For the purpose of this story, I am using the episode order of the Season 1 Box set wherein “The Fix” comes before “Snowstorm” (although I believe the original airing had it reversed). Quite awhile ago, a cyber friend mentioned to me how she’d like to see a story depicting Hutch’s emotional trauma after being forced to shoot a fellow officer (Snowstorm). I thought that sounded like a good idea, so when I sat down to write this story it was the plot thread I had foremost in mind. Somewhere along the way, “The End of Daylight” became something different, I fear. There’s lots of emotional angst in this one, some minor h/c and (hopefully) a bit of mystery. As always thanks to my very good friend Theresa for her exceptional beta work - - you always make my stories shine! And thanks to Kass for such a great S&H website and being kind enough to host my stories. I hope you all enjoy the tale . . .

The End of Daylight

By Kate (CMT)

Hutch rolled over, straining his neck, restlessly kicking aside sweat-dampened blankets and sheets to ogle the alarm clock on his nightstand. The same luminous green display that had been his constant companion for the last eight nights stared back at him, brazenly proclaiming the hour. 4:26 a.m.

Check.

He marked it off on the mental calendar in his head . . . October 27th, 1975, better known as the year and month of screw-ups. Time had inched an amazing four minutes since his last check of the despicable clock. It felt more like four hours, typical for his endless parade of sleepless night after sleepless night, the stoic clock a constant reminder. He’d paid a whopping $2.29 for it at a five-and-dime shortly after moving into the cottage, not expecting it to last more than a few months. But it was still ticking . . . still somersaulting through a string of incandescent green numbers like some kind of mechanical amoebae that had rooted to the nightstand.

He’d grown to hate the wretched thing, timekeeper to his nightly misery. On more than one occasion he’d contemplated tossing it - gleefully battering it against the wall or window, better yet, throwing it cord and all, into the canal . . . watching it sink to the bottom where it might lay for decades before someone plucked it from the muck and barnacle-infested grime.

Exhaling loudly, he shifted again and beat his wilted pillow with a fist, attempting to plump life into it. What exactly had he accomplished in the four minutes since he’d last glanced at the clock? Two hundred and forty seconds. He’d thought about Ben Forest, a diabolical man named Monk, Phil Corman, cocaine, heroin, funerals and jail, but what had he really accomplished?

I convinced myself not to call Starsk.

That had to count for something. Night after sleepless night, he waged the same mental battle. Starsky had stayed with him for awhile after Forest and Monk had almost turned him into a junkie. His friend had slept on the couch even after Hutch had endured that godawful forty-eight hours of withdrawal in the room above Huggy’s bar. He grimaced just thinking about it, the painful memory only a month old. It resurrected mortifying flashbacks of sweating and shivering, of heaving up his stomach, being vindictively short with his partner, hissing and snarling for a fix, then breaking down and begging Starsky to help him. Humiliating memories. They made him feel less than human, less than a man.

Worse than the shame was the lingering fear he hadn’t really mastered his cravings. That sooner or later he’d tumble into the filth-encrusted pit where Forest and Monk had tossed him - - a gluttonous cavity reserved for hypes, willing to sell their bodies and souls for the fleeting ecstasy of a fix.

In his lowest moments - - in his blackest most desperate need - - what wouldn’t he have done to feel the ultimate rapture of drugged oblivion . . . to experience the seductive heat of a needle slipping into his veins? Would he have sold his body? His soul? His partner?

Oh, shit!

Hutch buried his face in the pillow, breathing hard.

It’s behind me . . . in the past. I’d never betray Starsky!

But he’d betrayed Jeannie, and the ugly knowledge of that very human shortcoming terrified him. With enough Horse in his veins, would he do the same to his partner - - sell Starsky out for one more pump of the needle?

On the verge of hyperventilating, Hutch flung back the blankets and bolted from the bed. It was wrong, all wrong. So fucking wrong he didn’t know what to do next. Dragging a hand through his sweaty hair, he stalked toward the kitchen, prowling around the small dining table like a caged animal. He hadn’t slept well in over a week. It was bad enough coming down off the drug, but a measly two-and-a-half weeks later he’d been forced to shoot Phil Corman, a nightmare that refused to leave him alone. A cop just shouldn’t have to kill another cop.

Pile that atrocity on top of involuntary drug addiction, and he was a prime candidate for a mental and emotional breakdown. Hutch knew the dangers, knew he was walking a ridiculously fine line, but there just weren't other options available. If he wanted to keep his badge, the drug addiction had to remain a dirty little secret shuffled away in a dark closet. As for Corman - - he’d gotten his share of cold shoulders and accusing glances, but most of the officers and detectives at Metro seemed to recognize he’d had no choice.

Look, Hutch, the guy was scum. He was gonna kill you, Starsky had told him. Somehow it still didn’t make it right, anymore than betraying Jeannie for the sake of a carnal high was right. And so he tossed and turned, night after night, existing on fumes and coffee during the day, coming closer and closer to total collapse. Corman’s wife had buried her husband eight days ago. Like the rest of the force, Hutch had attended the funeral, but he’d barely reached the gravesite before Carolyn Corman confronted him in a righteous frenzy.

“Get out of here!” she’d shrieked, her voice quivery and high. “You have no place at his funeral- - no right, you bastard, do you hear me? So help me, Ken Hutchinson, I’d kill you myself if I could. I don’t want you here! He doesn’t want you here! No one wants you here, you murdering son-of-a-bitch!”

And then she’d broken down sobbing, leaving Hutch standing white-faced and weak-kneed, feeling like the ground was going to open beneath him. He’d caught a forever-engrained glimpse of Corman’s fifteen-year-old son as he’d rushed to his mother’s side, of Dobey trying to act as intermediary before the volatile situation erupted into something uglier. For one frozen moment he couldn’t move, rooted in the shaded grass of the cemetery like a marble sculpture. Then Starsky had gripped his arm, and sensation returned in a staggering bubble of pure panic. His partner had gotten him away from the crowd, hastily steering him back toward the Torino where he’d crumpled numbly into the front seat and curled against the door, his sweaty forehead pressed to the cooling glass. Starsky had talked to him, but he’d been oblivious to the actual words, lost somewhere in a dense muddle of pain and self-torment. He was vaguely aware of his partner’s hand soothingly rubbing his knee, of Starsky’s voice crooning in his head, but none of it had really penetrated. Not in any way that mattered. Three miles down the road, he’d gasped for Starsky to pull over, flung open the door and vomited.

He remembered little of anything after that until he woke hours later on his couch, a cool washcloth on his forehead, Starsky sitting nearby. That was eight days ago. He hadn’t slept well since.

For the umpteenth time that night and every night previous since the whole wretched mess had begun, Hutch thought about calling Starsky. His friend had a way of keeping the demons at bay even when they were chortling for blood. All it would take was a phone call to bring Starsky rushing to his side, but hadn’t his partner already done enough . . . suffered enough?

Starsky was exhausted too. He deserved a break. Hutch was a grown man - - thirty years old, well past the point when he should have been cowering from things that went bump-in-the-night. If he couldn’t sleep because of a guilty conscience or outright fear, those were his hurdles to work through, not Starsky’s.

Agitated, he padded back to the bedroom and rummaged around until he found a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt. There would be no more sleep tonight. He was used to the pattern, knew that the demons would plague him well past dawn. As he often did, Hutch dressed, grabbed a jacket and headed for the beach.

He was still walking along the shoreline when the sun crept from the horizon two hours later.

+++++

At 8:06 a.m. Starsky ambled into Metro feeling more like himself than he had in the last few weeks. He’d spent an enjoyable evening with the female clerk from the corner drug store, his first night out in well over a month. Initially he’d been reluctant to make the date, but Hutch had pushed him into it, insisting he wanted time to himself. Starsky had been his partner’s constant companion ever since the incident with Forest and Monk. When he wasn’t crashing on Hutch’s couch, he was spending the bulk of the night with him, only going home after Hutch had fallen asleep.

Starsky knew his partner hadn’t completely accepted what had happened. While Hutch appeared to have mastered any latent drug cravings, his emotional state remained fragile. Even with a month of distance stretching between himself and Forest, he hadn’t come to terms with the ugly reality of being a victim. When he’d been forced to shoot Phil Corman in self-defense, Starsky had feared Hutch would slip into deeper depression. Yet despite his delayed reaction at the cemetery, the blond-haired man appeared to be holding his own.

For the last week Hutch had been ushering him home early. Last night - - for the first time since Monk had shoved a needle into his vein - - Starsky’s partner had insisted he would be fine alone - - all night.

“Time for me to grow up, Starsk,” Hutch had said with a tight grin. “You can’t hold my hand forever.” Afterward, he’d coerced Starsky into making a date with the female clerk from the White Cross drug store.

Carrie Sutton was pretty, in her mid-twenties, with a vivacious smile. They’d had a good time catching a movie and bowling afterward, but somehow it hadn’t felt right. Starsky had been too preoccupied worrying about Hutch in the solitary cottage on the canal. He’d resisted the urge to call on three separate occasions during the night, even fought down a greater impulse to drive by and pop in unannounced.

The evening out had done him good, revitalized some of the energy he’d been lacking, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t anxious to see his friend. Killing time, he poured himself a cup of coffee then meandered to his desk. It wasn’t like Hutch to be late, and as the clock inched to 8:12, Starsky began to worry.

It was then he noticed Hutch’s black leather jacket looped over the back of his chair, a case file spread open on the desk. A half-empty cup of coffee stood to the left of the phone, butted against a plate containing a bran muffin. The muffin had been picked at, a few chunks broken off to lie crumbled on the plate, but it didn’t look like any substantial amount had been eaten.

Probably tastes like sawdust, Starsky thought with a grimace. He snatched up a chunk and popped it into his mouth, testing the theory. It tasted of oats and moldy things, sweetened with a hint of brown sugar. He made a face and gulped down a mouthful of hot coffee. As usual, his early-to-rise partner had beaten him to the precinct.

Curious what Hutch was working on so early, he glanced across the desk.

“Hey, Starsk.” Hutch chose that moment to enter the squadroom, several more folders tucked under his arm. He gave his friend a soft smile, moving past him to the desk. “How’d your date go?”

“It was good,” Starsky said automatically. One glance at Hutch and Carrie was suddenly the furthest thing from his mind. He was more hung up on the gauntness of Hutch’s face and the fact his lean friend looked leaner still. “So, um . . .” Trying not to stare openly, Starsky took a swig of coffee, watching his partner over the top of the mug. “What’cha workin’ on?”

“Nothing much.” Hutch looked abruptly self-conscious. Fumbling for the folder on his desk, he flipped it shut and butted it out of the way, dropping the files he carried on top. He angled his body to block the entire stack and snatched his jacket from the back of his chair. “Ready to hit the street?”

Starsky frowned. Not only did Hutch look pale and unrested, his eyes a little too blue against the sallow cast of his skin, but he was uncharacteristically jittery. Deliberately reaching past him, Starsky confiscated the top folder and flipped it open. “Hey!” he said surprised. “This is that John Doe who OD’d on the waterfront three nights ago.”

“So?” Hutch made an aborted grab for the file. When Starsky jerked it free, he gave a disgusted grunt and pivoted away.

Starsky took one look at the tension in his shoulders, then leaned forward to study the index tabs on the remaining folders. “Hutch, these are the string of heroin ODs Baker and Sullivan have been investigatin’ over the last six weeks.” His frown deepened. “This ain’t our case, Hutch.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Within the span of a millisecond, Hutch’s hostility fled, vanquished as quickly as it came. Sighing, he dragged a hand over his face.

Starsky gave him a moment to compose himself. Lately Hutch’s emotions were on a rollercoaster, up as quickly as they were down. Starsky couldn’t really fault him - - not after Monk, Forest and Corman. The humiliation and pain of being victimized by Forest was bad enough without having to carry the guilt over a fellow officer’s death. Even if he was scum. Even if he was tryin’ to kill Hutch.

Starsky returned the folder to his partner’s desk. “Hey, buddy.” Gently, he gripped Hutch’s arm, his voice intimate and quiet. There were only two other officers in the squadroom, both engaged in phone conversations. Even so, he kept his voice low, pitched so only Hutch could hear. Beneath his fingertips, he felt his partner quiver. “You wanna tell me what this is all about?”

The string of heroin ODs had been going on since before Hutch’s own unwilling encounter with the drug. Peripherally, they’d been aware of the case even though they weren’t assigned to it. Most of the deceased were homeless or known hypes who’d taken the quest for a high a little too far. Because of the unusual number of deaths- - several within a handful of weeks - - there’d been initial concern someone was peddling bad junk. Toxicology reports proved the theory, determining the heroin involved had been laced with fentanyl, a powerful anesthetic. “It’s a prescription painkiller normally reserved to combat pain in cancer patients,” the M.E. had explained.

Hutch turned closer, angling his body toward Starsky. His voice was just as quiet when he spoke. “People who use aren’t this stupid, Starsk. Not this many of them. Not this close together.”

“Yeah, I know.” Starsky shoved his coffee onto the desk. “But it ain’t our case, Hutch, and even if it were - -” He flushed guiltily, unable to finish the thought. Hutch’s eyes flashed to his face, daring him to state the obvious.

“You don’t think I should be involved?” Hutch challenged. “Because of what happened to me?” There was a distinctive strain to his voice now. He glanced away quickly, heatedly, making sure the other two officers were still engaged. “Maybe that’s why I should be involved. Did you ever think - -”

“ - - what I think,” Starsky said firmly, bluntly interrupting him. “Is that you ain’t exactly firin’ on all cylinders right now. Get pissed if you want to, but you know it’s the truth. How do you think Baker and Sullivan are gonna feel if you go stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong?” He tightened his grip on Hutch’s arm, forcibly wrenching him closer until he was speaking directly into his friend’s ear. “And don’t you think they’re gonna wonder why, babe? The waterfront belongs to Baker and Sullivan.”

Starsky rarely used any intimate form of address with Hutch in the presence of others. That he chose to now said more than any lecture could hope to accomplish. Beside him, he felt the tension gradually fade from his partner’s body. Hutch relented with a sheepish nod, his expression softening. The rollercoaster was back in play again, displacing agitation with acceptance.

“Okay,” he agreed softly. “Let’s just head out, okay?”

Starsky smiled. Part of his mind cautioned Hutch had given in far too easily, but another countered it was only natural. In any event, his moody friend seemed more like himself, and that was all Starsky could really hope for.

Minutes later, they were on the street, cruising their regular beat in his Torino. In another few days it would be Halloween. He could see evidence of that wherever he looked - - bright orange pumpkins and towering cornstalks tucked into doorways, faded cardboard ghosts and jaunty skeletons plastered in storefront windows.

Initially, Starsky had hoped to convince Hutch to have a dress-up bash at his cottage with both of them sharing expenses - - his place was just too small - - but now that seemed an unlikely event. In one respect a party would be good for Hutch, but he just didn’t think his still-healing friend was up for the commotion. Which was too bad since they usually got stuck working “Devil’s Night” - - a shift that almost always kept them going from arrest to arrest, often into overtime. If crime made waves the rest of the year, it set new records on Halloween night.

Starsky was actually looking forward to the break and had hoped for some fun. The kid in him still liked the idea of make-believe and costumes. He’d even bought a few decorations already, hoping to string fake cobwebs from the ceiling in Hutch’s cottage. For the artificial tree his friend loved so much and had boldly erected in the middle of his living room, Starsky had bought a dozen rubber bats to dangle from the overhead branches. It would have been a great bash - - complete with fake eyeballs floating in the punch, plastic spiders in the dip and a severed head in the beer cooler. That one even gave him goosebumps, it looked so real!

But you didn’t take a man who was only a few weeks outside of heroin withdrawal and who was beating himself up over killing a fellow officer and dump him into the middle of a party where no one could relate to his pain. It was a prime recipe for disaster, making Starsky realize he’d have to come up with another plan. Maybe he’d make dinner and he and Hutch could camp out, watching scary movies on TV. There was bound to be a creepfest or two, stretching well into the early morning hours.

“Hey, you thought about what you wanna do for Halloween this year?” he asked, braking for a red light. “We actually got off for a change. You wanna take in some movies or something?”

“What? No party?” Hutch kept his eyes straight ahead, his right forearm braced against the passenger’s door. He had the window partially down, the late October temperatures still pleasantly warm. Against the black leather of his jacket, his sun-whitened hair looked lighter still, his Nordic coloring a little too pale to be considered healthy. He wore a tomato-red tee-shirt beneath a navy pullover and bleached out jeans.

Starsky recognized the jeans as a pair Hutch had once complained were too snug - - “Sorry, Starsk, but I don’t like to walk around sprayed into my pants like you do.” If anything, they looked loose on him now, accentuating his still somewhat fragile health. It was amazing Hutch had been able to work the Stryker cocaine bust so soon after the incident with Forest and Monk. But to maintain face and keep his badge, Hutch had to go on as if nothing had happened. He’d done his part, fooled Burke and Corman and even had a hand in bringing down Stryker, the man responsible for killing Captain Dobey’s partner, Elmo Jackson, so many years ago.

Dobey had been grateful no doubt about it, but his gratitude was tangled up in the remorse of having to watch Hutch suffer. In bringing down Stryker, they’d also apprehended two fellow cops who’d confiscated a million in cocaine from the bust. Starsky had wounded Burke, but Hutch had been forced to kill Phil Corman, both veteran detectives. It didn’t make it any easier knowing Corman left behind a widow and a teenage son.

Shuffling aside the bleak thoughts, Starsky focused on Halloween again. “Who wants to party?” he groused, half-realistically.

“You do,” Hutch shot back without missing a beat. “You’ve only been talking about it since summer. What happened to the big bash you wanted to have? Didn’t you already volunteer my cottage?”

“Nuthin’ definite,” Starsky countered, squirming uncomfortably. “I was just talkin’ out loud.” It was true. In his usual exuberant fashion, he’d run off at the mouth for months about a possible party, telling everyone it was going to happen at Hutch’s place. “I say we just lay low this Halloween. Take it easy - -” Before he could go any further, the radio blared to life, interrupting his musings.

“All units in the vicinity: shots fired east side, ground floor, abandoned warehouse 2-0-0-1-8 Kensington. Proceed with caution.”

“That’s right around the corner,” Starsky said, hastily spinning the steering wheel to cut across lanes. Hutch swayed to the side but managed to activate the siren in time to alert surrounding motorists, more than a handful already cursing Starsky’s abrupt maneuver. Straightening, he slid the mars light onto the roof and grabbed the mic.

“Dispatch, this is Zebra 3. We are in the vicinity and are responding.”

“Roger, Zebra 3,” came the staticky response.

Starsky felt a familiar rush of adrenalin, prompted by the wail of the siren and the lingering threat of danger just around the corner. They reached the lot in a matter of seconds, both lurching from the car, weapons drawn at the ready the moment the Torino came to a stop. Working seamlessly, Starsky flanked right while Hutch crept left, skirting the perimeter before tightening the net between them. Even after everything Hutch had been through, there was never a point when Starsky didn’t trust his friend to back him up 100%. As they’d always done, they worked flawlessly together, completely trusting each other’s abilities.

When a quick check of the perimeter revealed nothing, Starsky focused on a roll-up industrial door partially raised on the east side of the building. He inched along the brick, easing closer to the opening, gun barrel tipped to the sky. He sensed Hutch long before he caught a glint of white-gold hair and a reflective flash of sunlight bouncing off the barrel of his partner’s Magnum. Hutch stopped on the opposite side of the door, the steel barrier a good sixteen feet across. It had been raised approximately two-and-a-half feet off the ground - - just enough for someone to scrunch underneath.

“Well?” Starsky mouthed silently across the distance.

Hutch waited a heartbeat. “Police!” he called loudly.

There was no sound of any kind in reaction, just a dead stillness made oddly surreal by the mundane din of the city behind them. They were close enough to the waterfront that Starsky could sense a difference in the air, almost taste the tang of marine salt on his tongue. The breeze felt rawer than it did caged between the snarl of congested city streets. It smelled of fish and brine, underscored by a whiff of sour garbage and motor oil.

Without the benefit of verbal communication or even hand signals, Starsky rolled beneath the door, fully confident his partner did the same. Heavier, cooler air hit him as soon as he lurched to his feet. He dropped to a ready crouch, gun arm sweeping left to right as he made certain the area was clear. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. A large block-paned window a full story up sent slabs of diffused sun slanting into the murky hole, randomly defining scattered debris, dilapidated crates and decomposing boxes. He felt Hutch’s shoulder butt against his.

“There,” his friend said, pointing the way.

Starsky followed the direction of his finger where a body lay sprawled on the grimy concrete. The man was familiar, somewhere in his late twenties with a greasy thatch of straw-colored hair and a drooping mustache. He and Hutch had busted him a number of times, knew he was commonly called “Big Block” on the street, though the official name on his birth certificate was Leo Blockard. Illiterate and slow but deadly in a fight, he acted as hired muscle for a restaurateur who dabbled in prostitution and numbers, earning his money by busting up anyone foolish enough to cross his boss.

“Hey.” Starsky crouched beside him, vaguely aware Hutch had moved further into the shadowed warehouse. A large caliber slug had been blown into Blockard’s gut, leaving pulped and bloody flesh in its wake. There was no doubt he’d suffered massive internal injuries, but somehow he clung tenaciously to life.

“ . . .son,” he gasped, grasping at Starsky’s hand.

“Take it easy,” Starsky said. He knew by the time he made it back to the Torino to radio for help the man would be dead. Blockard’s eyes were glazed and unfocused, his mouth contorted in a whitewash of shocked agony. His skin was pallid and doughy-looking, blanched like the pale underbelly of a dead fish. “I’ll get you help,” Starsky promised, even though he knew it was a lost cause.

Blockard shook his head. “ . . . son,” he gasped again. Sweaty fingers tightened on Starsky’s hand. “ . . . arrow . . . son . . .”

Confused, Starsky wet his lips. He was aware of Hutch behind him, having completed his brief sweep of the warehouse. “Blockard, just take it easy,” Starsky repeated. “We’re gonna radio for help.”

“No good.” A thin wheeze of air slipped from the big man’s colorless lips, small bubbles of blood gathering in the corner of his mouth. “ . . . arrow . . . son . . .” Even as the last syllable left his lips, he gave a strangled gasp, his body going abruptly rigid before slumping in the grasp of sudden death.

Exhaling, Starsky untangled his hand. “Art Peller’s number one thug,” he muttered. “Looks like someone wanted to make sure he wasn’t gonna walk out of here. My guess is that’s a .44 slug in his gut.” He cast a glance up at his partner. “More cannon than you carry, buddy, and incredibly messy.”

“Yeah.” Hutch grimaced. He looked pale, but Starsky had the feeling his sudden lack of color had nothing to do with Blockard’s bloody corpse. “So what’s arrow son?”

Starsky shrugged. “Maybe a name - - Arrowson? One thing’s for sure - -” He looked back at Blockard’s grisly corpse. “ - - this guy ain’t gonna tell us.”

“I’ve got another body,” Hutch said flatly as if he’d hadn’t been listening . . . as if his question had been automatic, but his mind had disengaged before assimilating Starsky’s answer. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Behind those crates by the door. Looks like an OD.”

“T’rrific.” Abruptly understanding the reason for his partner’s ashen complexion, Starsky sprinted across the floor, quickly rounding the crates Hutch had indicated. A dirty mattress lay butted against the wall, a waif-like young girl curled on her side as if asleep. No more than 15 or 16, she looked undernourished and frail, her face the bleak gray of dirty dishwater, her lips thinned into a bloodless line, still sticky with the clinging residue of vomit. A thin strip of rubber tubing was tied around her left arm, an empty syringe discarded nearby. Both the mattress and her clothing were soaked in a foul combination of sweat, urine and vomit. Clearly, she had not died easily.

“Shit.” Starsky dragged a hand over his face. Dealing with death was tragic enough, but seeing someone cut down so early in life was devastating. Concerned, he looked around for his overly sensitive partner.

Hutch had wandered closer to the door as if needing the infusion of air, however sour. He stood bent over, hands on knees, attempting to steady himself. Stumbling over an OD was a little too close to what he’d been through himself, and clearly the girl’s age didn’t help. Starsky knew his partner bled far too easily for most victims of the street, but he had a special affinity for the young and innocent. A man who could be remarkably aloof in his personal and professional life, Hutch was shockingly empathic with those less fortunate - - a surprisingly odd trait, given he’d been raised by a prominent physician, his childhood a revolving door of society gatherings, scholastic achievements and status.

Hearing the wail of sirens in the distance, Starsky holstered his gun and eased up behind his partner. “Okay, pal?” he asked, sliding a hand onto Hutch’s back. He didn’t like the waxen look of his friend’s face or the thin stipple of perspiration clinging to his upper lip and brow. The truth was Hutch just wasn’t ready to handle ODs and probably wouldn’t be for a long time to come. He was still a victim himself, however much he wanted to pretend and protest otherwise. Until he came to terms with that ugly reality, the street and all its cruel casualties would continue to haunt him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Straightening, Hutch holstered his Magnum and combed trembling fingers through his hair. He looked shaky, even a little shocky, but within seconds the anxiety withered from his pale eyes, replaced by grim resolve. “Pellar’s sending his goons a little far from home, don’t you think? Blockard was fishing out of his turf.”

