Big Men on Campus, Part Two

77

To kick off Starsky’s collegiate career, Starsky and Hutch enroll in a course perfectly suited to their lives outside the classroom. But when the professor’s former research assistant receives death threats, will the detectives earn extra credit for saving the day or find that the halls of Academia can be as deadly as life on the streets?

 

Artwork by PattRose and Virginia Sky.

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Starsky stood in front of his usual desk in the familiar squadroom and battled the sensation that the floor beneath him had turned into rippling vinyl waves. He and Hutch were in the center of a whirlwind in which a cardiologist’s late wife shared the stage with a dead heroin addict and an attempted professional hit in Las Vegas, and now the stark fear on Nathan Rowell’s face labeled him an unwilling new participant.

“Someone wants me d-dead,” Nathan repeated. He fidgeted in the chair, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, and flinched at the slightest change in Starsky or Hutch’s stance.

Starsky jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Dobey’s office, but Hutch shook his head. Hutch waved his hand around the room and tilted his head down slightly toward Nathan, and Starsky nodded. Finally, Hutch pointed toward the hall, and Starsky smiled. After a shared nod, Starsky and Hutch hustled Nathan Rowell out of the squadroom and away from the eyes and ears of the other officers, whose presence seemed to agitate the postdoc.

They made him as comfortable as possible in one of the smaller interrogation rooms, and Hutch perched casually on the end of the table a couple feet from Nathan’s chair. Starsky pulled a chair out from the table and straddled it backwards. He ended up with a view of Nathan’s profile, and then the back of his head because Nathan appeared more at ease facing Hutch.

“Why don’t you tell us about it?” Hutch asked. Helpless animals, lost children, and crime victims knew that tone of voice and relaxed under its spell. Nathan was no different.

“This morning I had a phone call. This voice–I’ve never heard anything like it–read my own o-obituary out loud to me. I ran outside and got in my car and drove straight here. Glad you gave me your contact card.”

“Hardly an enjoyable experience,” Hutch sympathized. “Did you notice anything about the voice? Was it masculine or feminine? Did it have an accent? Was it deep…soft?”

“It was terrifying, I can tell you that,” Nathan snapped, shoulders quivering. “Someone read a made-up newspaper clipping about my own death to me, and I’m supposed to give you a profile on the voice?”

“Nathan, we’re trying to help,” Hutch said reasonably. “You have an ear for music and a level head. I know you’re shaken right now–with reason–but if you just relax for a minute and think back, I bet you can tell us more about the voice than you realize.”

Nathan pointed to his other side at Starsky. ” Why isn’t he asking me any questions?”

Starsky tapped Nathan’s shoulder lightly and regretted the action instantly when Nathan glared at him, teeth chattering again. “Nothing personal. I’m not ignoring you,” Starsky said with a soothing smile. “I just didn’t think you needed to feel ganged-up on. We reserve our rapid-fire, ping-pong interrogation technique for suspects.”

Nathan cleared his throat and closed his eyes. “Th-the voice was strong, powerful, loud. It was also one of those husky voices that could be a tenor male or a lower than alto female.”

“Did it sound angry or calm?” Hutch touched Nathan’s sleeve to get his attention, and pushed the coffee cup closer.

After an obliging sip, Nathan shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t analyze it, okay? I’m not a cop. That’s why I’m here. You’re the experts. Right?”

“Easy, Nathan.” Starsky squeezed the younger man’s shoulder and felt the chill through the t-shirt’s thin fabric. “I know this isn’t fun, but we can’t protect you if we don’t know what we’re up against. What about the obituary? What sort of information did it give you? Did it tell you a specific–?”

“Cause of death?” Nathan squeaked. “Did it tell me how I bought it? No.”

Hutch pulled out his trusty flip-pad and looked at Starsky, who dug a pen out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. “All right,” Hutch said, flipping until he found a blank page. “Here, think carefully and try to write down as much of what was said as you can remember.”

Nathan started scribbling and Starsky slanted his head, silently asking for a consult in the corner with Hutch. Hutch immediately left the table, and Starsky joined him across the room.

“You think there’s a connection?” Hutch asked, and Starsky knew he meant a tie-in with the Danbeck case.

“This feels–” Starsky glanced back at the table and stepped closer so his partner could hear his whisper. “This feels different. Why now? Why no mention of LeRon?”

“I agree,” Hutch said in an equally hushed tone. “This isn’t the usual intimidation tactic even high class muscle goes for. Too personal.”

“You wanna know what I think’s weird? Marcel was scared out of his head, but look what he’d been through. Nathan’s just as freaked over one kooky phone call.”

“Makes you wonder if this is the first time something’s happened? I keep remembering what you said on Friday about how Nathan came across as frightened.”

Movement at the table distracted Starsky and prevented his reply. Nathan had finished writing and was pushing the coffee cup aimlessly back and forth between his hands on the table.

Each detective resumed his previous seat, and Starsky seized the pad. One quick glance reinforced his sense that this threat had little or nothing to do with the Danbeck investigation. “The person knows your old address, hm? And your mother’s full name. Also that she’s deceased.” He looked meaningfully at Hutch, whose eyebrows climbed in response.

“That’s not all,” Nathan answered with a shudder. “The church listed as th-the location of my…um, the funeral service? I went there as a kid. Marcel, LeRon, and I all attended the same church. I was one of three white people in the congregation.” He seemed lost in the past, his eyes blank and looking inward.

“Nathan, is this the first strange phone call you’ve received?”

Nathan turned his head sharply to stare at Hutch. “Is that how you’re going to treat it? Just a strange phone call? Yes, Detective, this is the first death threat I’ve ever received.”

“We’re not taking this lightly, Nathan,” Starsky reassured the agitated man. “Are you sure you haven’t had any weird mail recently, prank calls, anything unusual?”

Nathan’s lips sealed tight and he stared at the table.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Hutch said. “Even if it sounds ridiculous or not worth mentioning, it might help us piece together what’s going on.”

Nathan brushed a hand through his short dark hair and then pushed violently back from the table. “Yes, I’ve gotten some strange letters. First one came about two months ago. There’s been one almost every week. I don’t think they’re even what you’d call letters–just a piece of white typing paper with one word in big block letters in the middle. No return address, Bay City postmark.”

“What word?” both detectives asked.

“It varies. Look, this is really uncomfortable for me.”

“Understandable, but that’s the point of these poison pen letters: to frighten you and make you feel uncomfortable. More often than not, what’s said in them is distorted all out of proportion and isn’t a true reflection of the recipient.”

Hutch’s logical persuasion won Nathan over. Without looking at either cop, he said, “Six letters, six words: thief, fake, fraud, liar, cheat, and traitor.”

Starsky and Hutch eyed each other over Nathan’s bowed head.

“Any ideas who might see you in that light?” Hutch’s face was the epitome of gentle, but Nathan still jumped in the chair as though struck.

“I…you just said–!” He shook his head. “No, I just thought it was somebody’s idea of a stupid joke.”

“Didn’t you find it too malicious to be just a joke?” Hutch asked.

Nathan leapt out of his chair and pushed it under the table roughly. “Stupid jokes usually are malicious.” His pained expression said he knew that from personal experience.

Starsky frowned. “Okay, let’s work on a list of possibles here. The obvious possibility is someone from your past, someone who has access to these personal details.”

Nathan swung around and clenched his teeth in tandem with his fists. “I told you already. The only people who even know about my life before college are some of the people in my old neighborhood, LeRon, and Marcel. You can st-strike o-one of those o-off the list already.”

“Recent break-ups? Ex-girlfriends?” Starsky found himself tapping the pen on the table à la Janet from their class.

“Yes, I broke up with my long-term girlfriend six months ago, but it was amiable on both sides. This isn’t like her, anyway, and I don’t want you hassling her.”

“Nathan, we don’t just go kicking people’s doors down to question them. You know that,” Hutch said, a hint of thinning patience in his expression. “Any other candidates? A dissatisfied student?”

Nathan stared down at the table. “I doubt it’s a disgruntled student. This is my first semester as a postdoc at Jameson. I teach two freshman-level courses in addition to my research, but Fall session just started a week ago, and the students would have no reason to know me outside of class. I was on a special fellowship in the Ph.D. program at Berkeley and didn’t have a lot of contact with undergrads. I didn’t have much contact with anyone except my professors and my committee. Spending your life buried in books doesn’t help you make friends, but it doesn’t allow for making many enemies either.”

Starsky didn’t respond with the obvious–that Nathan had made at least one enemy or he wouldn’t be here. “We’re going to need the papers and the envelopes if you kept them,” Starsky said instead.

Nathan’s pensive look changed quickly into pink-tinged embarrassment. “I didn’t save any of it. It never occurred to me to keep them. Like I said, I thought it was a joke, one of those things that you ignore until it goes away.”

Hutch brushed a hand across his forehead and looked to the ceiling, and the look in his eyes boded ill for all ivory-tower academics.

Starsky waved his hand beneath Nathan’s downcast eyes until the younger man lifted his head to face him. “This isn’t going away, so the time for ignoring it’s over. You play by our rulebook from now on. Agreed?”

Nathan nodded.

 

 

When Starsky and Hutch briefed their superior thirty minutes later and Hutch voiced his certainty that they could nail down the letter writer quickly, Captain Dobey squeezed his donut in half, squirting jelly on at least two files, and his straining jaw seemed to be reining in an apoplectic fit.

“Are you out of your minds?” the captain demanded. “You’re talking about working two separate cases here.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Starsky said, realizing exactly one second afterward that he’d made a mistake, because Dobey wheeled on him.

The captain held out a jelly-covered hand and began numerating items on his fingers: “You have two dead bodies, two people already under protection, one botched hit in Vegas, and a possible drug organization that’s escaped Narco’s attention. That’s not enough for you, though? You gotta tack this onto it just to up the ante? Wouldn’t you know it, you two decide to play ‘big men on campus’ and the city goes to hell.”

“Captain!” Hutch said sharply.

Dobey sat back heavily in his chair. He wiped haphazardly at his hand with his handkerchief. “I didn’t mean that, Starsky. I have the highest respect for education. Nothing would please me more than to see you earn a degree. It’s something that can never be taken from a man. I just want to see results in the Danbeck case. I had the chief in here this morning bending my ear about respectable married women not being safe in this city and–”

“Women!” Hutch shouted.

Both of the other men in the room stared at the blond detective in abject shock.

“What LeRon told Marcel!” Hutch said, waving both hands at Starsky.

Starsky snapped his fingers. “About rich married white women needing drugs to be happy–”

“What if it wasn’t just social commentary? What if–?”

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

Hutch nodded. “It’s a long shot, but worth pursuing. I’ll get Records on it right away.” He crossed the room in two strides and disappeared into the squadroom, the door shuddering closed.

Starsky felt the weight of his captain’s stare and swung around, his best conciliatory smile already in place. Dobey folded his arms and stood with calculated deliberation. “Care to translate that little exchange for a non-native speaker?”

Starsky chuckled and scratched at his brow. “Uh, Cap’n, it’s simple really. We have this theory that LeRon Markus was a whistleblower, and we agreed, he must’ve been pushed to the limit to pop the lid on the organization he worked for. It didn’t hold the same meaning when Marcel first mentioned it, but now we’re thinkin’ maybe Michelle Danbeck wasn’t the first woman of her type to check out like that. LeRon apparently had a real problem with wealthy white housewives getting involved in the drug scene.”

“If you can establish a connection…” Dobey mused, tugging on his tie’s knot absently.

“Then we have a chance of identifying the source of the drugs and nailing these bastards,” Starsky finished. The squadroom noise filtering through the opening door distracted him from commenting further.

Hutch leaned halfway into the room and motioned for Starsky to join him. “Charlie said he’ll get back to us soon as he digs up an answer. Come on, partner, we need to hit the road.”

“Just a minute!” Dobey blustered. “Get your tail in here, Hutchinson.”

Hutch complied.

“Now, about this Nathan Rowell. You’re not the only detectives in this department.”

“Captain, he came to us,” Hutch objected. “He trusts us. You said just last week that you’re running low on fully operating teams right now.”

“Not low enough that I want you weighted down while you’re trying to work this Danbeck case.”

Starsky surreptitiously crossed his fingers behind his back and said firmly, “Cap’n, there’s a chance that Nathan knows something about LeRon Markus that he’s too scared to share at this stage in the game. If we show him he can depend on us all the way down the line, he might open up.”

Starsky could feel Hutch’s incredulous stare, but he kept his eyes forward. Dobey huffed, sighed, and finally lifted his pen in the air, stabbing it at them in his don’t-bullshit-me manner. “How were you planning to pursue it?”

Hutch wiped a hand over his mouth and then partially tucked both hands in his back pockets. “The usual with a case like this. Work our way down a list of possibles. He gave us a comprehensive list of people who’ve been more than just on a first-name basis with him. Some of it’s a matter of phone calls, tracking down the current whereabouts of people he knew in grad school at Berkeley–”

“I thought you said he was a grad student at Jameson,” Dobey said.

“That confused me too, Cap’n,” Starsky said, eager to keep the dialogue away from delegating the case to other detectives. “He has a postdoctoral position. Um, that’s like the rung between earning a doctorate and becoming an entry-level professor, apparently. Jameson doesn’t have a graduate school; Nathan’s there to do special research under Garner Manning.”

“Garner Manning? I’ve heard that name before,” Dobey said.

“You’ve probably heard us talking about him, Captain. He’s our professor,” Hutch said.

“Ah, right. So a Ph.D. from Berkeley ends up at a school with no graduate program? I don’t know much about the academic world, but isn’t that a step down?”

“Not in this case,” Hutch shook his head. “Garner Manning’s something of a break in the normal academic food chain. Nathan said Manning is quickly making a name for himself as an expert in his specialization. He did his doctoral work at Princeton and has turned down several tenure-track offers from high-ranking universities to stay at Jameson. Working with him will be a feather in Nathan’s cap.”

“Trust you two to pick a maverick.” Dobey’s smile turned slightly smug. “I won’t have to worry about your paperwork when he gets through with you.”

Starsky and Hutch rolled their eyes in unison at the Dobey-humor. Starsky dug in his pocket for his keys and stepped slowly backward to the door. “That all, Cap’n?”

“No. Here’s the deal. You two chase down any face-to-face leads here and handle the Jameson angle, but I want you to delegate the phone calls and desk work.”

“Aye, Aye,” Starsky said, and flung his partner a look that urged swift and immediate departure before the captain could change his mind.

 

 

Hutch watched Starsky’s shoulders slump once again in perfect concert with rounding the corner in Wetherby Hall en route to Room 225. “Starsky, what’s the matter? If you don’t know by now that Garner doesn’t bite–”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know that he’s some big shot.”

Hutch smiled and briefly clasped his partner’s shoulder. “He might be a big shot in his field, but you’re a big shot in yours, partner. I bet one read-through of your jacket would impress the hell out of him. It impresses the hell out of me, and I’ve been alongside you through most of it.”

Starsky grinned. “You’re just trying to earn a full body massage,” he said for Hutch’s ears only.

“God, am I that transparent?” Hutch teased. “We’re just here doing our job, Starsk, and if we do it well, Nathan will be safe. That makes us Garner’s friend, unless I’m much mistaken.”

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed. “But we also have to hand him these babies while we’re here.” He waved their class papers for Hutch to see. “And I’d rather walk a tightrope to China.”

“What’s the deal? You were strutting around proud as a room full of peacocks this morning. You couldn’t wait to turn in the paper. I read it, Starsk, and it’s really well done. You have nothing to worry about. I’d have told you on Saturday if I spotted a glaring problem.” Hutch frowned at the sudden change in Starsky’s expression. He knew when Starsky was hiding something. Years of partnership and friendship had taught him not to ignore the thin smile and sideways glance. “Starsky? What’s up?”

But they had arrived at Garner’s office and pinning Starsky down would have to wait. No open door greeted them this time, and Starsky rapped sharply on the wood. A muffled voice called permission to enter, and, with a final heave of shoulders, Starsky opened the door. Strange discordant sounds and animalistic yowling assaulted their ears. Garner huddled over the desk, scribbling madly as the yowls reached a crescendo.

Garner held up his left hand in a bid for silence without even lifting his head. The chanting and what sounded like the roasting alive of a human being culminated in one lone, bone-chilling scream that faded into total quiet. Garner clicked the stop button on the recorder and finished his scribbling with a flourish.

Hutch knew his own expression had to match Starsky’s–a mixture of fascination and embarrassment at overhearing something almost intimate, though Hutch could think of no reason to label it so.

“Hello, guys,” Garner said with a smile as he brushed the hair from his face. “Pull up a seat. What can I do for you?”

Hutch took a moment to luxuriate in the comfort of the worn leather chair, but Starsky chose to remain standing, his hand on the back of Hutch’s chair. “Sorry to interrupt,” Starsky said, pointing at the tape recorder. Garner laughed.

“I warned you about my taste in music. I do my best work listening to that tape, but I can only imagine what it must have sounded like to you. It’s a mourning fable from a small and endangered indigenous people in the interior of the Amazon. To them, what you just heard is the equivalent of someone reciting Shakespeare over the grave of a dignitary. The whole tribe gets involved, with very distinct functions. Fascinating material.”

Hutch decided he had to come back when he had more time and hear the story of how Garner acquired the material. He glanced up at his partner and nearly laughed out loud. Starsky stared at the professor with the same expression that had crossed his face in the presence of Eckworth, the former baseball player. It was no doubt the same expression he would wear around Fats Domino. Nudging him would be too obvious, so Hutch merely shifted in the chair and that caught Starsky’s attention.

“Before I forget,” Starsky said. He stepped forward and held out their papers.

Garner took them and placed them on a small pile he had already accumulated. “Thank you, but I have a feeling this visit involves more than handing in your class assignment.”

“Yes,” Hutch said when Starsky resumed his place beside the chair. “We’re here about Nathan. Have you heard from him?”

Garner frowned. “Yes, I have, a little while ago. He called to say he wasn’t feeling well and that he’d find someone to cover his classes this week. Very unusual for Nathan. Would you mind explaining–” he finished his request with a wave of hands.

“He was doing what we told him,” Starsky said. “Has Nathan mentioned anything to you about strange mail?”

“No,” Garner said thoughtfully, and pushed back from the desk, crossing his legs ankle over knee and resting his hands on his stomach. “I have noticed that he’s been distracted lately.”

“In what way?” Hutch asked.

“We started our joint research in June, and he threw himself into the project with energy and enthusiasm. Left me in the dust,” Garner chuckled. “By mid-July, though, he developed a moodiness that isn’t like him at all, and at times, I thought he was a continent away from what we were discussing. Please tell me what this is about. I can see that you’re here as policemen.”

Hutch smiled. “Sorry to make this sound like an interrogation. Nathan came to us this morning. He’d received a phone call that we have to treat as a potential death threat, especially since it followed a series of anonymous letters stretching over the past two months.”

“Holy God,” Garner whispered, and Hutch breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief. Experience had taught him that some things were beyond feigning realistically, and the level of shock and concern Garner demonstrated fell firmly into that category.

“If anyone asks, the only thing you know is that Nathan has that stomach virus going around,” Starsky said. “He’s safe. We’re keeping him under wraps until we have a handle on the situation.”

“How long do you expect–? This has to be excruciating for Nathan. How long will he have to live in this…this fear?” Garner’s usually jovial expression had drooped into a stark unhappiness totally foreign to him.

Hutch shook his head, wishing he could offer concrete timelines and comfort. “That’s not something we can predict. Usually, if there’s a real motive and intent to harm, we can get a fix on it quickly.”

“A lot depends on the cooperation of the victim, too,” Starsky spoke up. “It helps if we have all the facts.” He rested a hip against the arm of Hutch’s chair and folded his arms. Garner shot him a disbelieving frown.

“Are you suggesting Nathan would withhold information from you, information that would help his own cause? That’s–. With all due respect, Detective, that makes no sense.”

Starsky’s face changed at the use of his formal title, and Hutch winced. This was not what Starsky needed. Maybe completely handing over the case to another team would have been the wise move after all.

“In your world it makes no sense,” Starsky said, and Hutch could have applauded the air of authority, “but in ours, it does. You have to understand the victim. Often, they think the threats are their fault, that they deserve them, and they don’t wanna come clean about why. When you come right down to it, Garner, who likes to admit that someone has motive to hate them?”

“Yes, I see your point,” Garner conceded. “That’s why you’re really here, then? To see if I can offer you insight Nathan wouldn’t?”

“Partly,” Hutch said. “Do you know of any trouble Nathan’s had since he’s been here? Has he mentioned any problems with other faculty members or students?”

