.
However, instead of heading home, he drove to a street corner in Silver Lake, sold his gun for eighty dollars to a punk who couldn’t wait to use it in a drive-by. That done, he called the fire department, posing as one of Keating’s neighbors who just happened to smell smoke.
He felt safe, now. Keating and Fass were both dead… as was, no doubt, Hutchinson. It was too bad about John, but it had come down to which one lived, and he’d made the choice first. He had four passports ready and waiting; a suitcase filled with money, and a paid-for chalet in Switzerland. He would be ready to start a new life as soon as he took care of a few loose ends.
He frowned, wishing he had heard more of Leon’s conversation with his hit man. From the fear on Keating’s face, the news hadn’t been good. Probably Fass’ men were in town. He shrugged; he’d done the idiot a favor by killing him if that was true. When it came right down to it, one could only count on oneself.
~~~
Mount Olive Cemetery had closed its gates at sundown, leaving its green lawns and winding roads empty of trespassers. Here and there, hordes of pale moths danced in the auras of the street lamps. An occasional bat, swooping down, would disturb their aimless, soundless cotillion. But the ranks would close as soon as the raider disappeared, and the dance would resume. Other than the leaves rustling in the breeze, there was only that silence that so disturbs the living.
The peace was shattered in an instant; into the confines of the cemetery roared the black and whites, their sirens wailing, their doors opening to spill forth grim, determined men with weapons at the ready. To the forefront was pushed a man who stumbled and had to be steadied. Manacles gleamed like silver bracelets on his wrists.
“Which way?” Starsky, eyes smudged with exhaustion, held himself under tight control. If left to himself he would’ve dragged Collis to their destination just to speed things up, but Dobey had cautioned him to keep things legal.
Collis pointed toward a gently sloping hillside. “Over there, just off the road. H-he should be there.”
“If he ain’t, and you’re stalling, nothin’s gonna keep me from killing you,” Starsky warned. He began the short climb, legs trembling with fear. The last time it had been downhill, chasing Victor Humphries into that dry, dusty ravine. That had been five years ago, and here he was again…
Dear God, don’t let me be too late. Behind him, voices low, came the patrolmen, keen eyes searching each gravesite for any sign of Hutch. When a flashlight’s beam lit something that reflected back the light, Starsky shouted, “There! I see him!”
He raced the few yards, flinging himself down to gather the limp body close. “Hutch, oh Jesus, Hutch… please, don’t be dead…” He looked up into a sea of faces, some open-mouthed in shock. “Don’t just stand there!” he snapped. “I want every inch of this place searched in case they’re still here.” It was then he turned to look at this man he loved so much, barely recognizing the battered, terribly sad face. “Hutch?” he murmured, “Aw, babe, what did they do to you?”
“The ambulance’ll be here any minute, Sergeant,” someone said in a hushed voice. “Maybe you better put him down.”
His reply was to draw Hutch closer, to bury his face in the cold, blood-soaked hair. With shaking fingers Starsky pulled the matted tendrils away from the broad forehead, examined the ominous bulge on the skull. When he saw the broken arm, though, he had a sudden flash of insight and knew that Hutch had never had a fighting chance. He began to weep, shaking his head in dumb misery as he held his lover to his heart. “Listen to me, Hutch. It’s all over ‘cept for you to get better.” He felt like an animal, unable to fight the unseen enemy. Hutch was so cold… so still.
“Babe, listen, will ya? It’s me — it’s Dave. You gotta hear me, Hutch…” Through misted lashes he asked one of the men who was standing beside him, “Where the fuck’s the ambulance? He’s gonna die out here!”
“Sarge — it’s here. See, they’re bringing a stretcher.” The cop stood up, striding down the slope to say something to one of the medics.
“Dead? You sure? Well, we’ll check him out, anyway.” The paramedic who spoke set his equipment next to Starsky. “I understand the victim’s your partner. Can we take a look at him?” He went to place his hand on Hutch’s temple, but on taking a look into Starsky’s eyes, drew it back. “Every minute counts, from the look of things.”
“He told you Hutch was dead, didn’t he?” Starsky said dully. “He can’t be — he’s got too much to live for! I — we — ” He bent his head. “Save him…” he whispered, “he’s a good cop.”
Hands gently lifted Hutch from him, laying him down on a blanket. Starsky sat back on his heels, watching the three men while they worked with amazing efficiency. When one of them lifted his head and nodded, his heart almost stopped. “He’s alive?”
“As of this minute, he is. But we’ve got to get him to the hospital. He’s in pretty bad shape.”
Starsky watched while an IV was started, the fluid dripping at full speed into Hutch’s right arm. A splint hid the left arm, and when he was placed on the stretcher, one of the men wrapped what looked like a silver blanket around him, taping it in place.
Starsky came to life, as the medics began rolling the stretcher down the incline. He snapped orders at the patrolmen, telling Metro teams to follow the ambulance to the hospital. “I want a cop at his door around the clock. And somebody get on the horn and tell Captain Dobey we found him — and he’s alive.” He clambered into the ambulance just as they reached to shut the door. “I won’t get in the way, but we don’t know if the goons who did this are waiting to ambush us somewhere else.”
The ambulance began rolling, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. When it passed through the cemetery gates the siren sounded. Starsky’s stomach lurched… such a familiar sound. Always meant something bad had happened. He studied the equipment stashed around them… if it didn’t help Hutch, none of it was worth a damn.
One of the medics shot him a look full of curiosity. “Why’d he get worked over this way? What did he do wrong?”
Starsky stared at him, then over at the too-still form. “It was something he didn’t do. And he was right.” He felt the sting of tears begin, and turned away, wiping at his eyes, denying the ache in his heart. What in ever-lovin’ hell was he going to do if Hutch died?
He tried thinking about his report, on the whys and wherefores of this whole scene, but the blurred images of the two men working Hutch over kept intruding. Nobody had ever loved him the way his partner did… even his mom said so. And, since that was the case, how had Hutch faced the future when Gunther’s hit had nearly killed him? He went after the old bastard; tracked him down, drove him into the ground and then arrested him. Hutch had something to do… to keep him busy. How could he seek revenge on a crazy widow and her family?
“Hey, Sergeant, c’mere’.”
He was on his feet instantly, hovering as close to Hutch as he could get “What is it?” he murmured, gazing down at the battered features.
“Wait… there…” One hand pushed Starsky closer, into Hutch’s line of view. “Say something.”
“Hutch? Can you hear me? It’s all over…” He shook his head. “We’re gonna get ’em, babe. It’s all over.”
He saw Hutch’s right eyelid flutter, watched as his mouth tried to frame a word… and couldn’t. With infinite tenderness he took the fingers of that big right hand and held them. “How’d you do it, partner? How did you keep from getting killed?” He pressed the hand to his mouth, not caring if he was seen or not. The knuckles were skinned and raw, but they were warming to his touch and that cheered him. He saw Hutch’s lips move again so he bent closer, trying to hear what his lover was saying.
“Too… m’ch… to… live… f’r… right?” A ghost of a smile drifted across his face, then fled.
“That’s all, sir. Can you move out of the way?” The medic was all business again, not really seeing him.
It was all right. Starsky had heard those few, halting words and they were enough to make him smile. No matter what they had to face, he knew Hutch was going to fight to stay alive. Like he had, and for the same reason. There was somebody who loved them enough to make everything worth while. When they arrived at the hospital he watched them roll the stretcher though the hospital doorway, then went to call his captain.
~~~
It was almost ten when Albert Caulkins arrived home. He had dined at Spago’s, deliberately speaking to all the ‘right’ people to establish an alibi. He had experienced only a few panicky minutes when a patrol car — siren and flashing lights — had passed him on La Cienega. That was the one thing he mustn’t do! If he was to see this through he must remain visible… and calm.
Despite the travesty at Keating’s, he felt the day had gone rather well. There were really only two loose ends he could think of, Alonzo and Hutchinson, and if the detective was dead, so much the better. If not, it might be necessary to arrange for Hutchinson’s immediate disappearance. He dismissed Keating’s flunky, Alonzo, without a qualm. The man was an idiot.
Fass’ friends weren’t a threat either. They had no knowledge of his connection to the late Leon. He smiled; it had been a simple enough task to learn all of their names… Keating had boasted of his ‘European connections.’ It might be quite fitting if he fed the information to Interpol. Especially if he suddenly needed to leave the country.
His sense of satisfaction grew; he’d always been self-effacing, willing to let men like John Templeton take the spotlight. The press and public were inclined to believe those tall, handsome men who mouthed platitudes and breathed righteous indignation into the camera’s eye. Vain, for the most part, they never seemed to realize they weren’t running things.