Not mentionin’ the girl, Starsky noted, even though she’s the one on his mind.

“He picked the wrong day to get sidetracked, that’s for sure,” Starsky agreed. Moving to the right of the massive roll-up door, he fumbled with the control panel until the mammoth barrier retracted upward, sliding on exposed tracks into the ceiling. Cool air flooded the interior of the warehouse, momentarily displacing the stench of blood and death with the grimier reek of salt brine and sun-heated garbage.

Starsky gave Hutch a shove, propelling him outside. “Take a breather, buddy. We’re gonna be here for awhile. Looks like we need to radio Baker and Sullivan too. That girl might be a little far on the fringe location-wise, but if she OD’d on Horse laced with fentanyl - -”

“I know.” Hutch gave a resigned nod, his mouth tightening in a grim line. “Our supplier is back in business, whoever the bastard is.”

It was almost 10:00 by the time the crime scene was secured and scoured, the bodies bagged and relocated to the morgue. Baker and Sullivan showed up while Hutch and Starsky canvassed the area with the aid of three patrolmen looking for potential witnesses. They came away empty, the only one who remembered anything, a vagrant sleeping off an overnight drunk in the adjacent lot. Unfortunately, all he could do was mutter something about seeing a green Ford pull behind the warehouse but couldn’t recall the time. He hadn’t even heard the shots. He did little more than fumble out a cigarette and heave up last night’s fifth of Jack Daniels.

The Ford, a light green Mustang, belonged to Blockard. Starsky knew the car by sight as well as plate number, he and Hutch had busted the knuckle-bruiser so often. Finishing with the vagrant, they drove directly to Art Pellar’s establishment - - a pricey steak and seafood house called Blackjack’s Bistro. Closed, and in the middle of prepping for the lunch crowd, the shift manager grew irritated at having to stop and answer questions. A short interview turned up nothing, and with Pellar nowhere around, they eventually made a call to his home, tucked in an elite neighborhood overlooking the city. Shrugging off the news of Blockard’s death as “tough luck,” the restaurateur denied having any knowledge of what his “associate” had been doing in the warehouse area.

“Now if that’s all, gentlemen.” Pellar straightened his imported silk tie, looking much like a juvenile playing dress-up. At a mere 4’11” with a floppy mass of curly orange hair, a smattering of freckles, and doughy complexion, he appeared ridiculously younger than his forty-six years. On the street he was commonly called “Clownface” though no one dared venturing the nickname within earshot for fear of having one of Pellar’s numerous henchmen give them a brutal lesson in respect.

“No, that’s not all.” Starsky countered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Standing just inside Pellar’s lavish living room with its massive cathedral ceiling, expansive hilltop view and excessively ornate furnishings, he found himself annoyed the shorter man wanted to dismiss the matter so quickly. He’d never liked Pellar, a man he viewed as a preening midget with a titanic ego. Unfortunately, what the diminutive bottom-feeder lacked in size, he balanced with razor-edged street smarts.

When it came right down to it, Clownface was a pro at using others. In his book Blockard was simply a disposable cog. He normally kept three or four thugs in reserve plus a handful of overeager no-names, all ready to take Blockard’s place. There was a second string as well - - Lucas Santoro, Eddie Fish, Hank Motter, George Buchter - - all leg-busters who’d been through Metro at one time or another and who were well acquainted with both Starsky and Hutch. While Starsky had no sympathy for the goons on Pellar’s payroll, he had even less for the sleazy restaurateur himself. “How ‘bout Arrowson?” he prompted. “You know anyone named Arrowson?”

Pellar scrunched his eyes, making his pinched face narrower still. “Arrowson?”

“Arrowson,” Starsky clarified, an edge in his voice. “Blockard mentioned someone named Arrowson right before he died. He an associate of yours? Maybe someone who likes your private parties a bit more than your divey bistro?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective Starsky,” Pellar snapped, his face flushing an unhealthy shade of red. The contrast against his orange hair was comical, even clownish, his freckles standing out in livid contrast. “And I don’t know anyone named Arrowson. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got better things to do than stand here and listen to your insults.”

“No kiddin’?” Starsky feigned rapt interest. “Like what?”

Beside him Hutch gave a soft snort of laughter and tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, let’s hit Metro. We’ve got all we need from Pellar.”

“That’s a wise decision, Detective Hutchinson,” the small man agreed, adopting an air of smug superiority. He straightened his tie again, exposing a milky, excessively freckled hand. “Your partner is beginning to try my patience. I don’t normally permit uncouth simpletons in my home.”

“Don’t push it, Clownface.” Scowling, Hutch leaned forward, his 6’1” frame towering over the diminutive man. “Keep making cracks like that and I’ll try a hell of a lot more than your patience.”

Starsky chuckled, watching Pellar’s face run the gamut from white to purple to scarlet. “Hey!” Grinning, he snapped his fingers. “You know . . . with a big red nose and a pair of floppy shoes, I bet you could make a buck or two blowin’ up balloon animals for kids. Uh, wait a minute - - short as you are, they’d probably think you were a kid.” As soon as he tossed off the insult, his face turned abruptly serious. “You suddenly remember anything relatin’ to what Blockard mighta been doin’ at that warehouse, your first call better be to Metro. You got that, Clownface?”

Fuming, Pellar ground his teeth together. “Got it,” he snapped.

A short time later, headed back to the precinct, Starsky glanced aside at his partner. Hutch had been mostly quiet since leaving Pellar’s home, content to stare silently through the windshield, watching traffic, people and buildings funnel by. Although his attention was on the passing streets, Starsky had the distinct feeling he wasn’t seeing anything . . . that the blur beyond the glass was simply that - - an inconsequential hodgepodge of shape and color. That the only thing Hutch was really seeing was the broken body of a teenage girl who OD’d and died alone, curled up on a dirty mattress soaked with her own sweat and vomit.

“You wanna grab some lunch?” Starsky asked.

“Huh?” Hutch blinked, coming back to the present. Recovering quickly, he gave a distracted shake of his head. “Not right now. Grab something if you want to. I think I’ll pass.”

“Okay, later then,” Starsky decided for both of them. Had Hutch even eaten anything that morning, other than a few crumbs off an unappetizing bran muffin? He debated about commenting on how thin his friend was looking but reluctantly decided against it. Pointing out Hutch had lost weight would probably only make his stubborn partner defensive. If worst came to worst, he’d simply show up at Hutch’s cottage that evening with a feast of burgers and fries - - maybe not the healthiest dinner, but at least it had more substance and calories than a bran muffin. Besides, it was early yet. With a little luck he could still coerce Hutch into lunch in another hour or two.

Metro was bustling by the time they made it back to the precinct. The squadroom was packed with detectives and uniformed officers going about routine duties, the clamor of noise louder than usual. Starsky tuned out the sound of file drawers banging shut, phones ringing, voices talking over one another, and zeroed in on Phil Baker and his partner, Eric Sullivan. The two detectives were talking to Dobey just outside the doorway to the captain’s office.

With a glance for Hutch, he wove between a file clerk and his own desk, approaching the group from the side. “Hey, guys. Any news yet?”

Baker shook his head. “Toxicology is still working on it.” A few years older than Starsky with straight brown hair and cocoa-colored eyes, Baker was the perpetual optimist of the Department. Fun-loving and quick-witted, he was partnered with a man who was as taciturn as he was upbeat. A career detective, Eric Sullivan was approaching his mid forties. He had a track record for solid busts but had already been through two marriages, four partners and a long bout with alcoholism. At the moment, both detectives looked frustrated and dismal.

“Damn, Starsky.” Exhaling, Baker gave a disgusted shake of his head. “She was just a kid. I got a niece only a few years younger, and Sully has a daughter in college. Makes me sick when I think about it.”

Hutch shifted. He never said a word, but Starsky felt sudden tension creep into his partner’s frame. Instinctively he leaned a little closer, letting his arm brush Hutch’s sleeve. “We didn’t get anything from Pellar on Blockard either.”

“Well, we might not know about the fentanyl,” Dobey inserted, but we got an ID on the girl. He looked down at a small tablet in his hand, reading from a handful of notes he’d scratched earlier. “Peggy Ann Fleetwood, sixteen. Came out here from Arkansas two months ago, living in some dirty one-room dive over on Ninth. Roommate reported her missing three nights ago . . . admitted Peggy was turning tricks to feed her arm. Said she had a bad home life - - abusive father - - so she came out here in hopes of making something of herself. Roommate says she had a real talent for singing and playing guitar. Fell in with a boyfriend who was bad news - - repetitive pattern - - smacked her around. It was downhill from there.”

Exploding, Hutch swiveled away. “That just sucks, Captain!”

Sullivan glared at his back. “No one is disagreeing, Hutchinson. We’ve been working these ODs for the last six weeks. How the hell do you think we feel, knowing we might have stopped this one if we’d cracked it in time?”

Caught off guard, Hutch half turned, his face draining of color.

“Wait a minute.” Starsky moved between them. He understood his partner’s aggravation better than anyone in the room. He also knew Sullivan and Baker, who weren’t privy to what Hutch had endured, couldn’t understand the blond-haired detective’s precarious mental state. Hutch’s extreme sensitivity and compassion often caused him heartache, but this case was closer than most. A young Midwestern girl, a gifted musician, a senseless drug overdose - - could there be any clearer definition of tragedy?

“We don’t even know this girl OD’d on bad junk,” Starsky said evenly, trying to disperse the tension he felt brewing between his partner and the other two detectives. "Besides . . . we’re all on the same team, right? You guys got the Waterfront and the drug case, but Blockard is ours. The question is how does Pellar’s top goon tie into a sixteen-year-old girl OD’ing on Horse - - if that’s what happened?”

“Maybe you wanna ask your partner that,” Sullivan countered, refusing to back down. “Seeing how most of our casefiles were on his desk this morning.”

Trapped, Hutch flushed. A flicker of doubt ghosted through his eyes before he grew abruptly defensive. “So sue me. You haven’t turned up shit anyway.”

“And I suppose you could do better?” Sullivan snapped.

Starsky opened his mouth to interrupt, saw Dobey about to do the same when he realized the room had plunged into unexpected silence. So we’re puttin’ on a show. He was about to make a crack when he took another look at Dobey’s face and saw stark incredulity reflected there . . . realized that both Baker and Sullivan were staring toward the door, literally transfixed. The room was abominably silent, so unnaturally still he could almost hear the flow of blood through his veins.

And then he saw Hutch.

His friend’s flesh was completely bloodless, the cold white of cemetery marble. There was panic in his eyes, ballooned further still by a thin vein of terror. Starsky could feel tension and outright fear rolling off him in waves. Hutch stood rooted to the spot, sidelined by the unforgiving blow of traumatic shock. His pale eyes looked eerily colorless and overly large against his bleached skin, his mouth pressed into an anemic white line.

Startled by his reaction, Starsky spun toward the door, the reason for the abrupt silence growing instantly clear. For a minute he simply stared dumbfounded, certain someone was playing a sick joke. Phil Corman stood just inside the squadroom, everything about him exactly as Starsky remembered. From his rumpled suit and wavy brown hair to the cocky hint of arrogance in his blue eyes, he looked every inch the corrupt cop Hutch had shot and killed eleven days ago.

The silence dragged for another second before the man broke it himself. “Which one of you is Hutchinson?”

“I am,” Hutch answered in a surprisingly firm voice.

Starsky blinked, shunted from an impossible world to one that made only marginal sense. He watched the man approach with an abstract feel of stupefaction, certain the whole situation would dissolve - - had to dissolve - - into a bizarre waking dream. But it didn’t happen as much as he wanted, even prayed that it would. As the man drew nearer, Starsky shifted his weight, easing in front of his friend. The move, protective and equally aggressive, brought a thinly amused smile to the man’s lips.

“Let me guess,” he said with a smirk, drawing abreast. “You’re the other one - - Starsky, right?”

“Who are you?” Starsky demanded.

“I’ll give you three guesses,” the man taunted mildly. “That’s probably more than Phil got, don’t you think?”

Starsky felt an explosion of irritation behind him. Before he could react, Hutch shouldered past, his shock replaced by tightly controlled rage. “I’m Hutchinson. Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

“So you’re the guy who did it?” Amusement faded from the other man’s face, replaced by a deadly kind of scrutiny. The light in his eyes turned flat and apathetic, that strange impassiveness somehow more unsettling than anger would have been. “I’m Darryl Corman, Phillip’s twin brother. I had to see for myself - - look into the eyes of the man who killed him. We weren’t close, but a man doesn’t lose a brother - - especially his twin - - without feeling something, you understand.”

“Well you can damn well feel it somewhere else,” Dobey snapped. “You’re disrupting my squadroom and my men. Unless you’ve got a legitimate reason for being here - -”

“I already told you, Captain.” Cool blue eyes snapped to his face. “I wanted to see the man who pulled the trigger.” He looked back to Hutch, his gaze steady and challenging. Then it dropped, abruptly disdainful, sweeping from head to toe. The corner of his mouth curled in a contemptuous smile. “How shoddy of Phillip letting himself be killed by something so young and sickly. Are you sure you didn’t shoot him in the back, Hutchinson?”

“Out!” Dobey exploded.

Starsky shoved in front of his partner. “I’ll take him out, Cap’n,” he spat. “ . . . make sure the asshole finds the exit.”

“No need.” Holding up both hands, Corman backed off demurely. “I’ve had my say, gotten my look. I’ll leave you gentlemen to deal with the fallout.” Turning crisply, he strode from the room, leaving a crowd of shocked personnel staring after him. One by one, curious gazes swiveled back to openly ogle Hutch.

“What? No one has any work to do around here?” Dobey thundered. Within seconds sporadic activity resumed, officers and detectives going back to their duties as if they’d never been interrupted. Occasional furtive glances were cast in Hutch’s direction, but most of the workers in the room had gotten Dobey’s message loud and clear: Back off!

Concerned, Starsky chanced a glance at his friend.

With Corman gone, Hutch’s fragile composure threatened to crack. Ducking his head, he walked swiftly from the room.

“Get him,” Dobey ordered.

Starsky didn’t need any prompting from his captain. He was already halfway across the room by the time Dobey’s words left his mouth. In the hallway, he sprinted into a quick jog, catching up with his long-legged friend just as Hutch ducked into the stairwell leading to the garage.

“Where ya goin’, buddy?” Sticking to his heels, Starsky trotted beside him as Hutch fast-walked down the steps. The blond-haired man’s face was alarmingly severe, drawn tight in an implacable mask. Starsky wasn’t sure exactly what emotions churned in his eyes but he knew the combination was toxic. As rigid and tightly wound as his sensitive friend was, Starsky had the feeling he’d simply shatter into a thousand pieces if he so much as touched him. That was frightening enough in itself, because Hutch had always welcomed contact in the past, responding favorably to every minute brush of Starsky’s fingertips.

“Hutch . . . come on . . .” Sprinting ahead of him, Starsky reached the door first, blocking the exit to the garage. “Just slow down and think a minute. What’re you doin’? Where are you goin’?”

“Get out of my way, Starsky.”

“Why, so you can run off half-cocked? You’re white as sheet, pal. I’d lay money a few more steps’n you’re gonna fall flat on your face. You wanna take a dive in the garage? Is that what you want?”

Agitated, Hutch swung away in a tight circle, thrusting both hands into his hair. He paced restlessly, breathing heavily now, far too rapidly for a man who was already existing on fumes. Starsky could see sweat on the side of his face, seeping in fat ribbons from clumps of his disheveled hair. He could also see Hutch was trembling, crashing violently from a brutally sadistic shock. Nuthin’ like being confronted by a man you buried eight days ago.

“Babe.” Lowering his voice, Starsky stretched out his hand, lightly touching his friend’s sleeve.

Hutch stopped pacing immediately, his head snapping up, pure panic in his eyes. For a minute it looked like he would bolt, then slowly clarity returned to his gaze. Anguish crushed the hysteria and he slumped against the wall with a dejected groan. “Who . . . why did he . . ?”

“Forget about it.” Starsky hooked him under the elbow, taking the brunt of his weight. “Just lean on me. I’m gonna drive you home, okay?”

The fight went out of Hutch. He nodded dumbly, allowing himself to be steered toward Starsky’s Torino. He stumbled a little, still trembling as Starsky helped him into the car. Perspiration soaked the edges of his hair with cold sweat, turning wayward strands of white-gold to darker brass. Uncommunicative and sullen, he curled against the door and closed his eyes, making Starsky’s heart catch in his throat.

He’d been utterly clueless about Phil Corman having a brother, much less a twin. To the best of his knowledge, the man hadn’t been at Corman’s funeral. Even if he’d shown up after Starsky had left with Hutch, word about an identical twin would have leaked back to the police force. The man had clearly intended his presence to be a crushing blow to Hutch, staging the whole event for maximum effect. Waited for a crowded patrol room . . . waited until he knew Hutch would be there . . .

Worried, Starsky glanced across the seat at his partner, hating the way Hutch had curled in on himself. He’d been fragile to begin with, still recovering from what Forest had done to him and the ugliness of having to shoot a fellow officer. How much could he take in one day - - stumbling over a young girl who’d OD’d, then having the mirror image of the man he’d killed confront him face-to-face?

Reaching across the seat, Starsky rubbed his knee soothingly, frowning when his friend failed to react. “It sucks, Hutch, I know.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Hutch mumbled and tucked closer to the door. By the time they reached his cottage, he was shivering, his face streaked with cold sweat. Starsky got him inside then paced restlessly, frustrated when Hutch barricaded himself in the bathroom. Minutes later he could be heard getting violently sick. When he emerged a short time later, he looked shocky and pale, his blue eyes dark and overly large in the drawn shell of his face. Dismissing Starsky, he crumbled to a seat on the sofa, hugging a throw pillow against his stomach. “I’ll be fine, Gordo. Go back to Metro.”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” Determined, Starsky sat beside him. “Hutch, the guy was pure scum for what he did - -”

“He lost his brother,” Hutch returned quietly. His arms tightened around the pillow, the lush, gold-tipped veil of his lashes dipping self-consciously. “He deserved a shot at making me squirm.” Exhausted, he folded into the corner of the couch. “I’m tired, Starsk. Call Dobey for me, huh? I think I’ll just stay put for the afternoon.”

Worried, Starsky pressed his lips together. He made the call as requested, then camped out with a magazine while Hutch tossed restlessly, drifting in and out of sleep. Eventually gut instinct got the better of him and he placed a call to R&I, requesting a detailed check on Darryl Corman. Somewhere after 2:00 P.M., Hutch woke up and Starsky got him to down some canned soup with crackers. They went for a drive after that, contouring the beach because Hutch said he wanted fresh air. Darryl Corman wasn’t mentioned again, nor was Peggy Ann Fleetwood. At 6:30 Starsky bought burgers and fries, and they ate on Hutch’s front porch, watching the ducks on the canal. Hutch picked at his food, downing two glasses of iced water, leaving most of the burger untouched. Reluctantly, at nine o’clock, Starsky drove home, his friend adamant that he wanted to spend the night alone.

When twelve o’clock rolled around, Starsky stared at the ceiling, still wide awake.

+++++

Hutch stared at the alarm clock. 1:58 a.m. He really did hate the wretched thing, its glowing green face once again reminding him of each slowly creeping minute. He was mentally and physically exhausted, but his mind stubbornly refused to surrender to fatigue. Each time he closed his eyes, he grew trapped in a suffocating web of horror, guilt and fear. Encountering Darryl Corman had only made his deep-rooted insecurities worse. For one deranged moment, standing in the squadroom, staring at the impossible apparition in the doorway, he’d been certain Phil had returned from the grave - - or that in some strange, complex twist of fate, the corrupt cop hadn’t really died.

He’d teetered on the threshold of sanity, wondering if his guilt over Corman and ever-present fear of heroin addiction had finally shattered his fragile grip on reality. Somehow he’d managed to keep his composure throughout the surreal encounter, but once Corman was gone, he’d known it was only a matter of time before he fell apart. If Starsky hadn’t gotten him to the garage and into the Torino when he did . . .

Exhaling loudly, Hutch tossed back a fistful of blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He braced his elbows on his knees, resignedly bowing his face into his hands. At least he’d managed a little sleep earlier that afternoon - - those few blissful hours on his couch when Starsky had kept silent guard. He hadn’t even thanked his friend, yet it had meant the world to him. Demons and nightmares left him alone when his partner was around, their power to terrify annihilated by Starsky’s calming presence. Hutch felt safe and protected when his friend was nearby, comfortable enough to abandon himself to sleep. But alone in the darkness with only the quiet of the cottage for company, his mind conjured phantoms of guilt and fear until there was no escaping what Forest had done to him, what he’d done to Corman.

Halfheartedly, he glanced at the phone on the nightstand. Talking to Starsky would help, but it was late and his friend deserved the rest. Starsky had suffered right along with him, exhausting himself while trying to help Hutch through the worst of his withdrawal, then nightly afterward. He’d practically burnt himself out, existing on coffee, adrenaline and nerves. The last thing he needed was a phone call at 1:58 in the morning from a thirty-year-old street cop who was afraid to be alone.

That’s it. I’m afraid.

It was a grim reality to face. He’d become a heroin addict and killed a cop, all within a matter of weeks. Hardly the way he’d envisioned his career going when he’d first entered the Academy. To make it worse there was some psychotic running around on the street, doping up sixteen-year-old girls with heroin laced with fentanyl, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

It wasn’t his case. Baker and Sullivan had no leads, and neither Dobey nor even Starsky would let him anywhere near a case involving heroin. So at 1:58 he entertained his nightly demons instead, afraid to go to sleep, desperate for the comforting presence of his partner, knowing he didn’t have the right or courage to ask.

I’ve got a key to his place.

The thought popped into Hutch’s mind like a quicksilver flash of lightning. He didn’t have to call Starsky . . . he didn’t even have to admit how lonely and terrified he was. All he had to do was dress, drive across town and creep into his friend’s apartment for the night. He could catch a few hours of sleep on Starsky’s couch and be gone before the dark-haired detective woke in the morning. Starsky would never even know he’d been there.

It was an insane plan, a ridiculous, flighty scheme, but Hutch was desperate enough and tired enough to think it might actually work. In Starsky’s apartment, with his partner sleeping just a few feet away he’d feel safe again, a luxury he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The mere thought of his partner’s scent surrounding him, the familiar lumpiness of Starsky’s worn sofa pressed against his back made him groan aloud in appreciation. Just to sleep - - protected and secure, knowing Starsky was in the other room - - made the lunacy of the scheme worthwhile.

Shoving from the bed, he rummaged for the discarded jeans and shirt he’d tossed aside earlier that evening. He dressed quickly, snagged his keys and headed from the apartment, not bothering with a jacket, badge or gun. The night air was cooler than expected, and he shivered as he slipped behind the wheel of the LTD. The engine turned over with a groan, shattering the cocooned hush of the street. Twenty minutes later he used his key to creep into Starsky’s apartment. As accustomed to the layout as he was his own home, he moved sure-footedly through the darkness. Crumpling gratefully on the couch, he kicked off his shoes and lay still for a moment, listening to the silence. When he was certain he hadn’t disturbed Starsky, he tucked a throw pillow under his head and curled onto his side, setting his mental alarm clock for 6:00 a.m. That gave him enough time to catch a few hours sleep and still leave without Starsky being any wiser.

Already he could feel his eyes growing heavy, the warmth and comfort of his friend’s presence washing over him like a sheltering blanket. The pillow was coarse, scratchy against his cheek, the edge of a bent spring wedged tightly in his lower back. But the distractions didn’t matter. A lingering trace of Starsky’s aftershave still clung to the pillow. It smelled of sandalwood, the more imaginary hint of worn leather and soft, near-black curls. Intoxicating and soothing, the familiar combination carried him across the threshold of sleep, coaxing his eyes shut with the promise of long-denied rest.

+++++

Starsky slept fitfully, tossing and turning through most of the night. Somewhere just after 6:30 a.m. he woke with the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. Not bad, necessarily, just “off” as if something had been jarred unexpectedly out of place. Puzzled, he lay still for a few minutes trying to pinpoint his reason for the creeping anxiety. It was no surprise, really. The last few weeks had been miserable. He’d watched his friend suffer through two traumatic ordeals, operating on borrowed stamina himself. In his efforts to help Hutch, he’d neglected his own health, getting by on a few stolen minutes of sleep and a hastily-gulped meal here and there, whenever he could squeeze in something ordered, boxed or bagged.

Giving up on the strange sense of uneasiness that awakened him, Starsky raked a hand through his rumpled curls and yawned. There was little chance of falling back asleep now, his mind already veering in half a dozen directions, most related to his overly sensitive blond partner and yesterday’s disturbing events. Knowing he’d have to get up in a half-hour anyway, he decided to get it over with and proceeded to reluctantly drag himself from bed.