Garner shook his head emphatically. “No, not at all. Nathan is silent and reserved around anyone he doesn’t consider a close friend. He has the old-fashioned scholar’s temperament. I think we get along so well because we’re nearly opposites. Despite his aloof nature, though, he’s quite popular here in the department. A cool, level head in a group of often flaky English professors.” Garner’s grin labeled him part of the group.

“What about two months ago?” Hutch asked. “He started receiving the letters roughly around mid-to-late June. Do you know of a milestone event in his life? Did he mention anything major happening shortly before or around that time?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Garner looked amazed. “Well, that’s easily explained. Nathan’s humility and modesty are never in short supply. His novel debuted on bookstore shelves in early June. Other than that, and his arrival here, I don’t know of anything dramatic occurring.”

“What’s his novel about?” Starsky asked.

Garner answered the question at first by bending low and rummaging in the desk’s side cabinet drawer. He straightened and held out a thick hardcover book, which Starsky received, studied briefly, and placed in Hutch’s hands. “You’re welcome to keep that. It’s my spare copy. As cops, you two will probably be able to appreciate some of the themes more than most. It follows a young heroin addict’s journey toward redemption. He dodges the law, loses touch with his family, and lives on the street, but he eventually kicks the drug. After a year of living clean, he manages to pass the military’s physical inspection, goes off to ‘Nam and comes home a hero, bridging the gap with his family. Gripping material.”

“Unusual for Nathan, though?” Starsky’s question echoed Hutch’s thoughts.

Garner laughed. “Yes, definitely. Behold the hallmarks of a successful writer: versatility and outside-of-the-box thinking, plus the willingness to research subject matter. Apparently, Nathan spent an entire summer while he was at Berkeley, wandering through a hard-bitten section of San Francisco, and interviewing people about drug use and the culture that accompanies it.”

Starsky held out a palm to Hutch, who dug in his pocket and placed one of their contact cards on the outstretched hand. Starsky put the card on top of a stack of books and said, “If anyone who doesn’t have a plausible reason for asking about Nathan approaches you, we want to know about it immediately.”

“Or if you receive any unusual mail,” Hutch added, standing. “If this person realizes Nathan’s protected, he or she might be sufficiently clever to attempt reaching him through you.”

Garner’s shoulders seemed to carry an enormous new weight. “Please find the person behind this. Nathan’s a good kid; I don’t understand….” He looked away and it was Starsky who approached the desk and leaned on it until Garner turned his face again.

“We will be on top of this. Nathan’s safety is our primary concern, and we won’t stop until we know exactly who’s doing this and why. Okay? You can count on us. You can both count on us.”

Garner smiled at Starsky’s reassurance and nodded. “Yes, I know that.”

 

 

The third audible tap of Starsky’s impatient palms on the steering wheel signaled the need for Hutch to shake a leg. He offered a hasty goodbye to the person on the other end of the pay phone line and dashed out of the phone booth. “What is it with you and not wanting to wait at pay phones?” he asked, laughing. He shut the car door and tried to stretch his legs with little success.

Starsky shrugged. “So, what’d you find out?”

“There weren’t any outgoing calls from the safe-house this morning, and Marcel and Rudi have been under constant supervision.”

“Constant?” Starsky snorted. “I bet that’s doing wonders for their frustration levels.”

“One-track mind,” Hutch teased.

“And aren’t you glad,” Starsky shot back. “You can scratch out Marcel having an accomplice, too, because he would’a had to arrange it in advance and why would he? He had no way of knowing he’d end up in protective custody.”

“Yeah, as convenient as Marcel would be in the role of culprit, we can cross him off the list. I still think we should pick his brain a bit more about Nathan.”

“Might as well be now,” Starsky agreed, cranking the car.

 

 

“Buck-fifty for your thoughts,” Hutch offered when they emerged from a meeting with Marcel and Rudi. The noon sun created puddles of almost tangible heat on the pavement outside the small house, and Starsky lingered in one–his curls glistening as though he’d just stepped out of the shower.

“Buck fifty? That’ll buy me the General Tsao Special at Peking Express. What happened to a penny?” Starsky elbowed Hutch softly in the upper arm as they walked back to the car.

Hutch grinned. “Seems like you have some weighty thoughts up in that birdcage, and they’ve got to be worth more than a cent. Is that your way of telling me you want Chinese for lunch?”

“That your way of telling me I’m a birdbrain?” Starsky responded.

“You tell me what’s gnawing at you, I’ll pop for the Chinese to-go box, and we’ll call it even.”

Starsky laughed, opening his car door. “Deal.”

Over a shared take-out order of General Tsao Special in the Torino, Starsky began putting thoughts into words. “I know Marcel leaves a little to be desired in the loyalty and integrity departments, but when he talks about Nathan, I wanna sit up and take notice for some reason.”

“I know what you mean,” Hutch said, wiping Szechuan ginger sauce from his chin with a napkin already in tatters. “He might be bitter, but what he says carries a lot of weight, though why I should believe him makes no sense even to me.”

When asked if Nathan had mentioned his novel or his time spent on the wrong side of the tracks in San Francisco, Marcel had laughed non-stop for a solid three minutes. Rudi had just shaken his head patiently and exchanged a sympathetic smile with the detectives.

“Yeah, I can ‘magine Nathan’s got enemies,” Marcel had wheezed, laughter dying slowly, “but it ain’t any hypes in San Fran, I can tell ya that. The day Nathan Rowell gets within three feet of a stranger druggie, I’ll get nominated for mayor. I can recall one summer after Nathan started college, when white boy was still pretendin’ to know us, LeRon got hold of some bad stuff. Not bad enough to land him in the hospital, but he suffered–pukin’, shakin’, talkin’ out his head. Umm…bad. Nathan was with us, but did he help me with LeRon? No. He practically sat his white ass in a corner with his back turned to us, and acted like he was in a whole ‘nother world. You tellin’ me he went looking for some hypes to tell him the facts of horse so he could write a book? Wanna buy a bridge?”

Hutch jerked back to the present to find Starsky’s fork in mid-lunge for his last piece of chicken. “You could have asked,” Hutch said, and handed over the bite of chicken willingly. Starsky smiled.

“You were a million miles away, thought you wouldn’t notice.”

“I was thinking about what Marcel said,” Hutch sighed. “I’m starting to wonder if this St. Nathaniel image Garner has of Nathan isn’t just a façade.”

“Don’t say that,” Starsky pleaded, swallowing hard. “Please don’t. I don’t wanna end up going head-to-head with Garner about Nathan. He might start calling me ‘Officer’.”

Hutch burst out laughing in spite of himself. “Starsky, you’re a nut. A lovable one, I’ll admit. The man may appreciate the weird howling of a rain forest tribe, but he’s not deity.”

Starsky balled up his dirty napkin and flung it across the seat. “Hey, he’s my first professor, all right? Those Academy instructors don’t count. Right now, this guy’s a cross between Santa Claus and Bigfoot, and I’d prefer to keep him on the Santa side of things, if you don’t mind.”

Hutch snorted and dumped the napkin along with the empty food cartons in the bag at his feet. “All right. We quiz Nathan about this San Francisco angle and then wheel through his old neighborhood?”

“Bingo.”

 

 

Starsky leaned precariously back in the chair and yawned. “Too many ODs in the last two months, but to think that this many were women! I don’t know what it tells you, but it tells me somebody somewhere isn’t getting the job done.”

Starsky didn’t add that he felt they weren’t getting the job done, either. Nathan had sworn that he’d had no trouble during the “research” for his novel and that none of the people he interviewed even knew him by his real name. The interviews Starsky and Hutch conducted in his old neighborhood produced no hint of motive for death threats, and the list of eligible suspects was dwindling rapidly. Finally, they received a call on the radio from Charlie Collins in Records, who had completed a search for feminine victims of drug overdose within the last two months, the timeframe Starsky and Hutch knew LeRon had possibly been working for a heavy player in the drug trade. They had returned to the station immediately for a look through the files.

“Wait a minute! Wait just one minute!” Hutch shouted exultantly, and then looked ashamed that he was cheering over the record of a drug-related death.

“What you got?” Starsky asked, and shot forward until the chair rested again on four legs.

“Candace Courtney, age thirty-two, wife of Ben Courtney, and former resident of 2203 Palm Acres. She died on July thirteenth. Case closed a week later.”

“Ritzy part of town,” Starsky said. “Is that your last file?”

“Yep. Last of the bunch.”

“Yeah, no one in my pile matches the profile. I’d say the late Mrs. Courtney might be the answer to some questions. Who handled it?”

“Anderson and Phils,” Hutch answered. “Check the roster, will you?”

Starsky did as he was bid and discovered that Anderson and Phils were not on shift. “You’re calling one of ’em at home, partner.”

“Why do I have to make the call?” Hutch demanded.

“Because the file was in your pile,” Starsky said with flawless logic, grinning at the signs of exasperation taking over Hutch’s face.

Grumbling, Hutch reached for the phone and dialed a number with his pen tip.

Starsky kept one ear on the phone call, but he seized the Courtney file and had a peek for himself. He was soon engrossed, though he couldn’t pinpoint a reason. It felt somehow surreal to read about this woman whose death had been such a contrast to her upper class suburban American life.

“That was a waste of time,” Hutch griped over the slamming of the receiver down in its cradle. “Phils had nothing to offer beyond what’s in the file. The husband pitched a fit and demanded a full investigation, but there was simply no evidence that anything but an ordinary OD had occurred. Cocaine.”

“Interesting coincidence here,” Starsky said, waving the folder. “Her children had been handed over to the care of grandparents the evening before. She was found the next afternoon when her husband returned from a business trip.”

“One good thing.” Hutch stretched in the chair, folding his arms behind his head. “From what Phils said, Mr. Courtney won’t have a problem with us asking a few questions.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Starsky reached out and towed the phone over to his side of the desk.

 

 

The Courtney estate was quietly lavish. The centerpiece on a cul-de-sac of equally sedate palaces, the mansion’s stucco and Grecian columns meshed with more taste than usual, and the stately cedars and shrubbery seemed perfectly at home with the palm trees that gave the neighborhood its name. The Torino announced their arrival noisily on the cobblestone driveway and Hutch let out a whistle when the motor died.

“Higher on the ladder than the Danbecks,” he commented.

“This is definitely one of those times Dobey’d want us to pull out the velvet gloves. What’s this guy do?” Starsky exited the car and, for some strange reason, felt the need to shut the door gently.

“Advertising exec.”

Starsky stared at his partner. “What, does his company hold the contract for Coca-Cola?”

“Makes you wonder,” Hutch said, smiling.

They reached the elaborate portico and climbed the steps, each man staring in opposite directions at the wealth that surrounded them. Surprisingly, Starsky’s knock on the door was answered by Mr. Courtney himself rather than a butler in finery.

“Detectives? Come in, please. I’ll just be a minute. It’s time to tuck Andrea and Andy in. Make yourselves at home in the living room.” A smiling, slightly plump man, he pointed across the massive foyer at an open door and then hurried up a spiral staircase.

Starsky and Hutch had barely gotten accustomed to the plush suede sofa, when Mr. Courtney appeared in the doorway and offered refreshments. At their polite refusal, he nodded absently and wandered over to a love seat across a massive wooden coffee table from them. “I don’t mind answering your questions, but I don’t know what I can possibly add to what you already have on record. Why are you even here?”

“Mr. Courtney, we’re sorry to resurrect painful memories, but we’re investigating the possible connection between your wife’s death and another drug-related death that occurred last Tuesday,” Hutch said in his softest voice.

“Yes, yes I read about that in the paper. What possible connection–? I don’t understand.”

“There’s a chance that the sources of the drugs in both deaths are identical, and we’d very much like to find that source and shut it down,” Hutch answered.

“Mr. Courtney, we’re interested in whatever you can tell us about your wife’s habits, state of mind, social circle, and anything else that stands out in your mind prior to her death. Even the smallest detail might be important.” Starsky didn’t realize that his earnest expression spoke louder than his words.

After a prolonged stare, Mr. Courtney slouched care-worn in the loveseat and began to talk.

 

 

Hutch looked up from Nathan’s novel and watched Starsky pace between the kitchen and the greenhouse for the third time. “What is it?”

Starsky stopped, but he didn’t turn around. “I should probably head back over to my place for tonight.”

Hutch dropped the book to the side and shot off the couch as though propelled. “Why?”

“Think about it, Hutch. We do have to be more careful. Huggy was right about that. We’ve been together non-stop the last week–”

“What happened to the man who wanted me never to sleep without him again?” Hutch’s voice shook with the memory of their last serious disagreement months ago that had precipitated his leaving Starsky to sleep alone while Hutch worked through his feelings.

“I still want that,” Starsky said, overly loud in the quiet apartment. “But how is our buying a house together gonna look if someone gets wise to our spending every night at each other’s places, huh? It’ll be hard to explain it away as an ‘investment’ then, won’t it?”

“Not tonight,” Hutch said, and punctuated his argument by wrapping his arms around his partner from behind. “Please. You were really affected by the Courtney interview and I want you in my arms tonight. Tomorrow night, okay?”

But Starsky didn’t linger in the embrace. He pushed Hutch’s arms away and slapped randomly at the nearest kitchen chair. “Why wouldn’t I be affected, dammit? You want me to believe Candace Courtney turned her back on her kids and got into drugs ’cause she was pissed at her husband, who didn’t want her to go back to school and study journalism?”

“That’s what he’s come to believe, Starsk. Who knows what the truth is? Courtney feels his wife was unhappy, unfulfilled, and maybe she was. The Danbecks’ marriage looks solid on paper, but who knows what happened behind closed doors? Or, it might have nothing to do with marital happiness. People turn to drugs for all kinds of reasons; you know that.”

“No leads!” Starsky shouted. “No proof of a connection between the two cases. Nothing in Candace’s appointment book. Nothing! No answers about Nathan. No forensics to go on. Nothing! What the hell are we doing wrong?”

Hutch gripped Starsky by the shoulders and twirled him around effortlessly in his eagerness to squelch his partner’s rage. “Hey, babe, easy! We have that country club lead to follow up in the morning. Maybe Candace’s closest friend can shed some more light. Step-by-step police work, Starsk, that’s the only way to go with this one.”

Starsky sighed and buried his face in Hutch’s neck, covering the skin beneath his lips with tiny kisses that Hutch felt somewhere in the vicinity of his soul. “It’s late,” Starsky murmured into the pink spot Hutch could tell he had created. “You want that full body massage I mentioned this afternoon?”

“Nope,” Hutch laughed. “I want you to make slow love to me face to face, if you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Starsky brushed a hand through Hutch’s hair, and Hutch took the one word as an invitation to initiate a slow motion, deepening kiss.

 

 

Hutch woke suddenly to a bright Tuesday. He was at once alert and flooded with energy, and he loved the mornings that allowed the sunshine to filter in and show off the enticing figure of his bedmate. Hutch flung back the covers and stretched, growl-purring in the warmth that was only partially due to the strips of sunlight on his skin.

“Better have a good reason for throwing the covers off me,” whispered his bedmate in a loving tone.

Hutch laughed. His lover’s voice was beautiful. Music. A favorite song heard anew. “Plenty. Morning run, shower, shake–”

“Oh, no. You’ll exercise with me right here, we’ll shower together, and I’ll fix you my famous eggs-over-toast.”

“But, honey, I’ve got to go to work.”

True to form, the bed’s other occupant deepened his voice at the silly, running joke. “If you turn this into a ‘Leave it to Beaver’ moment, Hutchinson, I’ll kick you outta this bed.”

Hutch grinned and pounced, play-tackling the man who opened his arms and braced for impact. “Starsk, I don’t even like your eggs-over-toast. Sorry, buddy.”

“Then eat me and you won’t need breakfast,” Starsky suggested, lips curving into a delicious pout that Hutch couldn’t resist. The kiss that followed should have given the sun heat-envy. Starsky’s fingers curled around Hutch’s head and held him in place. He tightened his legs around the blond’s waist and flipped him over with an ease that stole Hutch’s breath.

“I love you,” Hutch whispered, scanning Starsky’s rugged face one square centimeter at a time. “Let’s get it on, tough guy.”

He smiled as the words took effect, darkening Starsky’s eyes and firming the hardness that nudged Hutch’s own morning erection. Hutch thrilled that his rock-solid comfort in his own strength and masculinity allowed him to praise his partner this way. The words weren’t meant just as a turn-on or a line of seduction. They were reaffirming, recognizing the battle Starsky had fought and won to reach this point, a means of congratulating Starsky on wielding the same strength he had before assassin’s bullets ripped his world apart.

“May I take your order?”

Hutch yawned extravagantly and blinked his eyes, but Starsky’s snarl of desire told him the effect had been sultry rather than discouraging. He reached up and traced Starsky’s eyebrows with a fingertip. “Let’s keep it simple. Just need to feel you in my arms.”

Starsky laughed. “One Friction Special, coming right up.”

Hutch groaned and rolled his eyes simultaneously. “You’re a lunatic, I ever tell you that?”

“More times’n I can count. Now shut up and hold on for dear life.”

Hutch nodded, face flushed. “That I can do,” he half-moaned, as Starsky grasped their cocks in his capable hand and initiated an energetic dance of rub, strop, and glide, utilizing the hard-earned flexibility in his toned legs and muscular thighs.

Watching Starsky’s face go through the stages of their morning lovemaking always set Hutch’s heart on fire. First Starsky’s eyes deepened to midnight blue, and his chin lifted, mouth opening in part gasp, part smile. The beads of sweat that gathered on his forehead as the pace quickened caught the sun and seemed to light the handsome face from within. Poised for climax, Starsky closed his eyes, and the fine trembling in the eyelids matched the tremors in his lips as he panted softly. Finally, he sucked in air, and swallowed hard, throat visibly tightening, body tensing, cock jumping against Hutch’s in the cradle of Starsky’s palm. “Ah. Ah! AH! Yes, now!”

Hutch shouted his own orgasmic joy to the four corners of the apartment. He loved the surrender of the moment when Starsky’s body drifted down to meet his. Starsky smiled and didn’t bother to open his eyes before he whispered, “So good, Blondie.”

“Last night was pretty damn good, too.”

Starsky drew in air and blew heated circles around Hutch’s chest. “It must have been; I thought you passed out in my arms.” His eyes were open now and beginning a targeted study of Hutch’s face.

“It would’ve been your fault if I had passed out–you are undeniably legend material as a lover.”

“I take it that means you’re satisfied?” Starsky’s lethal grin widened, as he wiped at the remnants of their encounter with the sheet.

Hutch’s own lazy grin intensified and he twitched under the sheet’s ticklish movements. “Sure. You name our sex acts like a short-order cook’s menu; why wouldn’t I be deliriously happy?”

“Bozo.”

Hutch stirred and rolled out from under Starsky’s weight. “I can still get in my run. Why don’t you grab a quick shower and fix that eggs-over-toast?”

“Thought you didn’t like it,” Starsky said, and the hand grasping Hutch’s wrist indicated that Starsky’s desire for conversation extended beyond breakfast dishes. Hutch turned his fingers, caressed the hand holding him, and then pulled free.

“I’m post-coital famished. I’d eat poached squirrel right now.”

“Ugh.” Starsky grimaced. “There goes my appetite, thanks. What happened to us showering together?”

Hutch snagged a convenient pillow and swatted Starsky’s butt. “You insatiable lust demon! I know you and I know me. We end up in the shower together and we’ll be late for work. I have no desire to be on Dobey’s bad side today.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Is this going to be one of those days you call me names every chance you get?” Hutch teased, both blond eyebrows quirked.

“Maybe,” Starsky said, scratching his chin in an imitation of Hutch’s pensive gesture. “Scram, go run. You stay here looking like that and I’m gonna show you what a lust demon I can be–stockpile some lovin’ since we’re sleeping apart tonight.”

“Don’t remind me,” Hutch said, mood dampened.

 

 

A pleasant if somewhat rushed breakfast and the clear skies lifted Hutch’s mood. By the time he and Starsky arrived at Pacific Alder Country Club, Hutch felt a thrumming sensation that they were on the verge of a turning point in the Danbeck investigation. Starsky gave no appearance of sharing the intuition, but that might have been because his full attention centered on the massive, sprawling building that constituted the main clubhouse. It was a rustic beach cabin injected with human growth hormone, possessing sufficient square footage to house a small town, and lined with its namesake, red and white Pacific Coast Alders.

Starsky’s mouth never closed during the trek from their visitor’s parking spot to the main entrance. At the door, Hutch tipped a finger beneath his partner’s chin and deftly re-hinged the strong jaw. “They won’t want you drooling on the carpet,” he whispered.

Starsky’s responsive glare could have burnt the place to ashes, but Hutch recognized it as a teasing challenge. Starsky finally laughed. “Put that smirk back in your hip pocket,” he ordered, and held the door open for Hutch.