The lights were on in his wife’s bedroom and he wondered if she had eaten yet. She often waited until he came home; she liked telling him about her day, and he enjoyed listening to her chatter.
He was extremely proud of his home; it sat behind tall hedges, hidden from public view, an oasis of tranquility only a mile from center city. He placed his briefcase on the small, Georgian desk that sat in the hallway. Tomorrow would be soon enough to go through the papers; they were innocuous enough, nothing to connect him to Keating’s sordid doings.
He decided to watch the news; perhaps Keating’s body had been found — or Hutchinson’s. He would need to be on his toes now that John was dead. Perhaps tomorrow he should also make certain that the Lear jet was fueled and ready. One should never be too careful.
He wasn’t alone.
Frowning, Caulkins paused in the doorway, listening to someone taking a deep breath. He reached behind him for his gun, then remembered what he’d done with it.
“Turn on the light, Al.” The voice was gruff, and vaguely familiar. He obeyed.
Harold Dobey sat in the large contour chair, filling it to overflowing. The captain’s dark gaze was stern, his eyes never wavering. His revolver didn’t waver, either.
“What are you doing here?” Caulkins demanded, anger overcoming caution. “If you don’t have a warrant, I’ll have you up on charges!” He started to walk toward the small table which supported his phone.
“The gun’s gone, Al. And the warrant’s all signed, and quite official.” A different voice this time, but even more familiar. Marvin Shemansky, standing at the far end of the room. “Yeah, it’s me. I got tired of being your patsy. Harold convinced me your side isn’t on the up and up.”
“This — this is an outrage! Get me the DA — I want to talk to my lawyer,” Caulkins sputtered.
“Don’t you want to know why we’re here?” the Metro captain asked soberly. “Or have you guessed?” He looked over at the OCID captain and shook his head.
“You have nothing on me. I want to see my lawyer,” Caulkins reiterated, determined to get to the bottom of this.
Shemansky came toward him, holding something wrapped in plastic. His bravado melted away; it was the pistol he’d sold to the young home-boy with wild eyes. “How did you get that?” he whispered.
Dobey cleared his throat. “Routine police work, Al. We’ve had you followed ever since John Templeton’s death.” His laugh was bitter. “We were determined to protect you from meeting the same fate, isn’t that ironic?”
No. “I can explain everything,” Caulkins began, thinking rapidly. “Right after John was killed, I got a tip — ”
“Your wife’s diabetic, isn’t she?” interrupted Dobey. “In fact, you have to give her her daily injection of insulin, don’t you? She was very cooperative, telling us how good you are with a needle and syringe.” He pulled himself up out of the chair, adjusting his trousers with one hand. His glance narrowed, hardened with disgust as he closed the distance between them. “In fact, Marvin tells me you were a medic during the war…”
“What are you driving at?” Caulkins glanced wildly at both men, seeing what others had seen; men who gave no quarter where justice was concerned. He met Shemansky’s gaze, and saw disbelief in his eyes. “Marvin! Don’t believe what this — this liberal fool is saying! You and I both know how hard it is to bring people like Keating and Fass to trial.”
He tried to raise a smiled and failed. “It’s cops like him — ” he pointed to the impassive black man, “who make it easy for criminals to stay in business by letting the little fish slip off the line. We need men like you — men who won’t let the lawbreakers escape — ”
“Just shut the fuck up, Al,” said Shemansky wearily, turning away. “Harold knows all about your using my department for your own purposes.” He sighed, shaking his head like a tired bull. “I may be a blockhead, and believe that the courts are too goddamn easy on crooks, and I may think that cops should take assignments — ” He turned red, and stared into space. “But there’s no way in hell I’d ever set up a brother officer and send him to his death like you did.”
He took the wrapped pistol and thrust it in his pocket. “We found Keating’s body right after you left his penthouse, you know. The fire you so cleverly set in the bathtub hadn’t burned itself out — lots of paper fragments for SI to play with…” He grinned suddenly, exchanging looks with Dobey. “And, Harold’s men picked up Keating’s girlfriend before she had time to get into her car. You were wrong, Al. She talked. God, how she talked.”
Caulkins opened his mouth to defy his accusers, but before he said anything Dobey spoke up. “Don’t say another word, Al. I’m going to read you your rights, then we’re going down to the station and book you on two counts of Murder One.”
“And then what?” Caulkins sneered. “I’ll be out on bail in an hour.”
“No, you won’t,” Dobey retorted. “Natalie Scott is going to see to that. She’s a real bright lady.” He scowled, jabbing his forefinger against the smaller man’s chest. “And just to make you really happy, Detective Hutchinson is alive at the moment. If he dies, I’m going to see that his death is added to your dossier, you got that!”
Caulkins said nothing, merely allowed himself to be hustled away. There had to be some loophole, someway to escape this trap. He was too clever to have tripped himself up. Someone else should pay; he wasn’t going to end up in prison, not to face all the men he’d sent up. He shuddered.
~~~
There were three other people in the waiting room with Starsky. They all wore that mask of fatigue that comes with long, sleepless hours of worry. Two were older women, the other a man whose countenance spoke of many intimate nights with a bottle of booze. Right now, eyes bleary, his hands trembled so much he kept spilling the coffee out of its plastic cup. Nobody commented, or even cared.
Starsky sat closest to the doors bearing the designation Critical Care Unit in bright green paint. Every time they were breached he looked up expectantly, his expression changing when he saw it wasn’t Hutch’s doctor. Resigned, he went back to his task; the endless circling of ads for homes. Page after page bore red circles, some underlined to show they were to be viewed first. There was an air of quiet deliberation in his actions, as if Hutch’s very life depended on his finding the perfect place, the home they both wanted.
A loud groan, a cry quickly muffled, brought him to his feet and up to the barricading doors. Jesus, what were they doing in there? He wanted to yank his gun out of the holster and storm his way into that no-man’s land of pain and death. So many times, so many friends, why did they continue to do the job? He peered through the glass portholes, his breath steaming up the lower portion. You’ve got the hottest mouth, Dave. I love your kisses. He jerked away. Mustn’t do this to himself; it was what he always scolded Hutch for doing.
“Dave?”
He blinked with relief. Dobey stood in the doorway, Edith close behind. “Yeah,” he said huskily, picking up the papers so she could sit down. “He’s still in there, so I guess they think he’s got a chance.”
Without speaking, Edith opened her arms, and Starsky went to her, accepting her warmth and sympathy with bowed head. She let him go after a minute, her eyes reflecting his own pain. “He’ll make it, Dave. God won’t take him yet. His work’s not done here.”
Her faith always moved him. Just an hour ago he had hurled angry challenges to heaven, demanding answers to questions that were tearing at his heart. Wondering if they were being punished for loving one another. In the end, though, as always, he had invoked the whole pantheon of gods, silently pleading for Hutch’s life.
“I love him,” he told her softly. “We’re gonna look for a place to live — when he gets out of here.”
He saw Dobey’s expression and went to stand by him. “We’ve made up our minds, and I’m goin’ to see to it Hutch ‘n me get a chance to live like everybody else.” He sighed. “Dunno what the department’s goin’ to say, but that’s what’s going down as soon as he’s well enough to get in my car.”
A hand rested on his shoulder; it had been there many times before. “If that’s what you both want, then that’s what is right for you.” Dobey smiled. “In fact, there’s a place near us…”
~~~
Helena woke suddenly, clutching the white afghan close around her. It was getting dark, and she sensed she was alone in the house. Where was Harry? And Nikki? With great effort she got to her feet, walking awkwardly over to turn on the lamp and the front porch light. She must have slept wrong because her back ached. Rubbing it didn’t seem to help much, either. She made a face, then went into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Nothing fancy tonight, not the way she felt. Her brothers’ concern made her smile a little; men were such babies.
By seven she was really worried, so she called Ventura, asking Rita if she could speak to Miklos. Miklos wasn’t there, Rita informed her coolly, but at least she asked how she felt.
“All right, I guess, but Harry hasn’t shown up yet, and I’m sort of afraid to be alone.”
“All I can tell you, Helena, is that he drove to L.A. this morning. Sorry.”
They hung up, and on an impulse Helena called Alex’s, praying the line wouldn’t be busy. His wife answered, repeating Rita’s words almost verbatim. After saying good-bye, she poured herself a cup of black coffee, wandering into the living room to watch the news. When they updated the story about John Templeton, she frowned, remembering him as one of the men her Lud had talked to… and now he was gone. Perhaps justice was on her side.
Justice! With a sudden thrill she knew where her brothers were… and what they must be doing. Joy made her giddy and she surged to her feet, laughing and whirling around. When she was breathless, she sank onto the sofa, fanning herself. The baby kicked out, and she pressed against the spot where she could outline a foot with her hand. “Have patience, little one, and everything will be fine,” she admonished, massaging the taut flesh lazily. She couldn’t wait for them to come piling in, hungry and exuberant. Oh, what a feast she would make. She rose, smiling, ready to spend the next few hours preparing a real dinner — a celebration for Lud.