Feeling his way in the dark, he threw on a pair of jeans then padded barefoot to the kitchen. The sun was barely visible on the horizon, an eye-slit of coral just beginning to prod the heavier ink of night. Still half asleep, Starsky switched on a light and fumbled for the coffeepot. He opened the faucet and shoved it beneath the spray, almost dropping the whole thing into the sink when he heard a soft murmur behind him.

Instantly awake he spun on his heel, coffeepot in hand, water slopping messily onto the floor. Blinking stupidly, he tried to assimilate the image of his partner balled up on the sofa, arms wrapped around his body for warmth. Even as Starsky watched, the fair-haired man shifted and muttered in his sleep.

“Hutch?”

Stunned by his unexpected presence, Starsky shoved the pot onto the counter, flipped the faucet shut and hastily wiped his dripping hand on his pants. The unsettled feeling he’d experienced earlier sprouted into full bloom. Confused, he flipped on a second light and made his way to the couch. “Hey, Hutch?” Bending forward, he gave his partner’s arm a gentle nudge.

This time his voice penetrated, and Hutch came awake with a jerk. Dazed, he scrambled upright, groggily looking around the lamp-brightened room. “S-Starsk?” Distress washed over his face. ”What . . . what time is it?”

“A little after 6:30. Hutch . . .” Starsky groped for words, bewildered at finding his friend curled up like a vagrant on a park bench. “ . . . what are you doin’ here, buddy?”

“N-Nothing.” The word stuck on Hutch’s tongue, his gaze dipping self-consciously. “I . . . I just . . .”

“You just what?” Concerned, Starsky sat beside him. He wished his friend would look at him, but Hutch studiously avoided his gaze, an uncharacteristic flush of embarrassment staining his cheeks. “Look at me, will ya?” Starsky gripped his chin and forced his head around until their eyes met. “What are you doin’ here?” he asked again.

“I - -” Wired and jittery, Hutch clearly wanted to flee. He stared openly now, an unmistakable thread of panic in his eyes. “I just . . .” Indecision turned to misery. Defeated, he slumped back against the couch and hung his head. His eyes dropped to his hands. “I couldn’t sleep . . .I-I thought maybe here . . . I didn’t want to bother you,” he whispered morosely. “I thought I’d be gone before you woke up.”

“So you were gonna skip out before I had a chance to help you?” Starsky felt a small prickle of irritation, but it vanished the moment Hutch’s anguished gaze touched his. It was just no good - - nearly a month after Forest and nine days after burying Corman, Hutch was still a mess. Part of him wanted to ask why his partner had found it necessary to curl up on his couch, but Starsky already knew the answer.

He ain’t sleepin’ at home. He feels safe with me. Protected.

It was a warm feeling, but sobering all the same. He thought of all the things he could have said - - most of them likely to leave his partner feeling self-conscious. Instead, he shook his head, an affectionate smile curling his lips. “The least you could’ve done was got a blanket out of the closet, dummy.” He scuffed a hand up his friend’s arm, noting the flesh beneath his fingertips felt chilled. “How long have you been here?”

“I-I don’t know.” Still awkward, Hutch gave a half-hearted shrug. “I think I got here around 2:30.”

“That’s not a whole lot of sleep. Come on, Hutch.” Standing, Starsky tugged on his arm.

Puzzled, his friend blinked up at him. “Where to?”

“The bedroom. I’m up for the duration, but you could stand to clock a few more hours. I’ll call Dobey and let him know we’ll be late.” He tugged again, this time hauling Hutch to his feet. His friend looked disoriented, half-grateful, half-fearful to concede. The misery was back in his eyes.

“Starsky, I don’t want you to think . . . I-I mean, I shouldn’t have just shown up without - -”

“Don’t sweat it, pal.” Looping an arm around his waist, Starsky steered him toward the bedroom. It was hard seeing Hutch so unfocused, so unsure of himself. “You should have told me you weren’t sleepin’. I would’ve camped out at your cottage if you’d wanted me to.”

It wasn’t a reprimand exactly, but Hutch took it that way, parting with a depressed groan. “Starsky, I’m thirty years old. I shouldn’t need you to baby sit me. I should be able to sleep through the night without getting - - oh, hell . . .” He stopped, dragging a hand down his face. “What am I saying? This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t even be here. I’m gonna go home and shower.”

“No, you’re not.” Starsky gripped his arm when he started to turn away. “I mean it, Hutchinson.” His voice grew firm, lacking the solicitous warmth of moments before. “You’ve been existin’ on fumes, not eatin’, not sleepin’, gettin’ too damn thin. The least you’re gonna do is catch a few hours more sleep while you still got the luxury.”

“Starsk - -”

“Save it.” Starsky held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. He gave a harder tug, forcibly dragging Hutch into the bedroom. “And when you wake up you’re gonna eat something. Not pick - - eat. Got that? I’ll make breakfast. Bacon ‘n eggs. How’s that sound?”

“Yeah . . . okay.” Acknowledging defeat, Hutch folded wearily onto Starsky’s waterbed, sheets and blankets still disheveled in a mussed ball from the dark-haired detective’s restless tossing. Slipping a hand beneath the nearest pillow, Hutch tucked it under his head. “Wake me in an hour, okay?”

“I’ll wake you when I wake you.” Starsky countered, then grinned to soften the sting. Hutch looked exhausted, his pale eyes underlined by a bluing tint of shadow, his cheeks sunken inward by strain. His eyes were already closed, the ashen thread of his lashes barely visible in the pewter-laced dusk. Tentatively, Starsky fingered a medallion-bright strand of hair. Exceptionally fine in texture, it felt satiny and soft beneath his fingertips, unlike the grimy, sweaty mat he’d repeatedly stroked when Hutch was going through withdrawal. Just the memory of those godawful forty-eight hours made his stomach tighten. Deliberately shoving the revolting thoughts aside, he refocused on Hutch’s immediate need - - rest. “I know you’re tired, babe, but you’d sleep a lot better if you got undressed.”

Hutch grunted, not bothering to open his eyes.

Starsky chuckled. “A little wordy there ain’t ya, pal?” Impatiently, he yanked on Hutch’s shoulder. “Come on - - get out of those clothes and I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

Hutch cracked an eyelid. Sighing, he rolled onto his back, using one long-fingered hand to scuff the bangs from his forehead. In the half-gloom of breaking dawn, his skin looked pallid and cold, a little like marble. “I should just leave. Dobey’s expecting us to - -”

“I told you, I’ll take care of Dobey.” Starsky gave him another nudge, harder this time. “Now get up and strip before you give me some kinda complex. It don’t normally take me this long to get my bedguests outta their clothes.”

Hutch’s eyes slewed to the side, the sliver of a smile ghosting over his lips. “Yeah, I just bet you’ve had plenty of practice with that.” He rolled his eyes upward to indicate the mirrored canopy of the waterbed.

Starsky followed his gaze, tilting his head to catch their reflections in the glass. In the dark of pre-dawn he saw mostly shadow, the unusual whiteness of Hutch’s flesh, the gleaming gold of his hair. By contrast his own image was dusk and shade, his darker complexion and jet-streaked curls turning him nearly invisible but for the electric blue of his eyes.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” he said with a grin for the mirror. It had given him many delicious views of the female lovelies who shared his bed, his own naked body twined with curvaceous flesh. “Get movin’, Blondie. I wanna shower and I ain’t goin’ anywhere till I tuck you in.”

“Gee, mom, thanks.” With a grunt of effort, Hutch swung his legs to the floor. Starsky helped him stand, waiting while the taller man unzipped his jeans and stripped down to his boxers. Hutch pulled his tee-shirt over his head, ruffling his fair hair in the process. Dropping the rumpled garment on top of his jeans, he kicked both out of the way and crumpled bonelessly to the bed. Disturbed, the water-filled mattress sloshed and waffled, taking a moment to settle.

Starsky bit his lip, reaching for the blankets. He tried not to stare but Hutch’s ribs were too prominent, his waist and abdomen almost concave. Tall and lean to begin with, his blond friend had dropped a good ten pounds battling the demons of withdrawal. Rather than put the weight back on, he’d whittled away a few more in the days following Corman’s death.

I wish I could help you, pal . . . make it hurt less somehow . . .

Hutch’s eyes were closed, his breathing already deepening into the rhythm of near-sleep. Spurred by a protective twinge, Starsky leaned forward, lightly stroking his thumb down the curve of his friend’s cheek. “You’re safe here, buddy,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. He remembered nights at the cottage when Hutch had woken drenched and shivering, tortured by punishing dreams. Eventually they’d faded, growing less frequent with each passing day. Once or twice afterwards, Hutch had called in the middle of the night needing to hear his voice . . . needing someone to reassure him he’d successfully passed the hurdle of drug cravings . . . that he’d made the only choice possible when he’d taken Corman’s life. “You’re safe with me,” Starsky reaffirmed in a whisper, as much vow as encouragement.

Straightening, he stared down on his sleeping friend. Gut instinct told him the worst was far from over . . . that in trying to move past his ordeals, Hutch had gotten wrapped up in failure and the hard-to-swallow reality that he was victim and executioner alike. But it ain’t like that, buddy. Forest was out for some sick enjoyment. He forced that drug on you, and Corman woulda killed ya. If only you’d wise up and stop fightin’ yourself.

Flustered, he picked up Hutch’s discarded clothes, folded them neatly, then set them aside on a chair. He headed to the bathroom but made sure he left the door standing open on the off chance Hutch would wake and need him, caught up in one of his many disturbing dreams. Fighting off the lethargy of a mostly sleepless night, Starsky stripped off his jeans and underwear, dumping them on the floor. Naked, he stood over the sink, bracing his arms on the sides, wearily hanging his head. Like Hutch, he’d lost weight over the last few weeks, the drop evident in the gaunt lines contouring his ribs, the narrow curve of his hips. The difference was he at least made an effort to regain the lost pounds, unlike Hutch who seemed to have developed an aversion to food.

Bending, he rummaged beneath the vanity, looking for shampoo, before moving to the shower and letting the drenching spray consume him.

At eight o’clock he called Dobey to inform the captain he and his partner would be late. Privy to Forest’s abusive treatment of Hutch, the black man granted the leniency, gruffly requesting he be kept abreast of any problems. But Hutch slept undisturbed, sleeping soundly until just after 9:30. As promised, Starsky fixed him breakfast, making sure he ate every bite of the meal this time. Afterward Hutch headed home to shower and change. When Starsky picked him up forty-five minutes later, the color had returned to his cheeks, a bit of vibrancy to his eyes. Dressed in beige cords, a white-speckled burgundy shirt and thigh-length denim jacket with metal snaps, he looked more like the fashionable Hutch Starsky was used to seeing. All he needed was the addition of a few more pounds to fill out the hollows under his cheeks and he’d look like himself again.

It was almost noon when they finally reached Metro, Starsky feeling decidedly better than he had that morning. The rest and food had done wonders for his friend. Hutch had been almost chatty in the car, talking about some hybrid plant he’d been nurturing for the last two months and how it was finally sprouting new shoots. Starsky knew there were deeper more disturbing thoughts on his partner’s mind, but at least Hutch was allowing himself a moment’s peace from the constant barrage of guilt and fear. It wasn’t avoidance so much as necessary escape.

The semi-elated high stayed with Starsky into the squadroom. He paused to say a brief hello to one of the clerical workers, sorting mail just inside the door. From the corner of his eye he saw Hutch move toward the file cabinet, immediately intent on some search. Starsky made a few jokes with the clerk - - a twenty-something brunette named Lois whom he’d dated once or twice. She traded a few flirting remarks with him, but her eyes strayed warily to Hutch. The glance was indication Darryl Corman’s surprise visit had already spread throughout the building. As when he’d pulled the trigger on Phil, then unwisely shown up at his funeral, Hutch was again the preferred topic of gossip.

Irked, Starsky turned his back on the clerk and slumped into the chair behind his desk. The first thing his eyes touched was the memo from R&I on Darryl Corman.

+++++

Hutch knew something was wrong the moment Starsky picked up the piece of paper. Pulling the folder he was after from the file cabinet, he did a nonchalant study of the contents, watching his partner from the corner of his eye. He wasn’t stupid. Starsky had been oblivious to most of the stares they’d received, but Hutch had been aware of the scrutiny from the moment they’d entered the building. Even Lois, the mail clerk, had been shooting him stray glances. Probably wondering if I’m gonna crack. Darryl Corman’s abrupt arrival had been a monumental shock - - an event that would keep the gossips busily speculating on how he coped with the aftermath of the surprise confrontation. Starsky might be able to block the stares and tune out the whispers of the precinct busybodies, but whatever was on the memo made him frown in open annoyance.

“Bad news?” Hutch asked, taking a seat across from him. Dropping the folder on his desk, he braced his arms on the top. Noting the distress in his friend’s eyes, he felt an unexpected surge of affection for the man who had been his rock for the last month. Plain and simple, without Starsky he wouldn’t have survived. There were a few times even now when shame got in the way - - when he remembered something dreadful he’d said or done during that awful withdrawal period - - either to humiliate himself or to hurt his friend. It still took him awhile to move past that, to refocus on the extreme devotion he shared with Starsky. His partner had been there again this morning, caring for Hutch with a depth of compassion that sometimes left him shaken when he thought about it. He’s the other half of my soul.

“Starsk, what’s wrong?” He tried to keep his voice neutral, tried not to appear too grave although inwardly he felt as though a hammer had been dropped. Clearly, whatever was on the memo bothered Starsky.

“Don’t go gettin’ ticked off,” his friend said by way of explanation. Still holding the paper, Starsky glanced across the desk. “Yesterday afternoon when you took that short nap, I called R&I and had them do some diggin’ on Darryl Corman.”

“You think I’d be upset about that?” Hutch frowned. “Look, buddy, I don’t mind telling you - - facing that guy was like seeing a ghost. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t shake me up. What’d you find out?”

“See for yourself.” Starsky passed him the paper.

Giving it a quick once-over, Hutch raised his eyes, stunned by the results. “A doctor?” he asked incredulously.

“Better than that, a geneticist at a governmentally funded think tank. The guy is high caliber, Hutch. He works at a research facility at the base of Canyon Road.”

“The Sol-Pierce Foundation,” Hutch said, reading the name off the sheet. Scowling, he bit his bottom lip. “Starsk, how is it Phil had a brother like that and never mentioned him? And why wasn’t he at the funeral?”

“Keep readin’.” Starsky motioned to the paper. “Accordin’ to R&I, he was out of the country when Phil was buried. As for why he never mentioned him . . . maybe they didn’t get along. Look at you and your dad. He’s some kind of brilliant surgeon, right? - - but how often do you mention him?”

Caught off guard by the comparison, Hutch balked. “That’s different.”

“Not really. The two of you butt heads every time you talk. You told me you can barely stand to be in the same room with him for more than a few minutes, but I bet half the medical community in this country knows who he is. Most guys would be proud to have a dad like that.”

Hutch flushed. “Starsky, it’s not that I’m not proud of him, it’s just . . .” He faltered, uncertain how they’d gotten so far off track. Starsky was right to a degree - - he rarely mentioned his father, but then Grant Hutchinson wasn’t the kind of man who came up in casual conversation. Aloof and rigidly proper, he was also demanding and unforgiving in his expectations. They’d never communicated well in the past, something Hutch didn’t see changing in the future. He knew he’d disappointed his father when he’d dropped out of medical school to enter the Academy, a thorn that remained between them to this day. In Grant Hutchinson’s eyes, his son was a staggering disappointment. All of his life, Hutch had wanted to please the man who’d been a stern disciplinarian, never showing affection or love in his overly correct code of conduct. Even now when he knew it was fruitless, Hutch still had a deep-seated need to make his father proud. Sadly, he knew that would never happen.

“Starsk, it’s different with my dad. Phil was Darryl’s brother. The dynamics aren’t even similar.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Starsky shrugged. “All I know is, the guy showed up here yesterday with the sole intent of rattlin’ your cage. Maybe we should go rattle his just for good measure.”

Hutch let the suggestion roll over him, warmed by the underlying motive. Starsky was looking out for his best interests, being aggressively protective and then some. But Hutch wasn’t sure he wanted to navigate the Sol-Pierce Foundation - - at least not yet. He wanted to put Darryl Corman, Phil’s death, and everything associated with the bleak reality behind him. “How ‘bout we forget Darryl for awhile,” he suggested. Flipping open the folder he’d pilfered from the file cabinet, he shuffled aside the top sheets, exposing a series of snapshots. “I was thinking we should pay Peggy Ann Fleetwood’s roommate a visit . . . take along a couple Polaroids of Big Block. She might remember seeing him . . . help us establish a connection between him and Peggy Ann. Maybe she can tie the two deaths together.”

“That ain’t a bad idea.” Starsky grinned broadly. “You should be a cop, you know that?” He shoved back from his desk. “Give me a minute to check out her address.”

Twenty-five minutes later they arrived at a run-down duplex on Ninth. Peggy Ann had shared the rear room with a strawberry blond named Mary Dunkle, not much older than herself. The girl was thin and waif-like with overly large brown eyes, a sharply pointed chin and a cameo-white complexion. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in over a week. Hutch’s skin crawled the moment he stepped from the porch into the tiny one-room abode with its dirty mattresses shoved up against the walls, sleeping space that doubled as seats during the day. There were piles of clothes everywhere, bags of toiletries and a few squat candles that dripped thick ribbons of wax onto paint-peeled windowsills and wooden floors. From the landlord he knew there were three other rentals in the duplex, all sharing a common kitchen, living area and bath. He could sense the whispering aura of drug use, knew the house was likely a hangout for hypes. Just stepping into the messy, filth-littered room reminded him of the cramped bedroom where Forest and Monk had kept him . . . the horror of being tied to a chair, blindfolded and defenseless. He remembered a bed . . . remembered sitting upright while they’d rammed a needle into his arm, all the fight bled out of him. He’d managed a token grumble of defiance but the truth was he’d wanted the drug by then, craved the sensual pleasure and euphoria it brought. He remembered folding listlessly on the bed after Monk injected him, the hoodlum and his cronies gloating over his messy deterioration. There was no question they’d enjoyed humiliating him - - had viewed his gradual descent into hell as pure entertainment. When the blindfold came off they’d stood over him, watching and joking as he’d soared on a seductive high.

“How’s that feel, pig? You like the ride, Hutchinson . . . want some more?”

“Maybe next time you need to earn it.” Someone tapped his face, pulled roughly on his hair. “I bet a pretty thing like you could put on a good show - -”

Then another voice: “That’s not what this is about. Stick to the plan. When he doesn’t get it is when we’ll get results.”

He would have begged for the fix but held out until later when it was actually denied . . . when the world fell out from beneath him and he plummeted into madness.

Nervous, Hutch licked his lips and paced a short distance away. He’d hated it - - hated! So ohgod, why do I remember wanting it so much? And why did that mocking flicker of yearning linger even now?

Sweat saturated the hair at the back of his neck, seeping into his collar. He felt edgy and confined, the cramped space of the small room making his skin crawl. Shaken, he paced in a tight circle. A short distance away, Starsky talked to Mary Dunkle, explaining how they were investigating Peggy Ann’s death and hoped she could be of some assistance. The girl was receptive, though wary, casting glances back and forth between the two of them. She seemed unsure of Hutch, frightened by his agitation.

Starsky showed her a candid shot of Big Block, along with several snapshots of a few others known to work for Art Pellar. “Recognize any of these guys? How ‘bout this one?” Starsky pointed to Leo Blockard. “Ever see him hangin’ around Peggy Ann?”

Wrapping her thin arms around her shoulders, Mary quickly shook her head. Her overly large eyes darted to Hutch then back to Starsky. “No.”

“Take another look.” Starsky pointed again. “Are you sure?”

Hutch sighed. Either the girl was frightened and didn’t want to get involved, or Blockard’s presence in the warehouse where Peggy Ann had died really was coincidental.

“No - - not him.” She hesitated. “But that one I know.” She pointed to a different photograph. “He came around a few times, talking to Peggy Ann. Sold her some junk once or twice.”

“Who?” Hutch was across the room in a heartbeat. He met Starsky’s eyes as the dark-haired detective pointed out whom Mary had picked from the photograph. “Eddie Fish?” Hutch’s gaze shifted to the wary girl. “Are you sure?”

Mary’s head bobbed up and down. “Can I go now? I gotta go to work at the Magnolia Street Diner.” A tentative smile touched her lips. “It’s payday.”

“Sure.” Starsky smiled easily.

The sight made Hutch realize how out of touch he was. All he could think about was the beguiling heat of a needle in his veins . . . how for a disgraced period of time he would have done anything - - become anyone Ben Forest wanted him to be - - just to feel that rapturous high a second more. It’s what Peggy Ann had done . . . why she’d died alone in an abandoned warehouse, choking on her own vomit. The thought made his stomach roil.

“One more thing,” he said, stopping the girl at the doorway. “Do you know anyone named Arrowson?”

“Sorry, no.” She fidgeted openly, anxious to leave. “I’ve really gotta go now. I’m running late.”

Hutch waved her away. Striding from the room he blundered into the sunshine, rounding the shabby house, blindly heading for the street. Had he really overcome the cravings . . . the insatiable urgency for a fix, the result so exhilarating, no force on earth could best it? For a microscopic flicker of time he felt the beguiling whisper of need, so commanding it made his stomach cramp. Something hot and sensual streaked through his groin.

I’m not going there. I won’t! It’s behind me.

“Hutch?”

Caught off guard by his friend’s presence, he wheeled around. Starsky’s gaze was too intent, making him part with a forced smile. “Eddie Fish, huh? Think we should pay him a visit?”

Starsky narrowed his eyes. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Hutch shrugged off the scrutiny. He walked to the Torino and yanked open the door. “Fish likes to hang out at Bailey’s Pool Hall,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Let’s give that a try.”

Starsky grunted. Though clearly not convinced Hutch was operating at prime efficiency, he kept the thoughts to himself. They rounded up Eddie Fish fifteen minutes later, but the confrontation resulted in another dead end. The thug denied any knowledge of Peggy Ann Fleetwood and maintained he’d been asleep at his apartment the morning her body was found. He didn’t know anyone named Arrowson and his “girl” would vouch he’d been with her the entire night into the morning.

Hutch sighed. He’d only been on the job a few hours and already his tolerance was bottoming out. The stench of the pool hall wasn’t helping - - a putrid combination of sweat, stale cigarette smoke, spilled beer and fried foods. He and Starsky had cornered Eddie Fish near the rear exit, interrupting a game of eight ball, Fish’s losing opponent seemed only too eager to end. Behind them at another table, the clack of balls continued, though at an admittedly slower pace.

Hutch braced an arm against the wall, blocking Fish’s escape. A fairly big man, the thug wasn’t as brawny as Blockard, but he was nearly as tall and just as lethal in a fight.

“Your girl being Suzanne Walker?” Hutch asked tiredly. “Busted three times for prostitution, twice for possession, twice for assault and once for theft? This is the girl whose word you want us to take?”

Red in the face, Eddie squared his shoulders. “Hey, look man, it ain’t my problem. I didn’t do nuthin’ wrong. You got shit you wanna lay on me, you better do it now or take a hike. I’m here mindin’ my own business and you get in my face about some dead hype. Maybe the bitch was doin’ Big Block, you ever think of that? You said he was belly-up in the same warehouse.”

“Listen, punk - - ” Hutch grabbed his collar, roughly shoving him against the wall. “Her name was Peggy Ann. She wasn’t a bitch and she wasn’t a hype.”

Fish sneered. “Oh, you knew her personally, Hutchinson?”

The taunt went through him like a streak of molten steel. Unconsciously he tightened his fingers on the frayed fabric of Fish’s collar, the man’s eyes widening at the choking pressure. “Maybe you didn’t understand what I said,” Hutch spat. “Her roommate says you knew her . . . sold her junk a few times. Think hard, asshole. She lived on Ninth . . . maybe came to a few of Pellar’s after-hour parties.”

“I don’t know her!” Fish yelled hotly, “And I didn’t sell nobody shit!” He tried to jerk away but Hutch’s grip was firm. “I make deliveries for Mr. Pellar, and that’s all I do. I don’t know nuthin’ about after-hour parties, and even if I did, Pellar would never let his boys traffic in junk. You got no reason to hassle me.”

“We got every reason to hassle you,” Starsky countered, stepping between Hutch and the other man. “Ain’t you heard? We get our kicks roundin’ up scum and seein’ what shakes loose.” His voice was smooth, laced with just a hint of street arrogance, a role Starsky always played to perfection.

Realizing his partner was running interference and wanted him to back off, Hutch released his grip. He was still edgy, close to snapping, something Starsky had sensed too. Scuffing a hand over his chin, he turned away, letting his friend take the lead. From the corner of his eye he saw Starsky bop an index finger on the tip of Fish’s nose.

“Here’s the deal, Eddie,” the dark-haired detective said in that same smooth voice. “We find out you lied, Hutch and me are gonna be highly displeased. So displeased we’re gonna have to come back here and round you up on general principle. ”

Fish licked his lips, rankled more by Starsky’s calm than Hutch’s anger. “You can’t bust me for nuthin’,” he protested, flustered.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Starsky grinned and tapped him lightly on the cheek. “We’ll find something to hold you . . . maybe even get Pellar agitated in the process. Should be fun.”