They homed in on the welcome desk where a middle-aged woman in full female golfer regalia presided. When asked where to find Yvonne Louis, the woman pulled primly up to her full 5’2″ height and demanded a reason. Both Hutch’s manners and Starsky’s charm failed miserably, their badges did little good, and finally Starsky resorted to the childish but effective method of toying with an expensive crystal pelican that served as the desk’s centerpiece décor. Horrified, the woman scolded Starsky, and in the same breath told them Yvonne could be found in a club meeting on the second floor, conference room number three.

“If you’d dropped that pelican, it would have come out of your paycheck,” Hutch said as they mounted the impressive carpeted stairs.

“What happened to communal property? Besides, don’t knock what works,” Starsky chuckled. “Your Minnesotan good manners weren’t doing the trick.”

“Yeah, your suave Valentino act fell short too, pal. I had a brief nightmare that you’d call her ‘toots’ and get us thrown out of the place.”

Starsky grinned evilly. “She might’ve gotten a charge out of it. I mean, how many opportunities do you think she’s had to be called ‘toots’ by–?”

“Paul Muni? I wouldn’t know. You’re awful, you know that?”

Starsky smiled. “Just the way you like me.”

“Do I ever!” Hutch smiled back.

Conference room three proved easy to locate, thanks to the clubhouse’s design. The second floor rooms opened on a hall that overlooked the massive lobby. Starsky and Hutch turned in the right direction from the top stair and their walk to the conference room was short. The heavy closed door made of Canyon Oak gave the room a nickname on a brass plate beneath its number. Starsky spent no time appreciating the décor–he lifted a fist and rapped loudly enough to be heard by the guardian of the pelican downstairs.

A full minute elapsed before the door opened a crack and a young woman peered into the hall. Her eyes widened to the point of popping. Hutch smiled. “We’d like to speak to Yvonne Louis, please.”

The young woman turned her head to speak to the room’s inhabitants, but she didn’t close the door. “Two men want to see you, Yvvie.”

A shocked, stern voice exclaimed, “Men? Men! We have never had a meeting disturbed by men in the history of our existence. Yvonne, you should be ashamed–”

“Don’t play the prude act, Celia, and stop harping on Yvvie,” said a second voice. “You’ve probably entertained three behind closed doors when Harold’s not home.”

“Why, you poor excuse for an alley cat!” Celia shouted.

“Ladies, ladies,” soothed a third voice, “I’m sure Yvonne will be happy to share.”

Hutch turned to Starsky and mouthed, “When I count to three, you run. I’ll hold ’em off.”

“You better be right behind me, partner.”

Escape hopes were dashed when the young woman at the door vanished and a taller, older woman took her place. She stepped into the hall and shut the door behind her. “I’m Yvonne. What’s this about?” Upon sight of their badges, she sighed. “I suppose you’re here to ask me about Michelle Danbeck. This way. There’s an open lounge down the hall.”

Starsky and Hutch exchanged an astonished stare prior to following the swimsuit-and-sarong-clad woman. “We wanted a connection,” Hutch whispered.

Starsky nodded, for once bereft of a snappy retort.

The lounge’s bar was closed, ensuring the room’s emptiness and privacy. Yvonne settled in an old-fashioned wing chair, crossing her legs so that the sarong-skirt showed off a discreet amount of tan flesh. Something in her face placed her at forty years old, but her figure called to mind Jayne Mansfield in her prime, evidenced by the barely there bikini top.

“Who told you we were friends?” she asked, shattering the silence. “God knows, she didn’t talk about the club, or me, to her husband. Gregory has specific ideas about what’s proper for a doctor’s wife and what isn’t.”

“The club?” Hutch asked, somewhat at a loss.

“Yes, the meeting you just interrupted, sending Celia into heart spasms. The Women with Means and Goals Society. It’s a fancy name for a bunch of society women who want to live their lives as they please, despite miserable wretches of husbands. I no longer have to worry about that albatross, but they let me stay in the club.”

Hutch realized he must have looked mildly alarmed, because Yvonne burst out laughing and said, “I didn’t kill him, guys. Honest. I’m no black widow. I divorced the tight-fisted, controlling ass, and took him for a beauty of a ride. Now, about Michelle–”

“Actually,” Starsky interrupted, apparently sensing that Hutch suffered temporary failure to form words, “we came to ask you some questions about Candace Courtney. Her husband told us you were her closest friend.”

Yvonne paled. “Candace. My poor Candace.”

Hutch found his vocal chords still produced sound. “We’re also investigating Mrs. Danbeck’s death, so any information you can–”

“Let me start at the beginning,” Yvonne interrupted. She fidgeted in the chair and said, “I need a cigarette. You wouldn’t–?”

“No, sorry,” Starsky said.

“There’s a vending machine at the back of the lounge, and there should be a box of matches behind the bar.”

Starsky rose without hesitation to do her bidding, and Hutch floundered for something to say to the woman who sat three feet away from him attempting to hide her trembling. “Are you cold?” he managed, already slipping out of his jacket, though he knew temperature had nothing to do with the tremors. She’s afraid.

“Yes, thanks,” she said, shooting him a grateful and astute smile. “Damn the ceiling fans all over the place.” She let him drape the jacket over her shoulders, and then sat back in the wing chair, curling inward and no longer trying to show off her assets.

Starsky returned bearing a pack of Pall Malls and a box of matches. “Sorry if it’s not your brand,” he said, handing them over. “It was all the machine would give me.”

“I’ll make do,” she laughed. She went through the ritual of tapping on the carton, extracting a cigarette, and lighting it. After a few exploratory puffs, she frowned. “Nasty things. Remind me I should quit. Six months ago, Michelle had a miscarriage. Traumatic. Gregory tell you that?”

Silent headshakes and raised eyebrows.

“No, he wouldn’t have,” Yvonne said. “Private man, Gregory Danbeck. She was devastated. Nothing seemed to bring her around. Gregory came up with the bright idea of little shopping and beauty excursions into the city twice a month, sans kiddies. Pamper the outer woman to heal the inner one– that was his thinking. Not bad for a man, I have to admit. She started having her hair done and spa treatments at this place in the artsy-trendy part of town. La Boutique Vivien. I was all for it at first, but about two months into this so-called therapy, I could tell something was off. Michelle just wasn’t the same. She was happier, but…I don’t know. With any other woman, I might have suspected drugs. Not Michelle. I thought she was having an affair.”

“Did you confront her?” Starsky asked. Yvonne puffed and blew a languorous smoke ring.

“Yeah, she brushed me off like an ant. Our friend Candace decided to take her on as a project. A piece of investigative journalism, if you will. No doubt Ben Courtney told you about his wife’s appalling obsession?” The sarcasm she directed at Ben Courtney was as acrid as the cigarette smoke.

“He told us she wanted to go back to college, and he made her promise she’d wait until the children were in junior high,” Hutch said.

“Ah, yes. Ben’s a self-made man. That means the money comes with a Puritanical work ethic that smears off on the poor woman who gets saddled with him. No butler, no housekeeper, maid just once a week. He wanted his children to have a normal life with a stay-at-home mom, et cetera. Candace was smothering. No wonder she wanted to tag along with Michelle. And she did. Tag along, that is. I don’t know how, but she got herself invited on one of those city day-trips and she made a habit of it.”

Yvonne stopped and puffed rapidly, her free hand raking unsteadily through her dark hair. “About a week before Candace’s death, she came over to my house all excited. Told me she’d been ‘undercover’ and she was about to break this huge story about a beauty salon drug-ring that involved her husband’s biggest client. ‘That’ll show Ben,’ she said. Candace Courtney, freelance journalist. That’s all she would tell me, and whenever I asked about Michelle, she just laughed and said Michelle was fine.”

“And you didn’t take her seriously,” Starsky’s tone was clearly declaratory.

Yvonne’s eyes watered. “No, God forgive me, I didn’t. Admit it, boys, a wealthy housewife sounding off about a drug-ring involving some unidentified big shot is pretty far-fetched, and Candace always did have one hell of an imagination. I wasn’t even convinced that Michelle was up to anything but haircuts and fruit peel facials.”

“Why didn’t any of this come out after Candace’s death?” Starsky asked.

Yvonne jabbed her cigarette viciously into the ashtray on the side table and laughed harshly. “Kind of hard for me to chime in all the way from Costa Rica. I left two days before Candace died for a cliff-touring expedition. I didn’t get home until a week ago. Her husband wouldn’t speak to me or anyone else in our club, because he blamed us all for her death. I couldn’t even get hold of Michelle. Then, Michelle turned up dead.” She shuddered.

“Have you talked about this with anyone else?” Hutch asked.

“Are you kidding me?” Yvonne yanked out another cigarette and waved the pack at her chest and head. “Bust size isn’t always inversely proportional to brain size, Detective. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s keeping my own counsel. How do you think I ended up with an alimony check the size of Texas? I kept my pretty mouth shut until the time was right. Same here.”

Why do I feel she just cracked a whip at me? Hutch managed a smile. “Do you know anything about Courtney’s clients?”

“You mean do I have an idea who the big shot is? No. Courtney Marketing Consultants handles some top-flight accounts in this burg. You’re gonna have to go to the horse’s mouth for that one.”

“Did Michelle or Candace ever mention anyone in connection with the boutique? Even casually in conversation, someone whose name you didn’t recognize?” Hutch asked. Starsky caught his eye and rewarded him with a private smile he reserved for praise of Hutch’s detective skills.

Yvonne scrunched her face, deep in thought. “No, not that I recall.” She looked ten years older. “I have a lot of regrets, boys. I’ve made some humdinger mistakes. Nothing compares to losing two of my friends because of my damn non-interference policy. Splendid isolationism, that’s my greatest character flaw.”

 

 

“Tell me you’ve got something,” Captain Dobey pleaded. “Just tell me that and I might get up the appetite to eat this.”

“What the hell is that, Captain?” Hutch asked, peering over Starsky’s shoulder. Starsky was glued into a position of investigation, bent over the desk and obviously battling an instinct to poke and probe at the glob of something on the captain’s plate.

“My lunch,” Dobey whined in answer. “Edith just brought it by. It’s supposed to be meatloaf made out of some healthy substitute for meat. Now, I ask you, why still call it meatloaf?”

“Probably because meat-substitute-loaf doesn’t sound as appetizing,” Starsky mused aloud, receiving a severe Dobey grimace for his trouble.

“Now, Captain,” Hutch said, “I’ve actually tasted–”

“Hutchinson, if you tell me you’ve ever eaten meatless meat, I’m going to revise my opinion of you. If you tell me you liked it, I’ll kick you out of my office. Starsky, sit down! I’m afraid this stuff’s alive and you’re making it nervous!”

Hutch concealed a laugh behind a sympathetic cough and waited until Starsky was seated to broach the topic of their investigation. “Yvonne Louis was a gem,” he began.

“So you’re getting somewhere?” the captain asked, brightening.

“We were getting somewhere,” Starsky replied. “Right now we’re up against another brick wall.”

“I’m not following,” Dobey said, lifting his fork from its initial probe into the wonders of meatless food.

Hutch quickly related what Yvonne Louis had to say. Starsky couldn’t remain seated. He meandered around the office, interrupted Hutch several times to add thoughts of his own, and finally dropped back down in the chair just as Hutch concluded.

“So tell me what this has to do with another brick wall?” Dobey asked. He had been eating small bites from the dubious meatloaf while listening, but now he pushed aside the half-eaten meal with visible loathing and spat inelegantly into his napkin.

“Well, first thing, we requested a list of Courtney’s top accounts and the contact person for each one,” Hutch said. “Then, we checked out the beauty salon angle. There was an appointment at La Boutique Vivien listed in Mrs. Danbeck’s scheduler on the day of her death, but when we checked with the boutique, the receptionist said she never arrived. We ran down the location today and found the place closed. Big sign on the window said ‘closed for remodeling.’ The manager of the dress shop next door said it was open for business on Saturday but not a soul in sight Monday morning. We’re trying to track down the owner, a Ms. Leslie Edwards.”

“You think we could scrounge a warrant to get forensics in there, sweep the place for prints?” Starsky asked.

Dobey nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. You think it’s legit, this ‘story’ Mrs. Courtney was about to break?”

“Evidence is slim, Cap’n, and I don’t know how the hell we’re going to prove that either woman was murdered, but that’s what Starsky and I both believe with every gut instinct we’ve got. Candace stumbled onto something, somehow, that got her killed–”

“And Mrs. Danbeck?”

“Here’s where we’re back to theory,” Starsky said. “We think Michelle wasn’t scared off by her friend’s OD, but finding out she was pregnant again just might have made her think twice about recreational drug use. Unfortunately, if she happened to let slip any connection with Courtney, or they suspected any connection, she became an instant liability when she wanted out of the game.”

“And LeRon Markus?”

“We haven’t worked that out either, Cap’n.” Hutch stood and stretched.

“But you have a theory.”

“That’s all we have!” Starsky burst out. “Long on theories and short on facts.”

“Repeat this outside my office and I’ll put you both in R & I for a week,” Dobey said, “but I put more stock in the theories I get from you two than some people’s evidence. So let me hear it.”

“The Angel thinks LeRon was someone’s errand boy; we agree. We think he was hired to clean up someone’s messes. Those messes included Candace and Michelle. Michelle wasn’t killed at home and we don’t think Candace was, either, but that’s where she was found. How did she get there? It seems highly plausible to us that LeRon was supposed to drive Michelle home and set up the same neat and tidy OD with drug paraphernalia similar to what was at the scene in the Courtney house. Only, he decided in Michelle’s case, he didn’t want to play ball.” Hutch walked over to the door and took the knob in hand.

A knock on the door to which Hutch was temporarily attached surprised everyone in the office. Hutch jumped back and opened the door at the same time to admit Minnie, who waved a sheet of paper like a flag in a processional, all victory and smiles.

“Tell me that’s–” Hutch reached for the paper, but Minnie clutched it to her chest.

“What do you say, Hutch?” she teased.

“Thank you, schweetheart,” Starsky said, applying a feather-soft peck to Minnie’s right temple.

“The magic words,” Minnie said, and she placed the sheet in Starsky’s hands before nodding at the captain and breezing back through the open door.

“Yeah, I’ll remember that, Minnie!” Hutch called after her.

“Hutch, Hutch, Hutch!” Starsky shouted in increasing volume.

Hutch shut the door and rushed to Starsky’s side, looking over his shoulder at the sheet. “Well, well. Coincidence?”

“You really wanna accept that?”

“Translation!” Dobey barked.

“It’s the listing of Courtney Marketing Consultants’ top five accounts, Cap’n, plus the name of the person who has the final say-so on any advertising work,” Starsky answered. “Take a peek at who tops the list.” He handed the sheet to the captain, who shifted forward in the seat and two-fisted it.

“Memorial Hospital. Memorial Hospital! Are you suggesting–?”

“The name, Captain,” Hutch said.

“Kevin Chandler, CEO.” Dobey scratched the side of his nose. “You’re thinking that’s the reason Michelle Danbeck’s car was left on Chandler Street?”

“Got it in one, Cap’n,” Starsky applauded. “That’s never looked random to us. Any street in that part of town would’ve made us think twice. I’d bet you my next vacation leave that LeRon watched over that car from a hidden vantage point until the cops showed, so everything would be intact for us. If he was that determined, then there was probably purpose in the location, too.”

“How would a gofer like LeRon tumble to the ID of the head honcho?” Dobey asked, skepticism tightening the corners of his mouth.

“That we may never know, Captain.” Hutch shook his head and shrugged. “He could have overheard, seen something–”

“Memorial!” Starsky slapped Hutch on the shoulder. “Hutch, Chandler would’ve had access to Gregory Danbeck’s surgery schedule–”

“And Ben Courtney’s business trip plans. It’s a cinch if they socialized, which they would almost have had to for Candace to know him, that he could find out any number of ways when Ben would be out of town.”

Sensing they were leaving the captain behind, Hutch turned to the desk. “We’ve been puzzling over the families being out of the picture around the time of each death. It wasn’t luck; it was carefully arranged.”

“You do know you can’t go anywhere with this.” Dobey said firmly. “It sounds nice; bet it would even look good on paper, but a lawyer would shred it six ways to Sunday. You need a lot more before you can even approach someone in Chandler’s position. Be thorough. Go over those other accounts on that sheet with a fine-tooth comb, too. Even if Chandler’s the guy, we may never pin murder on him, you know that. But if he’s running an illegal operation on the side, I want it stopped. So get something that will stick like flypaper!”

“Flypaper, Captain, per your request,” Starsky said grandly, bowing with a smile and jogging back to the door.

“Another thing. Stick close to each other while you’re digging away at this. If you’ve stirred up a largish hornets’ nest, I don’t want either of you stung because someone got the drop on you separately.”

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a somber look. The captain had endured the last few close calls right along with them in spirit. All three still carried the memory-scars of the train derailment and the attempted murder following it, and Dobey knew how lucky they were to have escaped death in the porno film sting. Lizzie and Flores bore the true marks of that criminal’s cruelty. The captain didn’t have to contend with physical injury, but the added gray in his hair testified that his heart and gastrointestinal system probably suffered, too.

“We’ll be extra careful, Captain. We’re on our guard now,” Hutch said.

 

 

They made a late meal of take-out sandwiches at Starsky’s apartment. The rest of their shift had produced no earth-shaking results in either the Danbeck case or Nathan’s. Nathan had welcomed their brief, touch base visit, and he seemed unruffled by the enforced absence from Jameson, but he could offer no answers to their probing questions about his past and who might view him as an enemy.

The second half of Starsky’s sandwich, piled high with every cold cut imaginable and a host of condiments Hutch didn’t even want to identify, languished forgotten on the plate while Starsky toyed with a potato chip. “I don’t get the boutique, Hutch. It’s one thing for it to be closed, but when we can’t find hide nor hair of the owner or any employees, that’s an admission of something shady!”

“Yes, but it’s also a highly intelligent chess move. We’re dealing with a cool customer, Starsk. He’s willing to sacrifice profit to keep the overall operation under wraps. If we can’t find anyone, we’re stuck. We can’t even get forensics in there unless the DA can pull special strings. Yvonne doesn’t give us a lot of ground as far as the boutique’s concerned. Candace never named La Boutique Vivien.”

“It’s a buffer!” Starsky blurted, and plunked the chip down on the plate so hard that crumbs spilled over onto the table.

“A what?” Hutch’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“A buffer. I don’t think the top business exec at Memorial goes into drugs on the side and settles for a boutique operation that caters to pampered society women. Huh? Do you? He’s got bigger fish to fry elsewhere–that’s what he’s trying to protect.”

“Keep us sniffing around the boutique and we’ll overlook something along the way.” Hutch caught on to the line of reasoning.

“The question is, what?”

“Yeah.” Hutch sipped at his lemonade and frowned at the quarter of turkey-sprouts pita left in his plate.

“What?”

Hutch looked up and smiled, but he felt an odd twisting in his chest. “You want me to–?”

Starsky reached across the table and seized his hand. “Babe, no, I don’t want you to go.”

“You know, Dobey’s right. We should stick together.” Hutch maneuvered his fingers to stroke Starsky’s palm.

Starsky grinned. “Hate to break it to you, but my willpower had drained down to zero before Dobey said anything about hornets’ nests.”

Hutch pointed their joined hands at Starsky’s sandwich. “You should finish eating.”

“I’ll wrap it up.”

Reluctant to break their connection, Hutch sacrificed the comfort of holding Starsky’s hand for even closer contact. He eased out of his chair and squeezed between Starsky’s chair and the table so he could bend down over his partner, and the kiss he planted on Starsky’s forehead was as gentle as his hands grasping the tan, lightly furred forearms that rested in Starsky’s lap.

“I take precedence over a Salvatore’s Everything Sub? Damn, Starsky, I think you love me.”

Starsky pushed the chair back and rose to take Hutch in his arms. “With that look in your eye, I think I should be asking your intentions, Mister.”

“There’s a difference between intentions and plans.”

“Really?” Starsky breathed into Hutch’s ear.

“Really. My intention is to love you the rest of my life and beyond. My plan in the next half-hour is to put my lips on you wherever they’ll do the most good. Any objections?”

“Not if you let me make it a team effort,” Starsky laughed, and tugged on Hutch’s arms until he met Starsky’s open mouth with his own.

“Hey, sixty-nine’s a number I’d consider having tattooed somewhere,” Hutch said into the kiss, causing an eruption of louder laughter.