By the time dinner was in the oven, her back hurt even more. She perched on the kitchen stool, some of her excitement fading. It was nine-thirty and she hadn’t had so much as a phone call. How long did it take for five men to beat up one? And a cowardly one, at that. A thought occurred to her; what if Hutchinson had set a trap for her brothers? What if he had guessed who sent the feathers, and he and the others cops had arrested them?
Fear replaced her elation but she was grimly determined to hope for the best. She had to have faith in her family.
At ten p.m. the phone rang. It was Stavros. In quick, terse sentences he told her about Alex and Nikki. No one had seen Harry. He was at the hospital, he said, and the cops were sure to come after them. As she listened in stunned silence, a new sensation insinuated itself into her consciousness. The backache had spread around to her belly, each tug hard enough to make her catch her breath.
“Stavvy!” she managed to gasp, “The baby — ”
There was the sound of a scuffle and the phone went dead.
“No!” she screamed. “Stavvy! Oh, God!” She sank to her knees and began to weep.
~~~
Harold Dobey felt old as he plodded back to the waiting room where Edith and Starsky were. His call to Hutch’s father had been received with a choked intake of air, then a fervent query about his son’s prognosis. He’d met Hutch’s family not long after the young and eager detective had joined Metro. Tall, striking, they’d seemed a trifle bewildered by Hutch’s enthusiasm for law enforcement. Their pride in him, however, had never been in question; neither had their faith in his integrity and resolve. He wondered what they thought about their son and his partner… Hutch had never said.
As he rounded the corner of the corridor, he saw Edith sitting alone, straight-backed, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and he hurried to her. She wore that particular grimace which meant she was the bearer of bad news. He didn’t think he was strong enough to hear it. “Where’s Dave?” he managed finally.
She gripped his hand with cold fingers, clinging to him. “He’s in with Hutch, dear.” She bit her lip, then allowed him to draw her close.
“Is-is he…?” He looked over at the two old women, who shook their heads in unison, averting their eyes. “Edith? Tell me what’s happened.”
She pulled out of his arms. “Hutch sc-screamed, and it was more than Dave could take. He dashed in there and hasn’t come back.” The tears spilled down her cheeks. “Dave said he’s been beaten to within an inch of his life… how could anyone do something like that?”
How many times had he asked that very question? How many times had the answer been the same? I don’t know. “Hutch will take that inch, Edith, and fight back. He’s no quitter. His folks will be here tomorrow morning.” He wondered a trifle acidly if they would charter a plane… and was ashamed of himself. He would, if it were Cal lying behind those doors and he had the money.
“I called the station. They’ve caught the men responsible,” he said, trying to cheer her up. He smiled ruefully at the fierce pleasure his words gave her. “It seems that Hutch did a lot of damage before he went down. Two of them are in a pretty bad way.” He couldn’t keep the note of satisfaction out of his voice.
“Two — how many were there?” Edith was shocked.
But his reply was delayed by the arrival of three men from Metro. He hugged his wife, accepted her kiss, and strode down the hall to return to work. She would wait; after all, these were her boys, too.
~~~
There was a light shining somewhere in front of him… or was it above him? Beyond it was a vast, dark body of water. Every now and then, if he moved so much as an eyelash, the water came closer, bringing with it unbearable pain. Once, he’d moved, and like a riptide, it had tried to pull him under, awash in agony. He’d screamed, and called for Starsky — or had he? Maybe the whole damn scene was only a dream. Maybe this was the nightmare he’d been so certain he’d have… and when he woke up he’d be safe in Starsky’s arms, sheltered, secure, and in bed. All of a sudden, the glaring light disappeared, and he almost yelled out in relief. But since that might bring back the torment, he remained absolutely still, barely breathing.
Someone called him. He wanted to answer, should answer, but was afraid… for the water was now lapping at his fingertips. He listened, unmoving, swaddled in the darkness, aware of little save the fire within, the chill without. When was Starsky going to wake him?
He was tired — his strength was ebbing with each new assault of pain. Starsky? Where are you? I need help!
He thought he heard someone whispering to him — telling him how to escape. All he had to do, the voice said, was slip into the water, and after a few minutes there would be everlasting relief.
Would it hurt, he heard himself ask — yet he wasn’t speaking.
There was silence, then the voice admitted that pain was the price of his release. He wasn’t certain he could pay that high a price. He’d had a lot of grief in his life… must he accept more? He wondered if this offer was in place of the hellfire he and Starsky always talked about. He whimpered his fear as the inexorable sea inched closer.
Don’t struggle. Come into my arms… sleep with me…
The pain receded, replaced by cool fingers stroking his brow. Starsky, of course! Murmuring words of comfort, lifting away his misery. He no longer felt much; his heart still beat, his mind still functioned. But why wasn’t Starsky talking to him in words he could understand? Didn’t he know? Surely somebody had told Starsky his partner was going away.
Shhh. It doesn’t matter. Come with me and we’ll find peace.
The cold fingers lightly touched his throat, moved down across his chest, lingered near his heart. He was acutely aware of his nakedness and tried to pull away. No! This was wrong — these were a stranger’s hands touching him, not his lover’s. Starsky’s hands brought warmth, fire, surging need; these were offering only numbing… oblivion. Help me! he called silently, not moving. Starsky! Where are you?
He recognized the darkness for what it was — if he did nothing, he would die — if he moved, ah, God, if he moved, the pain would give him life. He was so tired… and terribly afraid.
“HUTCH!”
Peace… no more pain. All he had to do was stop… everything.
“Don’t! Hutch — don’t — ” A cry torn from deep within a bereft soul. A cry bringing him more agony… and Starsky.
He opened one eye. There, accepting part of his burden, offering him life, was the man he loved above all others.
“Atta boy, Hutch. You can do it. C’mon, babe, breathe for me. C’mon.”
Hutch’s fingers clenched Starsky’s in a death grip. He focused on his lover’s face and took one deep, shuddering breath. Then another.
“See? You can do it, babe. C’mon.”
He heard the words, felt Starsky’s presence, but was too tired to face the torment again. Sleep. Yes. That was what he wanted.
Slowly he slipped back into the darkness.
~~~
Starsky sat slumped in the chair beside Hutch’s bed, groggy from lack of sleep and worry. He’d lost track of time, remembered only the departure of Edith, the arrival of Hutch’s parents, their need for reassurances he could barely spare, and endless cups of awful coffee. It was still morning; he knew that much because the day nurse had been trying to bathe Hutch when the doctor came in and began examining him. Hutch had been given one of the few single cubicles — for reasons of security — and for that, at least, Starsky was grateful.
We only had a few seconds, Hutch’ n me, before he lost consciousness again, Starsky thought dully as he watched the physician fiddle with something taped to Hutch’s shoulder. He heard the nurse whispering about the color of Hutch’s lips, and he stared at them, wondering how she could tell anything was wrong when most of the skin was split and swollen and almost purple. The doctor nodded, then lifted Hutch’s left forearm in its white cast, and examined his nails, eliciting a deep groan from his unconscious partner.
“You’re hurtin’ him,” he said curtly, meeting the puzzled gaze without moving. “That’s where they busted his arm — twice.”
The doctor shot a quick glance at the nurse, but didn’t place Hutch’s arm back on the bed. “I’m Doctor Mathews, and I am your partner’s orthopedist. I know all about this arm. I set it.”
Before he could say more Starsky pushed his chair back and got to his feet, edging closer. “Then you know you’re hurtin’ him, don’t you? Do you have to? Look at his face.”
Mathews continued his examination before replying. “I’m checking his fingernails to make certain the cast isn’t on too tight. Poor circulation will cause the tissues to swell, and that is not only very painful it can cause all sorts of problems.” He spoke slowly, as if to someone who needed to absorb every word. “Besides, the pain reminds him he’s alive, and that, regrettably, is something his body is trying to forget.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Starsky demanded hotly. “Hutch never gave up in his whole life! He’s no quitter!” He glared at the shorter man, noticing suddenly that Mathews had a very vivid scar across his throat. His cop’s mind wanted to know all the details of that little souvenir.
“I certainly agree with you, Sergeant Starsky, or your friend wouldn’t be here.” He gently settled Hutch’s arm back on top of the covers. This time Hutch didn’t move. “Why don’t you step outside with me? I don’t like to talk in front of patients. You’d be amazed what they remember after they regain consciousness.”