With a final warning, the two detectives turned him loose. Seconds later, Hutch slipped his sunglasses on as they stepped outside. Fish had scuttled out the back the moment he was released, glaring over his shoulder like a flint-eyed weasel. “Score zero,” Hutch grumbled as he walked toward the Torino, parked at the curb. “Rattling Fish isn’t going to do any good if he’s not a legitimate lead.”

“Maybe he is.” Starsky paused on the passenger’s side of the vehicle, digging his keys from the front pocket of his worn jeans. “Mary Dunkle says he knew Peggy Ann. The guy’s lyin’, Hutch.”

“What if he is?” Hutch raised a brow. Leaning into the car, he braced his back against the door. Beside the pool hall, a massage parlor boasted a window display with photos of three voluptuous-looking attendants dressed as witches. A sign to the right promised a Halloween discount and a “Spine-tingling good time.”

Hutch frowned, staring at the display without really seeing it, his mind stuck on Eddie. “You know, Starsk, one thing Fish said made sense. Pellar wouldn’t stand for any of his goons trafficking drugs. He’s more about prostitution and numbers - - and if anyone did any pushing it’d probably go down at one of his elite after-hour parties. He’s got a select clientele and it doesn’t - - or hasn’t - - included street users.”

“I’ll give you that.” Shrugging, Starsky leaned into the car, butting shoulder to shoulder with Hutch. Crossing his ankles at his feet, he tilted his head to study the window display. “Maybe Fish is siphoning off the top . . . doin’ a little side business Pellar don’t know about. What d’ya think the odds are of wranglin’ an invitation to one of those parties? His Halloween bash is comin’ up. Who knows - - maybe we’ll even find a someone named Arrowson there.”

Hutch snorted. “And we could get a ‘spine-tingling massage.’” He pointed to the window. “But ain’t neither one gonna happen, partner.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Pushing away from the car, Starsky straightened with a swagger. “I might just come back later and see what those ladies got. I could use a good massage since you still ain’t figured out how to do it right.” He grinned breezily, making Hutch flush.

“And I could use a good party,” the blond-haired man countered.

“Then let’s do something about it,” Starsky said. “I know just the man to see.”

+++++

“You don’t want much, do ya?” Huggy Bear parted with a soft chuff of laughter and shoved two burger specials onto the table. Spinning a chair around, he straddled it backward, folding his arms loosely over the top. “You two waltz into my ultra fine establishment, demand a sampling of my premium cuisine, and now want me to get you an invite to Art Pellar’s Halloween Bash?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

Starsky shrugged. He peeled back the top half of a seeded bun to examine the tomato slice wedged underneath. It was fairly busy at Huggy’s despite the late lunch hour. A handful of booths were occupied and several “regulars” had parked at the bar, throwing down draft beers and chicken wings. He and Hutch had wandered to their usual rear table, ordering a few burger specials to pass the time while they chatted with Huggy. Starsky would have liked a beer to go with his sandwich but reluctantly settled for iced tea since they were still on duty.

“Well, it ain’t like we’re doin’ anything on Halloween, Hug,” he said. Claiming the mustard from Hutch, he squirted a glob on top of his burger. He was glad to see his friend eating, even if was only a few fries dipped into a mound of yellow mustard. “The way we figure it, you gotta have some connection that can get us in, even if it’s the kitchen door or delivery entrance - - hell, we don’t care.” Picking up the overstuffed burger with both hands, Starsky bit off a large mouthful. He’d never admit it to Huggy, but he actually liked the black man’s burgers, flavored with just the right amount of Tabasco seasoning. As usual, the fries were a little on the wilted side, but he could live with that. Ketchup cured everything. “You’re in the restaurant business . . . Pellar’s in the restaurant business.”

“And that’s where it ends. We don’t exactly run in the same circles, bro. Pellar caters to the city’s influential, you hip to what I’m sayin’? The little clownfaced dude likes to pick and choose the invitees that make it onto his preferred short list. He’s all about his fancy bee-stro and keeping up appearances.” Huggy emphasized the word by stretching his skinny neck as far as it would go. “Me . . . I cater to those with a more adventurous . . . shall we say, eclectic and urban-based palette.” Pleased with the assessment, he scuffed his shiny nails on the broad red-and-white stripes of his fitted jacket.

“You call wilted fries in yesterday’s reheated oil eclectic and adventurous?” Hutch challenged incredulously.

Huggy looked affronted. “It’s all in how you present it, my man.”

Hutch cast a skeptical glance at his plate, studying the limp mound of fries shoved against his burger. “Let me guess - - you’re going for the greasy spoon look?”

Starsky laughed. “Don’t piss off the proprietor, Hutch. He’s still gotta get us into Pellar’s bash.” Munching contentedly, he nodded at Huggy. “I like your fries, Hug. Blue ribbon stuff - - really.”

“Don’t con a con, Starsky. You ain’t got the flair.” Frowning, he straightened his sleeves. The clash of red and white against his banana yellow pants, royal blue shirt and white cap was considerably less flamboyant than usual. Starsky thought about pointing that out but figured it wouldn’t net him any points.

“All right,” Huggy agreed. “I’ll see what I can do. What else you need?”

“Anything you got on a guy named Arrowson,” Starsky said. “Who may or may not be connected to Pellar.”

Word about Big Block had already hit the street. Starsky followed up the news by asking Huggy to keep his ear out for anything on Eddie Fish and Peggy Ann Fleetwood. By the time they finished their burgers, Huggy had left, made a few phone calls and returned to the table.

“Okay, I got a guy who can get you in the back door.” Leaning forward, he braced his arms on the tabletop. “He owes a favor to an associate of mine who owes me a favor, so you’re in - - but after that you’re on your own. Nine o’clock, kitchen, look for Clarence. You ain’t on the guest list, so you either gotta find yourself a connection or keep a low profile, you dig?” His eyes slewed to the side as he considered Hutch. “Maybe Vivian Clarke,” he said thoughtfully.

Starsky slurped a gulp of iced tea. “You mean the food critic?”

“More like Miss Society Page herself,” Huggy corrected. “Five star restaurants rise or fall on her reviews. She’s rich, well connected, fiftyish, and always on the prowl. Rumor has it she just dumped her latest boy-toy. She likes ‘em young, tall and blond, if you’re hip to what I’m saying.”

Starsky grinned across the table at his partner. “I think we just found our connection.”

For answer Hutch merely frowned and helped himself to the dark-haired detective’s tea.

Huggy rubbed his hands together, getting into the spirit of things. “All right, listen up. Pellar don’t like costumes except for his staff, so you gotta go as yourself - - no Halloween dress-up. Personally I think it has something to do with that clown-phobia of his - - probably thinks half of Bay City will show up in red shoes and orange wigs if he makes it a costume bash. So bottom line, it’s stuffy and formal. That means black tie, dudes. Think you can handle it?”

“With my eyes shut,” Starsky tossed back. “Thanks, Hug, you’re an ace.” Standing, he dropped his napkin onto his plate. “Not a bad cook, either. Put it on our tab, huh?”

“Would that be the one that keeps growin’, or the one you ain’t bothered to pay yet?”

“Why make it complicated?” Hutch patted his shoulder as he walked past. “Just pick one, Hug. We’re not fussy.”

Once outside, Starsky stopped to stretch. He hadn’t wanted to make an issue of it but was pleased to see Hutch had eaten half of his burger and a handful of fries. It was progress, especially after a full breakfast. “So,” he said with a cheery smile. “Black tie at Pellar’s bistro and you get to suck up to a dragon lady. I knew there was a reason we had Halloween night off.”

Hutch gave him a shove toward the car. “You better pray I haven’t lost my touch,” he commented with a dry grin.

+++++

Before returning to Metro they swung by a rental place and picked out the appropriate attire for Pellar’s bash, each ending up with a fitted black tux and pressed white shirt. At the precinct, they bumped into Baker and Sullivan, the older man giving Hutch the cold shoulder. He really didn’t care one way or another - - he had his own problems to sort through - - but couldn’t help being interested in any progress they’d made on the case. Peggy Ann Fleetwood had lodged in a corner of his heart, and he couldn’t shake her loose. He knew what heroin was like, had battled it himself. A sixteen-year-old girl just shouldn’t have to fight that depravity.

Unfortunately Baker only had time for a terse head shake and a mumbled “nothing new” before following Sullivan outside.

Depressed, Hutch slumped to a seat at his desk. He rummaged around for Blockard’s file, once again trying to make sense of the connection. What did a hired thug have in common with a strung-out teenager? She’d had a bad home life . . . run from an abusive father.

Sickened by the thought, he tightened his hands on the folder. What kind of parent could vilely debase his or her own child? His own father had been distant with him, admittedly withholding love, but he’d never been physically abusive. Grant Hutchinson was often harsh in his criticism and he’d been a strict disciplinarian, but he’d never found it necessary to mistreat his son.

Saddened, Hutch closed the file. No, he just made sure I could never please him. Even then he’d had a roof over his head, a home life that was tolerable, filled with every material possession he could possibly want. Maybe he wasn’t appreciated the way he wanted to be, but his father had never abused him. He hadn’t found it necessary to run away, tumbling into the drugged oblivion of heroin addiction. What chance did a sixteen-year-old girl from Arkansas really have on the cruelly harsh streets of Bay City?

“Hey, pal.” Approaching from behind, Starsky slid a hand onto his shoulder, easing around to perch on the edge of his desk. “Let’s go for a walk. I wanna talk to you about something.”

“What?” Caught musing, Hutch shook off his distraction. He’d lost track of time - - suddenly realized a good ten minutes had passed since they’d entered the squadroom and he’d been tangled up in private musings about Peggy Ann. “Where have you been?” he asked.

“With Dobey.” Starsky tilted his head to indicate the door. “Come on. Let’s take a stroll to the candy machine. I need a Clark Bar.”

Hutch doubted his friend really wanted the chocolate - - okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. The sugary snack was a fringe benefit Starsky wouldn’t pass up as long as they were in the hallway. Shoving from his chair, he followed the shorter man from the room, once again aware of sideways glances cast in his wake. Miffed, he stuffed his hands in his pockets, shoving his denim jacket back from his hips. “How much you wanna bet they’re wagering on when I’ll crack up?”

“Knock it off, Hutch.” Starsky fed nickels to the vending machine. “They’re just worried about you, dummy. One glance and it’s plain as day you’ve dropped weight and ain’t been sleepin’. Then Corman shows up and does his Grim Reaper routine right under your nose . . . ” He pulled the lever for a Milky Way, passing on the Clark Bar. Within seconds the candy fell into the slot below the display, and he snatched it up. “It’s no wonder people are starin’.”

The rationalization didn’t help. Hutch pressed his lips together. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Nope.”

Starsky started walking and Hutch fell in at his side, not really sure where they were headed, or why they were in the hall in the first place. Odds were if Starsky wanted to discuss something private, he simply wanted Hutch out of the squadroom, away from listening ears.

“I was talkin’ to Dobey,” the dark-haired detective said around a mouthful of chocolate and caramel. “That thing with Corman yesterday kinda shook him up too . . . pissed him off that the guy pulled his stunt in the middle of the squadroom. You know how Dobey gets about grandstandin’ and crap like that.”

“So what’d he do?” Hutch sensed what was coming, wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about it or whether it should bother him. The whole thought of Darryl Corman still made his gut tighten in reaction. He felt shaky and insecure, like he wanted to crawl under a rock and disappear for weeks. He’d killed the man’s brother, killed a fellow cop. “Dobey talked to Burke, didn’t he?”

They rounded a corner and came to a dead-end by the stairwell. One flight down would take them to the garage, one flight up to records and research. Starsky finished off the last bite of candy and licked his fingertips. He wadded up the wrapper, palming it in his fist. “How’d you know that?”

Dispirited, Hutch slumped against the wall. “Why else would you drag me out of the squadroom?” It bothered him to be proven correct, openly cementing the fact he was trapped in a downward spiral. Starsky was right - - he had lost too much weight, wasn’t eating and wasn’t sleeping. He found it hard to care about much of anything when the last month had come close to stripping away his soul. For every moment he wanted to forget the ugliness, something happened that forced him to confront it again.

Burke was Phil Corman’s partner, someone Hutch didn’t want to face. The black man was presently confined, awaiting trial for his part in the theft of one million in cocaine, taken during a bust. Antagonistic and racially prejudiced, Corman had been far from friendly with his partner. Even so, if anyone knew anything about Phil, it was Burke.

“Look, Hutch . . .” Stepping closer, Starsky lowered his voice. He turned his back, shielding his friend from anyone who happened to wander by, affording the blond detective what privacy he could. “You need to put this in perspective, buddy,” he said quietly. “A whole heck of a lotta people care about you, and Dobey’s one of ‘em. If he hadn’t talked to Burke, I woulda. He just beat me to it.”

“Yeah . . . okay.” A reserved smile flitted over Hutch’s lips. He had no doubt his partner would have done exactly as he said. Their friendship had taken an extreme turn in a relatively short period of time. From almost the start, Starsky had been overprotective of him, more so in the last month with everything that had happened. He might have chafed at the sheltering concern, except he behaved exactly the same when it came to Starsky’s welfare. And right now he wanted that extra attentiveness - - needed it for the world to make sense again. It hadn’t taken them long from their first encounter at the Academy to realize they connected on a level few friends ever achieved.

Starsky leaned into the wall, close enough that Hutch felt the brush of his partner’s arm against his sleeve. Warmth flooded him at the simple contact, momentarily crushing the insistent cloud of despair.

“Accordin’ to Burke, Phil couldn’t stand his brother,” Starsky relayed quietly. “It’s why he never talked about him. Phil thought Darryl looked down on him, like he wasn’t good enough. They moved in different social circles - - a doctor and a cop - - and rarely talked to one another. They hadn’t seen each other in years, even though they lived in the same city.”

“So why the big show?” Puzzled, Hutch glanced at his friend. “Why walk into the squadroom and try to shake me up?”

Starsky shrugged. “I don’t think there’s any hidden motive, Hutch. I think the guy just felt he owed something to his brother. They were twins, afterall. He was out of the country, couldn’t make the funeral so he got his little thrill seein’ your reaction. Now he can get on with life with a clear conscience. Dobey just thought you should know what he found out.” Smiling slightly, he slid a hand onto Hutch’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Now how ‘bout walkin’ back with me and lettin’ our darlin’ captain know we got an invite to Pellar’s fancy shindig? I wasn’t gonna tell him that one on my own.”

“Coward,” Hutch said, but grinned. Dobey wouldn’t mind the invitation so much as the potential fallout if Pellar decided to make an issue about uninvited cops crashing his party. Fortunately, they had a semi-sort-of-plan for that, if he could just snare the interest of Vivian Clarke.

In the end, when they laid out the particulars, Dobey merely grumbled and ordered them to be sure they didn’t “screw it up,” before waving them out of his office. Because of the late start they’d gotten that day, they remained on shift until almost 9:00. Starsky wanted to grab dinner together but Hutch declined, more focused on going home, peeling off his clothes and falling into bed. He was tempted to ask Starsky to stay with him, but at the last minute decided against it. He couldn’t keep relying on his partner to get him through the nights. Exhausted and emotionally drained, he was fairly confident he could sleep without troubling dreams or steadily creeping fears waking him.

It was hard keeping his eyes open through the drive home. Harder still, a short while later, after a long shower and two beers. He finally crawled into bed around 10:30, naked but for a pair of navy boxers with vertical white stripes.

Even with the windows shut he could hear traffic passing by on the main drag, skirting the small cottage . . . the crunch of gravel beneath tires as a neighbor pulled into an unfinished, makeshift driveway. Thick shadows draped the interior of the bungalow, broken sporadically by the pearl-white splash of moonlight. At first the darkness was comforting, the stillness soothing, but in a relatively short time it took on an ominous tone. His mind conjured mental images of Phil Corman’s body, sprawled and lifeless after he’d pumped a bullet into him . . . of Forest bending over him, backhanding his face, demanding to know where Jeannie was. He heard himself betraying her, shamelessly begging for a fix.

With a groan he shifted onto his side, trying to block the memories, the pain. His stomach cramped up, and he curled into a ball, hating the same nightly visitations and misery. Would they ever stop? Bowing his face into his hand, he closed his eyes and let exhaustion wash over him.

Eventually, he fell asleep but the dreams were relentless, laced with the hedonistic memory of flying on heroin . . . the shameful mortification of not being able to control his bodily functions during withdrawal. He shivered and moaned aloud, wanting to escape the ugly recollections, helplessly trapped in the nightmare.

Something touched his face, skimmed lightly over his cheek.

“Hutch.” Starsky’s voice penetrated the black ilk of his dreams. He tried to drag his eyes open, felt the touch again, this time gently contouring his jaw. “Come on, buddy, wake up. You’re havin’ a nightmare.”

He blinked, groggily pulling himself from the dream. Starsky was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at him, the lamp on the nightstand switched to low. Confused, Hutch wet his lips. “Starsk? Wh-what are you doing here? What time is it?” He looked around for the hated alarm clock. Through the fog in his mind he vaguely registered the luminous green numbers: 11: 47.

“Take it easy.” Starsky slid a hand onto his shoulder, pushing him back into the pillows even as he craned his neck to focus on the clock. It suddenly dawned on him his partner was fully dressed minus his shoes . . . that the flickering gray light of the TV crept from the living room into the bedroom area.

“I thought I’d hang out on your couch tonight,” Starsky said smoothly. “You were already sleepin’ when I got here, so I used my key to let myself in.” He smiled disarmingly. “You wouldn’t believe all the creepy movies on TV.”

Still dazed, Hutch tried to assimilate the information. He’d needed Starsky, wanted him to spend the night but had been too embarrassed to ask. Starsky had even suggested it earlier when they’d left Metro, but Hutch had declined, too proud to admit he was afraid to stay alone. Rather than force the issue, Starsky had backed off, though it was now clear he’d intended to show up all along. Hutch felt a swell of thankfulness underscored by awkwardness.

“Starsk . . .” He wet his lips. Don’t go. Please . . . I want you to stay. “You don’t have to do this, buddy. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Sure you will.” Starsky’s smile was slight. Gently, he swept the bangs from Hutch’s brow. “But I’m kinda skittish after watchin’ all those ghosts and ghouls on TV. Don’t kick me out, huh? Something creepy might gobble me up.”

Fully aware of what his partner was up to, Hutch felt a flush of gratitude. He smiled shyly. “Thanks, Starsk.” Shifting onto his side, he tucked one arm beneath his pillow and let his eyes drift shut. The thought of sleep was suddenly inviting with his partner nearby. Already he felt safe and secure, warmed by Starsky’s protectiveness. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” he murmured, already drifting off. “ . . .bed’s big enough for two.”

It was the last thing he remembered before waking in the morning, Starsky curled up beside him.

+++++

The next day Phil Baker caught both detectives in the garage after a routine patrol of their beat. The morning had been spent responding to a 211 followed by booking the robbery suspect. In direct contrast, the afternoon was relatively dry. They were just readying to leave the precinct in Hutch’s LTD for a final round when Baker pulled in alone.

“Sully’s off at the hospital,” he explained. “We lost a drug suspect over on Warrington when Sullivan took a spill from a two-story roof.”

Starsky balked. “He okay?”

“No major damage, but he busted up his leg pretty bad. They’re setting it now.”

Starsky nodded, unsure how Baker could leave his partner alone at the hospital. The mere thought of Hutch tumbling off a roof then mangling his leg, made his stomach cramp. He would have been glued to the blond detective’s side, a perpetual annoyance to nurses, doctors and assorted medical personnel, stubbornly rooted to the spot until Hutch was discharged. Granted, Baker and Sullivan didn’t have the soul-sharing partnership he had with Hutch, but he would have expected Baker to be a little more concerned. Then again, according to precinct gossip, he and Hutch routinely overreacted whenever the other one was injured. Maybe Baker’s response really was considered “normal.”

“Sullivan’s tough,” Baker explained as if reading his thoughts. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he stepped to the side, making way for a departing black-and-white. The noise of street traffic rolled into the garage, echoing in the semi-enclosed space. Somewhere in the distance, a horn blared loudly. “By the way, I thought you two might be interested in the toxicology reports on Peggy Ann Fleetwood. She popped up a red flag.”

Abruptly intense, Hutch zeroed in on the comment. “What does that mean?” he asked sharply. “Fentanyl and heroin?”

“Yeah, but something else too.” Lowering his voice, Baker stepped closer to the stairwell. “We got the results early this morning. She died from an OD, but unlike the other victims had a mixture of synthetic and natural toxins in her system.”

Puzzled, Starsky frowned. “Such as?”

Baker shrugged. “The autopsy reports were vague, but the primary substance was a derivative of - - get this - - an extract of some rare Brazilian vine.”

“What?” Starsky balked, sure he’d heard wrong.

“I know - - makes no sense at all. Something about the Amazon rain forest.” Baker shrugged, appropriately baffled. “Maybe the girl was into organic shit. Who knows what these hypes do? The ME is still trying to make sense of it, but whatever the results, she doesn’t fit the pattern of our other victims.”

“Meaning what?” Hutch snapped. “That users should be predictable statistics and not people?”

Baker frowned. “Back off, Hutchinson. I’m just telling you what I know.”

“Then how about leaving the editorializing on the side? If you want to make sweeping judgments, do it on your own time.”

“Hey - - !”

Hutch left before he could get any further with the protest. Watching his moody partner stalk away, Starsky tried to run interference. Baker and Hutch had always been friendly, something he hated to see deteriorate because of circumstances the brown-haired cop couldn’t understand. “Sorry about that,” he tried to pacify. “We’ve had a couple of rough days, and he’s a little edgy right now.”

“He ain’t the only one,” Baker snapped in reply. Relenting almost immediately, he sighed. “Look . . . everyone knows Hutch gets a little too involved in his cases, feeling for the victims, and that thing with Corman’s brother had to shake him up pretty bad. But I ain’t the enemy here, Starsky.”

“I know that.”

“Well apparently blond-boy hasn’t figured it out yet, so do us both a favor and set his ass straight.” Huffing out a disgusted breath, he strode toward the stairwell, yanking open the door and disappearing inside.

Starsky waited a heartbeat before joining his partner in the LTD. “You okay?”

Hutch nodded. Now that the heat of the moment had passed, he seemed contrite over his attitude. “I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“Nope,” Starsky agreed. “He was just tellin’ you facts, Hutch. He didn’t even have to. It’s not our case.”

“I know.” Hutch’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Uncertainly, his eyes veered to the side. “I’m screwing up a lot lately, aren’t I?”

Looking at the haunted misery on his face, Starsky felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. He wished he could magically ease Hutch’s pain . . . erase the last month and all the hideous suffering his friend had endured. Hutch didn’t deserve any of it. Compassionate and far too sensitive for his own good, he had never coped well emotionally. Physically, he was ridiculously unyielding, standing up to hardship and pain with a resiliency and determination even Starsky couldn’t match. But emotionally . . . that was Hutch’s downfall.

An extreme capacity for guilt and an unrealistic need to be perfect in all he did meant Hutch didn’t cope well with failure. In his mind, he should have been strong enough to resist the needle, smart enough to find another solution rather than shooting Corman. In all things, he made himself the guilty party, shouldering blame and embracing collapse. He was doing it even now, torturing himself for not being able to control his emotions.

“You’re just a little riled, that’s all,” Starsky tried to pacify. Reaching across the seat, he patted Hutch’s knee. “Just give it time, buddy. Eventually everything will fall back into place.”

But it didn’t, at least not with any immediate results. When their shift ended, Starsky managed to talk Hutch into dinner at his place. He even took the time to cook, throwing together a pot of penne pasta, meat sauce, and a huge green salad. He found a bottle of wine an ex-girlfriend had brought one evening, but had never been opened as they’d been more intent on tumbling into bed. The rescued cabernet went well with the pasta and even better later as they scoured the society pages of the newspaper, looking for information on Vivian Clarke.

“Got a picture here,” Starsky said, passing a folded section of the Bay City Dispatch to Hutch. Widowed once, divorced twice, Vivian Clarke had a sophisticated, regal air about her. Her age was open to debate, but general consensus placed her somewhere just past fifty. With a sleek chestnut bob, large gray eyes and a slender body, she looked more fashion model than renowned food critic.

Uncomfortable, Hutch glanced from the paper to his friend. “Starsk, she’s old enough to be my . . . my . . .” Wincing, he stopped and immediately refocused. “Look, why can’t you be charming and dazzling, and play up to her?”

“Because I ain’t all Nordic-lookin’ and fair-haired, Blondie.”

Trapped by the observation, Hutch frowned openly at the photo. “Maybe she’s already bringing a date,” he said half hopefully.

“Yeah, keep thinkin’ that.” Starsky stood and stretched. They’d spent an inordinate amount of time looking through the papers, talking over the case. The plan was simple: crash Pellar’s party and see if they could establish a connection between Leo Blockard’s death and Peggy Ann Fleetwood’s OD. The only reason they needed Vivian Clarke in the first place was in the event Pellar spotted them and ordered them thrown out. Having the eye and ear of an influential guest who could keep them inside for the duration, would be worth any effort Hutch had to put out.