 

 

Starsky hung up the phone and rubbed behind his neck. He perched on the table facing his partner at the coffeepot. “That’s the last one. The person who signs off on advertising for Barber Industries is a glorified secretary to the marketing VP. So, except for Kevin Chandler, no one on Minnie’s list qualifies as the type of person we’re after. That doesn’t prove anything, but it narrows the field in my opinion.”

“I’ll go you one better.” Hutch warmed his coffee with the remainder in the pot and set the empty carafe down in the nick of time. Dobey’s office door flew open, startling both detectives. The captain eyed them critically, his scrutiny lingering on Starsky’s heat-rumpled blue shirt and scraggy jeans, and shook his head.

“Let me guess.” Hutch’s volume was intended to include only Starsky and the captain. “The chief’s still in there with you and he wants to see us.”

Dobey nodded soundlessly, but his weary, trapped-in-the-middle expression could have served as an explanation delivered in Morse code.

“Aw, damn, we’re in deep this time,” Starsky said. Dobey nodded again and crooked his finger.

Hutch relinquished his coffee cup and frowned. “Something tells me Wednesday is about to start feeling like a Monday.” He straightened his plaid shirt, smoothed a hand over his hair, and brushed by Dobey into the office.

“Terrific.” Starsky squeezed in a “Why us?” look at Dobey on his way past. Hutch stood in the center of the office, and his rigid stance told Starsky that something in the chief’s demeanor must have given Hutch the extreme danger signal. Consequently, Starsky stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with his partner, conveying solidarity.

The office door closing gave the chief his cue, because he turned from his study of the window and removed his glasses, scratching at his balding spot with the ear-guard of one arm. “What’s this nonsense I’m hearing about Kevin Chandler and drugs?”

Dobey flashed them an apologetic shrug from the post he took up behind his desk.

“One of several leads involves Kevin Chandler, yes,” Hutch evaded.

The chief slapped on his glasses and crisscrossed his arms. “I’m here to tell you right now that it’s a dead end and you’d be advised to expend your energy in a different direction.”

“Just a minute,” Starsky said. “We aren’t going at this blind. We have good reason to be sweeping under his doorstep.”

“Well,” the chief snapped when silence had reigned for a few uncomfortable seconds. “Let me hear it.”

Hutch launched into a convincing summary of the leads that pertained to Kevin Chandler. When Hutch finished the recitation, Captain Dobey looked impressed, but the chief appeared unaffected.

“You’re basing your suspicion on a tenuous connection between a street junkie and a housewife amateur reporter who didn’t even name Chandler specifically?” Chief Ryan’s question was couched in an effective sneer. Starsky’s shoulders tensed immediately and he took a step forward, but Hutch’s hand on his lower left arm halted his progress.

“New information, Chief,” Hutch said. “I just got off the phone with Ben Courtney. Kevin Chandler is the only person on that list of contact names who socialized in the same circle with the Courtneys. Candace would have been less likely to recognize any of the other clients, by name or face.”

“You went directly to Ben Courtney with this!” the chief’s face darkened. “What’s to keep him from hassling Kevin?”

Hutch shook his head. “Chief, give me some credit. I phrased the questioning in the context of testing an unnamed witness’ reliability. Courtney bought it without a problem. He has no reason to hassle Chandler.”

Starsky had picked up on another part of the chief’s remark. He forced eye contact with his superior. “Kevin? How well do you know him, Chief?”

Ryan was too seasoned a cop to acknowledge the implication of Starsky’s probe, but his voice sounded strained, “I know him well enough that I won’t be swayed by doubtful connections and barely reliable sources of information.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Starsky said, matching Hutch’s edgy expression. “You were more than ready a few years ago to listen to a junkie, a hooker, anybody who said we were cops gone bad, but you think our sources in this case are barely reliable–”

“I haven’t known you two hotshots for three decades!” Ryan blared. “You’re talking about a man who has single-handedly kept one of our city’s finest hospitals solvent during the rocky economic crunch, who’s responsible for a mission clinic being built in one of the poorest sections of Belize–”

“I’m sorry, Chief,” Hutch said quietly, “but that won’t wash with us. Gunther could have been president if he’d wanted to. That didn’t stop him from running one of the largest crime organizations in the country. Hell, Gunther Industries funded two orphanages and a children’s hospital in addition to several charity groups.”

Ryan stabbed a finger at Hutch. “Kevin Chandler is no James Gunther. I know him like the back of my hand. He was best man at my wedding. I was a pallbearer at both his parents’ funerals. He had dinner at my house last night, for God’s sake. You think I can have a long-standing relationship like that with a person and not know what they’re made of where it counts?”

Starsky rubbed an itching palm against his fist and counted to ten. “Let me see if I understand you, sir. You’re asking us to ignore evidence based on your character reference?”

Captain Dobey put a hand over his eyes and lowered his head, breathing deeply.

“Evidence!” Ryan exploded. He gestured at Hutch. “Like the evidence that would have convicted Detective Hutchinson of murder a couple years ago? What the hell did you go on when you ignored every vow you swore as a cop to keep him out of prison? A damn character reference, if that’s what you call it.”

Hutch’s hand on his angry partner’s shoulder was solely responsible for Starsky not issuing a sharp retort that would only bury them both in trouble. Keeping his hand on Starsky’s shoulder, Hutch said, “We will pursue the leads we have, Chief. Or are you directly ordering us not to?”

“No, I’m not, Hutchinson, and you know it. It’s no secret how I feel about you two and I’m certain where I stand in your estimation, but this is about justice, not personalities. You bring me solid evidence that Kevin’s in the drug business and I’ll slap the cuffs on him myself. Until you’ve got that evidence, you stay the hell away from him. Is that clear, Detectives?”

“Ten-four, Chief,” Starsky said shortly.

Chief Ryan looked prepared to add something to his orders, but he shook his head, flung a hand out in a gesture of futility, and stormed out the other door into the hallway.

Dobey exhaled loudly enough to be heard across the room and drummed a fist on his desk. “You two,” he wagged the fist at them both, “make enemies out of the damnedest people.”

Starsky groaned. “Aw, Cap’n, you heard him. He wants evidence, but he wants us to give Chandler a five-mile-wide berth on all sides while we get it. What kinda police work is that?”

Captain Dobey frowned, sterner than he’d looked in some time. “You just climb off that high horse, Starsky. That man went to bat for you a couple years ago. IA could’ve had your badge over the situation with Hutch and you both know it. Chief Ryan might not be your idea of a best buddy, but he knows you’re a damn good cop and he made sure you came out of that situation smelling like roses compared to what could’ve happened.”

A hush fell on the office, no one anxious to disturb it. Dobey sat down and shooed them toward the door. “Go on, get out there. Get me evidence on somebody. I want this case nailed down yesterday!”

Starsky beat Hutch to the door. Once the door slapped shut behind them, Starsky smacked the back of the piggy bank in frustration and slumped down in his chair. “I’ve come outta the principal’s office standing taller’n that.”

“Don’t take it out on yourself.” Hutch squeezed Starsky’s shoulder on his way to his side of their joined desks. “Chief Ryan doesn’t exactly inspire good will.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t think we were stuck as it is without having to keep the gloves on.”

“Belize,” Hutch said.

“Wha’?”

“What was that article I read a couple of weeks ago? Something about Belize being a popular transshipment point for South American cocaine on its way to the U.S.?”

“Belize? That in Latin America?”

“Right,” Hutch answered absently, stroking three fingers across his forehead repetitively. Starsky could hear him sorting through the mental file cabinet.

“Buffer!” Hutch burst out, smiling. “Starsk, what you said last night about the boutique keeping us distracted from bigger fish. Maybe we should be looking farther afield.”

“I think I’m with you, but flesh it out,” Starsky said.

“Belize. What do you say to Chandler working on a new pipeline through Belize? Might explain why he isn’t even a blip on the Narco radar. If he’s still in the process of courting the really big boys, wouldn’t establishing a charity hospital make a nice cover for any in-person appearances he had to make to seal an alliance?”

Starsky pushed his chair back. “You might have something there. It’d be nice to know if he’s actually been making trips, though. Mission clinic…that mean it’s a church thing?”

Hutch nodded. “Far as I know. Catholic, I believe. Ryan’s Catholic. What’s your plan?”

“We’ll hafta do this without the chief’s help. You think you can pull Jack Ives from Bloomington, Indiana out of storage? Just the voice, I mean.”

Hutch scrunched up his nose and moved his lips to produce the twangy falsetto. “Sure, I’m, well, yes, er, yes, of course, certainly I can. Yes.”

Starsky laughed. “Damn, you’re good. That’s perfect. Now, I’ll bet you any sum you like that Chandler’s personal secretary would know his travel arrangements. Right? See where I’m going with this?”

“As if you’d written me a script.” Hutch pulled his phone closer and flashed the fingers of his other hand at Starsky. “Where’s the sheet with his contact number?”

“Oh.” Starsky hunted through the papers on his side of the desk and produced Minnie’s sheet. “It’s 555-3211.”

“Here goes nothing.” Hutch put his face through the necessary gyrations to assume Jack Ives’ persona and dialed the number. Starsky heard a feminine voice answer the phone on the fourth ring. “Yes, hello, good day to you, yes, I’d like to speak to Mr. Chandler, please. Oh, how long will he be out?” He gave Starsky a thumb’s up sign. “Yes, I see, well, actually, er, perhaps you could help me? I’m in charge of the Diocese annual mission report and I, well, this is a bit awkward, but I misplaced the information from the…what? Oh, simple really, you see, I just need to know how many trips Mr. Chandler has made so far on behalf of the clinic in Belize? Yes? That many, my goodness, well, yes, we know he’s dedicated to the project…oh, yes, really? Wonderful. Just wonderful, yes. Thank you so much, this will be very inspiring in our annual report. Yes, thank you. Good-bye now.”

Starsky had been holding one hand over his mouth to stifle riotous laughter throughout the phone call. When Hutch hung up the phone, Starsky dropped his hand and wheezed from the need to express humor. “Oh, man. Man.” His laughter faded in a snort and his face turned all business. “What’s the verdict?”

“Five trips in the last eight months. Of course, the trips could be totally above board, but–”

“But you think we should pump Narco for any info on the DEA boards about that neck of the woods,” Starsky finished.

“Yep. My call or yours?”

Starsky reached for the phone. “I’ll tackle this. Lieutenant Bradshaw owes me one.”

Hutch commandeered another phone. “I’ll try to catch Huggy. This is more specific info he might be able to work with.”

For the next five minutes, their voices mingled in separate conversations. Starsky was the first to hang up and he smiled while Hutch sparred with Huggy. “Thanks, Hug. We’ll make it a full week before we bother you again, okay? Yeah, so I’m lying through my teeth. Must be nice to hear it anyway. Catch you later.”

“Bad, bad, Huggy Bear Brown?” Starsky asked, chin propped in his palm as he studied Hutch across the table. Hutch brushed a hand across his forehead.

“Whew! A foul mood, and I don’t think even he knows why, but I have a feeling we’re actually not to blame in this case.”

“Take your pick: a waitress didn’t show up, the bar’s plumbing’s on the fritz again, or he got stood up last night.”

Hutch frowned thoughtfully. “Huggy’s more complex than that, Starsk.”

“I know,” Starsky sighed his chagrin. “We oughtta give him more chance to show it ’round us.”

“I think when this is over and our plate empties, we should take some time and reassure Huggy what he means in our little food chain. Right now I have a feeling he still thinks he’s plankton. What did Bradshaw have to say?”

“He’s gonna contact a friend of his in the DEA and see what he can pick up. In exchange, he wants to be in on any major bust that might go down, and he’s pretty sure the DEA boys will also want in if they sniff a big party.”

Hutch’s brow furrowed and he toyed with the bridge of his nose. “Great. I can’t say I’m thrilled to be dancing with the Feds again this soon.”

 

 

Starsky watched the round table fill with the other students in the class and half-listened in on Hutch’s conversation with Jeff, who had taken the seat Nathan’s absence left vacant. Movement at his shoulder distracted him and he turned, smiling, to acknowledge Camille Carter. She plopped down beside him and began fishing through her bookbag.

“Where’s your mom?” he asked, watching her arrange her notebook, pen, and copy of “Measure for Measure.”

Camille grinned. “She’s coming. She stopped in the hallway to talk with one of the other professors in the department. I didn’t want to get caught up in the conversation because I have a paper due in his class tomorrow and I’m not prepared to offer a progress report.”

Starsky laughed. “Haven’t started it yet?”

“How’d you guess?” Camille made a show of wiping her brow. “I’m taking eighteen hours this semester like the prize glutton for punishment I am. Don’t tell Garner, but I wrote the ‘Antigone’ paper Monday morning before my first class.”

Starsky couldn’t hold in a frown. Monday morning he and Hutch had been discussing anonymous letters and a threatening phone call with Nathan Rowell. The memory brought home how different their lives were from the average student in this class. He felt a hand on his arm and looked into the young woman’s concerned eyes. “You look tired,” she said.

He smiled. “Pass the soda,” he joked. “It’s been a long week.”

“Hear, hear!” she exclaimed and reached obligingly for two ice-filled cups and the bottle of caffeinated beverage. She poured the soda with the flourish of mixing a drink and handed it to him Kit Carson-style. “Wet your whistle, cowboy?”

Starsky assumed his best Matt Dillon and hoisted the drink high. “Mighty obliged, ma’am.” The freshly poured soda felt good in his mouth and he savored it, but he swallowed hard when Jeff asked loudly why Nathan wasn’t present.

Garner Manning looked up from extracting a pile of papers from his leather satchel and smiled across the table, but his eyes lingered on Starsky and Hutch before he focused on Jeff. “Nathan’s caught the wrong end of a bug that’s been going around. I’m such a taskmaster, I told him to stay home, starve the fever, and feed his research.”

Laughter greeted the joke, and Starsky relaxed, sensing Hutch’s slight tension ebb, too, but he also noted that Garner’s smile only touched the surface and his brow had several new worry lines.

Angela Carter rushed into the classroom, smiled by way of apology at Garner for her tardiness, and sat down beside her daughter. Camille nudged her mother and Starsky heard her ask the older woman if she had managed to wrangle a lunch date with Dr. Stevens. Starsky grinned at the rosy flush spreading on Angela’s cheeks.

“Okay, fellow travelers, are we ready to start class? It’s time to pay homage to the Bard himself. All those heretics who think Shakespeare didn’t pen his own plays, leave the room now.” Garner grinned. “Just kidding. Okay, before we delve into the Vienna of Duke Vincentio, you have a choice to make. I have, as promised, graded your papers. Do you want them now or would you prefer I return them after class?”

A chorus of “now” settled the matter. Garner raised a hand and nodded. He sorted through the pile of the papers and then circled the table, handing each to its corresponding student. Hutch was the third to receive his. He accepted it with no change in facial expression and turned it face down beneath his class text. Starsky had valiantly kept his eyes away from his partner’s paper, but curiosity driven by Hutch’s quick movement itched him. Camille accepted hers with a barely audible relieved sigh and Starsky caught sight of a B+ before she shoved hers into her bookbag.

Garner stopped behind Starsky and half-folded the paper as he handed it down over Starsky’s shoulder. Starsky nodded with a smile and snuck a peek at the paper’s top sheet. His face burned and he let the paper fall into his lap, the victim of a rush of disappointment that made him reach for the soda to quench the sour taste in his mouth. He felt Hutch’s eyes on his profile, baby blue concern warm on his cheek, and he responded quickly with a false-confident grin belying the frantic folding of his paper in half. Starsky shoved the paper into his class notebook and looked away from the comforting shimmer in Hutch’s eyes.

Garner finished handing out the papers and resumed his seat. He rummaged in his satchel. “One more piece of housekeeping this week. I’d like to discuss the final paper. It’s twenty percent of your grade, so I want to give you plenty of time to plan your strategy. One of the things I like most about this class is the chance to throw some unwritten rules out the window. Therefore, the final paper is an interview project. A scavenger hunt, if you will. Perhaps I better explain that before you question the dean about my sanity.”

Starsky found he couldn’t join in the laughter that paved the way for discussion of the final paper.

 

 

Tom Parkins locked his file cabinet and prepared to leave his dreary State Department office, made drearier by the D.C. rain pouring outside his window. At least the Beltway would be navigable this late, one of the sole advantages to staying so long after hours. A knock on his office door sank his hopes of getting home before midnight. He called out a welcome to the visitor and removed his rain-slicker, hanging it on the coat rack. His special assistant entered, bearing a file.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you just received an urgent phone call. I’ve already pulled the corresponding file. Agent Owens is on line three.” The assistant placed the file on the desk and stood back, awaiting further instruction.

“Les Owens? Wonderful. At this time of night, it can’t be something I want to deal with.” A sudden thought struck and the rain outside seemed heated by comparison. “Don’t tell me.” Parkins picked up the file from his desk. “Well, well, what have the notable detectives stumbled into this time?”

He dismissed his assistant with a nod and picked up the phone, clicking on the proper line. “Les? Why the hell do I have Starsky’s and Hutchinson’s files on my desk at ten-thirty p.m.?”

Parkins listened in varying shades of frustration and grudging admiration.

“This is just what my ulcer didn’t need,” he said in the first pause. “Especially with the Brits asking all the wrong questions up and down the corridors at Whitehall. Last thing we need is for this to reach the Prime Minister. Yes, I’m flying out. I’ll call you when I reach my hotel. We can go over together and meet with their superiors first thing in the morning. They may have toppled James Gunther, but they’re sure as hell not yanking Kevin Chandler out from under me!”

He hung up the phone and yelled for his assistant. When the door opened, Parkins said, “Notify my pilot at Andrews. I’m on my way now.”

“At this time of night? In the rain, sir?”

“Did I stutter?” Parkins shouted.

“No, sir.”

 

 

Starsky glanced at his watch and wished time would accelerate. He should have been able to offer commentary in the current debate, he had the words on the tip of his tongue, but his eyes would fall briefly on his class notebook and the paper within it, and his tongue ended up glued to the roof of his mouth. He fidgeted in the chair and tried to pay attention to the hailstorm of voices around him.

Hutch and his unlikely ally, Janet, were waging all-out battle with Jeff and Lou on the subject of wealth and justice in Shakespeare’s Vienna versus modern-day America. Hutch argued that the brothels remaining open in ducal Vienna’s city limits thanks to well-placed connections served as a snapshot of the corruption in America’s justice system. Janet had taken up the thread with enthusiasm and backed Hutch all the way on the opposite side of Jeff, who launched an argument that the change in class structure should in theory make the U.S. less susceptible to that form of corruption. Hutch countered that democracy and capitalism only made the system more susceptible.

Lou wagged her book at him. “Are you advocating socialism? Or outright Communism?”

Hutch shrugged. “Nothing wrong with a little socialism. In my job, I’ve seen the misuse of rampant capitalism! Communism? As it’s practiced in our world? Definitely not. There’s more corruption in that system than in our dog-eat-dog free market society. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and Communist politicians are servants to their own power rather than the people.”

“Perfect segue into my next question,” Garner said. “Which character do you see as serving his own power interests, Angelo or the Duke? Both? Neither?”

“That’s obvious,” a student across the table answered. “Angelo’s the one imposing the death penalty at the drop of a hat.”

“I don’t think it’s that cut-and-dried,” Camille disagreed. “The Duke is the one whose power is untouched at the end, who sweeps in like some sort of god and arranges things to his own satisfaction.”

“Absolutely,” Janet seconded.

“But the Duke is only concerned with the good of the people and saving lives from unjust death,” Lou argued.

“No,” Starsky said. “Don’t make the Duke out to be a saint. He was all too willin’ to experiment with enforcing the strictest laws in Vienna, but he had to appoint someone else to do his dirty work because he was concerned about his own reputation. That doesn’t say a whole lot for him, in my opinion.”

“What about his reputation?” Lou asked. “I don’t get where you’re coming from.”

Starsky held up his book and flipped to a certain page. “Near the end of the first part…uh…” He flashed a sideways look at Garner. “I mean, the first act. The Duke makes it clear he wants to see more law and order in Vienna, but he’s been so lenient all along he can’t be the one to turn strict without lookin’ like a hypocrite and losing face with the people. So he gets Angelo to come in and do it for him. The Duke’s the one with the power. Angelo’s a hard case, all right, but he’s mostly following orders.”

Angela Carter leaned forward and looked down the table at Starsky. “Are you saying you believe the Duke wanted Angelo to enforce the strictest meaning of the law across the board?”

“Nah.” Starsky shook his head. “I just think he’s a bad judge of character in picking Angelo for the job, and I don’t like that he won’t clean up his own messes. He admits it’s his fault that Vienna’s crime has shot through the ceiling, but his solution is to hide out while somebody else picks up the slack.”