Meeting the nurse’s gaze, and receiving a warm smile in return, Starsky left his place by the bed and followed the doctor out into the corridor. Sunlight streamed along the length of the highly waxed floor and he had to turn his back on the glare, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “So? What’s the scoop? You ain’t gonna tell me Hutch has got a death wish, are you?” He didn’t try to keep the hostility from his tone.
Mathews smiled, shaking his head. “My God, man, he’s got more inner strength that I imagined possible, but that doesn’t stop him — or anyone else — from becoming unbelievably exhausted from the constant pain and the terrible battering he suffered.”
Starsky bowed his head, then raised it, staring hard at the other man. “And you can’t give him the kind of pain killers that he needs because of his — record?”
The physician grimaced. “Are you blaming yourself for telling us about that? Well, don’t.” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his lab coat. “If it will make you feel any better, Sergeant, that isn’t why we’ve had to go light on his medications.” One hand escaped its pocket and came up to rub the shiny forehead. He seemed to be searching for the right words.
Fear of a different sort raced through Starsky, leaving him shaking. There was something in the doctor’s eyes — magnified through his glasses — that spoke of far more knowledge and far more serious consequences. “You tryin’ to tell me he’s not gonna make it?” he whispered, already shaking his head in denial.
Mathews’ expression was grave. “No, I’m not. His chances for survival are better than average, if — ” he looked away, glasses picking up the reflected glare from the floor.
Starsky clamped his fingers hard on the man’s arm, fury raging through him, burning away the earlier fear. “If what? Don’t jerk me around, Doc, ’cause we’re talkin’ serious business, here. My partner ‘n me — ”
“Yes. I know. And I do apologize for the seeming dramatics. We physicians sometimes forget how we must sound when we don’t want to, ah, pry.”
“Ask whatever you have to. I’ll give it to you straight — if I can.” He removed his fingers and braced himself, wondering how personal the questions were going to get.
“Our first concern was to get his vital signs stabilized, and then set his arm,” Mathews said quietly, his expression giving nothing away. “But while he was being examined in the emergency room, one of the residents felt that your partner’s liver was… well…” he shrugged. “Has he ever had hepatitis?”
So, that was what they suspected. While he wanted to shake the man for leaping to conclusions — just because they were lovers, he was relieved. “No,” he replied evenly, “but a few years ago… ’77, I think, there was that plague scare. Only a few people got it, and Hutch was one of the lucky ones who survived.” In a few terse sentences, he described those days when Hutch had lingered near death, and of the race to find Calender. He grew chilled at the memory. “The doctor said he might have further complications later on, but…” He shook his head. “He’s never said anything about feeling sick.”
“That explains quite a bit, thanks,” Mathews said, taking off his glasses to clean them on his coat. “You’ve been very helpful, Sergeant Starsky.” He settled the glasses back in place, smiling almost shyly. “Your partner has tremendous stamina. I’m sure we can pull him through.”
But the reassurance wasn’t enough. Starsky needed more. “Then what did you mean about his body forgettin’ he was alive?”
The doctor glanced at his watch. “He’s tired, and no doubt frightened, and well, he’s suffered a terrible psychological battering. The kind that can affect an individual at a subconscious level — where we can’t reach him. In other words, sergeant, his mind may be telling his body to give up the good fight — to let go because he’s dying.” Mathews stared hard at Starsky. “Maybe you can convince him he’s not going to die.”
Starsky felt the blood leave his face. “You’re wrong,” he murmured. “Hutch wants to live… he’s gotta live.”
Quickly, Mathews patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s go back into the room, and I’ll try to show you what I mean.”
They filed back, Starsky noting absently that the nurse had tried to clean some more of the bloody crusts off Hutch’s face, and combed his hair. His covers were all straightened, and the clutter on his bedside table had some sort of order now. But outside of the regular, very shallow breathing, Hutch lay absolutely still.
Mathews said something to the nurse that Starsky couldn’t hear, and she hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her. “Now, Sergeant, will you step over here, beside me?”
Starsky did so, taking in his lover’s weary, swollen features. “Is he warm enough?” he asked suddenly as he wrapped his fingers around Hutch’s.
“For now. Just remain quiet, then do what I tell you.” Mathews leaned over, his patient, bring his face close to Hutch’s. “Hutch… Detective Hutchinson… are you awake?”
Not so much as an eyelash fluttered, yet Starsky could have sworn Hutch had heard — had to have heard the man. “Why doesn’t he move? Or do something?” he asked.
“You ask the same question, Sergeant,” came the abrupt rejoinder as the doctor moved to let Starsky in.
He bent over, hand drifting to Hutch’s head. “Hutch… it’s me, Starsk. Are you awake?” He kept his voice low, coaxing, his mouth close to Hutch’s ear. He turned his head to watch for further directions from Mathews. There was a strange expression on the doctor’s face.
“Look,” said Mathews, pointing. “By George, I knew he’d respond if you talked to him.”
Starsky pulled back, staring intently at Hutch. Very slowly, and with a terrible effort, Hutch’s eyes began moving behind their bruised lids. After what seemed an interminable time, he sighed, obviously trying to say something.
Hastily, Starsky placed one finger across the swollen mouth. “Don’t try to talk, I know you heard me. Just go back to sleep. I’ll be here.”
It wasn’t a smile by a long shot, but a look of indefinable contentment smoothed out the drawn expression. Starsky looked at Mathews in triumph. “He did hear me, ya know.”
This time Mathews smiled. “That’s what I was hoping would happen, Sergeant. He’s aware of you, and wants to let you know he can hear you.”
“Yeah. But I can’t be here all the time. I’m a cop. I can’t stay off the job…” His voice trailed away, keeping his unvoiced fears to himself. “What you’re sayin’ is that if I’m not here, he’s not gonna want to keep on trying?”
The smile vanished, replaced by a guarded look. “No. No. But if you could manage to be here when some of the more, ah, painful procedures have to be done… it would be a great help.” The doctor didn’t elaborate.
“Sure — sure. But right now I gotta spend some time with Hutch’s parents. They’re damn near sick with worry ’cause he was unconscious when they got here.” He’d only spent a few minutes with them, explaining briefly to Hutch’s dad about Helena Anders and her family. The senior Hutchinson had listened, shook his head, then asked how the young mother and her baby were doing. The question had been so compassionate Starsky had been rendered speechless… so like Hutch.
“Uh, Doc, there’s something we need to talk about before I go. Hutch ‘n I, we, uh, haven’t told his folks about… us.” Warmth flooded Starsky’s cheeks as he spoke but he didn’t drop his gaze. “Maybe they’ll wonder about you wantin’ me to be here for the rough parts, you know?”
A look of understanding crossed Mathews’ face, and the man nodded in sympathy. “Don’t worry. As his immediate family they are allowed to visit when they want. As his partner, you need special permission. Just leave things to me.” he shrugged, then smiled. “When he’s out of ICU, it’s up to the floor nurses to handle visitors.”
The physician took out his stethoscope, warmed it in his hands, then pulled Hutch’s covers back. His expression as he moved the instrument around was very closed as he listened intently. His hands were well-shaped and clean, his movements smooth and gentle. When he finished, he once again felt the fingers on Hutch’s left hand. Looking up, he nodded at Starsky.
Starsky realized suddenly that he was hungry. “Will he be okay if I go get a cup of coffee and something to eat?”
Mathews pulled the covers back across Hutch’s chest. “Don’t worry, Sergeant, we won’t neglect your partner while you’re gone.” He glanced at his watch. “Besides, I really do have to make rounds. So why don’t you and I leave? Maybe he’ll sleep if we talk outside.”
He walked over to the door and pulled it open. “Come on. By now this place should be getting on your nerves. I wish they’d paint it a different color. This damn green reminds me of the morgue.”
Starsky glanced sharply around the room. “Yeah. Guess you’ve been there almost as many times as we have, huh?”
“I doubt it, but at least you know what I’m talking about. Now, the coffee shop has great coffee and good burgers. Why don’t you take that break you mentioned? Your friend’s condition has stabilized enough for you to get some rest.”
Nodding, Starsky followed Mathews, noting he left the door open so the staff could see Hutch. Since the Collis brothers were all incarcerated, and Caulkins was in custody, Dobey had pulled the cop who’d been guarding Hutch. Starsky waved goodbye to the doctor at the elevator and rode alone down to the lobby.
~~~
“Sergeant Hutchinson? It’s time. Get up!”
Hutch opened his eyes and tried to see who was talking to him, but the room was in total darkness. Weird, because he’d never been in a hospital where they turned off the electricity.
“Where are you? I can’t see you,” he complained, wondering if he should sit up or not. Everything hurt like hell, and his left arm felt like it was sunk in concrete, or something. He thought for a moment before remembering the cast.
“Oh, I’m here, Sergeant, right beside you. Come on, open your eyes!”