Hopefully he won’t need to do that literally, Starsky thought with a mental snicker. Pulling the paper from Hutch’s hand, he tossed it aside onto the table. “It’s getting’ late, buddy. How ‘bout you crash here for the night?” He hadn’t exactly planned to keep his blond partner occupied into the late evening hours, but it had worked out ideally. He couldn’t help worrying over Hutch, thinking about him alone at the cottage, knowing his friend would probably never tolerate another night of babysitting. Even now Hutch frowned openly, eyeing him skeptically.

“Starsk, it’s only eleven-thirty. I’m perfectly capable of driving home.”

“Yeah, I know.” Not sure how to override the protest, Starsky sat beside him. He was close enough that his leg butted against Hutch’s thigh. Rather than draw away, he leaned into the contact. “Look, Hutch, I ain’t gonna lie to you. I’d just feel better if you stayed here tonight.”

“Because I’ll only end up crawling back anyway?” A brow arched pointedly into Hutch’s hair. “Is that what you mean?”

Starsky sighed. “Aw, buddy, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t do it to me.” Even as he said the words, he saw a glimmer of something resentful and wounded flash through Hutch’s eyes. His friend had been on an even keel most of the night, but a simmering tension lurked beneath the calm. It had been brewing ever since the discussion with Baker in the garage. In Starsky’s opinion, that absurdly brief confrontation was too silly to trigger something like hostility, but Hutch had been beating himself up about it ever since. It wasn’t so much his snapped remark at Baker, as it became the last straw in a steadily growing pile of emotional fiascoes.

Hutch had reached his limit.

Standing, he paced a short distance away, nervously threading a hand through his hair. “I’m going home,” he muttered.

“Why?” Irked, Starsky cornered him. He knew Hutch felt trapped. As much as he didn’t want to add to his friend’s confusion, he wasn’t about to let Hutch slink off in the middle of an emotional low. Underneath the agitation and grim resolve, the idealistic blond cop was still a victim.

“Hey - -” Starsky touched his sleeve, felt a quiver of bunched muscle beneath his fingertips. “It’s me, babe. You don’t gotta put on a show or pretend with me,” he prodded gently. “Remember?”

Hutch met his eyes, pale sky studying darker ocean. From experience, Starsky knew he could be awfully distant when hurting, incredibly skilled at shutting out others. It was something Hutch had excelled at all of his life, a trait learned and mastered from a cold, disciplinarian father. Even now Starsky saw a hint of frost in his eyes.

“I remember I humiliated myself,” Hutch said softly, his tone eerily calm, almost deadly. “I remember I said horrible things to you . . .”

Starsky gave a terse shake of his head, trying to cut him off. “You weren’t yourself, Hutch. You were goin’ through withdrawal.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Hutch closed his eyes, tightened his hands into fists.

Starsky could see near-visible pain rolling over him now, contorting his face with anguish, leeching the underlying blood from his skin. He cursed the senselessness of the simple remark Hutch had traded with Baker . . . the catalyst to finally make him snap.

I’m screwing up a lot lately, aren’t I?

“Babe, listen to me.” Speaking firmly, Starsky gripped him behind the neck and held fast. “That shit with Forest and Monk is over. I wish we didn’t have to protect your badge. I wish I could get you real support . . . someone to talk to . . . to help you make sense of this mess.”

Hutch opened his eyes. “There is no sense to it,” he said bleakly. His face contorted and he crumpled to a seat on the sofa. Burying his face in his hands, he leaned forward, elbows braced on spread knees. “Sometimes I just can’t think,” he admitted in a muffled whisper. “I remember what it was like. The d-drug . . . and then after, wh-when I-I - -” Unable to finish the thought he groaned. “My chest gets so tight I can’t breathe.”

“I know, buddy.” Overwhelmed by his inability to help, Starsky sat beside him. Offering what little solace he could, he rubbed a hand over Hutch’s back, distressed to realize his friend was shaking. The tension in Hutch’s body unwound in a harsh string of punishing tremors, his emotional state precariously close to crashing. “If I could get you help - -” Starsky tried again.

“I don’t need help,” Hutch insisted, but his voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, still cupped in his hands, and glanced up at his partner. His eyes were too bright, suspiciously wet. “If anyone is gonna get me through this, Starsky, it’s you. It’s just - -”

“What?” Moved by the declaration, Starsky swallowed hard. Unconsciously, his hand swept higher, threading into Hutch’s hair. His friend shivered, the gold-tipped veil of his lashes sweeping closed. A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, tracking a delicate crystalline thread along the curve of his cheek.

“Sometimes it feels like the end of daylight,” Hutch whispered despondently. “Like all that’s left is darkness and I’ll never see the sun again.” Another tear followed.

“Babe, don’t . . . please don’t.” Starsky touched his cheek, gently thumbing aside clinging tracks of moisture. The hand tangled in Hutch’s hair dropped to curl behind his neck instead. Starsky gave a gentle tug and Hutch folded against him, burying his face in the hollow of Starsky’s neck. He shuddered as if afflicted, a soft moan escaping from trembling lips. Distraught, he knotted his fingers in the fabric of Starsky’s shirt, hanging on as though he clutched a lifeline.

The dark-haired detective wasn’t sure what hurt worse - - having his partner aloof and unapproachable or witnessing him crumble so severely. He’d seen Hutch cry before, had even held him just a few short weeks ago when the sobbing man had broken down in his arms, shattered by the crushing pain of withdrawal.

But somehow this display of vulnerability hurt more. He had hoped the worst of the trauma was behind them, that Hutch was at least coping. His partner’s day-to-day existence, however difficult and routine, was a positive step toward recovery. But the man who functioned as a police officer, lately more ice than warmth to those around him, had been gradually falling apart inside. Staunchly protective, Starsky hugged him closer.

“Hutch?” He smoothed a hand down his friend’s arm, encouraged when the other man burrowed nearer. “You’re gonna get through this, buddy, I promise. All this pain and hurtin’ is eventually gonna end. I promise there’s gonna be daylight. Lots of it. No one’s ever gonna hurt you like that again.”

Distressed, Hutch shook his head. “You can’t protect me.”

“I can,” Starsky vowed stubbornly, though he knew the pledge was unrealistic. Raising his hand, he grazed his fingertips across Hutch’s cheek, collecting tears. He could feel more soaking his shirt, knew by the harsh tremors riddling Hutch’s body that he cried harder still. It ain’t fair. Just not fuckin’ fair. Torn by his friend’s vulnerability and pain, Starsky tightened his embrace, imparting what comfort he could.

“Babe . . .” Bowing his head, he pressed his cheek to the silky crown of Hutch’s hair. “I know it hurts . . . I know I can’t change what those bastards did to you, but I promise I’ll help you through this. When you need me to be here, I’ll be here. And when you need me to stand back, I’ll do that too.”

“Starsk, I . . .” Moaning softly, Hutch wrapped both arms around his friend’s waist. “I can’t keep asking you for help. I should be past this now.”

“You can always ask me for help,” Starsky countered. He drew a breath, forcing his next words even though he knew they were going to be painful for his partner to hear. “Hutch . . . you ain’t gonna get past this until you admit what happened.”

Hutch tensed. “Don’t.”

Drawing back slightly, Starsky swept a hand through his friend’s hair, burying his fingers knuckle-deep in the pale mesh of white-gold and softer ash. “Listen to me, buddy - - you’re not invincible. You couldn’t resist it, no matter how hard you tried. It’s just not physically possible. Yeah, you wanted that damn drug, but you were a victim.”

“Don’t!” Panicked, Hutch wrenched away. He made it partially off the couch, driven by pure flight instinct before Starsky gripped his sleeve and yanked him back down. Firmly gripping him by the chin, Starsky forced his head around.

Trapped, Hutch watched warily, eyes wide, still wet with tears. The gleam of unshed moisture turned his irises to bright glass, his lashes to glistening clumps of gold thread.

“You’re fightin’ yourself, Hutch,” Starsky said levelly. “I know those guys hurt you, but they didn’t change who you are.”

“No, they just fucking debased me!” The explosion of anger was hot and unexpected. Mortified, Hutch pulled away, shaking his head. “God, Starsky, you don’t understand. You can’t understand. I-I would have done anything - - anything - - for that needle. Don’t you get it?” His voice lurched up an octave, cracking with bitter remorse. “I wanted it! I-I sold Jeannie. I would’ve sold myself . . . my body . . . let them touch me . . . do anything they wanted, just to feel that fucking high. Ohgod - -” He dragged a hand over his face. “I would’ve sold you!”

“Stop it!” Starsky’s own anger came just as quickly, just as hot. His blood boiled to think of his sensitive, highly idealistic partner reduced to such a degrading state. Hutch was a visionary, principled and sympathetic, gentle with others. The mere thought of him being so vilely disgraced left Starsky inwardly shaking with rage. Only through concentrated effort did he get his emotions under control. “Listen to me.” His fingers crimped in Hutch’s collar and held fast. “Whatever you think you woulda done - - it wasn’t you! It was the drug, Hutch. The fuckin’ drug! Do you hear me, babe? That’s why you were a victim!”

Hutch groaned, wilting backward against the pillows, the fight bled out of him. He would have curled away from his friend, but Starsky held onto him, physically dragging him against his chest. “Don’t fight me,” he whispered fiercely. “Just let me help you, Hutch. I can be strong for both of us . . .”

Bowing his head, he crushed his face to his friend’s hair. “ . . . at least until it’s daylight again.”

+++++

Hutch rolled over in bed, tucking closer to the pocket of warmth beside him. His throat felt sore, his head congested and achy. No real surprise there, since he’d blubbered like a fool, consciously or unconsciously trying to banish his demons. He didn’t even remember crawling into Starsky’s waterbed, just knew that somewhere during the night his friend had managed to get him undressed and into bed. It was something they might have joked about on another occasion, but Hutch knew he’d been far too vulnerable for anything short of vigilant concern.

Starsky had given him that and more.

He was thankful his friend hadn’t chosen to sleep on the couch. As silly as it sounded, he’d needed the closeness of being in the same bed - - a shameful crutch for a thirty-year-old man, but he’d long since dispensed with macho posturing around Starsky. With anyone else he would have remained resolute, suffering on the inside, outwardly precise and controlled. His father had taught him all about perfection and stiff upper lips . . . that men didn’t show emotion and certainly never cried.

Grant Hutchinson would be horrified to know how he’d carried on, more so that he’d wanted his partner beside him in bed. He could almost hear his father’s condemning words: What will people think? What will they say? Heterosexual men just don’t behave like that, Kenneth. Sadly, Grant would probably applaud the fact he’d gotten beaten up for bluntly defying Forest, but would cringe to learn he’d shed a few tears, then crawled into bed with Starsky.

Sighing, he realized he was doing it again - - creating more misery for himself. Shuffling the thoughts aside he lay still, content to listen to Starsky’s rhythmic breathing. The first pale rays of dawn streamed through the bedroom windows, making him realize the long night had passed into obscurity. Now that it was behind him, he couldn’t help feeling a little awkward about how defenseless he’d been, raw emotion displacing his normally correct demeanor. That was the problem with maintaining such regimental control - - when it eventually shattered, the fall was devastating.

And cleansing.

If he was honest, he’d needed last night’s collapse, the breakdown oddly purifying. He couldn’t have done it with anyone else - - wouldn’t have done it with anyone but Starsky. As self-conscious as he felt, he knew he didn’t have to feel ashamed with his friend. Starsky had already helped him through worse, never judgmental in his patient and devoted care.

Hutch felt a surge of sheer affection for the man sleeping beside him. Starsky was right - - regardless of what Forest and Monk had done to him, they hadn’t destroyed him. He still had a chance at salvaging the part of his soul they’d stolen . . . a chance at banishing the darkness and reclaiming the daylight. He had his friend - - more than enough to get him back on the right track.

His glance slid to the side, his gaze resting on Starsky. His partner lay sprawled on his back, one arm carelessly flung above his head, the other draped over his flat waistline. His hair was a riotous mass of jet and sable-tipped curls, the edges tinted gold by the first waxing rays of morning sun. Bare-chested, the sheets were bunched around his waist, just the tops of his black briefs visible beneath the checkered material. His long lashes curled against his cheeks, inky as onyx thread. Sleeping, he looked peaceful, his face smoothed of tension lines and worry. There’d been no question of his rabid concern last night, and while Hutch felt guilty for that anxiety, he vowed to make sure he wasn’t the cause of his friend’s distress again.

He’d suffered through something unspeakable - - become a junkie and killed a fellow officer - - but he’d survived both ordeals. With Starsky’s patience and help, he vowed to put the trauma behind him.

Renewed by the thought, Hutch shoved from the bed. He showered and dressed and was in the middle of making breakfast when Starsky wandered bleary-eyed from the bedroom, wearing only an open robe and his briefs.

Yawing broadly, the dark-haired man slumped to a seat at the kitchen table. Rumpled and untamed, his thick curls had clearly yet to see a comb. He made a half-hearted attempt to finger-brush them into place. “Up a little early, ain’t ya, Blondie?”

Hutch smiled over his shoulder. “I slept well,” he said warmly. He had the distinct feeling now that he’d admitted to the turmoil he’d been experiencing, his dreams would no longer be so severe. Scraping scrambled eggs onto a plate already filled with three pieces of crisp bacon and two slices of butter-slathered toast, Hutch slid the aromatic combination under his partner’s nose. “I thought you might be hungry,” he commented with a grin.

It felt good to smile . . . good to find satisfaction in something as simple as watching Starsky pick up a fork and hungrily devour his eggs. After last night, even the common task of making breakfast for his friend gave Hutch a sense of pleasure. More surprising, he was hungry too. Lately, when he ate, it was through sheer force of habit, most of his food left untouched. It felt good to actually crave something for a change.

“Hey, real eggs!” Starsky exclaimed, surprised. “I don’t taste anything funky like wheat kelp or sea germ.”

“Nope - - plain eggs, just the way you like them,” Hutch didn’t bother to correct his friend’s mixed organics, guessing Starsky did it intentionally. Grinning, he tugged on a stray curl, surprised by the streak of crackling warmth that shot through him. I should thank you for what you did last night, but that would just bring all that pain back again, and I’m not sure I can stomach that.

Fixing a plate for himself, he sat across from Starsky. Hutch knew he didn’t have to say thank-you. Their utter support of each other had always been freely given, gratitude and devotion understood. Still, the extreme fondness he felt for his partner, made him wish he could address it.

“Starsk . . . about last night . . .”

“Uh-huh.” Starsky waved his fork in mid air. “You snore. And you hogged up most of the bed. That’s all I’m gonna say about it.” Lifting his eyes from his plate, he sent Hutch a crooked grin. “ ‘Course, now I can brag I had a leggy blond in my bed.”

Relieved by the humor, Hutch relaxed. “Like you never did before, Lothario. I suppose you want me to believe in the Easter Bunny too?”

“Hey, I’m the perfect gentleman!” Starsky chuckled, defending himself. “You should know. Still got your virtue intact, right? I didn’t molest you last night.”

“No, you just elbowed me in the ribs a couple dozen times.”

“Not my fault.” Starsky popped a piece of bacon into his mouth, chewing contentedly. “I’m not used to having a 6’1” bed partner - - and just for the record, I ain’t as restless when my dates take the time to cuddle.”

Grinning, Hutch shook his head. The natural camaraderie was back in place as though it had never been disrupted. Realizing it had been a long time since they’d bantered back and forth so effortlessly, he felt momentarily saddened for the turmoil of the last month and the strain it had put on their friendship. It’s behind me now. I’m not gonna dredge it up again.

They talked easily for a few minutes before Hutch veered into new territory. “So I thought maybe I’m ready to check out the Sol-Pierce Foundation,” he ventured cautiously. It was something he’d been considering ever since Starsky had told him about Dobey’s discussion with Burke. It was true he wanted to put the incident with Corman behind him, but he also felt a need for closure. The Sol-Pierce Foundation would bring that one step closer to reality.

“Huh?” Surprised, Starsky halted with his fork raised. “You sure you wanna go nosin’ around Darryl Corman, Hutch? I thought you wanted to let it go.”

The blond detective shrugged, idly prodding the fluffy mound of eggs on his plate. “He nosed around me. Turnabout is fair play. Besides, I just want to see what the Foundation is about. . . that’s all, Starsk. I don’t want to actually confront him.”

“Then how ‘bout giving it some breathin’ space?” Starsky suggested. He shot Hutch a glance from under his lashes, testing for reaction. “We’ve got enough to keep us occupied right now, and, um . . . you had a rough night, buddy. Let’s just get through Pellar’s party tomorrow and if you still feel like checkin’ out Sol-Pierce, we can do it afterward. How’s that sound?”

Starsky glance was a little too earnest, making Hutch realize his friend was worried over the suggestion. Starsky obviously wanted him to move past what had happened with Forest and Corman, but also wanted him to do it one step at a time, not overwhelming himself by confronting the grim realities simultaneously. Hutch was tempted to argue the point, but decided a day or two wouldn’t hurt. He owed his friend the leniency after everything Starsky had been to him over the last month, especially his compassion of the previous night.

“Okay,” he agreed with a soft smile. “We’ll wait until after Pellar’s bash.”

The thought seemed to please Starsky who grinned broadly and immediately returned to devouring his breakfast. The day passed normally without further leads on the case and when night rolled around, Hutch told his friend he wanted to try staying alone. He was anxious at first, fearing what would happen when he closed his eyes. Starsky even checked in with him by phone somewhere around 11:00, insisting he call if he had problems. Warmed by his partner’s solicitude, Hutch was able to fall asleep without fear or dreams.

Hours later, he woke to the sensation of sunlight splayed over his bare chest, the sheets tucked and wrapped around his long legs. There was no need to be up since he had the day off, a thought that left him yawning indulgently. Rolling onto his stomach, he shoved his arms beneath his pillow and treated himself to another hour of sleep. When he woke, he felt rested enough to undertake his regular morning run, something he’d been neglecting a lot lately. The exercise left him tired but invigorated, a state-of-mind that stayed with him throughout the day.

When evening rolled around, he dressed in his rented tuxedo, taking a moment to study his reflection in the bedroom mirror. His face was still a bit on the thin side, but the shadows were no longer so prominent below his eyes. The tuxedo fit exceptionally well for something he’d found on the rack, the jacket only slightly loose through the waist. He compensated by leaving it open, the underlying jet-black vest a tighter fit. His sun-streaked hair gleamed with platinum and gold, a blinding contrast against the ebony hue of the tux. Adjusting his black satin bow-tie, he stepped backward and mentally pronounced himself as presentable as he was going to get. Hopefully he and Starsky could blend into the woodwork at Pellar’s party, and he wouldn’t have to test his appearance on Vivian Clarke.

Striding from the bedroom, Hutch grabbed his car keys and headed outside.

+++++

Clarence was at the back door at nine o’clock as promised, ushering them through the kitchen and into the banquet room of the bistro. The party was already in full swing, an hour along, guests mingling among linen-draped tables set with crystal and silver. Arthur Pellar might have been egotistical and unethical, but even Starsky grudgingly admitted his restaurant was first-class. Comprised of adjoining dining rooms, a bar area and a separate banquet room reserved for private parties, the bistro reflected an upscale infusion of color. Bold splashes of terra cotta, Tuscany gold and forest green artfully blended with contrasting shades of champagne and black. Lead crystal chandeliers and decorative wall lanterns provided soft illumination, accenting banquet tables and drink stations, laden with gourmet food and assorted refreshments.

A costumed wait-staff butlered trays of piping hot hors d’oeuvres along with elegant flutes of Merlot and chilled Chardonnay. Most of the women servers were dressed as French maids, wearing short, ruffled black skirts, starched white aprons, fishnet stockings and four-inch heels. By contrast the men sported a variety of costumes - - pirates, ghouls, vampires, monks, mummies - - anything imaginable with the noted exception of circus clowns. Pumpkins, cornstalks, and hay bales added splashes of vibrant color to recessed corners, while filmy spider-webs draped doorways and tables alike. A fog machine and several flashpots turned the bar area into a gothic moor, replete with strobing lights and a painted full moon backdrop. Constant music was pumped from hidden speakers, playing everything from The Monster Mash to disco, easy listening, and rock. By the looks of the lavish set-up, no expense had been spared. The bistro was closed to the public for the evening, the invitation-only guest list including everyone from business entrepreneurs to elected officials, entertainment moguls, and assorted A-listers.

Starsky fidgeted, ill at ease in his tailored tux despite all the female attention he was attracting. The ink of the fitted suit against his near-black hair made a striking impression. He would have preferred jeans and his worn leather jacket, never truly comfortable in formal attire. Stuffy and pretentious affairs routinely left him battling a headache the moment he was two feet in the door, no matter how smolderingly distinguished the tux made him look.

By contrast, Hutch was completely at ease. Snagging two flutes of chardonnay from a passing server, he handed one to Starsky. “Try not to look so uncomfortable, Starsk,” he commented quietly, taking a casual sip from the glass. “It’s like broadcasting we don’t belong here.”

“You mean I don’t belong,” Starsky grumbled peevishly. Put Hutch in a social situation, especially a high-end one, and he positively oozed charisma and grace. It sometimes amazed Starsky to see that side of his partner in action - - the side that had grown up attending lavish functions just like this one on a near-weekly basis. Trying to relax a little, he passed the still-full chardonnay back to another circling server and claimed a glass of Merlot instead. “If I’m gonna last here all evening, I’m gonna need something stronger than wine,” he complained.

Hutch nodded across the room. “The bar’s over there. How ‘bout we split up? Pellar’s less likely to spot us that way and we can cover more ground. Besides - - ” He grinned indulgently. “I have a feeling those two brunettes by the carving station wouldn’t mind getting a little friendlier. They’ve been eyeing you up for the last five minutes. Ten to one, you’ll get plenty of information out of them.” The grin turned into a teasing smirk. “Maybe even more if you play your cards right.”

“You’re a pain in the rear, you know that, Hutchinson?” Starsky had been acutely aware of the attention, both women decked out in slinky gowns, coyly chatting while shooting occasional glances his way. The intent was a little hard to misread. “Might be a problem though, Blintz. I get the feelin’ they think we’re a set.”

Hutch flashed a smile, all dazzling white teeth and effortless charm. “You’ll just have to handle them both, Gordo. I think I spotted Vivian Clarke headed for the bar.”

Starsky craned his neck, trying to see through the throng of milling servers and pampered guests, unable to get very far. He was about to point that out to Hutch when he realized his friend had already wandered away. Frowning, Starsky watched the crown of gleaming gold hair he knew so well disappear into the crowd. A second later Pellar entered the room, a statuesque beauty decoratively draped on his arm. Exotic and raven-haired, the sleekly slender woman was a good foot taller than the tiny restaurateur.

Typical, Starsky thought grudgingly, ducking clear. He used the opportunity to introduce himself to the brunettes and learn what he could about Pellar’s after-hour parties and guest list.

At the very least, it promised to be an interesting night.

+++++

Starsky gleaned what he could from the two brunettes then kept circulating, always one step ahead of Pellar. By reputation, the restaurateur preferred prostitution to drugs and was rumored to have plenty of high-priced “entertainment” at his private parties. Most of his goons were in evidence, standing imposingly in the corners, watching the proceedings with flint-eyed vigilance. Starsky spied Eddie Fish and Lucas Santoro blocking the entrance to an upper level of the restaurant and guessed if anything illegal was going down, it was happening there. Occasionally someone would approach and be granted admission, normally a single man, but every so often couples went up together.

Starsky continued to mingle, not ready to abandon chatting up the guests. More than once, he had to turn down an offer to linger, some of the women embarrassingly brazen in their come-ons. Clearly, Peggy Ann Fleetwood never would have fit in, not even as one of Pellar’s “girls.” She would have been an insignificant distraction, completely beneath notice. Unless maybe Fish was usin’ her himself. It was an angle he hadn’t considered before. Fish had been second string in Pellar’s organization, only getting the nod to move up now that Big Block was out of the way. That alone could be motive enough to kill a rival, but it still didn’t explain Peggy Ann’s involvement.

The more Starsky mingled, the more he grew certain Pellar wasn’t peddling drugs. There was simply no indication of it, although he picked up sporadic whispers hinting at prostitution. What he found mostly in evidence was a revolting obsession for youth and beauty, the majority of guests ridiculously vain. The idea of perpetual youth went hand-in hand with the blatantly self-absorbed crowd. Clearly, a good deal of them, especially the women, had invested in plastic surgery. Starsky found the narcissistic pampering too shallow for his taste but smiled fawningly whenever someone sought approval over their looks. He tossed the name Arrowson around, testing for reaction, but continually came up empty.

Somewhere near midnight, he spied Hutch across the room, his partner having found Vivian Clarke. True to her reputation, she seemed enraptured with the blond cop, her arm hooked possessively through his as they talked intimately over glasses of chardonnay. It was a strange sight - - the woman, as sophisticated and elegant as she appeared, clearly so much older than Hutch and plainly intent on seducing him.

Starsky grinned into his glass, gulping down a swig of imported beer. He’d given up on the wine after the first Merlot, needing something familiar to ground him, even if it came in a lead crystal flute.