“That’s an interesting take on Vincentio’s character, David,” Garner said, smiling. “Some scholars still insist that he, rather than Isabella, is the moral force in the play. I can tell that you don’t think the Duke is such a paragon, and I for one agree with you.”

“Yeah, and how many of those scholars are male?” Lou jeered. She rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m sure they’re the same ones who criticize Isabella for not immediately pulling up her skirts for Angelo to save Claudio’s life. They don’t get the point that her virtue could be worth as much to her as Claudio’s life is to him.”

“Right,” Janet agreed. “I mean, really, what’s a little coercive sex ever done to harm a woman’s idea of her womanhood, right? Sheesh. It would have ruined Isabella beyond repair to give in to Angelo’s demands.”

Starsky felt a tearing sensation at the words. Lizzie pulled up her skirts or Arturo would’ve died. I’ll never see her as ruined, though, and there’s not a damn thing wrong with her virtue. Womanhood? Lizzie’s the meanin’ of the word.

The painful memories made Starsky’s voice both harsh and loud when his jaw finally unlocked. “People all over the world have had to face horrible stuff to save lives. Womanhood, manhood, what the hell’s good with either of them if someone has to die to keep the idea of them intact? Isabella shouldn’t have had to face that choice, but, yeah, I think her priorities were off. Her brother’s life didn’t seem all that important to her when you get right down to it.”

Thoughtful silence descended in the room. Hutch’s hand clasped Starsky’s forearm and pressed gently, signaling sympathy and shared understanding. Seemingly to underscore the brittle silence, Starsky’s beeper sounded, and all eyes focused more steadily on him. He cleared his throat and tossed an apologetic smile at their professor.

“Um, Garner, that’ll be our captain. Where’s the nearest phone I can use?”

“The main office is closed, but my office is open. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” Hutch said, rising to his feet and gathering his class materials. “Odds are we won’t be returning to class tonight. Sorry about that.”

“I understand.” Garner nodded. “You’ve both contributed your fair share tonight.” He pulled out two slips of paper and passed them down the table. “Here’s the paper assignment due Monday.”

Starsky accepted the slips from Camille and stuffed them into his notebook. He included the whole class in a farewell wave and followed Hutch out of the room. Out in the empty and quiet hall, Hutch nudged Starsky with a fond elbow. “I think you just made mortal enemies out of every woman in the room, Starsk.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Hutch smiled tenderly. “I wouldn’t be setting up a lunch date with Gloria Steinem any time soon if I were you.”

“When would I ever want to?” Starsky countered. “I didn’t mean to come across so hard, Hutch, I just know that….” He frowned. “I know that life is the most important thing. Preserving life is always worth a sacrifice. But I can’t expect those kids to know or understand what we’ve seen as cops.”

“Don’t second guess your opinions or be afraid to share them.” Hutch corralled Starsky’s shoulder with his arm and briefly pulled him to his side before releasing him when they reached the stairwell. “If the beeper hadn’t interfered, I think you’d have jumpstarted a great discussion in there.”

Starsky fingered the technological contraption and grinned. “Glad you suggested we beg one of these from Supply. With the main office closed, Dobey would never have gotten us otherwise. Must be something big for him to pull us out of class.”

“I’m hoping it’s a break in the Danbeck case.” Hutch held up crossed fingers.

Taking the stairs side by side, they rushed to Garner’s office, and Starsky pounced on the phone the minute Hutch flipped on the light. Dialing the captain’s number from memory, Starsky tapped his foot and clicked fingers on Garner’s desk while he waited. Dobey answered on the third ring and Starsky crooked a finger at Hutch. “Captain? It’s Starsky. What’s up?”

Hutch approached the desk and stood close enough to move Starsky’s hair with his breath. His intention was to listen in on the conversation, but Starsky’s smile made it clear that he was enjoying the nearness for more reasons than one. Dobey’s gruff voice continued, informing them that Huggy had called and needed to see them immediately.

“Yeah, Cap’n, thanks, we’re on our way.” Starsky re-cradled the receiver, and his ensuing grin was mere inches from Hutch’s slightly open mouth when turned from the phone. “You catch that?”

“Huggy’s, pronto. Yeah.” Hutch gathered Starsky’s notebook and text from the desk, shoved them under his arm with his own, and used his free hand to caress Starsky’s cheek. “When we get home tonight, I want you to tell me why you were imitating a clam during the first half of class.”

The touch and soft words were too much temptation for Starsky to resist. He pushed his face forward the remaining inch and exhaled a tiny moan when Hutch’s lips tasted and tickled his slowly. No open-mouth throat merging, the kiss was still powerful and sweet, and too arousing to be continued under the circumstances. They broke apart by mutual consent and said, in unison, “Huggy’s, pronto.”

Huggy was practically waiting beside their usual entrance at The Pits. One hand on Starsky’s left elbow and the other on Hutch’s right, the bar owner ushered the two detectives to the nearest bit of secluded standing room. “Dig, I hate to pull you guys out of your class, but this is a hotcake and it won’t wait.”

“That’s fine, Hug, the job comes first. What you got?” Starsky noted that Huggy twitched with the slightly antsy demeanor that meant the Bear knew he’d turned up a gold mine.

“You wanted a lead on foreign coke, right? Well, yours truly tracked down a real cocaine connoisseur, gents. His name’s Luciano Frizzi. This is a one-time only deal. Finding him’s like asking the secret service for the Prez’s itinerary, so you gotta jump now and he’s not gonna go for any squeezing. Informant only, you with me?”

Hutch pushed Huggy’s lopsided multicolored velvet hat back into place and nodded. “Yes, Huggy, as far as we’re concerned, he’s an innocent angel with some interesting information to share. Now where do we find him?”

Huggy promptly returned the hat to its lopsided position with an indignant, teasing glare that spoke of earlier times in the trio’s friendship. “I got the word that he’s currently enjoying a backroom high-stakes poker game in the Satin Nightclub. You’re gonna have to bust in there and make like you’re hauling him in for something, ’cause he won’t stand for losing face in front of his fellow players. Wouldn’t want word to get out that he’s willing to make friendly with the heat. Watch your backs. Some of his fellow players are known to carry hardware.”

“So we’re gonna have to sing for our supper,” Starsky laughed. “Well, this lead sounds worth it. What’s he look like?”

“He dresses like what you’d expect for an Italian playboy. Fancy dark suit and gold, but not too heavy. Short, wavy dark hair. He’ll probably be surgically attached to a curvy redhead as tall as Hutch. Likes ’em shaped like a long-stemmed margarita glass, if you know what I mean.”

“Did he give you any idea why he’s willing to talk with us?” Hutch asked.

Huggy nodded. “That’s the clincher. Apparently, word is surfacing on the street that there’s a nasty cat out there who took two mothers away from their kids. Frizzi don’t take too kindly to that, and he wants the responsible party to spend the rest of his life staring up at a concrete ceiling.”

“Huggy.” Hutch’s voice insinuated that he wanted to broach a serious topic but was uncertain how to proceed. For once, Starsky didn’t exactly know how to help his partner complete the thought, though he knew they were on the same mental wavelength.

Huggy got the message because a bright smile lit his face. “Go on, get outta here. One night soon we’ll burn the midnight oil with brews and pool. I’ll even let Starsky raid the kitchen.”

“Don’t talk about food right now, Huggy.” Starsky groaned, hand over his belly. “I haven’t had a bite to eat since lunch.”

Hutch tugged on his arm. “Come on, Starsk, work first, food later. See you, Huggy.”

The Satin Nightclub covered one corner of a pseudo-trendy street not far from La Boutique Vivien. The middle rung of wealthy society frequented the nightclub for its tasteful, retro-forties décor and excellent cuisine, but the seedier side of society still found its way through the door in the form of eager drug seekers, equally eager dealers, and high-class hookers who insisted on the title, “escort.” Starsky and Hutch spotted at least two designer-garbed working girls just minutes after arrival. Their film-starlet beauty was calculated and they waited hungrily by the bar. The two handsome and young detectives snagged their attention, but only briefly. Dressed as they were, the cops were obviously not rich enough to be on the menu.

They encountered resistance at the back of the nightclub where a camouflaging tapestry partially covered a door. Two well-dressed goons cheapened their Gucci suits with the bulge of holsters and kept stone-faced guard. Starsky rolled his eyes at Hutch and held out his badge.

The goon on the right of the door sneered. “Got a piece of paper to go with the metal, cop, or are you just itching for rejection?”

Starsky held the badge against his heart. “Rejection? Jeez, if you were my type, I’d be real hurt. Unfortunately, I don’t go for the overdressed muscle-head look, so why don’t you just step aside?”

The second, larger guard’s face turned menacing. “Look, wise ass, the man asked if you had a warrant. If you don’t, we don’t have to invite you to the party, so take your shitty jokes back to the slum where you belong.”

Hutch stepped forward and held his badge directly under the muscular man’s chin. “You know, you talk tough for a guy who’s about to have his ass handed to him.”

“You threatening us, cop?” the first guard asked, sneering wider.

Starsky shook his head and grinned. “Who, us? Hell, no. We don’t hafta. We’ll just cause a nice little scene in this pretty club of yours and your employer’ll do the ass kicking for us. We’re here for one person, not to raid your game, so play this the smart way.”

The guards exchanged a quick look. Obviously, they didn’t want to risk threatening their boss’s business, because after a few heavy expletives muttered under their breath, they teamed up to pull the curtain and unlock the door. Starsky patted the larger man on the cheek with his badge in passing, and Hutch winked at the other crestfallen guard.

“That was fun,” Starsky whispered to his partner, laughing at the murderous looks they fielded from the well-dressed muscle.

“Free entertainment! We should come here more often,” Hutch whispered back. He led the way toward the voices, music, and clink of glasses that gave away the poker game’s location.

Just around the corner they found a smoky room filled to the brim with a large square table and six flashy men who each sported a scantily clad woman like a suit accessory. At the sound of the detectives’ footsteps, three of the men jumped up from the table and whirled, their hands reaching into their suit coats.

Starsky’s hand flew beneath his over-shirt, and Hutch had a hand over the bulge of his own holster. Starsky held up his right hand and smiled fiercely. “Now, now. This doesn’t have to get ugly in front of the ladies. Mr. Frizzi has a date at the police station, and we’re here to escort him personally.”

A suave man in his mid-thirties, and dressed just as Huggy described, leaned forward and waved his hand of cards like a fan. “You better have something to back that up, or I’m going to be insulted. Sitting here, minding my own business, having a good time–”

Knowing that their contact, unlike the guards, would not call their hand on a false warrant, Starsky produced a properly sized and folded piece of paper and plopped it down on the table in front of Frizzi. “You have been having too good a time, Frizzi, that’s the problem.”

Frizzi picked up the paper and glanced inside. He rose to his feet and bowed at the man beside him. “Sorry about this, Mr. Franco.”

“You need some help, Luc?” Mr. Franco asked, casting chilled looks at Starsky and Hutch.

“Thank you, sir, but no. My lawyer’ll have me squared away and back here before the last round.” He pulled the six-foot and top-heavy redhead at his side forward for a smooch. “Keep my seat warm, baby.”

“That’s not all I’ll keep warm, Luc,” she said with a crystal laugh that matched the dewdrop diamond pendant hanging low on her chest.

Hutch grinned across at Starsky. “The man’s optimistic, I’ll give him that.”

Frizzi shot him a cold glare. “You can take me in, Officer, but you better know your place while you do it.”

“You tell him, Luc!” laughed another card-player.

Starsky pulled the cuffs from the back waistband of his jeans and put Frizzi through the formalities. “We tried to bring gold cuffs along, but they don’t understand that high class felons like yourself need more’n standard issue.”

“You’re pushing your luck, cop. Get your laughs because you’ll be the one crying an hour from now.”

Frizzi walked tall and calm between the two detectives through the nightclub’s bar and dance area. Only when they reached the sidewalk outside did he relax his stance. Hutch turned and said, “Huggy Bear sent us.”

“I figured as much,” Frizzi answered while Starsky removed the cuffs. “I know you two. Only two cops with the balls to waltz into the backroom of the Satin like you own the joint. I appreciate the act, boys. You did me a good turn; I’ll do you one. Let’s go somewhere I can get respectable Italian and I’ll answer your questions.”

“Now that’s a good idea,” Starsky heartily agreed, conjuring up mental images of overflowing pasta dishes.

 

 

Hutch had patiently listened to Starsky sing Luciano Frizzi’s praises for ten minutes. They had only been at Starsky’s apartment for fifteen. Hutch was equally thrilled that they had uncovered solid answers about the possibility of a Belizean drug pipeline and a connection between Leslie Edwards, the boutique owner, and Kevin Chandler, but he was ready to table that discussion in favor of another one.

“Starsky, it’s getting late. We’ll take this information straight to Dobey and the chief tomorrow, and see where it gets us. Right now I want to know what happened in class tonight?”

Starsky had been randomly tidying the apartment’s living room while he talked. He had pushed Hutch forward on the couch so he could straighten the cushion, rearranged the contents of the coffee table, and carted old newspapers into the kitchen for discarding.

Hutch had had enough. On Starsky’s second pass through the room, he left the couch and intercepted Starsky’s movement with open arms. Starsky stilled in the embrace and allowed his forehead to droop against Hutch’s shoulder. “You’re going to have to talk about it, babe, because you know I’m relentless when it comes to anything that’s eating at you.”

Starsky nodded. “I know. It’s my paper. Got a C on it. That’s probably what I should’a been expecting, but it was still tough to take when I’d been hoping…. Dammit, Camille wrote her paper the morning it was due and got a B+ on the thing. You got an A+ on yours, no doubt.”

“C!” Hutch shouted. “Garner put a C on that paper?”

“Uh–” Starsky’s face darkened with discomfort that Hutch didn’t understand.

Hutch released his partner and looked around for Starsky’s class notebook. “Where is it, let me see it.”

“Hutch–”

“Where is it?”

Starsky shook his head and muttered, but he walked back to the kitchen counter and brought the notebook and its hated contents to Hutch.

Hutch extracted the paper and tossed the notebook onto the couch. He studied the top sheet and read the professor’s comments. “This is bullshit,” he announced heatedly.

He flipped through the paper, scanning the words, and he felt his stomach churn. Several puzzle pieces fit into place. This was not the paper he had read on Saturday night when he and Starsky had completed their assignments.

“What is this?” He heard the coldness in his voice, but couldn’t do anything about it.

Starsky looked more vulnerable than Hutch had seen in some time. “Hutch–”

“This isn’t the same paper I read. What is this?”

Starsky sat down on the sofa and folded his arms over his knees. Head down and attention focused on the carpet, Starsky told Hutch about his visit to the Jameson writing lab and the few hours he had spent re-working his paper according to the advice and suggestions of the honor student who assisted him.

“So that’s where you really were Sunday afternoon. I knew you didn’t take that long to buy the measly amount of groceries I found in your fridge that evening. Why, Starsky? Why did you go to all that trouble when you’d already written a damn good paper?”

Starsky lifted his head and scowled. “A damn good paper, huh? Who’re you fooling, buddy? If I got a C on this one, what do you think I’d’ve gotten on that amateur hour production I wrote Saturday?”

“Amateur hour?” Hutch raised two hands, palms up, and then let them fall to his side. “You think I wouldn’t have found some nice way of telling you if you’d written something unacceptable, partner? I gave you my honest opinion of that paper. I was damn proud of it, and of you!”

“Give me a break. I read your paper that night while you were asleep. It was….” Starsky shrugged and glanced around the room, as if hoping to find the proper words written on the walls. “It was incredible! I knew I had to have some help if I was gonna come up to that level.”

“Level!” Hutch shouted. “What level? What are you trying to prove, Starsky? You’re about to make me regret that I’m taking this class with you. If you’re going to turn this into some competition, I want no part of that. On the basketball court, fine. At the pool table, great. Not with this. This is too damn important to you.”

“You don’t understand,” Starsky said, eyes averted.

“I don’t understand what?” Hutch moderated his voice but the tension still electrified the room. “You want to talk about level, hm? You think my paper was that brilliant? I’ve got news for you, Mr. Literary Critic.” He stormed over to the kitchen table where he had dropped his own class books and seized his paper. In three strides, he stood in front of Starsky and shoved the paper into his lover’s lap.

Starsky took two deep, audible breaths before he looked down. His eyes widened and he grabbed at the paper. “B-! He gave you a B-?”

“Read the comments.”

“Hutch–”

“Read them!”

Starsky flushed at the barked order and began to read aloud, “‘Your writing is commendable and your writer’s voice is as polished as your commentary in the classroom, but you’ve failed to convince me of your position in this paper. You answer the questions, but without conviction and with little argumentation. This leads me to believe you haven’t given deep thought to the text or to this particular assignment’.”

Hutch snatched his paper out of Starsky’s loose grasp and dropped it on the coffee table. “There! Incredible, was it? Garner obviously didn’t think so, and you know what, he’s right!”

“I don’t understand,” Starsky said, subdued.

Hutch sat down comfortably on the floor between Starsky’s feet, rested his back against the sofa, and wrapped his arms around his partner’s knees. “Starsky, for me, this class is just a fun distraction from the daily grind, and last week, the daily grind had more of my attention. You know what it was like. I don’t know why the heroin connection was getting to me that badly, but it was, and I couldn’t concentrate on something as abstract as ‘Antigone.’ I shouldn’t have turned anything in–I’m not concerned about a grade–but something wouldn’t let me shirk it totally so I sat down and tapped out that bit of fluff. I’m damn glad Garner saw straight through it or he wouldn’t be worth his Ivy League Ph.D.!”

Starsky reached down and rubbed his hands along Hutch’s arms. “Babe, I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m sorry.” Hutch planted a kiss on each of Starsky’s knees. “I shouldn’t have blasted you like that. I’m just frustrated because that original paper was right on target. It had all of your unique way of thinking, your clever common sense, your strength of belief. You don’t waffle like I do, Starsk. The conviction Garner wanted was all through your paper, and you let some Phi Beta Kappa know-it-all sanitize it. Makes me mad.”

“You’re Phi Beta Kappa,” Starsky pointed out with pride in his voice.

Hutch shrugged off the whole Phi Beta Kappa Honor Society with a scornful smile. “Yeah, so? What of it? I know I make noise about being the brains in this partnership and God knows I get a charge out of you thinking I’m some kind of intellectual. I’ve even tried to reinforce that opinion you have of me, but it’s time now for a moment of truth.”

“You don’t have to say–”

“No, listen to me. I have nothing on you, Starsky. What I got out of a college education, you’ve picked up with your super sharp observation of the world, your reading like some kind of word-addict, and that sponge-like memory that holds everything from weird trivia to little-known geographic facts. You’re a professor’s wet dream, Starsk–someone who really likes to learn and wants to absorb knowledge.” Hutch heard the developing snickers behind him and looked over his shoulder into Starsky’s laughing face. “What?”

Starsky just laughed louder, snorts interspersed with the merry chuckles.

Hutch smiled, catching on to the trigger of his partner’s humor. “Yeah, okay, I better never get the impression you’re Garner’s wet dream or there’ll be hell to pay!”

Starsky’s laughter eased into a sideways grin, and he leaned over to squeeze Hutch’s shoulders. “I don’t think he swings that way, partner.”

Hutch wagged a warning finger. “Neither did you until my superior charm converted you.”

He trembled under the tightening of Starsky’s kneading hands on his shoulders and the husky streetwise voice that whispered, “You wanna remind me how glad I am to be a convert?”

“Is that a proposition, Detective?” Hutch asked, reflecting that his cock had already decided it was.

“Yep. It’s the last chance ya get to say ‘no’ before I throw you on the floor and ravish you.”

“Jeez, I’m supposed to reject such a romantic come-on? Come here, you.” Hutch seized Starsky’s magic hands and pulled him down onto the floor. They maneuvered in a jumble of arms and legs away from the coffee table and sprawled on each other, mouths communing, hands grasping and massaging by turn.

The music of their foreplay was a chorus of panted requests, loving commands, and Starsky’s whispery dirty talk that pushed them both dangerously to the point of no return. Hutch had long ago decided that Starsky’s hands were perfectly fashioned to torment the hard-on that struggled painfully for release in his pants.

“Time out,” Hutch breathed shakily around Starsky’s insistent lips. “We’re both–stop that, you demon–too old to make out on the floor.”

“Old?” Starsky laughed and nipped at a convenient earlobe beneath blond wisps. “Says who? I’m feeling sixteen. I could dry-hump you into oblivion just for the hell of it.”

“Let’s?” Hutch moved his mouth and latched on to the tip of Starsky’s nose.

“Yeah, let’s.”

“Ah, you’re hot all over, Starsk. Feel the heat through your clothes. Shirts go, though. Want my hands on your chest.”