The voice wasn’t Starsky’s, but he did have a feeling he’d heard it before… where? “Quit with the Batcave crap!” he snapped, losing patience. “Turn on the lights.” He tried to sit up, succeeding only in rolling onto his side before the pain lanced through his midsection. He sank back onto the bed, groaning, “Sorry, buddy, but this is as far as I can go.”
Why didn’t the jerk turn on the lights? Jesus, but he hated games like this. “Look, if you want to examine me in the dark, just slap some luminous paint on me and I’ll glow like a neon sign! C’mon! Goddammit!”
He was trying to sit up again when someone struck him a terrific blow on the cheek. “What — ” Another blow, this time on the side of his head, making him dizzy.
“Did you think you could escape, coward? Even hell hates your kind! Down here you’re alone… no cops to save your ass. This is for Lud!”
Hutch cried out as unseen fists beat at him, smashed into his body, ripped the IV out of his arm… he had to get away, had to escape… had to find Starsky. He swung at the blackness and lost his balance. As he fell, he wondered which level of Hades he was entering, wondered if there was a special place for cowards.
~~~
The squadroom was quiet for a change. Harold Dobey opened his office door and peered out to see why. Only three men were in sight. Sergeant Peters, his partner Sergeant Sabatini, and Starsky. The three of them were deep in a conversation, and Dobey heard the words, ‘Caulkins’, ‘Fass’, and ‘cutter’ all mentioned. Peters and Sabatini had been two of the cops who had apprehended Keating’s infamous cutter, Alonzo. That gentleman surprisingly, had been only too eager to incriminate the dead crook as well as the living Caulkins. With his turning state’s evidence, it looked like a solid case against the ambitious assistant DA, especially since the autopsy performed on John Templeton had found a tiny puncture wound in his carotid artery. Caulkins had expected Templeton’s body to be badly smashed in the pre-arranged accident. As luck would have it, however, Harry Collis had ever-so-carefully fastened the seat belt around Templeton’s corpse, thus preventing him from going through the windshield. Call it Fate, Karma, or just bad luck, it meant Caulkins was in big trouble.
Filled with a sense of satisfaction, Dobey was just closing his door when Starsky’s phone rang. He paused, hoping it was nothing of importance.
Starsky reached across the table, nearly upsetting his coffee cup as he scooped up the receiver in his left hand. “Yeah. Detective Starsky here…” He winked at the other two detectives. But almost immediately his body tensed, a frown knot his brows together, and he glanced away, meeting Dobey’s gaze.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll come right over. He’s okay, though?” The receiver was set down with almost delicate precision, and then Starsky slowly got to his feet, shrugging into his jacket.
The captain came out of his office. “What is it? Was that the hospital?” He felt his insides churn as he watched Starsky stack his folders neatly into a pile.
“I’ll finish these later, Cap’n,” Starsky said. “I’ve got to go… there’s been some kinda accident.” The blue eyes were troubled. “He musta freaked out… the doc wants me right away.”
Peters and Sabatini got to their feet at the same time. “Is there anything we can do? Drive you down there? Do you want us to come with you? Maybe you shouldn’t go alone.” Peters glanced at his partner, who nodded.
“No. No. I-I gotta go alone. Hutch is kinda upset, ya know? He wants to see me.” He pushed open the squadroom doors and hurried past the window, to disappear from sight. In a matter of minutes the three men in the office heard the squeal of tires as the Torino raced out of the parking lot.
Dobey exchanged a long look with the two detectives, then growled, “Go after him… find out what the hell happened to Hutch!” With that he went back into his office to dial the hospital himself.
~~~
It was still dark. The utter lack of light made Hutch even more certain the section of Hades he’d been tossed into was in its uttermost depths. He shivered, trying to curve his body to conserve its heat, but his middle hurt too much to make a good job of it. Ironic, he thought; he’d always rather pitied those who didn’t have much backbone… who weren’t very brave. But he’d never given any thought as to how Heaven or Hell might judge them. He certainly would never have believed they would be so despised, even down here. He could hear people shrieking, but their voices sounded far away. They were obviously on a different level. He tried to recall what his catechism teacher had said about expiation of sins and smiled bitterly. What was the sentence for cowardice? Fifty years? If you repented did you get time off?
Cut this shit out, Hutchinson. Get up and find out where in hell you are! He slowly got to his feet, his whole body protesting the movement of damaged muscles. Maybe he should try to reach the place where the voices were coming from; maybe they could tell him where there was some light — and heat — to be found. He began listening to the voices… God! That one sounded a lot like Starsk, but that was impossible. His partner would never be sent down here… Starsky was no coward. And what makes you think he really wants you anymore? What makes you believe he cares?
Hutch stopped in his tracks. Who had said that? Surely not himself, because he knew, knew, that no matter what, Starsky would always love him. Pain lanced through his chest like an arrow piercing his heart… Maybe he’d better wait right here until Starsky found him, because his partner had always said he’d go through Hell if that was what it took to save Hutch. The pain eased, and Hutch slowly slid to the cold floor. The voices were still there, still far away.
~~~
“What happened?” Starsky asked breathlessly as he encountered Dr. Mathews and two individuals in green scrub suits in the hospital corridor. He took one long look at them and a feeling of dread crawled up his spine. “Jesus. No one tried to kill him, did they?”
Mathews held up his hand. “Sergeant — Dave — Hutch is safe. That is, nobody tried to kill him.” He glanced at his companions. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Debra Rosin, and Attendant Jorge Camacho. Dr. Rosin is a psychologist.”
Starsky shook hands, studied their faces, and began to relax a bit. Dr. Rosin was grey-haired, grey-eyed, and stocky, but there were laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, and when she smiled dimples appeared in her cheeks. Camacho was small, lean, and intense, with beautiful liquid brown eyes. “Nice to meet you. What happened?”
Before anyone could reply, Mathews steered the group over to an unoccupied lounge. “A little more private,” he explained.
Dr. Rosin shook her head, and made sympathetic noises. “Let’s not waste time, here. Sergeant Starsky wants to know what happened to his friend… so would I, under these circumstances.” She sat down, followed by the men. “Jorge, you start,” she said firmly, “since you were the one who found Sergeant Hutchinson.”
“Call him Hutch, and I’m Starsky, please.” Starsky stared into Jorge’s eyes. “See, we’re partners.”
“Ahh, then you are muy simpatico, si.” Camacho shook his head. “It was very bad… you friend had pulled the intravenous from his arm and fallen out of the bed… like this!” The attendant stood up and contorted his body in a way that made Starsky wince.
“What I wanna know is why. Was he havin’ a nightmare? Or did he just get scared?” He glared at Mathews, who shrugged and got to his feet.
“I’ll see if the nurse can tell us anything,” the doctor said, hurrying away.
“Sergeant. Your partner was in the throes of a nightmare, we believe. He was very withdrawn when we got to him. There was no concussion — he apparently fell on his knees, then tried to hide under the bed.” Rosin’s tone was matter-of-fact, but her sharp gaze missed nothing. “Will you please help me to understand the circumstances of his situation?”
Starsky nodded, then clasped his fingers together as he told Camacho and the psychologist all about refusing the assignment, Anders’ death, and the revenge extracted on Hutch. The effect on the young attendant was striking. His dark eyes were snapping with ill-concealed disgust, his hands clenched into fists.
“Sergeant, your friend has suffered much, eh? Yet he defended his honor even with a broken arm. He is a brave man.”
“Jorge is right, Sergeant. I’m sure when Hutch wakens he’ll be able to see his fears are unfounded.” But Dr. Rosin was not smiling. “Just how secure is your partner? About himself, I mean? Does he possess self-confidence? Is he negative about his work, his relationships?” Her eyes met Starsky’s. “At the time, did his brother officers understand his refusal to take that assignment?”
Starsky got to his feet, facing both of them. “Lemme tell you about my partner,” he began quietly. “In the first place, he can be as selfish and arrogant as any other man. He’s wealthy, good-lookin’ to a fault, smart, and in great physical shape. He’s popular… up to a point.” He couldn’t help grinning, “See Hutch has a big mouth — like me — and if he doesn’t like something or someone he lets it be known. He ruffles feathers, sticks his nose in other people’s business, ya know, that cop’s intuition stuff. But he’s a mush when it comes to helpin’ people, especially the down-and-outers. He’s honest to a fault, and carries the worries of the world on those shoulders — if I don’t make him drop them.” Starsky ran his fingers through his hair. “Trouble is, he’s proud… and for anyone to think he did a cowardly thing, it really upset him.”
The words came slower now, and he knew the psychologist was studying him with those sharp eyes. “See… Hutch’s family is kind of important, and he’s always tryin’ hard — sometimes too hard — to please them. They wanted him to stay in Minnesota and help in the family businesses, but he got interested in the law.” He stopped talking, for Mathews was back, accompanied by a nurse.