“I see your partner has snared Vivian Clarke’s interest,” a voice commented mildly beside him.

Intrigued, he turned his head and found himself face to face with Darryl Corman - - the last person he would have expected to encounter at one of Pellar’s parties. “Uh . . .” The shock was still staggering, the man’s resemblance to his dead twin eerie and uncanny. It took him a moment to recover, a flicker of irritation immediately following. Corman presented a critical problem. Not only could he tip Pellar off to their presence, but if he confronted Hutch, the results were likely to be disastrous. Starsky had just helped his friend through a grueling emotional hurdle and had no intention of letting him experience a setback. “What d’ya want?” he asked tersely.

Corman shrugged, idly turning a highball glass in his hand. Decked out in an immaculately fitted tux, he blended effortlessly with the A-listers in attendance. “Nothing really. I’m just surprised to see you here.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“I’m a research geneticist, Detective Starsky. My conversation might lean to the dry side, but I do tend to move in elite social circles. I’m just not accustomed to seeing common street cops at society bashes . . . especially given the predisposition of our host.” He raised a brow. “I wonder if Arthur knows you’re here.”

“Who, Clownface?” Starsky fluffed off the veiled threat. “We’re old buddies. Besides . . . you really don’t wanna make a scene do you, Corman?” The question was two-fold, warning to leave Pellar out of it while signaling to stay away from Hutch.

Reading the unspoken message, Corman smiled thinly. “My, but you are awfully protective of him, aren’t you?” His eyes skimmed across the room, settling on the blond detective.

Starsky followed his gaze, noting his partner now stood with his arm looped around Vivian’s slender waist. Even as he watched, Hutch leaned close, murmuring something in the woman’s ear. Thoroughly enchanted, she smiled up at him, pausing to rest a hand against his cheek.

“He fits right in, doesn’t he?” Corman commented mildly. “Not surprising, given his family background.”

Starsky stiffened, alarmed by the thought of the meddlesome geneticist poking into Hutch’s personal history. “You ain’t got no right - -”

“It’s a free country,” Corman cut him off bluntly. “And my personal prerogative, if I’m curious about the man who killed my brother. As it stands, I’d say Vivian Clarke is interested too.” Raising his glass, he motioned across the room, sending ice bobbling and clinking against the crystal. “She’s a very attractive woman . . . well preserved from a medical point of view, slender and graceful. Phil would have called her a ‘classy broad.’” Chuckling, he parted with a condescending snort. “But then your partner is extremely handsome, even a little pretty. And he’s young. My guess is he’ll be going home with her tonight.”

Starsky ground his teeth together. “Shut up. And stay away from Hutch.”

“Now, now.” Corman merely laughed. “If I were him, I’d want something to ease my conscience too.” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a business card and pen. He scribbled something on the back, then shoved it into Starsky’s hand. “Just in case a night of meaningless sex doesn’t do the trick for him, give him this.”

Despite his better judgment, Starsky flipped the card over. “555-WIFE” he read aloud. Clearly Corman’s sick idea of a joke. “What the hell is this?”

“Carolyn’s phone number - - or at least it should be.” Corman’s voice was flat, all pretense of geniality gone. “Since your partner killed her husband, I thought he’d want a shot in her bed too. After all - -” His lips thinned in a cruelly mocking smile. “He’s clearly intent on whoring his way into Vivian Clarke’s good graces.”

Starsky’s hand snapped down over the card, crushing it in his fist. “Get out,” he spat. “Get away from me before I take your friggin’ head off. You say another word about Hutch and I’ll throw you across the room, you sonuvabitch, party or no party.”

Corman remained unruffled. “Yes, Sergeant, I believe you would.”

Coolly, he walked away, leaving Starsky to fume silently. The dark-haired detective bit down on his lip, inwardly cursing a blue streak. He didn’t want to make a scene, but he also wanted to warn Hutch about Corman. His eyes fell to the mangled card in his hand. Still furious, he started to tear it up, when he caught a glimpse of the front. Corman’s name and title were displayed in block script along with looping letters proclaiming “The Sol-Pierce Foundation.” A watermark of the company’s logo created a subtle backdrop on the card.

Starsky stared uncomprehendingly, blankness almost immediately replaced by shock. The ink rendering of a blazing sun divided by a horizontally placed arrow, imprinted itself on his mind.

Arrow. Sun.

“Oh, shit.” Blockard hadn’t been trying to tell them a name. He’d been saying ‘Sun-Arrow’ all along. S-U-N, not S-O-N. He couldn’t read, but he’d obviously seen the logo somewhere. It was how he translated ‘Sol-Pierce.’ Suddenly the correlation between Peggy Ann and Blockard spun back to Corman, or at the very least to his research facility.

Alarmed, Starsky glanced across the room.

Arthur Pellar and two of his overly muscled goons made a direct beeline for Hutch.

+++++

From the corner of his eye, Hutch saw Pellar approaching, the smaller man looking anything but pleased. Coolly, he tightened his grip around Vivian’s waist and leaned closer. “It’s crowded in here,” he murmured in her ear. “Let’s step outside on the deck where we can have more privacy.”

He felt a tiny thrill race through her and knew the suggestion played into the plans she had for him. She really was an attractive woman, stylish and poised, extremely sensual. It was easy to see how her grace and beauty could effortlessly ensnare a younger man. He’d been playing it subtle for the last few hours, appealing to her vanity with smooth compliments, dancing with her when the music turned slow and intimate. She fit into his arms a little too perfectly, the top of her head resting just below his chin. She hadn’t been shy about touching him - - locking her arms possessively around his neck while they’d danced, long fingernails slipping into the neatly trimmed fringe of his hair. Once, as they’d left the dance floor, she’d allowed her hand to drop, lightly skimming the back of his jacket, dipping further to caress his backside.

He’d been shocked at first, growing tense at her boldness until he realized she was used to men permitting such familiarity. What did he really expect, posing as someone who hoped to become her personal plaything? Recovering quickly, he’d caught her hand and brought it to his lips, whispering intimacy was far sweeter when the wait was prolonged. It had pacified her for the moment, her smile unmistakably sensual.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t really learned anything from her other than the fact she often came to Pellar’s parties for exposure to his young, attractive guests. He made some vague inquiries about drugs, but it was clear her only intent and purpose was an addictive fondness for the spotlight and a passion to seduce. “I like beautiful men,” she’d said huskily, lightly trailing a pointed red fingernail down his jaw. Her full lips turned in a carefully staged pout. “But I’m annoyed I haven’t seen you at one of Arthur’s parties before. Why not?”

Which was precisely when he’d spotted Pellar. “That’s a bit complicated,” he’d countered and made the suggestion about stepping onto the deck. Unfortunately, he didn’t move quickly enough, his “date” intent on slipping her arm around his waist.

“Hutchinson!” Pellar’s squeaky voice barked sharply behind him.

Sighing, he drew up short, his arm still looped around Vivian’s shoulders. He didn’t bother turning, Pellar effectively crowding his space in a matter of seconds. Fully backed by two of his beefy goons, the diminutive man bristled with rage. Dressed in a pure white tuxedo, he might have been mistaken for a nursery rhyme cherub, but for the conspicuous stain of anger mottling his face. His shocking orange hair was streaked with glaring peach highlights, caught between the subdued lighting and his own blistering fury.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped. The words were no sooner past his lips, than he did a double take. The heat instantly drained out of him when he realized just who it was that had her arm twined around Hutch. With a stupefied splutter, he hurriedly tried to fluff off the hostility.

“Vivian! Dearest, Viv, I’m so sorry - - I didn’t see you there.” Smiling ingratiatingly, Pellar caught her free hand in both of his. “I assure you this unpleasantness will only take a moment.”

“And what exactly would that unpleasantness be?” Stiffly, Vivian removed her hand. A speculative eyebrow crept into the sleek bob of her chestnut hair. “Have you met my escort, Arthur? This is Ken Hutchinson.”

“Uh . . .” Distinctly uncomfortable, Pellar licked his lips. His eyes flashed to Hutch before darting back to Vivian. “We’ve uh . . . bumped shoulders before.” Not to be bested, he straightened his small frame and cleared his throat. Almost immediately, his mouth thinned in a conniving line. “Isn’t that right, Detective?”

“Detective?” Vivian sounded startled.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Blinking owlishly, Pellar smiled, cherubic innocence momentarily replacing belligerence. “Hutchinson is a sergeant with the Bay City PD.” He leaned in close, stretching on tiptoes to stage-whisper in Vivian’s ear. “Not much of a salary there, I’m afraid. My doorman must have let him in by mistake.”

“Is that so?” A glacial smirk turned Vivian’s elegant beauty momentarily arctic. Pointedly, she tightened her grip around Hutch’s waist. “You seem to be missing the point, Arthur. A man doesn’t need to make a substantial salary when he’s 6’1”, blond and good-looking.” She made a dismissive shooing motion with her hand. “Do run along now and leave us to get better acquainted. And take your lapdogs with you.”

Pellar flushed. From the roots of his orange hair to the tips of his freckled hands, his milk-pale skin turned bright pink. Muttering something appropriately subservient, he gave a terse jerk of his head, leashing his heavily muscled thugs in his wake.

Hutch watched the three fade into the crowd. “You really have a way with people, Vivian,” he commented neutrally.

Pulling back slightly, she looked up at him. “You didn’t tell me you were a police officer, Ken. I wonder if there was a reason for that omission.”

He debated parting with the truth. It was getting far too crowded in the room now, people bumping shoulder-to-shoulder as they made their way between tables and headed for the dance floor. The overhead speakers loudly boomed “Brother Louie” to the delight of more than a few hard-partying guests. Hutch thought longingly of the cooler air on the deck, but kept his attention on the fashionable woman at his side. “I guess telling you I’m here on a case wouldn’t earn me points?”

Considering, Vivian tapped a slender finger against her lips. She eyed him openly. “That depends. Was I part of your plan tonight?”

Abruptly awkward, he looked away. Starsky lingered on the fringe of the crowd, obviously having witnessed the exchange with Pellar. Trying to catch Hutch’s gaze, he gave a jerk of his thumb toward the bar, an indication he needed to talk. Hutch gave a brief shake of his head before refocusing on the woman attached to his hip. “You’ve been pleasant company, Vivian, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping you’d keep Pellar off my back.”

“I see.” Her hand slid over the crook of his arm, the touch clearly possessive. “And I’d be lying if I said I enjoy cops in my social circle. Still . . . “ Her smile grew calculating. “You are sinfully attractive, Ken.”

Flushing, he lowered his eyes.

She grinned seductively, enjoying his embarrassment. “Does this mean the invitation to step onto the deck is no longer open? I don’t expect you’ll go to bed with me, but the least you could do is keep me entertained for awhile.”

He owed her some company at least. “Give me a minute,” he responded, bending to lightly seal the promise with a kiss. “I have to see someone first.”

“As long as it isn’t another woman.” Not to be outdone, she slipped her hand beneath his jacket, openly molding the curve of his buttocks.

When he jerked back, she laughed lightly. “Don’t look so shocked - - I earned that.” Disentangling herself, she took a step toward the deck then paused to glance over her shoulder. “Don’t be long, Ken. I’m not used to waiting.”

It wasn’t often a woman left him unbalanced. Accustomed to being the one who called the shots, he found himself strangely unsettled, bested by a member of the opposite sex. Rooted to the spot, he watched her disappear onto the deck, unsure what he was going to do when he eventually followed her outdoors. She hadn’t proved a worthwhile source as far as his case was concerned, but she’d come through and sent Pellar packing. Humbly too. That in itself was almost worth the price of being publicly fondled.

“Got herself a real handful, huh?” Starsky observed with an amused grin, stepping to his side.

Hutch’s reserve vanished in a heartbeat. “Stuff it, Starsky.”

The heat passed immediately. It was hard being seriously miffed at a man who didn’t mind you sobbing on his chest. Sighing, Hutch dragged a hand through his hair. When he thought about it, Vivian’s overly frank candor was amusing. If their roles had been reversed and Starsky had been the one playing boy-toy, he would have had a field day. “I haven’t gotten anything from her but she knows I’m a cop.” He shot an appraising sideways glance at his friend. “Hopefully you’ve had better luck scouting the room.”

“You could say that.” Slick humor vanishing, Starsky stepped closer and lowered his voice. “In case you ain’t figured it out, this whole self-indulgent lot is stuck on looks and eternal youth. I feel like I’m in a damn love-me-love-myself convention.”

Eyeing his partner in his smartly tailored tux, Hutch parted with a grin. If that was the case, Starsky had the room down cold. He didn’t often get dressed up, but when he did, there were few women who could resist him. The man simply oozed raw magnetism, a quality more powerful than all the preening urbanites in the room. Hutch wasn’t about to point that out, however. Part of their uniquely competitive friendship was holding the other’s ego in check. “Struck out with the brunettes, huh?

Starsky frowned. “Worse than that. Darryl Corman is here, Hutch.”

“Corman?” Hutch frowned, certain he’d heard wrong. The next thing he knew Starsky was shoving a business card into his hand, telling him to look at the logo. Dazed, he glanced from the rendering of a blazing sun and arrow to his friend. “Starsk . . . does this mean what I think it does?”

Starsky moved to let a server by. The girl flashed a smile, teetering past in her four-inch heels and skimpy black skirt. “Blockard was illiterate, Hutch. He wasn’t telling us a name. He was tryin’ to identify a place.”

“The Sol-Pierce Foundation.” The pieces wouldn’t fit in his head - - Peggy Ann Fleetwood, Leo Blockard, Darryl Corman - - if Corman was even involved. The coincidence seemed a little too convenient, staggeringly confounding. There was no longer any question they needed to check out the research facility, likely Corman himself. Of all the people employed at Sol-Pierce, the geneticist was the one on Pellar’s guest list, thus the one with a potential connection to Peggy Ann Fleetwood and Blockard.

Hutch looked steadily at his friend. “I say we skip Pellar’s off-limits second floor and see what we can shake loose from Corman later.”

Starsky nodded. “I was thinkin’ the same thing. You wanna call it a night, before you get in too deep with Vivian Clarke?”

Hutch grinned. Starsky might have teased him about the older woman’s physical advances, but when it came right down to it, he didn’t want Hutch doing anything to compromise himself. Still, he owed Vivian something for her part in the evening’s shenanigans. “Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll meet you at your car.”

Hutch had left his LTD at his partner’s apartment, the two of them arriving together in the Torino. There was simply no way his dented Ford would have passed muster in the parking lot of Pellar’s upscale bistro. Even the Torino, highly polished and meticulously maintained, was in question. The majority of guests had arrived in luxury cars or by limo.

“Okay,” Starsky nodded. “But no rain checks if she invites you to her bedroom.”

Deciding it was best to ignore his friend’s ribbing, Hutch threaded through the crowd and stepped outside onto the deck. Large and multi-tiered, the wooden platform overlooked a rock garden to the rear, aesthetically enhanced by a manmade pond. An upper level deck included small café tables, ideal for intimate conversation, while the main tier was open, bordered on the perimeter every ten feet by graceful tulip-shaped pole lanterns. The lighting was soft and subdued, designed for mood and romantic encounters.

A number of people talked in small groups, others seated together on the upper level. Piped music turned the black night into a pulse beat of magic and energy as Brother Louie gave way to Precious and Few. Hutch spied Vivian in the corner, her back to him as she looked out over the rock garden. The rose-tinted glow of a nearby lantern haloed her slender frame and accentuated the rich sheen of her cranberry gown. Elegant and slinky, it left her back bare, her skin toned and bronzed by the best spas and tanning salons the city had to offer. Hearing him approach, she looked over her shoulder, her lips curling upward in amusement.

“So . . . Sergeant.” Turning to face him, she braced her slim hips against the railing and smiled playfully. “Would you like to ‘cuff me?” A wickedly kittenish gleam brightened her eyes. “I promise I won’t resist.”

Flustered by her boldness, Hutch shook his head. “Vivian - -”

“Don’t look so shocked, Ken. I have the feeling if I got you in bed, you wouldn’t be half as innocent as you act.” Leaning forward, she fingered his lapel. “Do you enjoy being a detective?”

The abrupt change of topic caught him off guard. He was still adjusting to her candor and the fact she thought nothing of spelling out her desires, however off color and socially unacceptable they might be. Clearly money and fame had its benefits. Right now he appeared to be one of them.

She stood looking up at him - - all starlight eyes and flawless honeyed skin, her mouth a luscious ruby bow. Shocked to realize he was staring, more than a little entranced, Hutch shook away the distraction. “Why?”

“There are other ways to make a living you know.” Her finger traced higher, fondled the edge of his bow tie. “Far more pleasurable too. I’m leaving for the Bahamas in a few days. You could come with me - - all expenses paid.”

“Are you propositioning me, Vivian?” He chuckled low in his throat, suddenly back on firm ground. When it came right down to it, the rich and privileged were no different than the hard-luck players who frequented back alleys and filth-littered streets. However you disguised it, prostitution was still prostitution. Maybe he’d dabbled a little close to the edge for the sake of Pellar’s party, but he had no intention of selling himself for a good-time high. “We both know I’d just be the flavor of the moment until you grew tired of me and moved onto someone new. That’s hardly a retirement plan.”

Her smile bloomed, sultry and inviting. “And not likely something you’d have to worry about. I have a feeling you’d keep me entertained indefinitely. You are wonderfully refreshing, Ken. Most of my past . . . companions . . .” A momentary flicker of distaste touched her eyes. “ . . . followed me around like trained poodles. I’m not stupid. I know exactly why they chose to be with me rather than some nubile blonde. But - -” Tilting her head, she studied him openly. “I’ve never had to do the chasing before and I find that intriguing. Astoundingly sexy, actually. I can offer you a lot more than a rented tuxedo and a half-rate party hosted by an unethical egomaniac.” Sliding both hands onto his shoulders, she smiled up at him. “I’d love to see what you look like in casual clothes. Or better yet - - no clothes at all.”

“Okay. That’s it.” Out of his league, Hutch caught her hands and drew them down. “I’m not very good at these games so maybe we should just call it a night.”

“You don’t find me attractive,” she challenged.

Flustered, Hutch balked. “It’s not that - -”

“You think I’m too old?”

“No. It’s just - -” He shook his head, bewildered he couldn’t explain himself better. It wasn’t like he’d never gone to bed with someone on a whim, but she was twenty years older and that was a little freaky. More disconcerting, she continued to play the role of seducer, keeping him off balance like an awkward teenager on his first date. She knew exactly what to say, what buttons to push. He found himself juggling embarrassment and arousal at the same time. As much as he wanted to deny it, there was something shockingly stimulating about having a woman want him so badly and being so blatantly explicit about it.

With effort, he struggled to regain his composure. “Vivian, I came here as a follow-up on a case - - ”

She looked momentarily bored. “Nothing goes on at these parties, Ken, except a lot of fawning and preening. We’re all hopelessly self-absorbed. I thought you would have figured that out by now.”

Her observation made him think of Starsky’s comment regarding a “love-me-love-myself” convention. Apparently his partner wasn’t too far from the truth. It seemed an odd group of people to attract Darryl Corman, who didn’t fit the image of pampered or vain. Taking her arm, Hutch steered her to a darkened corner of the deck, away from the entrance to the bistro. The breeze was light, pleasantly cool, mingling with the bright notes of Jigsaw’s Skyhigh, piped through exterior speakers. A few potted fig trees and the drape of jet shadow from the roof overhang made the corner all but invisible to any observer.

Vivian smiled up at him. “I hope the seclusion means you’re planning on kissing me.”

He ignored the come-on. “I wanted to ask you about Darryl Corman.”

“You mean the gene doctor?” She pouted, seemingly annoyed he’d rather discuss Corman. Shivering slightly in her sleeveless open-backed gown, she dusted her hands over her arms. “He’s the only one who doesn’t really fit in, but he comes to most of Arthur’s parties. I think he likes to feed off the rest of us. He’s very insulting.”

“Why do you say that?” Noticing she was cold, Hutch shrugged out of his jacket and looped it around her shoulders. He kept his arm in place while she gathered it tight. Taking advantage of his closeness, she leaned into him, huddling beneath his arm.

“The first time I met him, he asked me what I’d be willing to pay if I could stay young forever.” Vivian parted with a soft snort. “I assumed he was making reference to my liking for younger men, but I later learned he’d asked a number of wealthy socialites the same question.” She shook her head as if the memory annoyed her. “I was rather blunt in telling him what he could do with his asinine inquiry and he hasn’t bothered me since. The man is a vulture. He has absolutely no class. No concept of etiquette.”

“So, let me get this straight - -” Amused by her ire, Hutch grinned down on her. “Asking sensitive questions is off limits, but publicly groping me on the dance floor is perfectly acceptable?”

Vivian laughed. “You owed me that, Detective - - and a lot more.” Slipping one hand behind his neck, she tilted her face up to his. “At least a goodnight kiss.”

He supposed he did owe her that - - a proper one. A sensual woman, she would stand for nothing less. He dipped his head, touching his lips to hers, enjoying the heat of her response. Comfortable to be back in control, he wrapped his arms around her waist. The kiss was surprisingly enjoyable, perhaps because he really did find her attractive, her conversation and her boldness stimulating. She embodied beauty, sophistication and sultry elegance, all traits he hadn’t expected. It was easy to forget her age and overlook her vaulted position in society. She felt tiny and slender in his arms, her body an enticing combination of muscle and curves. There was no question she was dangerous, but in a purely sexual way.

She smiled against his lips. “You kiss well.”

“It’s not all I do well,” he whispered. One large palm rounded the curve of her bottom, squeezing slightly. "Turn about is fair play,” he mumbled and kissed her again. He felt her shiver and instinctively knew it wasn’t from the cold. He was getting to her just as she was getting to him. It was time to end the games before their attempts to upstage each other got out of hand.

In a distracted corner of his mind, Hutch thought of Starsky waiting in the parking lot. Drawing back, he cupped Vivian’s face between his palms, touching his forehead to hers. “You win. If I were twenty years older . . .”

“I don’t win unless you leave with me tonight.” She looked at him breathlessly, her lips puffy. “The Bahamas invitation is still open.”

“Sorry.” Smiling softly, he kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m sure if you prowl around a bit, you’ll find some other thirty-year-old blond to take my place.”

She kept her arms locked around his neck. “Probably - - some wannabe model or dancer or pretty-boy suck-up. They’re all the same - - revoltingly shallow and self-serving.” Pausing, she traced a garnet-red fingernail over his lips. “I’ve never made it with a cop before, Ken, and I’m guessing you’ve never made it with a socialite. If you don’t want to do the Bahamas, how about just one night? My driver could have us back at my penthouse in half an hour.”

“You don’t give up, do you?” Hutch kissed her again, lightly this time. Drawing back, he smiled down on her. “It’s been interesting, Vivian. Pleasurable too - -” His smile inched a little higher, electric warmth resonating in his sky-colored eyes. “ - - despite being publicly fondled.”

“I barely got started,” she countered. Coyly, she tugged on his bow tie, unraveling the pristine black satin, the ends falling limply against his vest. “We could always do another round.” As she spoke, she worked open the top button of his shirt, her fingers immediately inching lower to embrace the second.

Hutch caught her hand. “Some other time, Vivian. My partner’s waiting for me.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” Sending him a sultry sideways glance through her lashes, she passed him his jacket. “Remember - - I know where to find you now, Detective Hutchinson. When you least expect it, I may just come looking.”

“Maybe next time I’ll be waiting.” Hutch wasn’t sure why he continued to play the game. Flirting was one thing, but she clearly wanted something more. Looping his jacket over his arm, he touched her cheek briefly before turning and heading back inside.

The crowd seemed thicker still . . . Bay City’s prestigious shuffling among a glittery mix of hopefuls, suck-ups and wannabes. The dance floor was packed, the room all but reverberating to the loud strains of Rock Me Gently. It was one of Hutch’s favorite dance songs - - a catchy rhythm that allowed pelvic-to-pelvic closeness and grinding, the beat intimate and sensual. He was thankful that whoever spun songs behind the scene had saved it for later. He wasn’t sure how he would have handled it with Vivian had she wanted to dance.

Feeling the press of the crowd, Hutch thumbed open another button on his shirt. He imagined Starsky pacing by the Torino, annoyed that he was waiting outside while Hutch continued to mingle among the haughty and self-centered. He was halfway to the front door when he spied Darryl Corman standing by a side exit, smugly staring in his direction, arms folded laxly over his chest.

Cold shock coursed through Hutch exactly as it had the first time he’d glimpsed the man. Looking at Darryl was equivalent to seeing Phil’s ghost. It left him unbalanced, momentarily reeling in the crowded confines of the room. Someone bumped his shoulder, jostling him forward. He blanked momentarily, forgetting Starsky, forgetting where he was headed as his mind tried to wrap itself around the geneticist’s presence. What had Vivian said - - “The man is a vulture. He has absolutely no class. No concept of etiquette.”