“Right. Here, raise up. There. Hey, Hutch, you’re supposed to be taking off my…oh, ye-a-ah, babe.”

Stripped down to bare chests, but still clothed from the waist down, they rolled together, laughing in unison at the fun of revisiting adolescence, though with a new twist, and put their strength into arcing and colliding, groin to groin. The mixture of heat, innocence, and novelty made the passionate kisses and necking seem equally new, and both lovers found they couldn’t withstand the tide that propelled them to shaking, trapped, but no less thrilling, climax.

When Hutch could spare the breath for speech, he said through a chuckle, “Can’t believe I just had back-seat sex on the floor of your apartment.”

“Um, was good, too! I think I busted the damn thing.” Starsky reached down between them, but Hutch intercepted his hands.

“Don’t even joke about that possibility!” Hutch laughed, using his own hand to search for evidence that Starsky’s equipment was still intact.

Later, they cuddled nude and clean in bed and waited for sleep to come. Starsky was trailing soothing kisses in a circle around Hutch’s left nipple, and Hutch smiled at the special attention, tightening his arms around his love and breathing deeply in an extended yawn. Then the kisses ceased, and Hutch realized that two deep blue eyes probed his face on a scavenger hunt for important answers.

“I know the real reason you were mad about my paper,” Starsky said, holding Hutch’s gaze like a sleek panther mesmerizing jungle prey.

“You do?”

“You feel that I didn’t trust you. And me running off to ask some college kid for advice would have to make you feel that way. I understand. We’ve always been each other’s back-up.”

Hutch sighed. “That’s part of it, I’m sad to say. Pretty selfish of me to want you to restrict your college resources to what I can offer. I don’t want that. I want you to explore everything college can offer you. Meet people who can enrich your time there. I want to be a part of your college life even when it’s just you taking classes, but I don’t want to smother you.”

“All right. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll try to cram in all the enrichment I can, if you’ll promise to be my editor from now on.”

Hutch buried an open-lipped kiss in Starsky’s curls. “I’ll do my best. You sure you want a B- editor?”

“Aw, shaddup, you’ll ace the next one.”

“Speaking of the next one, I don’t want you to take my word for how good that first paper was, Starsk. I want you to go see Garner. I’m sure he’d be happy to read the paper and let you know if you were on track. That’ll help you feel more confident about writing this next assignment.”

Starsky squirmed, and Hutch knew he was battling the embarrassment of approaching his professor in that capacity. After a moment, though, Starsky nodded against Hutch’s shoulder. “Okay, fine, but not until we get this case squared away more than it is now. Not to mention figuring something out on Nathan’s situation.”

“Deal, partner. Go to sleep.”

“Already there,” Starsky mumbled, drowsing.

Hutch smiled and closed his eyes.

 

 

Thursday morning had an almost festive air. A quick and playful shared shower, in which they made a hilarious race of bathing each other, preceded a snatched breakfast of bagel for Hutch and Danish for Starsky, and then they were out the door. Hutch credited progress in the Danbeck case with his own rejuvenation, but Starsky simply seemed happy with life in general. He had flirted shamelessly with Hutch throughout the early morning’s activities, hummed various rock tunes, and appeared to be walking on an invisible trampoline. Whatever the reason, Hutch loved the energy and joy he saw in his partner’s face. He knew that Nick’s crime and punishment still rankled and haunted Starsky in the shadows, but sunshine had returned to the sparkling blue eyes, the laugh lines, and the smile that flashed at all the right moments.

Their mad dash through morning traffic to reach the station and put the wheels of cornering Kevin Chandler in motion took a third of the usual time. As soon as the Torino stilled in the police garage’s parking spot, Hutch sprang from the car and crossed around to jokingly open the door for his partner, who stepped out like a movie star preening his tuxedo.

The jovial banter ceased upon arrival in the squadroom. Captain Dobey waited by their desks, and his expression wasn’t unlike the one he wore at police funerals.

“Captain? What’s wrong?” Hutch extended a hand in an instinctive gesture, but let it drop before it reached Dobey’s shoulder.

“That hornets’ nest you’ve been stirring up,” Dobey said, “has a few wasps in it, too. The chief’s in there and I expect you two to forget your differences with him and show some police solidarity. He’s had a tough blow. Imagine finding out that you never really knew your best friend, after all. Now imagine finding that out twenty years from now. And Starsky, tuck that damn shirt in, will you?” He turned and shut himself in his office, leaving the detectives dumbfounded.

Hutch watched in numb shock as Starsky began tucking the long-tailed beige and black Izod shirt into his jeans. “You’re going to let Dobey start telling you how to dress?” he asked, knowing immediately afterward that it was stupid question under the circumstances.

Starsky nodded, finished tucking in the shirt, and then reached out to fold down the upturned collar of Hutch’s summer jacket. “Yep. Some major fit has hit the fan in there, partner, and I want the odds stacked in our favor.”

Choose your battles, right? Not a bad idea. Hutch immediately tucked his green t-shirt into his khakis for good measure. “All right. Let’s beard the ogre in his den.”

The first thing Hutch noticed on entering Dobey’s office was Chief Ryan’s slumped posture in a chair beside the desk. The second thing he noticed was a man standing in front of the window, facing the city and wearing the unmistakable navy blue windbreaker with the large, yellow DEA letters on the back. Most amazing of all, a man in a nondescript black suit and white shirt sat in Dobey’s chair while the captain stood beside the file cabinet. Hutch and Starsky exchanged a look that conveyed astonishment, concern, and reassurance in the blink of an eye.

The captain noticed their entry and waited until the door closed. “Detectives, our visitors are DEA Agent Owens and Tom Parkins with the State Department. They’re fully aware of who you are.”

Dobey’s last statement had an ominous ring and Hutch felt a gathering dread. He must have tensed, because Starsky inched surreptitiously closer to his side.

“Have a seat, Detectives,” Tom Parkins suggested, indicating the empty chairs.

Starsky’s frown was easily interpreted by Hutch, who shared his partner’s distaste for this stranger acting like he owned Dobey’s territory. “Think we’ll stand if it’s all the same to you,” Starsky said evenly.

“Fine with me,” Parkins answered. “I think we’ll get right down to business. Agent Owens and I have had a look at your current case file. We understand that you’ve been pursuing inquiries into the affairs of Kevin Chandler.”

“Yes, in conjunction with a cocaine operation and several unsolved homicides,” Hutch said.

“Correction, please.” Parkins opened a folder and shook his head. “Make that one doubtful homicide and two deaths that are likely drug overdoses, all three of which have absolutely nothing to do with Kevin Chandler.”

“Now, just a minute!” Starsky said sharply. “We haven’t established his innocence, and he’s looking guiltier by the minute.” He turned and addressed the slumped figure of his superior officer. “Sorry, Chief, but we spoke to a source last night that gave us a solid connection between Chandler and–”

“I don’t care if you spoke to the Pope.” Parkins closed the folder with a slap. “I’m telling you what’s going to be written in your police reports. Kevin Chandler is working for us.”

“What?!” Hutch shook his head and massaged his brow. “Since when did a federal agent work as a corporate CEO on the side?”

“He’s not an agent,” Owens spoke for the first time. He smiled and stepped forward to shake Starsky and Hutch’s hands. “Les Owens, Bay City branch. It’s nice to finally meet you two. You should hear Lieutenant Bradshaw guild the lily whenever he talks about you.”

“If he’s not an agent, what is he?” Starsky asked, obviously mollified by Owens’ courtesy.

Owens glanced at Parkins, who nodded. “We first encountered Chandler a year ago in a major drug bust in Miami. He was supposedly there for a conference in hospital management, but he spent his free time courting some major bi-coastal players in the coke game. He was in the wrong place at the right time for us. You can imagine a man in his position was willing to turn over any leaf we wanted. We discovered that he’d brought a top-shelf connection in Belize to the bargaining table in Miami. Belize doesn’t produce cocaine, but the country’s drug kingpins specialize in transporting South American coke.”

“That’s where my department came in,” Parkins continued. “We managed to hush up Chandler’s involvement in Miami in exchange for his cooperation with an ongoing operation. For the last nine months, he’s been steadily moving up the ladder of the Belizean drug scene, and he’s due to meet with the drug czar of Belize two days from now.”

Hutch watched the chief sink lower into his chair and he felt sorry for what he had to say next, but he could find no way around it. “And a clean slate includes letting him off the hook for ordering a hit on an innocent jazz singer, signing off on an execution, and contributing to the deaths of two women with families? Sorry, we’re not playing.”

“You have no evidence that Chandler is directly involved in any of those incidents.”

“We’re establishing a chain of evidence!” Hutch corrected.

“Not anymore, you aren’t,” Parkins argued, hands folded on the desk blotter. “He has to run his organization as if nothing has changed to avoid suspicion. Naturally, one of his lieutenants may have been acting to protect the organization, possibly without Chandler’s sanction. Either way, you cannot pursue any members of his organization, because they would bring Chandler into the open and we can’t afford that.”

“Why?” both detectives asked immediately.

“That, Detectives, is classified information, and you’re not on the need-to-know list.”

Starsky approached the desk and braced his palms just inches from Parkins’ hands. “Listen closely, Mr. Parkins. We have unsolved crimes out there and relatives of victims who need and deserve answers. You either give me a damn good reason why we can’t give them that, or Hutch and I are gonna go out on that street and pursue any lead we’ve got, regardless.”

Mr. Parkins allowed a frown to cross his stony face. “Detective, this order has been handed down from a height you don’t want to contemplate.”

“We’re not scared of heights,” Hutch said acidly. “Let’s go, Starsk.”

They reached the door before Owens said, plaintively, “Parkins, budge a little. These aren’t junior members of law enforcement. I’d trust either one of them with my life, hell, with the lives of my kids, even.”

Starsky and Hutch turned to face the desk and waited. After a curt nod, Parkins said, “I should have expected you two wouldn’t yield to authority on blind faith.”

“We never do. Blind faith can get a cop killed,” Starsky said.

Parkins rose and gestured for Captain Dobey to resume his own seat. “Belize is a small colony under British protection, as you may know, but it’s a country on the move. They have been petitioning for independence. So far, the U.S. has remained neutral on the subject of Belizean sovereignty because of a Belizean land dispute with Guatemala, but that’s about to change. I can’t say when, or how, but the U.S. will be coming down on the side of Belizean nationhood. Unfortunately, the drug czar of whom I spoke is highly placed in the independence movement. He’s rarely seen, but he’s influential. So far his drug involvement is under wraps, but if the United Nations, or the British government, made the connection and censored the Belize independence movement as connected with the South American cartels…well, you can draw your own conclusions.”

“Kevin Chandler’s connection will allow us to deal with the situation quietly,” Owens said. “But if he or one of his associates is arrested here in the U.S., it will be much harder for us to keep his Belize ties off the world stage.”

“Your cooperation will allow Chandler’s meeting to proceed as planned, and you might be indirectly ensuring that a deserving group of people can participate in the global community as an independent nation. Not only that, but Belize will eventually be a full member of the Non-Aligned Movement, not in the Communist Block’s pocket. Is that sufficient reason for you to halt your investigation?” Parkins folded his hands over his mid-section and waited.

Parkins’ appeal had fallen on partially deaf ears because Hutch had fastened on one important word in Owens’ speech. “Quietly!” Hutch took an involuntary step back to the door. “You’re talking assassination, aren’t you, and Chandler’s the bait to lure the target out in the open? God, I thought the CIA was known for dark operations. You mean to tell me the Drug Enforcement Agency and the State Department are in bed together to ‘quietly’ deal with a Belizean drug lord on British protected territory?”

“You have a fertile imagination, Detective Hutchinson.” Parkins’ voice iced the entire room. “You should write a spy thriller.”

“We’re not stupid,” Starsky retorted. “You wouldn’t be here right now if this weren’t much bigger than a foreign drug bust. Belize must be a hell of a lot more important than anybody knows for the government to pull out all the stops and recruit a known drug trafficker as bait.”

“Eloquently put, Detective Starsky,” Parkins snapped. “Belize is important. The reasons why are really none of your concern. And for the record, neither the State Department nor the DEA sanctions political assassinations. We handle our problems in a civilized manner. That’s all you need to know.”

Chief Ryan heaved himself from his chair in the manner of an octogenarian. “If my presence is no longer required, I have official business waiting in my office.”

“Thank you for your time, Chief Ryan.” Parkins didn’t budge from his spot. Owens, however, shook the chief’s hand.

Starsky and Hutch allowed the chief to pass, but Starsky turned just as Ryan opened the office door. “Chief, we’re really sorry. Some things bring us no pleasure, even when we’re doing our jobs.”

Ryan paused. “I’m sorry, too, Starsky. More sorry than you’ll ever know.” He looked at Hutch and then again at the curly-haired detective. “Your best friend turned out to be exactly who you thought he was when you put it all on the line for him. I’m not so lucky.”

Hutch let the eerie silence following the chief’s departure linger, but he couldn’t refrain from stating their case one final time. “So, if Chandler’s in your pocket, he fills you in on what’s happening in his organization?”

“Yes,” Owens answered. “Of course, he’s maintaining the drug involvement at as realistic a minimum as possible.”

“The boutique?” Starsky guessed.

Owens nodded. “Yes, among several other small-time and fairly harmless operations, which we will make certain are closed down as soon as he’s made this final connection in Belize. His associates are under the impression that those are window dressing and Chandler’s working on the big negotiations behind the scenes.”

“Right,” Hutch said. “Then I suppose you know about the multiple high society parties Chandler’s been attending where–we were told last night by a reliable source–some high rollers in the import-export business get their kicks? Parties where the favors aren’t well-stocked baskets of goodies, but premium cocaine that our source says has a Belize stamp on its passport?”

Both Parkins and Owens were visibly stunned, though each showed the shock in different ways. Captain Dobey jumped up from his seat. “Are you suggesting–?”

Parkins recovered first. “We know Chandler’s every movement,” he interrupted the captain. “You don’t need to. Stay away from Kevin Chandler and his organization, Detectives, or you’ll be lucky if you still serve the city as traffic cops.”

 

 

Chief of Detectives Ryan marched through the corridors of Memorial Hospital’s administrative department without noticing a single soul around him. The hallways teemed with workers, the buzz of phones, and chatter from the open offices, but Ryan was oblivious to anything on a conscious level except the pounding in his head. He barely paused at the elaborate desk where Kevin Chandler’s personal secretary served as guardian of the gate outside the CEO’s suite of offices.

“Sir, can I help you? Excuse me, sir, you can’t go in there. Mr. Chandler’s in a–”

Ryan pushed open the door, and four heads turned simultaneously to see who had interrupted the meeting. Chandler held court behind his desk, and his expression was as surprised as the looks on the faces of the three businessmen who sat in plush chairs and nursed fancy tumblers of Irish whiskey.

Kevin Chandler was nothing if not composed. He rose and crossed to the liquor cabinet. “Join us, Ryan?” He poured a stiff drink from the crystal decanter and held it aloft. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce an old friend of mine–”

“No introductions necessary,” Ryan said through a constriction in his throat. “Clear the room, Chandler.”

“I don’t–”

“Clear the room, now!”

Mr. Chandler did as he was bid. With a sweeping gesture, he apologized, “We’ll have to continue this another time. This must be a matter that begs my immediate attention.”

The businessmen left quickly without demanding explanations. Ryan didn’t accept the drink or the seat Chandler held out for him. Chandler shrugged and sat down behind his desk. “What’s this all about, my friend?” He sat forward. “Has something–? My God, Mary!”

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Ryan spat. “Don’t you dare speak her name! I saved your life in Korea, and I’m here to collect on the debt.”

“I see. Thirty years of friendship and you’ve never once brought this up. You must have one hell of a motivation.” Chandler’s voice turned cold. “Why don’t you explain?”

“I know what you are. I’ve just been in a meeting with two federal agents. You know I can’t touch you. So tell me. How could you face Gregory Danbeck at that memorial service? How could you stand there on the hallowed church courtyard and pretend grief to me, you sacrilegious bastard?”

“I did not order Michelle Danbeck’s death. My right-hand man was a little too zealous in protecting my interests. She wanted only to give up a nasty habit that would endanger her unborn child. What good Catholic would fault a woman for that?”

“And the others?” Ryan demanded, fists clenched at his side.

“You’re not here to listen to a list of my crimes, Ryan. Get to the point.”

“I know you. Now that I see you for what you really are. I’ve known your type. I’ve put your type behind bars. But you’re a survivor, a fighter. You have the resiliency of a litter of cats. You’re going to come out of this situation standing tall with the whole world on your platter.”

“It’s a gamble,” Chandler said with a nod. “But it’s a bet I intend to win. Yes, you know me well, despite what you might think after that meeting. What’s this about a debt, my friend? You’re right, I owe you anything you ask.”

“No, you don’t understand debts of honor. You understand deals and bargains,” Ryan accused. “So I’ll make you a deal.”

Chandler laughed and took a sip from his tumbler. “You,” he laughed, “Chief Straight-Arrow? You’re offering me a deal?”

“Some things–some people–are worth sacrifices of principle. You wouldn’t understand that. When you come out on the other side of this, you’d better find a different piece of real estate to set up shop, but if you insist on Bay City, I’ll hold to the promise the Feds have made you and keep your path clear–on one condition.”

“And what’s that? I am intrigued.”

“You stay away from my men. Starsky and Hutchinson. Keep your zealous associates in line, Chandler. There’d better be no unexplained accidents, no strategically placed snipers, no clever sabotage of their reputations. If anything worse than a case of the flu strikes either one of them and I have the slightest inkling you’re involved, I’ll bury you myself. I may bury you first and ask questions later.”

“You’re willing to sell your unsullied reputation to me for them?” Chandler clucked his tongue and shook his head in blatant pity.

“All my unsullied reputation has earned me is terminal tunnel vision. Several times now they’ve proven to me they have a better instinct for truth than I do. This city needs them. The Department needs them. I need them, though I’d never tell them so. Do I have your word?”

“I’d be a fool not to know the value of the insurance you offer me. The Belizean ace up my sleeve saved me in Miami. Having you up my sleeve might be even more beneficial. You have my word.” Chandler wiped his hands with a silken hand towel and extended his right hand for the bargain sealing.

Ryan stared at the hand with loathing, but he shook it firmly. Chandler sighed. “I suppose this means I’m not welcome for Sunday dinner this weekend?”

“The Kevin Chandler who was welcome in my home is dead. No, I take that back. He never existed.”

“At least the Belizean poor have gotten a clinic out of all this, Ryan,” Chandler said. “No one has to know where the money really came from, or would you deprive indigent children of health care?”

Ryan turned on heel and left the office.

 

 

“Dammit!” Starsky shouted for the third time in five minutes. He slammed a fist against the Torino’s door and squirmed with what Hutch recognized as pent-up frustration in the driver’s seat.

Hutch squirmed sympathetically. It was the sort of anger that gave you a fierce hard-on, but would bring no sexual pleasure even if you relieved it. They sat in the public parking lot at a favorite beach spot, trying to come to terms with having their hands more efficiently tied than ever before in their careers.

“It’s worse than ‘Nam!” Starsky shouted again. “Politicians screaming, win the war! But don’t do this. Don’t do that! Rid the world of the Cong, but do it with your hands tied behind your backs. No collateral damage, soldier boy, die first, shoot later! This shit stinks, Hutch! It stinks worse than any I’ve smelled in a long time, and you ‘n I’ve been round the block.”

“I know.” Hutch reached across the seat and cradled Starsky’s twitching thigh in his palm, squeezing gently. “I know, buddy.”

“Candace, Michelle, LeRon, Marcel…Chandler’s hands are dirty with the whole mess, and we can’t touch him. Can’t even complete a chain of evidence against him.”

“There’s hope, Starsk,” Hutch said suddenly, feeling a shiver of vindication run through his bloodstream as a picture took shape in his head.

“Hope! I’m usually the optimist in this partnership, but I don’t see reason number one for optimism, and you’re telling me there’s hope?”

“He’s playing them,” Hutch answered. “I’m sure of it.”

Starsky shifted in the seat and faced Hutch. “What are you talking about?”

“What Frizzi told us last night has fit everything together, Starsky. Why would Chandler risk those killings when he has such a sweet deal going with the Feds? He shouldn’t have to worry about discovery, right? The minute the cops descend, his patrons sweep in and tell them to back off. So why risk it and possibly nix his deal with the boys in suits? You remember how Parkins and Owens looked when I brought up the cocaine parties Frizzi told us about? They didn’t know shit about that, no matter how hard Parkins tried to fake it.”

Starsky slapped both hands on the steering wheel. “He’s playing them! You’re right, Hutch. Hot damn, you’re right! It’s the whole Slick Tony Zucker scam again–cozy up in the Feds pocket, but run a theft ring on the side. Only, this is a grander scale with foreign drugs and murder.”