Before Starsky could open his mouth, the young woman said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. One of the patients freaked out and was trying to get into Sergeant Hutchinson’s room. I helped get him back to bed… the guy was screaming outside the room and I was afraid he’d disturb him.”
“That’s true, Starsky. In fact, that’s why I’m here. He’s an old man with advanced Alzheimer’s. He’s in for evaluation at his family’s request.” Dr. Rosin shook her head. “His family can’t cope with him any longer.” She stood up, smoothing out her lab coat. Camacho rose at the same time.
“I would like to talk to you after you see your partner, Sergeant. If you can get him to tell you anything, to even communicate with you, then try to remember everything he says. It’s important we find out what’s going on in his mind.”
Starsky nodded, unable to speak. As usual, it was going to be left to him to make that contact. Besides, he didn’t want anybody else nosing around in his and Hutch’s personal lives. He wondered if Mathews had told her about him and Hutch. Did it matter?
Seeing his look, Mathews spoke up. “We’re wasting time, aren’t we? Let’s remedy that. Come on. He led the way to Hutch’s room, then paused with his hand on the door handle. “One thing. Try not to be too reassuring. Some patients resent that attitude. Just play it by ear.”
Mathews opened the door and Starsky stepped into the room. What had he expected? Hutch sprawled unconscious on the floor? Or huddled in a ball under the bed? The man propped up on a bunch of pillows, awake… watching him with those blue eyes, almost made Starsky believe in miracles. Almost, but not quite.
“I see ya decided to wake up. ‘Bout time.” He waited, wanting desperately for Hutch’s arms to reach out to hold him, but there was only a wary alertness about his partner. He turned to meet Mathews’ gaze. “Is he awake, or what?” he muttered.
“Hutch? Do you recognize your partner? You wanted to see him, remember?” The doctor’s tone was matter-of-fact, not condescending.
Hutch’s gaze moved to Mathews, and his expression changed. “Why were the lights out?” he asked in a puzzled tone. “I got confused, fell out of… bed.” Again, his glance moved back to Starsky, and he lifted his left arm awkwardly. “I thought I heard you telling me to get out of bed… or maybe not.” He averted his eyes. “It was so damn dark…”
Starsky instinctively moved closer to his partner, but noticed Mathews shaking his head. “Wasn’t me. Last time I was here, you weren’t hearin’ anything anybody said. When did ya wake up?” He watched the light as it flowed over the fair hair, his heart aching. A laugh caught in his throat. “Funny. I figured you’d call me as soon as you came to. How’re you feelin’?”
Hutch’s chuckle matched Starsky’s. “Like hell — as usual. Honest, Starsky, the first thing I want to do when I get out of here is go to dinner at Miceli’s. Even before I go home.”
Huh? Starsky was immediately alerted. Hutch had closed his eyes, and so Starsky gestured for the doctor to leave them alone. Mathews nodded, and left without speaking to his patient. Only when the door closed behind him, did Starsky go to the bed and touch his lover. He lightly stroked Hutch’s cheek, and was rewarded with a crooked smile. “I see ya still got all your teeth. Man, are you lucky!”
“Starsky?” came the whisper. “Dante was right… parts of Hell are so cold you can’t ever get warm.” The eyes staring up at Starsky were wide with fear.
Swallowing, Starsky merely commented, “That where you’ve been? No wonder I couldn’t find you.” He kept stroking the smooth cheek, his fingers moving around to the back of Hutch’s neck to fondle the wayward, matted curls. “Hutch, why’d you go there, anyway? Who told you to go?”
Cool fingers closed around Starsky’s wrist, pulling his hand back and up to Hutch’s mouth, where a kiss was placed on his palm. Hutch cleared his throat, “I-I don’t know who — maybe one of the Collis brothers — it was too dark to see.”
Starsky nodded, then sat on the edge of the bed, holding tight to Hutch’s hand. “Do you remember taking the IV out of your arm?” He shook his head. “That’s must’ve hurt.”
Hutch looked down at his forearm, where a small bandage covered the spot. “That’s rich. Here I thought they did it. Boy, that was some dream.”
“Dream? Hutch, that was the granddaddy of nightmares! The doc told me you ended up under the bed, hiding from the dark.”
There was silence in the room; the sunlight streamed in the window, its warmth striking both men. Hutch stared at it as if he couldn’t get enough of its light. “How’s Helena Anders?” he asked suddenly. “She have her baby?”
Jesus, just like his dad. “Yeah. A boy. Almost nine pounds. Mother and son doin’ fine. Ya wanna hear about the rest of the family?”
The clear eyes met Starsky’s. “Only because you’re dying to tell me, right?” A half-smile played around Hutch’s lips. “I hope they’re as miserable as I am.” A flash of Hutch’s old spirit made Starsky grin.
“Damn straight, babe. Baby Harry, who didn’t go along on the joy ride, is spillin’ his guts, but he’s still gonna take a 3 to 5 year fall. You ready for this? He was actually hired by Keating to drive Templeton’s body over the embankment! Lucky for our side that they paid him off with extra-fine coke… he took too much, the rest is history… and helped us get Caulkins. But that’s another story. The guy who was tailin’ you — the one in that old Camaro? That was Nicholas Collis… he’s the one who’s gonna look out of the side of his face for the rest of his life. You oughta gold-plate that pipe wrench! Alex Collis — you wanna talk limp wrists! Hell, he was yelling about ‘police brutality’ ’cause you’re a cop. Can you believe it? Then good old Natalie Scott went to see him… and his lawyer. Another one who’s gonna spend a few years behind bars.”
Starsky got off the bed and circled the room, warming to his subject. “As for the beefy boys… Jeez, Hutch, in a way I’m glad it wasn’t daylight when you held them off. At least you didn’t know how big they are. The one who damn near killed you was named Miklos… he’s gonna go up for attempted murder of a cop. He used to be a boxer — Greek style — when he was younger, so they got him on assault with lethal weapons…”
Hutch held up his right hand. “No more details, Starsky, ’cause I already know them.” He winced as he shifted position. “Boy, do I know them!” he muttered. Then, as the sunshine moved to a spot on the floor, he asked, “How long can you stay?”
Grinning, Starsky pulled up the chair and flopped down in it. He wished Mathews and Rosin could see how normal Hutch really was. Damn doctors were always so sure they knew everything. Hell, maybe Hutch would be able to go home in a couple of days… now that was something to think about.
“I’ve got all night, and Dobey gave me tomorrow off, so I figured I’d stay as late as they’d let me.” He half-closed his eyes, pretending not to see the look of pleasure that crossed Hutch’s face. “So what about Miceli’s? I thought ya didn’t like it so much… too noisy.”
Weight shifted on the bed as Hutch turned on his side to study his partner. “It is, but they don’t care how long you take to eat… and I’m starving. A milkshake… a hamburger… anything.”
Starsky kept his eyes half-shut, smiling to himself as he watched Hutch, but the smile disappeared when he saw Hutch glance wildly around the room, then pull the covers up. What was wrong? He sat up straight, searching the room for something that might have frightened Hutch. “Hey. I thought you were hungry.” He got slowly to his feet and approached his partner. All that was exposed was the crown of Hutch’s head. Gently, he reached over and touched one shoulder. “C’mon, Hutch, are you cold? I’ll get — ”
He never finished the sentence because Hutch began to cry.
~~~
It was dark before the doctors left Starsky and Hutch alone. Hutch was sound asleep, knocked out so he wouldn’t hurt himself. Starsky had held him close, listening with increasing bewilderment as Hutch babbled and wept about the levels of Hell, and the pain he was suffering. Starsky remembered telling the doctors that Hutch carried the weight of the world on his shoulders if left alone — but had he really believed it himself? Hutch seemed to be retreating into a private hell, and how was Starsky going to get him out of it? All of a sudden the physical injuries seemed minor, and the darkness Hutch feared became real to Starsky, too. The room was brightly lit — in case Hutch woke up — and the glare bothered Starsky. He went over and lay down on the empty bed next to Hutch’s, and wearily closed his eyes.
The next thing he knew, Hutch’s parents were in the room, bending over their son, trying to get him to talk to them. He got to his feet and hastily finger-combed his hair. “I’m sorry about Hutch,” he said. “I left a message for you earlier.”
They turned to face him. “What happened? Dr. Mathews told us not to come until this evening, then we got your message saying Hutch was awake. Now this.” Hutch’s father pointed to the still figure.
Quickly, Starsky brought them up to date, telling them about Hutch’s being hungry, about his seeming so normal. “I tell you it was like flipping a switch. The doc says being called a coward is what’s bothering him. But, I dunno… he knows he’s not.”