But it went deeper than that. Far deeper. Across the room, Corman made eye contact with him, his lips thinning in a complacent smile. The sight sent an unexpected bolt of rage rocketing through Hutch. Something inside him snapped. He was tired of being a victim, tired of allowing himself to be traumatized by past events. Yes, he had killed a fellow officer, but Starsky was right - - Corman had been trying to kill him. If he hadn’t pulled the trigger, he’d be dead now. He hadn’t asked for that circumstance anymore than he’d asked to be pumped full of heroin by Ben Forest and his goons.

Scowling, he detoured from the exit and headed for Corman.

“I heard you were here,” he said bluntly as he approached. Someone bumped into him from the rear, and he sidestepped into the mouth of a hallway to maneuver clear of the traffic area. His jacket was still folded over his arm, his tie undone, the ends dangling loose against his chest.

Corman directed a condescending sneer at his open shirt. “I see Arthur’s letting any riff-raff in these days.”

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving. I just wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t running from you.” He hesitated, unsure if an explanation was even worth the effort. His defensiveness rolled back a step. “Look - - you might not believe me, but I feel horrible about what happened. I didn’t want to kill your brother. He gave me no other choice.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Hutch shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d understand, but even you have to realize Phil crossed the line. He and his partner confiscated a million in cocaine. They killed someone - -”

“You mean Crandell?” Corman’s slightly bored inflection was eerily reminiscent of his dead twin. “A petty pusher and street snitch? Is that who you want me to feel sorry for?”

“You’re missing the point,” Hutch said flatly.

“No - - you’re missing the point, Sergeant Hutchinson, and a rather fatal one at that.”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than Hutch felt the unmistakable prod of a gun barrel against his lower back. He’d been so focused on Corman he hadn’t heard anyone behind him.

“Don’t be a hero, Hutchinson. Step into the hallway,” a semi-familiar voice ordered.

Hutch half-turned, twisting his neck to look over his shoulder. Eddie Fish leered openly, a gleam of delayed satisfaction in his eyes. “My turn,” the muscular thug said wickedly, one large hand clamping down on Hutch’s arm. He gave a tug, prodding with the gun at the same time, steering Hutch into the hall. “You got any sense in that blond head ‘a yours, cop, you’ll come along quiet. Ain’t so tough without your partner, are ya?”

Hutch allowed himself to be herded deeper into the hallway, away from the dining area and crowd. He was aware of Corman trailing beside him, the older man appearing to search the front breast pocket of his tuxedo. Music and voices faded behind them as they turned a corner toward a rear exit.

“What's the matter, Eddie?” Hutch goaded. “Did I piss off Pellar?”

“Pellar isn’t the problem,” Darryl Corman corrected. “You should be more concerned with what you did to infuriate me. My brother might have been a crass, uneducated fool, but he was still my brother. I’m afraid that’s bad news for you, Detective.”

They’d reached the rear exit now, and Fish shoved him through into the parking lot where a dark blue Cadillac was stationed perpendicular to the door. Poorly lit, the back of the building was draped mostly in shadow, two giraffe-necked pole lights providing sparse illumination a good twenty feet away. Fish gave him a harder shove and Hutch pivoted. Knotting his fingers in his jacket, he wheeled to the side, snapping the garment in the air. It made a crack like a whip, catching Fish full across the face. With a grunt, the other man stumbled, cursing even as he clawed at the material. Hutch butted him in the ribs, knocking the gun aside. It flew wide, skittering across the blacktop with a sound like marbles on shale.

“Idiot!” Corman hissed at the thug.

Hutch made a dive for the gun, but something snared his ankle and sent him sprawling instead. Facedown, he lay gasping, the wind knocked out of him, his head ringing with the unexpected force of the fall. Before he could move, Corman wedged a knee into his back, brutally pinning him to the macadam. He tried to twist to the side and dislodge his attacker, but the pressure was skillfully applied, exploding outward from a critical nerve. Paralyzed, he gasped for air.

“This will only take a minute,” the geneticist said.

From the corner of his eye, Hutch caught the sickening gleam of a needle. Pure panic shot through him with a volatile double kick of adrenalin. He twisted hard, grunting with the effort, almost unseating Corman in his blind, reactionary terror.

“Hold him!” the older man snarled.

Hutch heard a hasty shuffling of feet then suddenly Fish was pressing him face down against the asphalt. He ground his teeth together, his heart triple-beating in his chest. “Don’t,” he croaked, but it was a futile protest. Heat and nausea crashed over him simultaneously. Corman rammed the needle into the fleshy part of his arm, and he felt a staggering burst of pain. It was followed almost immediately by involuntary surrender as the fight bled out of him.

“He’s going under,” Corman said. The ruthless pressure on his back receded, then eased completely. “Get him in the car.” A hand tapped his cheek. “You have no idea the trouble you’ve saved me by showing up here tonight, Hutchinson.”

He tried to hold his eyes open, to look through the slit of his lashes, but he could feel the ground shifting, the world upending into the sky. His body went limp even as Fish roughly shouldered him in a fireman’s carry then dumped him unceremoniously in the rear seat of the car. He flopped onto his back, starlight and blackness twisting into a kaleidoscopic nightmare as illumination and shadow strobed together in his head. He heard a car door bang shut, followed quickly by another. The ignition turned over with a purr, and he felt the seat vibrate beneath him. Fish’s face bobbed in the blackness, a squat white oval leering down on him.

“I think he’s almost out, Dr. Corman.”

“Good. In another thirty minutes he won’t know what hit him.”

They were the last words Hutch heard. His eyes rolled into his head, the feeble thread of his consciousness vanquished by Corman’s unknown drug.

+++++

Starsky had never been good at waiting, and tonight was no different. He tossed his tuxedo jacket into the Torino and prowled restlessly near the front fender, hands stuffed into his pockets. A good eighteen minutes had passed since Hutch disappeared onto the deck in search of Vivian Clarke. His partner was certainly taking his own good time in telling the woman goodnight. She’d done her part, but it was time to move on and scope out the Sol-Pierce Foundation while it was still dark enough to nose around the exterior.

Irritated at being forced to wait and growing more annoyed by the second, Starsky skulked away from the car. If he were a smoking man, he’d be whittling away the time with a cigarette. As it was, he meandered around the side of the building where an embankment sloped down to the rear parking lot. Kitchen help and staff, stuffed in the back the thought sourly, noting the cars were hardly of the same caliber as those parked out front.

All except for the Cadillac by the back door.

He caught a glimpse of someone being helped into the backseat, saw a quicksilver flash of blond hair. Probably had too much to drink. In another minute the car pulled smoothly from the lot, brake lights flashing briefly as it veered onto the road. He stared after it, a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Had the incapacitated person been helped into the car or shoved into the seat? From his position, it could have easily been either, that glimmer of blond hair now painfully familiar. He snorted, convinced he was letting his hyperactive imagination get the better of him. Of course it wasn’t Hutch. His partner was probably already out front, pacing by the Torino, irritated because Starsky had taken a detour. He’d almost convinced himself that was the case when he spied something lying rumpled on the ground. Spurred by gut reaction, he sprinted across the lot, the dread in his stomach growing with each hasty step.

His heart sank, plummeting like a rock when he saw the discarded tuxedo jacket. Snatching it from the ground, he felt quickly inside. The business card he’d given Hutch was still there, crinkled and lined from when he’d balled it in his fist. “Shit!” A frantic pulse of fear erupted in his temple, turning the acid in his gut corrosive and cold.

The Cadillac hadn’t belonged to Pellar - - he was sure of that - - which likely left Corman as the man behind the wheel. There could still be a connection between the two, but he didn’t have the time to sort it out. His stomach tightened in a knot, sick fear and hotly protective anger kicking his normally knee-jerk instinct into overdrive. He sprinted back up the hillside, racing hellbent for the Torino, where he flung the jacket inside and slid behind the wheel. Fumbling for the mic, he requested a black-and-white on the scene to check the upper level of the bistro and to detain Pellar until Starsky could ascertain Hutch’s whereabouts.

With only one guess where Corman might be taking his partner, Starsky popped the car into first and gunned the engine. The tires squealed, burning rubber as he spun out of the parking lot, racing for the Sol-Pierce Foundation.

+++++

The research facility was deserted when he arrived. Comprised of smoked glass and stucco, the squat L-shaped building was brooding and silent. A series of perimeter lights kept the parking lot and bordering grounds well illuminated in a bright wash of near white radiance. The area was open and sparse, leaving nowhere to tuck a car without it being visible. Unfortunately the Cadillac was nowhere in sight, nor was any other vehicle for that matter. The parking lot and its surrounding grounds were completely empty, exactly as they should be at half past midnight.

“Fuck.”

Frustrated, Starsky parked in front of the blackened building and pounded his fist against the steering wheel.

No Cadillac. No Corman. No Hutch.

Assuming the doctor really was the culprit behind the wheel of the luxury car, exactly where would he have taken Hutch if not to the Sol-Pierce Foundation? His home didn’t seem likely. Still . . .

On the off chance it was remotely feasible, Starsky radioed dispatch to track down the man’s address and request a black-and-white be sent to investigate.

He knew the rank-and-file was already stretched thin. It was Halloween night after all, and the radio had kept up a steady chatter since he’d gotten in the Torino, relaying call after call on vandalism, destruction of property, breaking and entering and domestic violence. The force couldn’t afford to be chasing wild geese, but this was Hutch - - one of their own and Starsky needed all the help he could get.

Stupid ass, he lectured himself. I never shoulda left him alone at Pellar’s party. I shoulda known it was a disaster waitin’ to happen with Corman slinkin’ around like some Halloween ghoul.

The wail of sirens rose suddenly in the distance, carrying through the closed windows. He jerked reflexively, nerves already frayed and raw. Probably just a fire or a bar fight, he tried to assure himself. There always seemed to be an excess of mayhem on Devil’s Night, a grim reality that made him realize he’d inherited his own share. He and Hutch should have been reclining in front of a television with a brimming bowl of popcorn and a few beers, watching some third-rate horror flick while counting their good fortune they didn’t have to work. Instead, the time off had turned into a nightmare as creepy as the brooding dark itself.

Think!

Starsky’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Why had Corman snatched Hutch in the first place - - to exact some twisted brand of vengeance because of his brother’s death? And how had he managed to incapacitate Hutch and get him out of Pellar’s party without the blond detective resisting? Hutch certainly wouldn’t have gone quietly, which meant he was either hurt or threatened.

The thought induced a tight knot in Starsky’s stomach. Easing his foot off the brake, he released the car to a crawl, slowly skirting the edge of the parking lot. He kept the siren muted but the blinking mars light on the roof cut a blood red beam through the inky night. Garish and oddly surreal, it only accentuated the ghoulish holiday and Hutch’s abrupt disappearance.

Abducting a police officer in retaliation was shockingly excessive for a man who hadn’t even attended his brother’s funeral. Granted, Darryl had been out of the country when Phil was buried, but - -

Starsky’s foot slammed down on the brake, the scene at the cemetery popping unexpectedly into his head. He’d hadn’t wanted Hutch to attend the funeral . . . had even gently tried to talk his friend out of it, but Hutch had been adamant.

I owe him that, he’d said miserably, plainly torn up by what he’d been forced to do. I owe Phil that decency and measure of respect.

Starsky didn’t think Hutch owed Phil Corman anything, but he’d kept his mouth shut when he realized his friend was determined. They’d arrived early at the graveside before the service had started only to have Corman’s widow, Carolyn, fly into a blistering rage.

“Get out of here!” she’d shrieked at Hutch, her voice quivery and high. “You have no place at his funeral- - no right, you bastard, do you hear me? So help me, Ken Hutchinson, I’d kill you myself if I could. I don’t want you here! He doesn’t want you here! No one wants you here, you murdering son-of-a-bitch!”

The words echoed in Starsky’s head, as shrill as they’d been that ugly, overcast afternoon. Strange that he’d think of Carolyn now. Stranger still that Darryl had brought her name up at Pellar’s party while attempting to slander Hutch. Why drag her into it - - a grieving widow who should have been protected rather than used as a goading tool?

So help me, Ken Hutchinson, I’d kill you myself if I could.

. . . myself . . ..

A quiver of alarm stirred sluggishly awake in Starsky’s mind. It was almost as if she knew someone else had planned to kill Hutch instead.

He doesn’t want you here!

At the time, Starsky had assumed she was speaking about Phil as though he were still alive, but that wasn’t necessarily the case. What if she’d been talking about someone else - - the ‘someone’ who planned to kill Hutch for her? And what if that someone was Darryl Corman, struggling to get back into the country so he could follow through in avenging his brother’s death?

She knows where Darryl took Hutch.

The thought came with such rapid-fire certainty Starsky slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The car lurched forward, bulleting into the night, a blur of red and white against darker black. Sweating with adrenaline, he ripped off his tie, tearing open the top few buttons of his shirt. The material felt like it was strangling him, his growing panic over Hutch making it difficult to breathe. Hang on, pal. Ain’t no one gonna hurt you again. I promise, I’m comin’!

His heart drummed fiercely, pulsing in time with the blood-beat of his temple. He activated the siren, letting it screech his frustration for all of Bay City to hear. Perspiration gathered on his forehead and collected in the thick curls at the back of his neck. Hastily, he cranked the window down, admitting a draft of cooler air. It stank of urban exhaust, road tar and the overheated rubber of the Torino’s tires.

The sour smell clotted the back of his throat, made him gag. But it was the bitter acid in his stomach - - frantic worry for his friend’s safety that made him spin the wheel and recklessly cross town by cutting the wrong direction on a one-way street. Traffic was minimal, but the rash stunt earned him a chorus of loudmouthed curses from a group of partygoers loitering outside a corner bar.

Starsky was oblivious to all but his destination on the other side of town and the fact dawn was still hours in the future - - a dawn he vowed he and Hutch would see together.

Hang on, buddy. I promise it’s gonna be daylight again.

+++++

Hutch moaned, struggling to break free from his prison of darkness. Sound came first - - a roar of blood in his ears - - followed by a sliver of harsh light beneath his lashes. His eyes felt heavy, unnaturally gummed shut. It was only with concentrated effort he was able to drag them open, his surroundings a tumultuous blur of sterile white and gleaming chrome. The unexpected brightness stung his eyes, making him wince involuntarily and part with a low moan.

“He’s comin’ around, Dr. Corman,” someone said. The voice sounded guttural and tinny at the same time. Something jabbed repeatedly against his side and he shifted, attempting to escape the harsh prodding without success. He heard an indulgent snicker.

“Whatsa matter, Hutchinson?” the voice goaded. “Nowhere to go?”

His vision cleared a fraction. Just enough to recognize Eddie Fish hovering over him, the thug’s face split in a bullying leer. Operating below par, his mind muddled and slow, Hutch attempted to twist away. It was then he realized he was lashed to a metal table, flat on his back, heavy-duty restraints tugged tightly across his chest, hips and legs. His wrists were imprisoned by similar straps, cinched securely at his sides. The sleeve of his right arm had been shoved above the elbow, the arm carefully positioned so the fleshly inside was exposed. Some part of his mind recognized the ugly tracks left by Monk’s needle, still visible against his pale skin.

“Where . . . ?” He couldn’t get his voice to work, couldn’t get his mind to catch up with the molasses-slow word. Bewildered, he dragged his tongue across his bottom lip. He remembered the parking lot behind Pellar’s bistro. Remembered tangling with Fish, Corman immobilizing him with a well-placed knee to his lower back. After that everything was a wash of gray and confusion. “Where am I?” Weakly, he tugged against the wrist restraints.

The sight amused Fish who snickered in appreciation. “Ain’t gonna matter none to you, piglet.” He jabbed the tight flesh below Hutch’s ribs with the barrel of a large revolver. The bore of the gun was massive, dragging an involuntary groan from Hutch before he could stop it. Yet even then he was coherent enough to realize the weapon was larger than his own Magnum - - a .44 Glock, something Fish never could have afforded working as a second-string goon for Pellar.

“Quit toying with him, Eddie,” a sharp voice commanded.

Fish scowled, stepping backward like a disgruntled child. His eyes darted across the room, the perimeter still lost in a dizzying blur of filmy white to Hutch. He blinked, trying to pull his surroundings into focus but the axis only shifted, turning chalk to multi-faceted chrome above his head. He blinked again, concentrating on a massive light fixture angled over the table - - a ceiling mounted oval of metal and glass - - the kind of high-intensity lamp used in hospital operating rooms.

His gut contracted.

“Come on, Doc,” he heard Fish complain. “Didn’tja see those tracks on his arm? He ain’t nuthin’ but a friggin’ hype. All this time he’s been playin’ smug and self-righteous - - the stinkin’ pig - - when he ain’t nuthin’ but gutter trash hisself.” Braver now, he inched back to the table, his lips curling snidely.

“How long’s it been, Hutchinson? Huh, pig?” Gripping Hutch by the chin, he bore down with one squat thumb, grinding flesh and bone together. “You must be wantin’ it bad, thin as you’re lookin.’” He leaned closer, his lips pulling back over his gums. “I can always tell the ones who want it the most.” The gun prodded again, digging into the flesh above Hutch’s hip. “Just the thought of that juice is enough to give you a hard on, ain’t it cop?”

“Shut up,” Hutch spat, grinding his teeth together.

Fish chuckled. “Aw, don’t worry none, Goldilocks - - the doc’s gonna pump you full of Class A shit. Then when he’s done with you, I’ll give you what you really want and you can fly - - just like that little slut Peggy Ann did. She wanted it bad too. Bad enough to blow me for it. See, no one gets it for free, Hutchinson - - not even pretty blond pigs. I’m willin’ to bet you’re gonna be far more entertainin’ than she was.”

“Stuff it, asshole.”

Even as he spat the words, Hutch felt panic grip him. Fish had killed Peggy Ann by giving her the drug that ultimately led to her death. And by the looks of the revolver, he’d been the one to blow a hole through Leo Blockard. But the bizarre connection still didn’t make sense, and in his present shape, Hutch didn’t have the clarity to work it through. Not now. Not when he was sickened by the thought of the girl’s senseless death . . . inwardly terrified by the prospect of relieving the same horror he’d experienced with Monk.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” he snarled.

The defiance worked. Surprisingly, Fish released him, pausing to rub the barrel of his gun. The action was queerly intimate, like a lover’s lingering caress. “You ain’t gonna be sayin’ that in a few minutes - -”

“That’s enough.” The other voice in the room was sharper now, irritated.

Hutch heard footsteps. He turned his head toward the sound, his blurred vision finally stabilizing. The room settled into a series of sterile white lines, gray medicinal cupboards and counters, high-wattage light fixtures and gleaming touches of chrome. He caught a whiff of rubbing alcohol, mingled with the astringent reek of a cleaning solvent.

“Corman.” The name came without surprise, rolling from his tongue with resigned finality. He smiled grimly. “I would have thought associating with a lowlife like Fish was beneath you.”

“Hey!” Fish grunted, offended.

Corman waved his protest aside. “Sometimes unpleasant associations are necessary for the advancement of science. He gets paid well for what he does. In return, he keeps me supplied with willing candidates to test my drugs.”

Hutch’s sluggish mind tumbled over the logic. “You’re responsible for the string of heroin ODs on the docks.”

“Unavoidable, I’m afraid.” As he talked, Corman held a syringe up to the light, casually tapping his finger against the tube to release air bubbles. He’d replaced his tuxedo jacket with a white lab coat, the clinical garment glaringly out of place against his ascot tie and crisply creased pants. “I need human test subjects,” he explained as if engaging in a classroom lecture. “Unfortunately, organizations like the AMA and groups overly concerned with ethics frown on the idea. You must admit, however, I’ve been careful to choose the lower dregs of society - - the homeless and hookers, street urchins and drunks. No one who will ever be missed. No one who matters.”

“Bastard,” Hutch said tightly. “You have no right.”

“Oh, don’t go getting all virtuous on me, Detective. Not when you’re lying there with clear evidence of drug abuse tattooed on your arm. I find it horribly ironic my brother was killed over stolen cocaine while you’ve repeatedly shoved a needle into your veins for a personal high. At least Phillip was after the money. You’re just another street whore looking to score a fix. Is that what Vivian Clarke promised you for performing in her bed?”

Hutch pressed his lips together. It was hard concentrating with the needle so visible in Corman’s hand. Light gleamed off the tip, turning it into a potentially lethal cocktail. Oh shit, I can’t do this again. I can’t! Starsky . . . help me . . .

The thought of his partner, grounded Hutch if only momentarily. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Corman.”

The geneticist snorted. Propping one hip against the table on which Hutch was restrained, he stared languidly down on the blond-haired man. His face reflected Phillip’s arrogance, his casual demeanor so much like his dead twin’s, it was eerily surreal.

“Ah, but I’m afraid I do. I hadn’t planned on killing you like this, Hutchinson, but it’s rather poetic now that I’ve discovered your dirty secret. When they find you OD’d, your body dumped in some filthy waterfront alley, your fellow officers, your friends, your family - - they’ll all realize you were the one with the drug problem. They’ll forget what Phillip did . . . remember him only as loyal cop. You’ll be the one with the soiled reputation. Carolyn and my nephew will be able to hold their heads up again. That’s all I care about - - that and a bit of revenge for a brother who never lived up to his potential.”

Hutch’s eyes strayed to the needle. His mouth felt dry, his throat swollen and constricted. “Corman think about what you’re doing - -”

“Oh, it’s not heroin,” the geneticist assured. “That comes later as Eddie explained. This - -” Holding up the syringe, he smiled at the liquid inside. “ - - is an extract from a rare Brazilian vine, mixed proportionately with a few synthetic compounds. I have it all written down over there.” He waved in the direction of the cupboards where a clipboard rested on top of a dove-gray counter. “I’ve been experimenting for weeks, systematically tracking my progress, but I just can’t seem to pinpoint the right formula without inducing a number of severe side effects. It would be so much easier if I had volunteer test subjects, but since that isn’t the case, Eddie scrounges up those he can - - luring them here with the promise of a fix for a few hours of their time. Of course I can’t have them blabbing about my little set-up later, so I make sure the heroin is mixed which just enough fentanyl to be lethal. Eddie gets to have his fun too - - he seems to like boys and girls, so he’s happy no matter who he snags from the street. They all perform for him in the end, then he shoots them up and carts them off somewhere disgusting to die.”

“You’re a ghoul,” Hutch said, repulsed. “You kill people and talk about it like a science experiment - - without emotion or conscience.”

Corman seemed to like the comparison. “Appropriate, I suppose, since it is Halloween.”

Behind him, Eddie chortled.

Corman smirked, his attention drawn by the sound. “My associate likes his work as you can see. Enjoys it a little too much perhaps, but he’s thorough and he’s good. Selfish too. Pellar’s top man, Leo Blockard, figured out what was going on - - not precisely, you understand, but enough to be a problem. Pellar himself is clueless. Blockard didn’t know who I was, but knew I attended most of his boss’s parties and that I was affiliated with Sol-Pierce. Eventually he figured out Eddie was making a sizeable chunk of change for supplying me with test subjects.”

“The greedy bastard wanted a piece of the action,” Fish spoke up angrily.

“And that didn’t go over very well,” Corman supplied. “So Eddie shot him. Now he’s moved up a notch in Pellar’s organization, plus he still gets to have his fun with the hypes he brings me and earn a cash reward. In fact, the reason I had that vial of sedative tonight was because Eddie had planned to coerce a dishwasher from the kitchen. Only nineteen and quite lovely according to Eddie. A young man who wasn’t above selling his body to feed his arm. In all likelihood he would have trotted along behind Eddie peacefully, but the sedative was extra insurance. I need a young healthy male for this next round of tests. The dishwasher would have been ideal, but then I saw you, and figured what the hell - - I planned to kill you anyway. Despite the fact you’re a little on the thin side, my guess is you’re relatively strong and healthy.” Corman slid a hand onto Hutch’s thigh, squeezing roughly as if testing a peace of meat.

Hutch grunted, trying to pull away but the restraints held him in place. His mind was on overload, vainly striving to assimilate everything Corman told him while attempting to figure a way free. His head felt muzzy, his reasoning ability impaired by the sedative he’d been injected with. How long would it take before Starsky realized something had happened . . . before his friend even started to worry over his whereabouts? I need you, Starsk. I need you to figure this one out . . . to come get me. God, I don’t want to die like this . . .

Corman paced to the head of the table, holding the syringe between the first two fingers of his right hand. “I suppose you’re curious what my tests are about - -”

“I don’t give a shit what you’re doing,” Hutch cut him off bluntly. “You’re murdering people - -”

“Those who don’t matter,” the geneticist reminded patiently. Pausing by Hutch’s shoulders, he stared down at the blond detective. “You wouldn’t appreciate what I’m attempting to accomplish - - at least not now. Look at you - -” He waved a hand in the air above Hutch’s face. “Young, blond, handsome. Vivian Clarke was all over you . . . plenty of other women too, I’m sure, if they’d had the chance. But what happens when you’re sixty? Or seventy, and your looks begin to fade? The mirror won’t always love you the way it does now, Hutchinson. You’ll be just another paunch-bellied, wizened old man with thinning blond hair.”

“There’s more to life than looks,” Hutch countered, trying to follow the rambling conversation. Clearly Darryl Corman liked to hear himself talk, especially when he had a captive audience. By contrast Fish looked bored, once again idly rubbing the barrel of his Glock.