“Exactly. Chandler’s trying the same dance step. As they say, there’s nothing new under the sun. He’s playing the Feds’ game to earn his freedom, but he’s laying the foundation for a flourishing operation when he steps back into the sunlight. That’s what Candace Courtney must have stumbled onto somehow, but I highly doubt she knew the significance of it. She must have seen something that, if brought out in the open, would tell the Feds their ‘reformed’ ally isn’t so rehabilitated, and Chandler couldn’t risk that.”

“So there’s hope,” Starsky concluded. “We just have to wait until the Feds have what they want out of him. Bide our time until he’s off their leash. I still don’t like it. Waiting’s only gonna make establishing proof and building a case that much harder. We still have no forensic evidence that Candace Courtney wasn’t an accidental OD.”

“I know,” Hutch agreed. “But hope beats the hell out of sitting here and surrendering to that asshole Parkins. I’d cross his ass right now, but I’m fairly certain we don’t want to tangle with a guy capable of unseating Dobey in his own office. That tells me his clout could effectively bury us both in a one-traffic-light town, handing out speeding tickets if we’re not careful.”

Starsky covered the large hand still resting on his thigh with his own hand, warmed from the sun-heated steering wheel. Their fingers plaited and applied pressure to tighten the hold. It was all they dared do in a parking lot filled with beach-goers, but the gesture served its purpose.

“I’ve never wanted you as fast, as hard, as I did when you got in Parkins’ face, babe,” Hutch breathed, smiling. “That righteous fury of yours really lights my fire.”

“Yeah, well you tightened my jeans when you called his hand on the little black op they’re planning, too. I guess it’s just an occupational hazard of working side-by-side with your one and only.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t.” Hutch grinned.

“You kidding? If I didn’t think we’d make the evening news, I’d show this Torino’s front seat some action right about now.” Starsky gave the most lecherous eyebrow waggle in his arsenal, and Hutch’s knees turned to water. “Okay, Blondie, you got that glazed look in your eye. We’d better get this show on the road. We’ve lost this battle, but we’re not gonna lose the war, so let’s get back to work.”

The radio apparently couldn’t resist that perfect cue. Crackling preceded a disjointed female voice, “Zebra Three. Control to Zebra Three.”

Hutch laughed. “Somebody must be looking out for us, knew we needed a work distraction.” He picked up the mic. “Zebra Three. Go ahead, control.”

“Respond to officer request for assistance at Fairwater Condominiums, Number Twelve.”

“Nathan!” Starsky cranked the engine and reached with his other hand for the Mars light.

“Zebra Three is responding. ETA ten minutes,” Hutch said loudly, to be heard over the motor, and replaced the mic. He flipped the siren and braced for the Torino’s scramble through the parking lot.

Thanks to Starsky’s wizardry behind the wheel, they arrived at the small, middle-class condo complex in only seven minutes. No mayhem greeted them, but the detectives discreetly pulled their weapons as a safety precaution. Hutch led the way up the outside stairwell and Starsky followed, back to Hutch, scanning the vicinity for any potential threat.

The knock on Number 12 brought Officer Greene to the door. He waved at their guns. “No need for those, Detectives. Dr. Rowell’s fine. He’s just received another piece of anonymous mail. Looks suspicious to me. You said you wanted to be notified.”

“Good work, Greene, thanks.” Hutch patted the policeman on the shoulder and entered the tiny living room. Nathan sat hunched in the corner of a ratty, sixties-era sofa. Hutch sat down beside him. “Nathan? How’re you doing?”

Nathan shook his head. “I don’t know yet. Haven’t opened the mail.”

Starsky nodded. “That’s a good way of putting it. Well, we’re here now, so where is it?”

Nathan pointed at the coffee table and a bulkier than usual manila envelope. Hutch sought his handkerchief but thought better of it. He motioned for the officer. “Greene, would you go down to the car, there should be a couple pairs of gloves, where, Starsk?”

“Glove compartment,” Starsky answered, towing the envelope toward him with an incense stick he plucked out of a vase on the coffee table. “No return address. Is this the same handwriting as the others?”

“Yes,” Nathan said. “Looks like it.”

“Do you remember if all the notes came on Thursdays?” Starsky asked.

“No, it varied.” Nathan kept his eyes averted from the envelope.

Greene huffed back into the room a couple minutes later and dropped two pairs of forensic-quality gloves on the coffee table. Hutch snagged a pair and quickly slipped into them, reaching for the envelope.

“Isn’t it unusual for a bulky envelope like this to be mailed without metering?” Starsky pointed out the cluster of stamps in the right corner.

“Good catch,” Hutch counted the stamps. “Someone took a chance on this being sufficient postage. That’s odd.” He carefully opened the envelope and peered inside before delving into it. Deeming the content harmless, he squeezed the envelope open and gingerly extracted an 8-track tape. “American Literary Classics: Short Stories.” He handed the tape over to Starsky, who had also donned gloves.

“The first selection is circled in red ink,” Starsky said. “‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’ Edgar Allen Poe. Hey, I know that one. That’s a good story.”

Nathan shuddered. “Yeah, a homicide detective would like that one. The inevitability of crime discovery through the criminal’s guilt impulse being the main theme.”

Hutch stared at Nathan. The young man had turned pale at his own words and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering and sporting visible goose bumps on his bare arms. Even in a Berkeley t-shirt and gym shorts, he should not have been cold in the overly warm condo. “Is this ringing a bell, Nathan? Does that story have special meaning for you that someone else would know about?”

Nathan sprang from the sofa and stopped in front of the bookshelf, clinging to the third shelf as though to steady himself. “No. It’s just spooky. Don’t you think so? Jesus, straightforward threatening letters and phone calls are one thing, but this….”

Starsky cleared his throat and shook his head at Hutch, signifying that he didn’t believe Nathan’s evasion for a minute. “You have an 8-track player?”

Nathan nodded without turning and pointed at the second shelf a few feet from where he stood. Starsky located the device and inserted the tape. Within a minute, a rich and mesmerizing voice filled the room, bringing Poe’s words to life. Hutch focused on the words, the voice, listening for any auditory clue, but Nathan’s electric response distracted him. Backing away from the shelf, Nathan pointed at the player and waved his arm frantically.

“That’s–that’s it!” His voice approached a hoarse shout. “It’s different, stronger, something, but that’s–that’s the voice! The voice on the phone!”

Starsky instantly yanked the tape. He turned the tape over in his hands until he found what he was looking for. “Produced 1968. Recorded by Ms. Gabrielle Turner. Gabrielle Turner?”

“Put it back in, Starsk.” Hutch scratched the side of his nose and frowned. “I know that voice. I know I’ve heard it somewhere.”

Starsky complied. “You know Gabrielle Turner?” he asked Nathan.

“No. Never heard of her.” Nathan backed farther away from the bookshelves when the voice blasted at higher volume. “Look, can’t you take this to your station and listen to it there? This isn’t all that pleasant for me.”

Hutch was lost in the voice. He jumped when silence invaded the room and Starsky tapped him on the shoulder. “Get a bead on the voice, partner?”

Hutch smacked his fist into his other palm and shook his head. “No. It’s nagging at the back of my mind.” He turned to Nathan. “Are you sure about this voice?”

“Y-yes. You think I’m going to forget a voice that reads my obituary to me? The voice on that tape is more polished, stronger, but it’s definitely the same person.”

“And you don’t know anyone by that name? That makes no sense, Nathan,” Hutch said bluntly.

“I don’t see why the hell not!” Nathan stomped over to the sofa and sat down in a huff.

Starsky slid a hand surreptitiously across Hutch’s back and collected the envelope from the table. “It makes no sense,” he told Nathan, “because this is targeted. This is personal. Someone’s tryin’ to send you a message. Communicate with you, and from the way they’re going about it, he or she is convinced you know exactly what’s being said.”

“Then he or she is wrong. What do you want me to say?” Nathan threw up both hands and looked tempted to pull out his own hair. “You want me to tell you I murdered some old man while he was sleeping, and the beating of his heart I keep hearing in my own mind is driving me to confess? Fine, that’s it. I’m guilty. Put the cuffs on.”

Hutch mentally counted to twenty, breathed deeply, and schooled his voice. “Nathan, we’re trying to help you. So far we have next to zilch to go on. We can take these materials in and hope for prints, but that’s a long shot at best. We can try tracking down this Gabrielle Turner. Your life’s the one on hold until we figure this out. If you’re holding anything back, you’re just hurting your own cause.”

“That’s it!” Nathan stood and pointed at the door. “I’m getting tired of you trying to make this about something I did wrong. I bet if this were Garner, you wouldn’t be throwing around veiled accusations.”

“If this were Garner, we wouldn’t be handling the case, however much we might want to. Conflict of interest would force us to hand it over to someone else.” Hutch nodded at Starsky with a “time to go” roll of his eyes and headed for the door.

“You think of anything else you’d like to tell us, you know where to find us,” Starsky said in the neutral tone that meant he was clinging to his temper with determination.

 

 

Starsky squared his shoulders and contemplated the entrance to Wetherby Hall. They had taken Nathan’s tape and envelope into the station for forensics to do their work and started inquiring into Gabrielle Turner’s current whereabouts. Hutch had insisted they take advantage of the lag time to visit Garner, and Starsky had been unable to dissuade him. They dropped by Starsky’s apartment so he could retrieve his original paper for Garner’s consideration. When they arrived on campus, however, Hutch declared his intention to wait by the car in case word came through about Ms. Turner. Starsky knew he was giving Starsky the space he needed.

Starsky had never been one to rehearse speeches, but he found himself composing how he should broach the subject of his paper while he traversed the distance to Garner’s office. In his preoccupation, he turned a corner blindly and collided with a girl. The victim rose to her feet with a smile instead of frustration.

“David, hey.”

Starsky bent and picked up her satchel. “How you doing, Janet?”

“Swamped. I’m late to my next class and it’s all the way across campus.” She slung the satchel over her shoulder. “We hated to see you guys leave early last night. You started quite a deep discussion about life, death, and moral choices in the face of someone else’s death. Tough subjects. Had the whole table involved. Garner was in seventh heaven.”

Starsky’s smile brightened, but he felt he needed to clarify one important point. “I wasn’t trying to make light of what rape does to a woman. It’s one of the most horrible crimes out there. I’ve seen my fair share of rape victims.”

Janet smacked him playfully on the shoulder. “Oh, David, we knew you weren’t saying that. You just stunned some of us temporarily. It’s not every day that the more selfish aspects of Isabella’s character get explored out in the open.” She glanced at her watch. “Gotta run. I’m really late. See you ’round.” She broke into a sprint down the hall, satchel swinging from her shoulder.

Starsky grinned to himself. Hutch was right about my opinion starting a discussion. Maybe he’s right about this paper. With renewed confidence, Starsky whistled his way to Garner’s office.

He found Garner’s door open, but he knocked on the frame anyway because the professor was practically invisible behind a towering stack of books. Garner peeked around the stack and smiled. “Hi, David. Come on in. Believe it or not, you caught me at a good time. I was itching for an excuse to take a break.”

Starsky laughed. “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you…whatever it is.”

Garner waved him into a seat and scooted his own chair where he could face Starsky unhindered. “Yeah, and I won’t take the three hours it would require to explain what I’m doing. You’d be bored out of your mind. I’m bored out of mine. What can I do for you?”

“I’m here both officially and personally,” Starsky said. “We’ve had a development in Nathan’s case this morning. Do you know a Gabrielle Turner? Have you heard Nathan mention her?”

Garner shook his head. “No-o. No, the name doesn’t sound familiar. I think if Nathan had mentioned her, I’d remember. Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. It was just another piece of anonymous mail. An 8-track tape of classic short stories. ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ was highlighted, and Gabrielle Turner was the reader. We’re hoping these leads will be the turning point.”

Garner nodded. “I hope so, too. Aside from the safety issue, Nathan’s a serious, introspective person. He takes things to heart. This has to be bothering him on a deep level. The sooner it’s over, the better. Is there anything I can do?”

“Not right now, but we’ll let you know.” Starsky looked down at the paper in his lap. “I’m here also about my–uh–my paper.”

“Yes?”

Starsky sat back in the chair and tried not to assume his interrogation style of address. “I read your comments, but could you give me more of an idea what was wrong with the one I turned in?”

Starsky noticed that Garner’s demeanor changed. It was a subtle shift, but though still friendly, the man was now definitely a professor interacting with a student. “Your paper surprised me, David. It could have been a lab report: scientific, cold and objective, mostly textual quotation. While it would have been a good five-paragraph-model answer to an exam’s essay question, it didn’t work for a reaction paper in which I wanted to get inside your head and see how the text had impacted you. Is that it?” Garner nodded at the paper in Starsky’s lap. “Perhaps I can explain better by example.”

“Actually,” Starsky paused. “The paper I turned in isn’t the first one I wrote.” He held up the essay he brought with him. “I wrote this one last Saturday, but I-I was afraid it wasn’t what you were looking for, so I went by the writing lab on Sunday and got some writing help. The lab assistant who proofed my paper suggested a bunch of changes and I turned in the revised version.”

Garner smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with seeking help, but sometimes the assistants don’t know what a given professor wants, and they try to force papers into a commonly accepted format. Would you like me to read your original paper?”

“Yes, please.” Starsky handed it across the desk. He sat as still as possible while Garner read. The professor read quickly, making noises under his breath that sounded like agreement or surprise at intervals. He started over again and read through once more. Starsky tried hard not to look at his watch and hoped he didn’t look nervous.

Finally, Garner put the paper on his desk. “I certainly wish you’d turned that one in, David. I’d have probably marked that effort an A-. There are a few small structural glitches and minor writing style miscues that you can work through with practice, I’m sure, but the content is innovative, well thought out, thoroughly supported by the text. You must have given ‘Antigone’ a lot of your time.”

Starsky valiantly fought the urge to stand up and turn into a whooping hyena. “A-! Are you kidding?”

Garner laughed. “No, not kidding. Now you do understand, I can’t accept this paper for a grade. It wouldn’t be fair to the other students. Your C will have to stand, but don’t worry about that. The reaction papers, all eleven of them, add up to fifty percent of the grade, so that C constitutes only roughly four percent of your final grade.”

“A-.” Starsky shook his head in wonder.

“You seem shocked. If you don’t mind my asking, why did you think this paper was off the mark?”

Starsky felt his neck heat. I can’t say it’s ’cause I think Hutch is a modern-day Emerson.

“This was my first college paper. I had a few writing assignments in the Academy, but nothing like this.”

“You’re registered in the class through the Intro to College Program, right?”

Starsky nodded, relaxing in the chair.

“You’re experimenting, then? Have you decided to seek a degree?”

Starsky raised his shoulders and let them fall. “I’m not sure. I guess this class is my way of making a decision.”

“David, if it helps, I’ve seen countless students. I’m a good judge of college material in a person, and you have what it takes, never doubt it. I’ve only seen you in two class sessions, but you’ve done well and your enthusiasm is contagious. If all my students were as enthusiastic about learning, I’d be in Utopia.”

The grin that spread across Starsky’s lips had to be blinding, because he could feel it down to his own toes. “That means a lot, especially coming from someone who…I mean–”

“Coming from someone who–?” Garner raised his eyebrows.

“Nathan said you could be teaching at a high level university.”

Garner laughed. “Nathan likes to advertise me a bit too much. Yes, it’s true. Brown tried to lure me away last year. Do you want to know why I choose not to teach at a graduate institution, especially in the Ivy League?”

Curiosity peaked, Starsky’s attentive face answered for him.

“I like working with students just like you, who need encouragement to find their niche in college. In major institutions, students are often already a part of the fierce competition and lacking some of the innocence of what scholarship really means. Here, I can concentrate on my students without constantly worrying about publication, conferences, awards, and all the other trappings, though I do enjoy my research.”

“Sounds like you’re really happy here.” Starsky rubbed his hands on the chair arms and said, “I’d like to find my niche here, too.”

Garner nodded. “I can see that, and you will. I think you know it won’t always be easy. You’ll experience rough patches from time to time; that’s normal. All students do. I did. I certainly didn’t breeze through every undergrad or grad course.”

“I can handle that,” Starsky said, sounding confident even to his own ears. “I’m not looking for it to be a cake walk.”

“David, even when you move on from my class, I want you to know that you can always come to me with any questions you might have. If you register as a degree-seeking student, you’ll be assigned an advisor, but it can be helpful to have someone unofficial in your corner.”

“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll take you up on that.” Starsky glanced at his watch. “Hutch and I are on the clock, so to speak, so I’d better run. Thanks for taking the time to read my paper.”

“Do you mind if I keep it? I’ll mark some suggestions and comments on it and have it for you when you turn in your next paper on Monday.”

“Sure, thanks.” Starsky turned to leave, but he paused at the door and looked over his shoulder with an encouraging smile. “We’ll make sure Nathan gets back into the groove of things as soon as possible, Garner.”

“I know,” Garner said. “I can tell you like your job as much as I do mine.”

Starsky barely felt the floor under his feet, and the sidewalk outside Wetherby Hall might as well have been fluffy cotton. When he reached the parking lot, he sprinted the distance to the Torino, his need to see Hutch a physical ache inside. He skidded to a halt right in front of his partner and stood, vibrating with his good news.

Hutch grinned. “Somebody looks happy. Don’t keep me in suspense! What did Garner think of the paper?”

Starsky’s smile turned into a laugh, but the laugh gave way to a frown as he eyed the abundance of cars and students. “It’s so unfair,” he said in a low voice. “I want to kiss you right now.”

Hutch’s soft smile accompanied a quick caress of Starsky’s hair. “One day when it’s safe, I’ll kiss you in public, Starsky, I promise. Now, what’s the news?”

“You were right. I was doing okay.”

“Okay? Just okay?” Hutch raised one eyebrow. “‘Fess up, buddy. How okay?”

Reluctant to brag about his own paper when Hutch hadn’t done as well as he could have, Starsky couldn’t deny the probe in Hutch’s stare. “Garner said my original paper would’ve been an A-. I’ll have to keep the C, of course, but that’s all right because–”

Hutch grabbed both Starsky’s shoulders and shook him in obvious elation. “Congratulations, college boy!”

“Mind not rattling my teeth out, Hutch?” Starsky teased. “I don’t know if I’d survive giving you some really good news.”

Hutch released his shoulders and smiled, slapping Starsky on the back. “Don’t even pretend you’re not as thrilled as I am. There’s been no word yet on the tape or Turner, so why don’t we swing by Huggy’s and grab a quick, early lunch? Celebrate your academic success.”

“Academic success,” Starsky rolled the words around on his tongue like wine. “Has a certain ring to it.”

“Get in the car, turkey,” Hutch ordered, answering Starsky’s grin.

 

 

The Pits was unusually busy for the time of day, so Starsky and Hutch didn’t distract Huggy from his argument with a customer who insisted that rare roast beef should be swimming in blood no matter what Huggy’s health inspector had to say on the subject.

Anita found them within a couple minutes. They were squeezed into one of the back booths, talking animatedly. It was a scene that could have taken place any time during their lengthy partnership, but Anita still slapped her hands on her hips and winked. “Who won the lottery? And how can I convince the lucky party to share?”

Starsky grinned. “Bring us some drinks, honey, and we’ll talk about divvying the funds. Something non-alcoholic but fun.”

“You don’t ask much, do ya, Curly?” She tilted her head to the side. “What’s this about you going to school? Is Huggy playing mind games with me again, or are you really a college man now, Starsky?”

“Yep. Huggy’s info is legit.”

“No kidding? What ya studying?”

“Legal Issues in Western Literature,” Hutch answered. “Starsk is really diving headfirst into academia.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes when Anita burst out laughing. “What’s so funny about that?”

Anita wrapped an arm around her waist and giggled. “N-nothing. It’s…oh, stop it, Hutch!”

Starsky glanced back just as Hutch removed the “bunny ears” he’d been holding over Starsky’s head. “Hey! Traitor.”

The waitress snorted. “Nah, seriously, what’s the course like? Tough, big textbooks, what?”

“Classic Lit,” Starsky answered. “We just did ‘Antigone’ and ‘Measure for Measure.’ What’s next, Hutch?”

“‘A Man for All Seasons.’ Then there’s ‘The Crucible’ and ‘Leviathon’….”

“‘Billy Budd’,” Starsky continued. “I know that’s in there. I like that one. And ‘Native Son.’ I’ve read that one, too.”

“Kafka’s ‘The Trial’ should be interesting. There are a few more, but I’m forgetting them right now.”

“‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ is one of ’em,” Starsky supplied. “Can’t remember the other two either.”