Starsky stopped, for Hutch’s father had turned pale as a ghost. “What’s wrong? Do you know something else? Please!”
“Oh, no. Surely not that old wound! It’s been so many years and no one’s ever said anything to him.” Hutch’s mother gazed imploringly at her husband, as if seeking reassurance. Her blue eyes filled with tears and she fumbled helplessly for her handkerchief.
Starsky waited while Hutch’s father automatically handed her his own handkerchief and patted her shoulder. “Easy, dear, easy. The human mind does terrible things to its host. If the possibility exists that Ken is still hurting from that incident, then Dave must know about it.”
“But it was nothing!” she sobbed. “Even Margaret said so later on… he was so young then.”
“Will you two please tell me what the hell is goin’ on?” Starsky finally shouted. He pointed to Hutch, who was moving restlessly. “Spit it out before he wakes up, will ya? If it’s that painful for you, then it must’ve been painful for him. Please!”
Nodding, Hutch’s father went to stand by the window, the overhead light spilling over his head and shoulders. “One branch of our family has always had a military connection — my great-great uncle rose to the rank of General in 1918.” Pride shown in his eyes as he spoke. “His sons enlisted, became career officers before retiring with full honors.” He turned to smile. “Their enthusiasm for the military even swayed me when I was young and restless. I toyed with the idea of joining the Navy for awhile, but my father nearly had apoplexy when he found out. As you may have surmised, our branch of the Hutchinson clan are the businessmen — ”
“Sir, I can appreciate the background, but what’s the point of all this?” Starsky said quietly. For some reason, he’d never given any thought about what the other Hutchinsons did. They all made him uncomfortable.
“Sorry. I don’t like to dwell on the past. What’s done is done — ” The grey eyes met Starsky’s. “Ken had two cousins his own age from this side of the family, and the three boys were exceptionally close during their growing-up years. Grahame and Bumps, ah, Brandon, took ROTC as a matter-of-course, while Ken became interested in athletics.” He smiled wryly. “Just a phase, you understand; he was destined for better things.”
“Anyway, one night when the three of them were celebrating — and rather inebriated — they vowed to let nothing ever separate them — the three musketeers sort of adolescent pledge. The kind young men make before reality forces them apart.”
“Mr. Hutchinson, your son is gonna wake up and I’m still gonna be in the dark! What happened!” Starsky turned to look at Hutch’s mother, who was sitting with the handkerchief clenched in her fingers. He frowned.
“Sorry. To make a long story short, when the Vietnam war first started, Grahame and Bumps went right out and enlisted, even though they had been assured of appointments to West Point. It was a foolish, impulsive act — ”
“And Hutch didn’t sign up with them, did he?” Starsky interrupted, certain now he knew the rest of this story.
“No! No! Do you think I was going to let my boy leave home to fight over there?” Hutch’s mother rose quickly and went to stand beside her sleeping son. “For what, I ask you? A group of — of people who resented us, who used their own children as decoys! Not my son! Never!” Hutch’s mother threw herself across Hutch. “He’s all we have.” She lifted her head and spoke rapidly to her husband, “Let’s take him home with us. We can do everything there… the best nurses… doctors. He’s so far away from us out here.” She caressed Hutch’s bruised cheek tenderly.
“I think I know what happened. Hutch’s cousins went to ‘Nam and were killed, right? And then Hutch felt he shoulda gone, too.” The idea of Hutch being forced to leave him terrified Starsky.
The older man nodded, his gaze on his wife and son. “He was going to go, Dave. But he had just been accepted at USC to study law, plus he was engaged to Vanessa…”
“So what? That didn’t make him a coward!” Starsky retorted. “I don’t understand why he felt so damn guilty.” He studied them both. “So what happened next?”
Hutch’s mother left her son’s bedside and went over to stand beside her husband, her chin held high. “It was at the funeral. Since the boys died together, the family decided they should be buried in the family plot rather than in a military cemetery.” Her eyes flashed with spirit. “Ken came of course, with Vanessa. They looked so handsome together, had a new sports car… Well, California seemed to agree with them both. If only we had known what lay ahead for them — ” Once again the hanky dabbed at her eyes.
“Darling, that’s not what Dave needs to hear. When Ken and Van entered the church, Bump’s younger brother ran over to them and began striking Ken and calling him a ‘coward’ for not going overseas with his brother and Grahame. People ran to pull the boy away, but the damage was done. Ken, naturally, felt terrible. Van was furious. Naturally, they left, not wanting to cause a scene. They left the next morning.”
“You mean Hutch never got a chance to talk about this with his cousins’ families?” Starsky couldn’t help but think about the noisy, very vocal confrontations at home, all emotions up front, everyone shouting or crying or laughing at once.
Mrs. Hutchinson stared at Starsky. “Why, David, Bump’s parents felt awful, so did Grahame’s. I’m certain they must have let Ken know… later.” But there was a shadow of doubt in her eyes now, a tiny frown on her brow.
Starsky let out a great sigh before speaking. “I’m gonna play devil’s advocate now, and I want you to know up front that my only interest is in Hutch’s getting better. You do understand that, don’t you?” He searched their faces, saw their bewilderment, and for a moment pitied them. “Look. Physically, Hutch is gonna get better real soon. The doc says he can probably get out of here in less than a week. But if he can’t shake these bad dreams then his recovery’s gonna be a long term thing.”
He held up his hand when Hutch’s mother started to say something. “Wait. Taking him home is the worst thing you can do, don’t you see? He’ll feel like he ran away again. Even worse, he’ll be reminded of what happened with his cousins when he sees the family. Besides, Hutch isn’t a kid anymore. He’s a grown man with a life of his own, a job he loves, and… and me. And if you think I’m gonna let him go — ” He shook his head in dumb misery.
Hutch’s father spoke first. “Dave, are you sure you can handle this alone? You know we want to do what’s best for Ken.”
Jesus. Was that relief in the old man’s voice? A surge of hope made Starsky feel dizzy. He focused on Hutch’s mother. “How do you feel? Level with me.”
She had drawn even closer to her tall husband, seeking comfort from him. The handkerchief was a damp ball in her hand. “Like any mother I want to take care of him, Dave, to watch him get better. But if you honestly believe he’s — ” she glanced over at Hutch, ” — better off out here, with you…”
She looked years older, and very vulnerable.
It was no time to give an inch, Starsky knew. They hadn’t grasped the implications of his possessiveness, might never do so until Hutch decided to tell them, but that was all right, for now. He tried to smile. “Hutch’s vacation is scheduled for July. Maybe he can come visit you then. But now he needs me, needs me ’cause he’s got to let go of what happened to him, and I’m the only person he trusts enough to confide in.” He shrugged, smiling sheepishly, “Just like I trust him… we’ve been through so much together. Say your good-byes tomorrow. I promise I’ll let you know if anything happens.”
He held his breath while waiting for them to make a decision. The last thing Hutch needed was babying, of that he was certain. He shifted his glance to include Hutch, and saw his eyelids flutter, then begin to open. Putting his finger to his lips, he beckoned to Hutch’s parents to go over to their son. He owed them that much satisfaction at least.
“Ken? Darling, it’s Mother… can you hear me?” Mrs. Hutchinson sounded like a girl, her voice high and sort of breathless. Starsky watched her stroke Hutch’s hair into place, then reach for her husband’s hand. “Darling, Dad’s here, too. Wake up and look at us, please… oh, Ken.”
Hutch opened his eyes, made an effort to focus on the couple hovering so close, and apparently realized he wasn’t dreaming. A crooked grin curved his mouth. His right hand moved slowly up and over to grasp his mother’s fingers. “Hi,” he croaked. “How long have you been here?” His gaze shifted and met Starsky’s.
“Hi, partner. How’s it goin’?” Starsky said softly, still keeping away from the bed. “I’m gonna go down to the desk and let the nurses know you finally woke up.”
Hutch shook his head, “Sure, so they can come in and stick me full of holes again. Some pal you are.” But his eyes said something entirely different.
As Starsky closed the door he heard Hutch’s father telling his son how proud he was of him and the job he was doing. Good. With a little help, maybe the worst was over. He leaned up against the door frame, grinning as an orderly hurried by. What the hell, the nurses were all busy. Besides, Hutch needed strokes more than shots right now.
~~~
April gave way to May. As the sun lingered longer each day and began its climb into summer, Hutch grew stronger. While Starsky was at work, he spent his time sorting through years of memorabilia. Hampered by the heavy cast on his arm, he was limited to light tasks and daily rest periods. So, rather than have Starsky cook each evening — when he wasn’t on call — Hutch arranged to have their dinners sent up from Chez Helene. That way he didn’t have to face an incessant barrage of burritos and pizza, and Starsky appreciated the change in menu. They spent all their spare time house hunting.