Appearing thoughtful, Corman rolled the syringe between his fingers. “Maybe to you - - a pretty boy cop with a mediocre salary. You’ll take advantage of your looks while you can - - enjoy all the women who come to you as a result. Maybe the men too.” With a smirk he let his eyes slew to the side, touching on Eddie Fish. “But in the end you’ll age. That perfect face and lean physique will succumb to wrinkles and belly flab. But if you were rich - - if money were no object and there were a drug to hold the inevitable at bay, you’d likely pay a fortune for it.”

Hutch closed his eyes briefly. “Greed,” he said, understanding now. He remembered Vivian relaying how Corman once asked what she would be willing to pay to stay young forever. Starsky’s observation pinged in his mind - - how all the people at Pellar’s party were infatuated with youth and beauty. Even Vivian had admitted she liked beautiful men, the sole reason she attended Pellar’s gatherings for that seductive fringe benefit. There couldn’t be a richer or shallower group of people in all of Bay City than those Arthur Pellar kept on his guest list. If Corman were somehow able to come up with a drug to delay aging, he’d have a gold mine on his hands. And his frequent exposure to Pellar’s guests would place him one foot inside the door when he was ready for paying customers.

A modern day Ponce de Leon.

“You’re no different than your brother,” Hutch said, repulsed. “Greed is greed. Maybe you’re not stealing cocaine but you’re still chasing a buck like some back-alley predator looking for a score. You’re no different than any other street scum.”

“I wouldn’t talk about scoring if I were you.” Pellar’s fingers slid up the inside of his arm, pausing to trace the needle marks. “I bet you’re well-acquainted with all manner of filth. How long has it been, Detective? And exactly what did you do to earn your last fix? I seriously doubt you could afford to feed your habit on a cop’s salary.”

In the background, Fish snickered, enjoying the insinuation.

Hutch looked away. “Go to hell.”

Corman sighed. Reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, he extracted a piece of rubber tubing. “Before I inject you, you should know the dosage isn’t lethal. I’m simply experimenting, attempting to find the right combination of synthetics. I’ve been careful to assure the trace elements are all but undetectable in an autopsy. And of course, I reward my test subjects afterward with the oblivion of a heroin fix. I figure I owe them that for the pain. ”

“You reward them by killing them,” Hutch spat, his head snapping around to catch’s Corman’s gaze. He wasn’t sure which was worse - - his anger or his fear, the volatile emotions tangling together in a corrosive knot. He hated the fact he was afraid . . . that the needle instinctively terrified him. Seething, he tugged at the restraints. “Peggy Ann Fleetwood died in an abandoned warehouse, choking on her own vomit - - after she’d been forced to perform oral sex on a depraved creep. You call that a reward, you son-of-a-bitch?”

Fish lumbered closer to the table. “You’re gonna pay for that slur, Hutchinson.”

“Patience, Eddie.” Unfazed, Corman waved the thug aside. His eyes narrowed as his attention returned to Hutch. “I’m afraid you simply can’t appreciate the greater good here, Sergeant - -”

“ - - you mean profit.”

“Schematics,” Corman countered. “Why shouldn’t those able to afford it have the benefit of prolonged life? And why shouldn’t I gain from that? It’s taken me years to reach this point - - decades of hard work, field study and exhaustive research. I’ve been around the globe three times . . . have given up on the idea of a wife and family . . . any kind of normal life. When Phillip was foolishly getting himself killed, I was in Brazil, hunting up a rare vine found only in the Amazon rainforest. The natives there grind it into a pulp that’s incorporated into their diet. Some of the elders are well over one hundred years of age. I met a seventy-year-old woman who looked like she was forty. Amazing when you think about it, but why not? In the Old Testament, people lived for several hundred years. There’s no reason that should have stopped - - no reason it can’t be true again. All I need is the right combination of natural extracts and pharmaceutics. You see, the vine isn’t the only factor contributing to the longevity of this

tribe. My research leads me to believe it’s an entire mesh of environment, diet and heredity elements. I have the vine. All I need is the proper fusion of manufactured compounds to mimic what they ingest naturally. Sadly, most of my trial combinations have resulted in violent bouts of illness for my test subjects.”

“You’re delusional,” Hutch said. “You need to be locked up - - permanently.”

Corman laughed. “A typical response from a man without vision. Fortunately, I’m about to reeducate you.” As he spoke, Corman slipped the rubber tubing around Hutch’s arm, tying it off tightly.

Unable to stop himself, Hutch tensed, hissing a breath between his teeth. “Don’t,” he said automatically. He could feel sweat starting to collect at the back of his neck. Just the thought of the needle slipping into his arm kicked his heart into overdrive. Futilely, he squirmed against the restraints, the veins in his arms popping as he fought the confinement.

“You’re making it too easy,” Corman said. He raised the needle to eye height for one final inspection, then quickly and efficiently slid it into Hutch’s vein.

The shock went through him like a bolt of lightning, blind terror quickly cannibalizing his limited ability to reason. There was only fear - - stark, white and cold - - a grim reality that made him twist his head to the side and groan aloud. “ . . .ohgod . . .” The plea slipped from his lips before he could stop it, the memory of Monk, the harsh brutality of being tied to a chair and forcibly injected, crashing over him. There was no pain, only horror - - as suffocating and commanding as anything he’d ever known.

“Ten minutes should do it,” Corman said, as if making a clinical observation. He stepped away from the table, his footsteps retreating to the opposite side of the room. Hutch heard his voice, dismissive and banal, cutting through the wall of red-veined terror in his head. “When I’m done with him Eddie, you can have your fun. Afterward, I want you to inject him with a lethal dose of H, then dump his body in the waterfront area. No bullets, just the drug. Whatever you do to him, no extensive bruising. It has to look like he OD’d. Rough him up if you want, but make sure whatever you do isn’t enough to kill him. I don’t care if he’s used, I just don’t want him dead before you inject him. Understand?”

“Sure,” Fish returned.

A cold chill swept through Hutch. He remembered lying in the backseat of a moving car, drugged out of his skull, listening to his three would-be killers discussing how they were going to dispose of his body. This was no different, the fear just as gut twisting and gruesomely terrifying. Only this time he was restrained with no chance of escape.

Twelve seconds later he felt the first staggering cramp of pain and cried out in agony.

+++++

Starsky rolled up his fist and pounded on the front door of the night-blackened house. Typical of the other homes in the middle class suburb, the aluminum and brick rancher occupied a quarter acre lot with a fenced backyard. Starsky’s Torino sat slanted across a concrete driveway, the door yawning wide, mars light rapidly blinking a blood red distress beacon. “Police!” he yelled, pounding harder. “Open the damn door, Carolyn! I need to talk to you!”

A light switched on behind the windows, followed by another deeper in the house. He heard movement - - a hasty shuffling of feet, locks being opened, then the door cracked marginally and a pinched white face stared out at him. Unwilling to give an inch, Starsky shoved against the door and bullied his way into the home.

“How dare you!” Carolyn Corman spat.

“Save your outrage,” Starsky retorted.

She was thinner than he remembered, a disheveled wraith of brown hair, red-rimmed gray eyes and a green paisley robe. One bony hand clutched the garment shut at her throat, the filmy silk of her nightgown peeking from beneath the hem. Her feet were bare, her hair a rumpled mass about her shoulders. In the yellow light cast from a nearby lamp, she looked angry and worn, lines of fatigue drawing her thin face in a gaunt shell. He could see delicate blue veins beneath the surface, as if her flesh were translucent, stretched too tightly over her bones. Even then he felt nothing but apathy for her. “Darryl has Hutch. Where’d he take him?”

“What?” Annoyed, she shook her head. “Are you crazy, David Starsky? Do you know what time it is?”

He took a threatening step forward. “I know if you don’t tell me where Corman took my partner, I’m gonna rip this place apart until I find an answer. No games, Carolyn.” His voice dropped, deadly and low. “I know Darryl is plannin’ on killin’ him. I know you don’t really give a shit what happens to Hutch, but I do. You’ve been hopin’ for this all along. In fact - -” He stepped closer, abruptly predatory, forcing her back into the room. “ - - I think you’ve known for weeks what Darryl was gonna do. You knew that day at the funeral. You said ‘He doesn’t want you here.’ You weren’t talkin’ about Phil - - you were talkin’ about Darryl, your avenging angel. Well, guess what, Carolyn? If he so much as leaves a freakin’ scratch on Hutch, I’m gonna come back here and book you as an accomplice.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Am I? Then why are you shakin’?”

She waved a hand in the air, fluttering it around like a frantic white bird. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is my house! You have no right to burst in here and accuse me - -”

“I’ve got every right, lady!” Starsky snarled. Gripping her by both shoulders, he thrust her backward against the wall. “You’re not listenin’ to me. Darryl. Has. Hutch. My partner. My friend. He didn’t wanna kill your husband, but so help me if Darryl hurts him, I ain’t gonna be responsible for my actions. Now you think hard and you think good. You dig down deep and examine your conscience, ‘cuz I know you never woulda stood by and let Phil traffick that coke. He made a mistake. Don’t be stupid and make a worse one. You got a kid to think about - -”

“Tell him, Mom,” a determined voice said from the hallway.

Starsky jerked his head around, shocked to realize Phil’s fifteen-year-old son stood just inside the entrance to the room. Wearing a tee-shirt and striped pajama bottoms, he looked gangly and colt-like, all protruding arms and legs, his hair a lighter brown than his father’s but with the same unruly natural wave. “Jeff,” Starsky said, testing the name in his memory. Stepping backward, he released Carolyn. “Do you have something to tell me?” he asked the boy directly, earnestly.

“Jeffrey, don’t!” Carolyn protested immediately.

“It’s no good, Mom.” Miserable, the boy shook his head. He dragged his feet, forcing himself into the room. “I don’t want Uncle Darryl hurt either, but someone’s gotta stop him. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I know it’s not right.” Stepping closer to Starsky, he lifted his eyes, agonizing conflict clear in his gaze. “I think he’s hurting people.”

Carolyn gave a soft cry and began to weep. To Starsky it looked like the strength simply left her. She folded into a low-backed sofa, her body boneless and frail. “We were fine,” she choked. “I don’t know why Phillip wanted that damn cocaine so badly. We weren’t rich but we got by. Maybe . . .” Sniffling, she raised her head, watery eyes searching Starsky’s face. “Maybe he wasn’t happy with us . . . with me.”

“Ssh, Mom. It’s okay.” Jeffrey went to her side, gathering her protectively in his arms. Hugging her against his chest, he raised his eyes to Starsky. “I don’t know if my uncle wants to kill your partner, but I wouldn’t put it past ‘im. I think he’s been hurting other people too. He rented an old house over on Union - - all the way at the dead end. He’s got some kind of science lab set up in the basement. If he does have Sergeant Hutchinson, that’s where he would have taken him.”

“You’re a good kid, Jeff.” Starsky squeezed his shoulder in appreciation. “Your dad would be proud of you for doin’ the right thing.”

He bolted for the door, Carolyn’s quivery voice stopping him on the threshold.

“David.”

Wheeling around, he caught her staring at him, her red-rimmed eyes swimming with remorse. “All Darryl told me,” she said, “Was that he was going to get even with Ken. At the cemetery - -” Her voice broke, fresh tears flooding her eyes. “ - - I wanted to kill your partner. I hated him so badly for what he’d done. But now I just . . .” She sobbed softly, burying her face in her hands. “I need Darryl to take care of us. Please, don’t kill him.”

The grim apathy remained, unaffected by her belated regret. “That’s gonna be his choice, Carolyn.”

Pivoting, Starsky raced from the house, demon-bent on reaching his partner.

+++++

The restraints were gone, no longer necessary as he wobbled on his feet like a newborn colt. Off balance, he crashed into the corner, rolling painfully on his side, too sick and too dizzy to move. He’d vomited once, or maybe it was twice, after they’d unstrapped him and let him pitch drunkenly to the floor. His vision was blurred and unstable, jerking in and out of focus like a camera mounted on the back of a rough-moving vehicle.

“Hold him down, Eddie,” a disembodied voice instructed. Corman. “I want to give him an adjusted dosage.”

Fish laughed and pawed at his ankles, wrenching his legs down even as he tried to curl in on himself. Corman’s face swayed over him, obscenely bloated and distorted like a bobbing jack-o-lantern suspended on invisible wire. Weak, barely able to function, Hutch parted with a pathetic moan and made a feeble attempt to swat the leering visage away. “No . . .”

His right arm was caught and pinned to the floor. Something held his legs. He squirmed sluggishly but was too weak to put up more than a token resistance. A second later he felt the tip of a needle slide beneath his skin, igniting a jarring infusion of heat and cold. “Stop . . .” he wheezed on a pitiful breath.

Corman’s face retreated, but Fish’s wobbled nearer. “Is it gonna make him sicker, Dr. Corman?”

“ I don’t know.” The reply was muddled and choppy. Hutch only caught part of the words, his hearing as hopelessly impaired as his vision. “ . . .ideally gauge . . . cut back on the alpha synthetic . . . new derivative . . . convulsions . . .” Someone touched his face, roughly slapped his cheek. “ . . . think he’s incoherent . . . on my next subject . . . give Hutchinson any more . . . traceable in an autopsy.”

Hutch wheezed. He tried to pull away, to curl in on himself but the restrictive pressure kept his legs pinned to the ground. Feebly, he attempted to drag one foot forward. His hand fumbled, weakly, shoving at the immobile mass holding him down. “Please . . . I can’t breathe . . .” He barely got the words past his lips, his lungs contracting on an agonizingly painful spasm. Panicked, he tilted his head back, eyes turned wildly to the ceiling as he choked for air.

“Hey . . . really can’t breathe.” Someone tugged at the buttons of his vest, ripping it open. “His lips are turnin’ blue.” A hand struck the side of his face. “Should that be happenin’, Doc?”

“Let him go.”

The pressure gave on Hutch’s legs. Freed, he rolled onto his side, gasping like a fish on dry land. In the passage of a few seconds the horrible seizure was over, and he lay panting, weak and drenched in cold sweat. He wrapped one arm around his stomach, drawing his knees up protectively. Something popped inside his head and his hearing cleared, no longer bogged in a muffling quagmire of mud.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s it,” Corman announced. “Not the results I was hoping for, but that’s all we’re going to get out of this one. I’m going upstairs to review my notes.”

Hutch heard a shuffling in the background. He tried to concentrate, but his stomach cramped, sending a sticky wave of nausea bubbling up to his throat. His vision was completely fried, an erratic blur of shapes and images without sense or true substance. He closed his eyes tightly and felt the room lurch in response. Something cold and hard wormed into his gut.

“You can have your fun now, Eddie,” Corman’s disembodied voice came again. “Just remember - - be sure he’s alive when you’re done and make certain you give him the usual injection. I expect you to dispose of the body before dawn.”

Hutch heard the click of a door then silence, broken only by the wild beat of his heart, the ragged hitch of his breathing. For one blissful second he could almost believe he was alone, left to suffer in private. Then someone leaned close, grunting suggestively into his ear, releasing a hot lick of breath over his cheek.

“You wan’ me to tell ya how I did Peggy Ann?” Eddie Fish goaded. Grabbing Hutch by the shoulders, he forced him over onto his back. His face split in a sadistic grin as he kneeled over the blond detective, one knee planted on either side of his hips. “It’s your turn now, pig.”

+++++

Starsky parked halfway down the street and abandoned his car, sprinting the remaining distance. The house Corman had rented was dilapidated, its heyday long since past. Two of the front windows were boarded up, attached shutters neglected and glaringly crooked. The porch hadn’t seen a coat of paint in over a decade, its once white gingerbreading chipped and peeling. The ancient two-story looked empty and deserted, exactly as the geneticist wanted it to appear. The Cadillac was tucked behind an overgrown hedgerow, only a glimmer of the rear bumper visible in a waning shaft of moonlight.

Starsky avoided the porch altogether and found a side window that was easily pried. He slipped through the opening, stepping into a cocoon of darkness. It was stuffy inside the old house, rank and tart with the mustiness of closed spaces. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the denser blackness. Light-footed, he felt his way down a narrow hallway, keeping one shoulder pressed to the dusty wall. It opened onto a large living space, empty but for a few boxes and crates and several pieces of sheet-shrouded furniture. Moonlight splashed through a crack in the boarded front window, turning the hulking white shapes into moody phantoms and ghosts.

Inching past them, Starsky turned a corner, immediately halting outside of an open doorway. Light spilled across the threshold of the room, slanting a skewed yellow rectangle over the floorboards. Drawing his gun, he craned his neck and peered inside.

Sparsely furnished with a desk and a few wooden file cabinets, the room appeared to be a bare-bones office or study. Darryl Corman sat with his back to the door, going over a series of notes contained on a clipboard. Hutch was nowhere in sight, a grim reality that made Starsky’s heart flutter in alarm. Please, God . . . don’t let me be too late . . . let ‘im be okay . . .

Stepping into the doorway, he loudly pulled the release on his gun. “Where’s Hutch?”

Engrossed in his notes, Corman jerked his head up, wheeling swiftly around in his swivel desk chair. Shock washed over his face, replaced almost immediately by rage. “I think you had better explain yourself, Sergeant.” Angrily he shoved to his feet. “Exactly what is the meaning of this? How dare you invade my property without a warrant.”

“Don’t need a warrant,” Starsky snapped. “Not when I got probable cause - - like you stuffin’ Hutch into that Cadillac parked outside. I saw you at Pellar’s party, asshole. Now I ain’t gonna ask again. You fuckin’ better tell me where my partner is before you suddenly meet with a nasty accident.”

Unflustered, Corman inched a deprecatory brow higher on his forehead. “Police brutality?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you call it.” Across the room in three quick strides, Starsky grabbed the man by his collar and violently rammed him backward against the desk. “Where’s Hutch?” His fingers tightened in Corman’s tuxedo shirt, strangling the starched material tight against his throat. He pinched hard, leaving just enough freedom for the geneticist to breathe. “Answer me, damn it!”

“Basement,” Corman gasped. He fumbled behind him, tugging open the top drawer of his desk. “You need a key.”

Before Starsky could react, he saw a flash of silver, realizing his mistake too late. Wielded like a knife, the scissors slashed across his forearm, ripping through his thin shirt, brutally gouging his flesh. Corman gave a vicious yank and the makeshift weapon cut a bloody trail straight down Starsky’s arm to his hand.

He cried out, dropping the gun automatically, releasing his hold on Corman. The man wheeled to the side, hastily fumbling in another drawer. This time Starsky had no doubt what he was after. Diving after the Beretta, he tucked and rolled, one shoulder hitting the floor even as he snatched up the pistol. Corman half-turned, a snub-nosed .38 tracking with his movement. Starsky pumped a single bullet into his arm, sending the gun flying before he could manage a shot. The impact spun the geneticist to the side. Off balance, he careened into the desk chair and tumbled face down on the floor.

“You damn well better be tellin’ me the truth about Hutch,” Starsky growled, shoving to his feet. Roughly, he grabbed the other man by the shoulder and flopped him over onto his back.

Corman’s eyes stared up at him, glazed and wide, the shock of sudden death frozen on his face. Stunned, Starsky pulled back, his gaze dropping uncomprehendingly to the minor wound on Corman’s arm. It was then he saw the deeper hole in the man’s abdomen, the blood-tipped sheers still clutched in his hand. “Damn unlucky, ain’t ‘cha?” he said grimly.

He hadn’t wanted Corman dead if for no other reason than he wasn’t wholly convinced Hutch was in the basement - - or if he was, what kind of condition he’d be in. That Corman had idiotically tumbled onto the scissors and inadvertently ended up killing himself was both poetic justice and gross misfortune.

Tucking his pistol into its holster, Starsky clamped a hand over his bleeding arm and stood. The wound was superficial but it stung like hell. The blood wasn’t helping, turning the white sleeve of his pristine shirt an ugly scarlet. He looked around for something to tie off the wound, anything to keep the blood from dribbling between his fingers. In the end he settled for Corman’s ascot tie, tugging it one-handedly from the man’s neck. “Sorry, pal.” He spared a single dismissive glance for the geneticist. “You ain’t gonna be needin’ it anymore.

Darting swiftly from the room, Starsky headed in search of the basement.

+++++

Hutch could barely breathe. The room was suddenly stuffy despite the cold press of vinyl tile against his back. Eddie was too close, planted directly above him on all fours, blocking the limited airflow to his straining lungs. Both of his arms were trapped, the wrists pinned on either side of his head by Fish’s sweaty hands, the man’s knees wedged against his hips. His vision swam, grotesquely distorting the thug’s blunt features, making his stomach upend and churn with acid. “ . . . lemme go . . .” he mumbled, barely able to get the words around his thick and unresponsive tongue.

Velvety laughter drifted down like a filmy veil across his face. “It ain’t gonna be bad,” the thug promised. “We’ll just have a little fun, then I’ll give you a nice long ride on some smack. You want that, don’t ya, Hutchinson?” One hand released his wrist long enough to caress his cheek and paw through his hair. “Yeah, I know you do. Just tell me how bad you’re hurtin’ and I’ll make it good for you.”

Weakly, Hutch lifted his arm, trying to fight off the revolting touch. “Your girl . . . Suzanne . . . ain’t gonna like you cheatin’ on her, Eddie.”

Fish snickered at the sarcasm, batting his frail resistance aside. “It’s good you can joke about it. And what that bitch don’t know ain’t gonna hurt her. Besides - -” He paused briefly, a near-reverent tone brimming over in his voice. “I ain’t never got to play with a cop before.” His hand fisted in Hutch’s hair, grubby fingers digging deep and tightening until the pull grew painful. Bending forward, he breathed directly into Hutch’s face.

“I’m gonna hurt you now, pig. I wanna make sure you understand that, so you can think about how it’s gonna feel. I’m gonna hurt you real bad. You can scream if you want. Doc Corman soundproofed the room, so ain’t no one gonna hear you. I’m gonna hurt you, Hutchinson, like I never hurt none of those whiny other saps. Then when I’m all done, I’m gonna shoot you up and watch you die - - chokin’ on your own vomit and swimmin’ in your own piss like the gutter-trash you are.”

“Get your fuckin’ hands off him before I blow your sorry ass into next year!”

The furious command cracked on the air with the staggering force of a lighting bolt, making Hutch’s heart leap in his chest.

Ohgod, Starsky!

Eddie turned his head to look toward the door and in that second Hutch jerked his right leg up, ramming the knee directly into Fish’s groin. The man shrieked like a banshee, toppling heavily to the side. Groping his throbbing crotch with one hand, he fumbled for the Glock, tucked into the back of his belt.

“Starsk!” Hutch yelled in warning.

He caught a whir of motion, followed instantaneously by the loud crack of a gun, the rapid report of another. Eddie Fish gave a choked grunt and sprawled beside him, their legs becoming tangled together.

Hutch knew without looking Fish was dead. A hot bubble of revulsion gurgled up from his stomach. He could still feel the man’s breath on his cheek, the vulgar press of fingers knotted in his hair. Choking, he tried to kick free, all strength bled out of him, not sure where Starsky was in his frightening world of blurred and distorted vision. “Starsky.” Panicked, Hutch shoved the heavy legs away, painfully trying to raise himself up on his arms.

He heard the hasty clack of hard-soled shoes on cheap vinyl. In the next instant, he felt the welcoming presence of his friend beside him as Starsky crouched on the floor. “It’s okay, babe. I’m right here.” A hand settled comfortingly on his shoulder.

Hutch shuddered, undone by the simple touch. He saw only a blur of black and white, a glimmer of red. Frightened, he clawed at his friend’s shirt, anchoring his hand in the starched material. Could it really be over? “Corman,” he choked.

“Dead,” Starsky supplied. “Upstairs.” He shifted, dropping his butt onto the floor to sit more comfortably. An arm looped around Hutch’s shoulders, hugging him close. “God, babe, you scared me, disappearin’ like that.”

Hutch felt the fierce press of a cheek against his hair, the engulfing certainty of Starsky’s love. He made no effort to resist the blatant display, melting against his friend’s chest, breathing raggedly through his mouth. An involuntary whimper escaped him.

“Ssh, it’s okay, Hutch.” Starsky set his gun aside, placing it next to his hip. Raising his hand, he cupped his partner’s cheek affectionately. The skin felt clammy and chilled, slick with sweat. Hutch trembled - - not with cold, Starsky realized, but the bone-jarring release of delayed adrenaline.

The blond-haired cop crashed hard.

Worried, Starsky glanced from his exhausted partner, doing a quick sweep of the room. It smelled sour as if someone had been sick, the bitter odor mingling with an underlying taint of cleaning solvent and antiseptic. A metal exam table occupied center stage, a large multi-faceted chrome lamp angled above it. It looked like something from a doctor’s office or the operating theater of a hospital. Black straps dangled on either side of the table, some lying askew across the surface, grim evidence they’d recently been used. Alarmed, Starsky dropped his eyes. Hutch’s right hand was still fisted in his shirt, the sleeve rolled above his elbow. A thick red ring of chafed skin encircled his bare wrist. Ohgod, buddy, what’d they’d do to you?