He sat on the couch, staring down at a four-inch stack of snapshots. Pictures of houses; back yard, of garages and front doors… the list was endless. He smiled, rubbing absently at the scar on his scalp, remembering the places that seemed ideal until they had returned a second — and third — time. He picked up the pile, selecting one particular group to scrutinize. A Spanish-style stucco house was by far and away Starsky’s favorite, and he had to admit it ran a close second to his own first choice.
He knew part of its serene charm had to be the fact that, secluded as it was, just two blocks away lay his partners beloved ‘civilization’. Small stores, fast food joints, a garage, a theatre… all were presented in the pictures as part of a ‘swell’ neighborhood.
You are so full of life and love, aren’t you? No matter how old Starsky got, his zest for life would never change. It wasn’t a case of eternal childhood per se; it was the simple fact that his lover seemed able to keep the best of all the ages and stages they went through.
The phone rang, and he winced as he stretched to reach it, certain parts of his body protesting the sudden move. “Yeah,” he said, looking for a pencil in case Starsky was leaving a message.
“Hey, my man, how’s the body beautiful healing?” Music swelled in the background.
“Hey, yourself, Hug. I’m doing okay, thanks.” Hutch paused, Huggy was trying to give orders over the din of the bar.
“Sorry, Hutch, but I got a note here saying you want a keg of beer delivered on Saturday, that right?”
Hutch grinned. “What is this, anyway? An hour ago some florist called and said he was supposed to deliver two dozen roses. Before that it was a deli with one of those six-foot submarine sandwiches.” It had to be Starsky, but what was the idiot up to?
“Dunno anything about your plans, Hutch, all I know is I’m holding the order — you want it?” The sound of crackling paper came across the line.
“Sure, why not? Make it the best you’ve got. Then come over and help us drink it.” He said good-bye, then sat wracking his brain. Had he forgotten a birthday…? No, it was something else, something far more important than that… The penny dropped, and he whistled in surprise; Saturday marked the tenth anniversary of their partnership. He tossed the pictures onto the coffee table, and settled down on the couch, pillows under his head and arm. Ten years? Ten marvelous years working with someone he loved. He was a lucky man. His eyelids drooped as he felt sleep stealing over him. He welcomed it; there had been no more nightmares since the doctors had made him understand why he’d been so afraid of being called a coward. Apparently his folks had called Bumps’ and Grahame’s parents, because he’d received long letters from both families. Best of all, though, had been Starsky’s warm body snuggled up to his ever since he’d been discharged. God, that had had to be the best medicine in the world, drifting off to sleep in those strong, loving arms. Ten years… sleepily he wished for at least thirty more. Thirty more… living together in their home.
His eyes flew open and he sat up, tossing the pillows onto the floor. Of course, now he knew why the fuss; their days as partners would be over in six weeks. His appointment as lieutenant had finally come through, and this was Starsky’s way of celebrating both events. Since that was the case, this anniversary called for something special. Now, what would please Starsky the most? The answer came from the photos before him. He dragged the phone across the coffee table, chuckling to himself. “Oh, babe, I’m finally gonna do something right… blow your ever-lovin’ mind!”
He dialed quickly, looking through the scattered snapshots. “Hello? James? This is Ken Hutchinson. Hmm? Oh, fine. Yeah, ribs are still sore as hell, but everything’s healing okay. Say, I need a bank draft for ten thousand dollars. Can you messenger it to me at my home address by tomorrow?” He shifted, watching the light filter through the blinds, then said, “Oh, make it out to David Michael Starsky, will you? S-T-A-R-S-K-Y. Right, my partner. Thanks, James, give my best to your family.” He hung up, and went through the pictures once again, choosing the one of Starsky in front of the Spanish stucco. How beautiful he was, dark curls shining in the sun, that crooked grin lighting his face. “I love you, Starsk,” Hutch murmured as he retrieved the pillows. He lay back down, holding the photo of Starsky against his chest. This time sleep came quickly.
~~~
“G’night, and thanks.” Starsky closed the door to the apartment as the last guests left. He was exhausted, the place was a shambles, and Hutch was as drunk as he was. He looked across the room at his lover, who was staring back owl-eyed, trying to stand up.
“Easy, you’re gonna fall flat on your face and break something else,” he cautioned.
“Can’t,” Hutch informed him gravely, “already had everything broken, didn’t I?” He sounded vaguely pleased with himself.
Starsky laughed, but inside his heart ached. “Not quite, so don’t brag. You just looked like the Painted Desert for three weeks.”
Blue eyes met his, a light dancing in their depths. “You telling me I’m a work of art?” Hutch put one hand on his hip and tried to look sexy. With his arm in a cast the effect was ludicrous. “Well?”
“Pal, I hate to be the one to tell you, especially since Mario was after your bod all evening, but you look more like an ad for Medicare.” That wasn’t strictly the truth, but Hutch was too drunk to be insulted. He slipped his arm around his lover’s waist, leading him back to the couch. “Did you have a good time? Were you surprised?” He smoothed back a wayward tuft of silky, pale hair, remembering the way it had looked three weeks ago.
Hutch considered, blinked, then nodded. “Had a wonderful time, but I knew, and you knew I knew.” He raised his right arm, and outlined Starsky’s mouth with loving fingers. “Thanks for the party, it was wonderful.”
Starsky knelt beside him, hands on Hutch’s thighs. “Ten years, can you believe it? I didn’t think we’d stick it out. You were such a prick sometimes.”
One blond eyebrow arched. “Oh? Well, that’s ’cause you never took me seriously, otherwise. Besides, you drove me up the wall with your nutty ideas.” He smoothed Starsky’s eyebrows gently. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? Like a real couple, these days.” Then, hands covering Starsky’s, he said softly. “Dave… I’ve got a present for you. Sit here beside me.”
Delighted, Starsky quickly settled himself beside Hutch, watching his lover with shining eyes. “I knew you’d get me something… you’re a big softie.” However, his expression grew puzzled when he was handed an official-looking envelope.
“Hutch! You didn’t! Not another tree? Migawd, I ain’t planning on opening a tree farm.”
“Open it, you jerk! Oh, and look at the picture first…” Hutch sat stock still, waiting while Starsky ripped the envelope open.
The photo tumbled out and Starsky picked it up, seeing himself in front of his choice for a home. “What’s this for? I don’t understand.” He took the long slip of paper from the envelope and stared down at the amount, then back at the picture.
“Read what I wrote on the back,” Hutch murmured, brushing a kiss across Starsky’s cheek.
Starsky slowly turned the picture over, reading Hutch’s wide scrawl as if it were a foreign language. “To my beloved… may we live here forever. Your Hutch.” He shook his head, smiling in disbelief. “Are you tellin’ me you’re choosing this place, too? I thought you wanted the one up on the hill — a million miles from nowhere.” He stole another glance at the check. “Jesus, Hutch, ten thousand bucks! I can’t take that kinda dough.”
“Oh, yes, you can!” Hutch cut in, speaking urgently. “It’s my gift to you for the best ten years of my life. Put it down on the house and let’s move in. I really don’t care about the other place. Just so long as we’re together…” He looked away, biting his lip.
Starsky very quietly set the check and picture down and drew Hutch into his arms. “I know why you did it. You can’t fool me. We came awful close this time to losing everything.” He felt his eyes burn as he leaned forward to kiss the trembling mouth. “It’s okay, babe. We cheated the bastards one more time, and we ain’t going to ever let them get us.”
He felt Hutch reaching for him, pulling into that wonderful, strong embrace. He closed his eyes. “Never knew you were the good fairy, darlin’. Where were you when I was losing my baby teeth and could’ve used the dough?”
There was a muffled laugh as Hutch bent to open Starsky’s shirt. “I was saving my money for today. And I get to pick out the wallpaper…” He lightly kissed the base of his lover’s throat.
Starsky peered down at the blond head working toward his midriff. Placing his hand on Hutch’s hair, he muttered. “Deal, but I get to do the bedroom.”
Bright eyes gleamed at him. “And me. You get to do me, too.”
God. Starsky wasn’t certain whether he was drunk on love or liquor; did it matter? “Count on it, babe,” he said rather breathlessly. In all the world, there was nowhere else he wanted to be. Even though they wouldn’t be partners much longer, having a place of their own would make up for it.
He closed his eves as sensations washed over him. He pictured long evenings making love, bright mornings of never-ending sunshine and laughter, of curtains blowing in the breeze.
Me ‘n thee.
It was all true; with Hutch by his side, they would move into their casa and make it a real home. “Me ‘n thee,” he said aloud, smiling into the shining eyes.
THE END
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