“Good course,” Anita said with an air of authority. “I’ve read all but one of them. And I won’t tell you which. You want your usual?”

Both men nodded mutely.

Anita laughed. “Lift your jaws, boys, before they hit the table.”

She bounced off to fill their order and Starsky sputtered, “She–she was serious. And you know what, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Nothing about Anita surprises me,” Hutch said.

“Yeah, when she comes back we ought to ask her about Gabrielle Turner. Hell, she might know her personally.”

“What’s this about Gabrielle Turner? I ain’t heard that name in a month of Sundays.”

Starsky whirled in the seat. “God, Huggy! You wearing ballet slippers or something?”

Huggy preened his outlandish multicolored velour jacket and rocked back on his heels. “Just possessing of natural grace and stealth, m’man. Now, what’s this about Gabrielle Turner?”

“You know her?” Hutch’s hand had found Starsky’s shirtsleeve in his excitement.

Huggy gaped at him. “Of course, I do. And so do you. Gabrielle Turner is the name The Angel used in her singing career back before the heroin deep-sixed it. Been at least a decade since anyone called her that, though. She’d probably smack you if you–. Hey, where you going, you just got here!”

Starsky had shot out of the booth, and Hutch blew past him in a blur toward the door. Starsky turned, jogging backward, “Duty calls, Hug. Tell Anita, will ya?” He turned and raced to catch up with his partner.

 

 

“Gabrielle! Gabriel. The Angel! Jesus, I’m a dumb bastard. I knew I’d heard that voice…or what’s left of it, at least. Why, why is she doing this?” Hutch banged both fists on the defenseless Torino’s interior and spat out a few curses for good measure.

“Shh, settle down.” Starsky risked taking a hand off the wheel despite the high rate of speed to rub Hutch’s shoulder. “You’re not gonna help her by kicking yourself in the teeth. I’m sure she’ll tell us why she’s doing it, and knowing The Angel, it’s probably a damn good reason even if it is the wrong way to handle it.”

In an imitation of a week ago, Hutch waited for the Torino to squeal to a halt, but he jumped out of the car before Starsky had the keys out of the ignition. Starsky caught up to him outside The Angel’s door, where a uniformed officer held vigil.

“She hasn’t come to the door all day,” the officer was telling Hutch. “It’s been quiet. I think she’s sleeping.”

Hutch shoved the officer less than gracefully to the side when the man didn’t take the hint to move. Banging on the door, Hutch called out, “Angel! You decent, honey? Can we come in? It’s Hutch.”

No answer.

Starsky took his turn pounding on the door. “Angel? We’re just here for a visit. You want some company?”

Silence.

Hutch shook his head. “I’m going in. We have justification.” He reared back and swiftly kicked the door, which gave way immediately under the force. Without pause, Hutch dashed into the room.

The room was cold, quiet, nearly sending a draft into the hall, and Starsky lingered in the doorway. Hutch’s shout roused him. “Call an ambulance now!”

The officer barked into his walkie-talkie, and Starsky wasted no more time. He found Hutch on the bed, cradling the older woman close. Her right arm hung oddly to the side and when Starsky neared the bed, he realized that the right side of her face seemed to be drooping.

“Is she–?”

Hutch lifted stark eyes. “She’s breathing, but I think she’s had a stroke.”

“From an OD?”

Hutch shook his head. “I don’t think so. Do you see a needle anywhere close?” He smoothed her hair back. “Aw, Angel, hang on, sweetheart, please?”

Starsky knelt at the bedside and stroked the limply hanging right arm. “Is there anything we can do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, dammit! Angel, can you hear me? If you can’t talk, can you blink your eyes for me?”

Angel’s brown eyes opened, tracked, rolled, and finally rested on Hutch’s face. She moved her left arm slowly and whispered awkwardly, words slurred, “Lemme…go…time…now.”

Hutch grit his teeth. “I’m not going to let you die. You hear me? You hang on, tough woman. Hold onto it.”

“Hutch–” Starsky covered one of Hutch’s hands with his own.

“No! She’s not a quitter, are you, honey?”

Her eyes rolled back and she drooped in Hutch’s arms. Starsky rose up on his knees and felt for her pulse. His hand fell away from her neck and he looked down at the floor. “Hutch, she…she’s gone.”

“No,” Hutch said, tone hollow. “No, no, no.”

“Hutch.” Starsky sat down on the bed and put an arm around Hutch’s shoulders.

Hutch hung his head and shook.

 

 

Starsky ladled soup into two bowls and set them on the kitchen table. He had brought his aching partner back to Venice Place after a grueling afternoon. There was no evidence that The Angel’s death had been anything other than a common stroke, and Ginny had explained slowly and softly to Hutch that a woman with a long-term heroin addiction had no hope of living to a ripe old age. The Angel had been on borrowed time, her body having aged prematurely beyond what it could endure. That she was responsible for the anonymous mail and phone call had been confirmed. Two days prior to her death, she had asked the officer on duty outside her door to mail the manila envelope for her. He had thought nothing amiss. Forensics would confirm prints and the case would close as far as Nathan resuming a normal life was concerned.

Hutch had remained calm and frozen during the immediate aftermath, but he lost his rigid control when they notified Nathan that he no longer required protection. The young postdoc had denied personal knowledge of The Angel and waxed scornful about LeRon’s taste in company.

Starsky had dragged a pointing and yelling Hutch out of Nathan’s condo before the situation could escalate.

Now Hutch sat on his sofa, nose buried in Nathan’s novel, grim determination on his face.

“Soup’s on, Hutch.”

“Reading.”

“Babe, it’ll keep for a few minutes. We missed lunch, remember?”

“I’m. Reading.”

Starsky seized the bowl of soup and a spoon and carted them over to the sofa. He sat beside Hutch and spooned a mouthful, which he lifted to Hutch’s mouth. “Just open and swallow.”

“Starsky!”

“You’re gonna eat if I have to sit on you and pour it down your throat. Cooperate, will ya?”

“The answer’s in this novel,” Hutch said after he’d slurped the soup from the spoon Starsky held.

“And why’s that?”

“Besides the fact that we found a copy in The Angel’s apartment? I don’t know. Call it a hunch, okay? You get plenty of them, you should understand.”

Starsky knew not to argue with Hutch in that mood. He spooned the soup, nudging Hutch to let him know when to open his mouth, until the bowl was empty. Then he sat at the table and ate his own meal, starting the notes for his “Measure for Measure” paper just to have a distraction from the day’s events.

A few minutes later, Hutch’s sudden propulsion from the couch startled Starsky into dropping the spoon with a messy splash that covered his good shirt with soup. Hutch had vaulted the coffee table and stood quivering by the piano.

Not bothering to wipe his shirt, Starsky jumped up from the table and crossed the room. “What’s wrong?”

Hutch brushed at his arms and scratched at his neck. “Nathan Rowell didn’t write that novel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Read page sixty-five.”

Starsky retrieved the book from the sofa and concentrated on the words. It was the description of a heroin withdrawal experience, and Starsky looked up from the book, feeling his heart turn heavy. Hutch’s movements, facial expression, and skin color all testified that he was reliving the experience on a deeply personal level. Starsky dropped the novel and rushed to take Hutch in his arms.

“Hutch, snap out of it! It’s 1980. It’s been five years since the heroin. Nathan interviewed addicts in San Francisco for his material, remember?”

“No, no. You can’t write that…from an interview. You have to feel it. When the very last ounce of the drug is whispering to you and your skin doesn’t fit, and you think if you could just pull your skin back in place, you’d quit feeling things crawling, and you–”

“HUTCH!”

Hutch was obviously trapped in 1975. He twitched, still pulling at the skin on his arms, and murmured incoherent phrases. At a loss, Starsky grabbed the sides of Hutch’s face and pressed a harsh, nearly bruising kiss on the open, mumbling lips.

The confused blond jerked violently, then melted in Starsky’s arms, clinging to the strong body. Starsky held him, squeezing painfully tight, and refused to release Hutch’s mouth. A sound of discomfort from Hutch broke the kiss, and he gasped for air when Starsky’s lips moved.

“Hutch, what year is it?” Starsky was equally breathless.

“Nineteen-eighty.”

“Who just kissed you?”

Hutch seemed to be considering the matter. “Anita?”

Starsky laughed out loud and hugged him. “You’re all right, now, smart ass. I’ll take that one out of your hide later. Let’s sit down and talk about this situation with Nathan, okay?”

“I’m so tired,” Hutch said.

Starsky blinked at the uncharacteristic admission of weakness. “We’ve had a god-awful day. You just had a nasty flashback. No wonder you’re tired. Come on, sit down with me.”

 

 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Hutch groaned, stretching in the extra legroom his car afforded him.

“What, staking out Mandalay Heights Airfield?” Starsky trained his binoculars and adjusted the focus.

“Yeah, and specifically, Kevin Chandler’s private plane. If Parkins or Owens spots us, we’ll be slow roasted on a spit. Besides which, you called me in sick to Dobey this morning.” And I might have been if you hadn’t taken such good care of me last night, holding me tight, keeping me warm, and never demanding anything for yourself.

“You had a rough night. You are sick. Sniffle a few times if that’ll make you feel more honest.”

“Dobey thinks you’re home taking care of me. What are you gonna do to make yourself honest?”

“I am taking care of you. We’re in your car, so you’ll be more comfortable–”

“–and so we don’t get spotted immediately–”

“And I fixed your favorite breakfast and packed you a halfway decent thermos of coffee,” Starsky concluded.

“What is the point in all this?” Hutch asked wearily. “We can’t even breathe on him without having our badges confiscated.”

“You weren’t griping this much when I asked you to use your Jack Ives phone-charms on Chandler’s secretary this morning.”

“It was a better plan than calling up Chandler and saying, ‘So when are you flying to Belize again, Kevin? We’d like to wish you a bon voyage’.”

Starsky laughed. “Yeah, I didn’t see us doing that. So, you figured out what to do about Nathan yet?”

“Nope. You? What proof do we have? It all fits, though. The timing of the first note he received from The Angel, her having a copy of the novel, what the anonymous notes said, the obituary’s tie to Nathan’s past with LeRon, the stuff in that novel Nathan couldn’t have written if his life depended on it. And I don’t buy that San Francisco drug scene crap either. That was just his cover story for Garner’s sake. Then there’s the theme behind ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ and Nathan’s reaction to it.”

“He didn’t kill LeRon, Hutch.”

“No, but I bet The Angel saw Nathan’s stealing LeRon’s book as just as much a crime. She was trying to tell him that he’d be found out eventually, even using his own field of expertise to drill the point home. LeRon must have told her a lot about Nathan through the years. The phone call was a brilliant move on her part. In fact, I bet that’s why Nathan came to us. I’d make book he thought LeRon was responsible for the notes, but when he got the phone call after LeRon was dead, he was freaked into seeking outside help. No wonder he was so damn scared Monday.”

“That’s all, as Dobey would say, theory.”

“I’m getting sick of that word!” Hutch complained. “Tell me why we’re here again?”

“I just want to see him get on the plane, okay? I can’t explain it. It’s just something I need to do.”

“Fine,” Hutch sighed.

“Black luxury sedan at three o’clock!” Starsky shouted, sitting forward in the seat.

Ah, Starsk. You can’t stand that we have to let Chandler slip through our fingers. Neither can I, for that matter. “Headed toward the plane?”

“Yep. It’s stopping. This is it, Hutch. Doors opening. There’s Chandler.” Starsky fiddled with the zoom again. “What the–? Hutch, look!” He shoved the binoculars over to Hutch. “Recognize them?”

Hutch adjusted his vision to the binoculars. “Starsky! Aren’t those the men from Marcel’s composite sketches?”

“Looked like it to me. I wouldn’t have thought they were that high on the totem pole.”

“Must be his right-hand men,” Hutch surmised. “I guess they’re the only ones Chandler could trust to track LeRon down. They’re boarding the plane. Is one of them the pilot?”

“Must be,” Starsky said. “I saw a mechanic checking the plane about ten minutes ago, but he left.”

“Yeah, looks like one of them is climbing into the cockpit.”

“Gimme those.” Starsky grabbed the binoculars. “Here we go.”

“They’ll have to go through pre-flight checks, Starsk. It could be a little while.” Hutch rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. “Wake me when you’re ready to scram. Watching him take off to be the Feds’ little hero boy will just make me sick for real.”

A few minutes later, Starsky said, “Taxiing. Any minute now.”

Hutch mumbled acknowledgment, enjoying the warmth of the Friday morning sun.

“Houston, we have lift-off!” Starsky shouted unnecessarily, because the noise of the plane assaulted their ears even at the safe distance. “Up, up and away. Wave bye-bye, Hutch.”

Hutch opened his eyes, but his sarcastic wave died unborn. Deafening crashing thunder sounded in the blue sky, and the day turned fluorescent, the plane replaced by a teeming ball of orange and shrapnel.

“HOLY SHIT!” He flung himself on top of Starsky, flattening them both in the seat as the car rocked from the concussion of the explosion.

Hutch breathed a silent prayer that they were sufficiently removed to avoid falling debris. Starsky was wriggling, trying obviously to squirm around and cover Hutch. “Stay down!” Hutch shrieked.

Minutes passed and Starsky eventually won the battle, toppling Hutch and sitting upright. “Get us the hell outta here!” he yelled.

“What–? Starsk, we have to call it in!”

“No, we don’t. The airfield sirens will sound any minute now. Get us out of here, Hutch.”

“Are you concussed?” Hutch stared at him.

Starsky grabbed Hutch by the shirt and pulled him close. “Don’t you realize we just witnessed an assassination? That mechanic was no mechanic…’least not a plane mechanic. You wanna roll the dice that the responsible party isn’t Parkins’ crowd? Our lives won’t be worth two nickels if he finds out we saw that plane blow up in mid-air.”

“Why couldn’t it be one of Chandler’s own crowd, maybe someone found out he’s playing footsie with the government?”

“You wanna take that chance? Either way, we don’t need to go down on record as witnesses. There’s nothing we can do. Let’s go!”

Infected with Starsky’s urgency, Hutch hurriedly cranked the car and drove away in a rattle and blast of exhaust. He didn’t slow down until they reached the border of the commercial district, safely removed from the airfield. Pulling over beside an auto parts warehouse, Hutch killed the engine and sat still, breathing rapidly.

“Why would Parkins kill his golden goose?” he asked, turning his face to look for the answer in Starsky’s eyes.

Starsky gripped the sides of his head and blew out a puff of air. “Offhand, and I hate to break this to ya, partner, I’d say you convinced him yesterday that Chandler’s playing him for a fool. Who knows what Parkins was planning in Belize, but he sure as hell can’t count on someone who’s walking both sides of the street. Safer for him to get rid of Chandler and figure out some other solution.”

“Oh, my God.” Hutch clutched the steering wheel in a chokehold. “You think Owens is involved?”

“No. I think Parkins is acting on the orders of someone who puts the ‘know’ in need-to-know. There are agendas here we haven’t got a prayer of unraveling, Hutch. I think this is one time we need to back off and accept that we can’t tie things up nice and neat in our reports.”

“Any chance that plane explosion was a mechanical failure of some sort?” Hutch asked aloud, though he was directing the question at himself rather than Starsky. The possibility existed, but the probability shrank under the circumstances. That’s what any report of the explosion would list as the cause, and Starsky was right, that was the safest thing to accept publicly.

“So what do we do now?” Hutch asked, still feeling tossed at sea, his ears throbbing, his head swimming.

Starsky rubbed his ears, too. “We go home. We definitely want to be home when the call comes through. And it will. We’ll get word through the proper channels.”

“You’re right. Jeez, at least you’re thinking clearly this morning. I think my brain dissolved in the explosion.”

“Take us home, Hutch, and develop a nasty hacking cough on the way.”

 

 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Starsky groaned. He adjusted the baseball cap, hiding more of his conspicuous curls.

Hutch studied the menu, but peered over the edge to the entrance of the restaurant. “I’m fed up having no closure. Chandler’s bad enough. I hated having to hem and haw with Dr. Danbeck and let Ben Courtney go on believing that his wife had OD’d. I’m not letting Nathan waltz away with this. We owe it to The Angel, and LeRon deserves it, too. Plus, this gives Marcel a chance to redeem himself. He feels he owes LeRon, and he does. Everyone wins.”

“Marcel was just so happy to hear that he could leave protective custody and yank Rudi off somewhere private, he’d have agreed to pose as a purple bunny rabbit if we’d wanted him to. Taking advantage of a lovesick man, Hutchinson, is mighty low-down.”

“Shut up, Starsky.”

“We’re having a civilian perpetrate blackmail, and he’s wearin’ a police-issue wire! What if we’re wrong and Nathan really did write that novel?”

“We’re not wrong. Marcel believed us in a heartbeat, and as we already decided, he has good Nathan-instincts. Besides, who’s sitting out in the van with Garner? It sure isn’t the Easter Bunny. If Dobey’s willing to go along, why can’t you sit still and munch on a breadstick?”

Starsky obligingly munched. “We should be out in the van, too. Why are we sitting in here?”

“Why did you just have to see Chandler board the plane?” Hutch tossed back at him. “I want to see that self-righteous prick Nathan’s face when he realizes the trap’s been sprung and he’s the catch of the day.”

“You’ve got a vindictive streak, partner.” Starsky wagged the breadstick in a “tsk, tsk” motion.

“Like you didn’t curse and spit at this morning’s news report that praised the late, great philanthropist, Kevin Chandler, who died tragically in a private plane crash en route to the dedication of a mission clinic in Belize. I think you wanted to invite Chief Ryan over and fix him spaghetti tonight, you felt so bad for him.”

“I did call him,” Starsky admitted.

“So did I,” Hutch said, surprised.

They looked at each other. Both burst into laughter. “We’re both sickening softies,” Starsky groaned.

“Heads up. Nathan’s arrived right on time. Marcel must’ve done a brilliant job laying the bait with the phone call. I was afraid Nathan would grow a brain and not fall for it.” Hutch ducked farther behind the menu, and Starsky turned more to the side.

“He’s spotted Marcel,” Starsky observed. “Show time. If you’re wrong about this, traffic duty won’t even start appeasin’ Dobey’s wrath. Need I remind you that our papers are due Monday? If you earn us a Sunday of wearing uniforms and blowing whistles, and I can’t get my paper done, I’ll go on a sex-strike for a week, I swear.”

“Starsky, he’s here isn’t he? If he doesn’t have anything to hide, he could’ve told Marcel to go to hell on the phone.”

 

 

On the two-week anniversary of LeRon Markus’ death, a gray and arid Tuesday, Starsky and Hutch stood on the front doorstep of Mrs. Markus’ tiny, ramshackle house. Hutch held a thick manuscript in his hands. Starsky boasted a vibrant floral bouquet. Dressed in somber suits, they had just left the funeral Huggy had helped arrange for The Angel, and now they wanted to pay last respects to one more person whose unique form of courage had impacted their lives. Paying their respects through his mother seemed the best plan.

Mrs. Markus came to the door, wearing a gray housedress that matched the sky. She looked even older than she had the day they informed her that her son was dead. “Yes? You’re those detectives.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hutch said. “We’d like to come in and talk to you about LeRon, if you don’t mind.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she held open the door and stepped aside. She accepted the flowers from Starsky with an abbreviated smile and ushered them to what served as a living room, kitchen, and dining room.

While she bustled about trying to fluff the ratty sofa for them and hunted for a serviceable vase to hold the flowers, she remained silent, not even offering the social pleasantries. The detectives shared a look of understanding, knowing that she found it difficult to approach them as normal visitors.

Eventually, she sat down in a rocking chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Now, what do you have to say about LeRon?”

“Did you know that your son had a gift for creative writing?” Hutch asked.

She smiled. “I remember when he was a boy, he was always scribbling. I’d find all kinds of silly sentences on the edges of newspapers, on my magazines, pieces of paper. I thought he’d maybe do something with it, but then he….” She lifted the edge of her apron and dabbed at her eyes. “He got messed up with that drug.”

“He did make something of it, Mrs. Markus.” Starsky nodded at Hutch, who leaned over and placed the manuscript in the woman’s hands. She touched it reverently, slowly, stroking the smooth top sheet with fingertips.

“What is this?”

“That is the original manuscript of a novel your son wrote,” Hutch told her. “A nearly identical version of it is currently receiving critical acclaim and is leaving the bookstore shelves by the armfuls. Your son lived in poor conditions, but he had a barebones relic typewriter and fed his paper habit as much as he sought drugs.”

“I don’t understand.” Her wide eyes emphasized her statement.

“Your son wrote that novel several years ago. One summer when Nathan Rowell was home from grad school, LeRon made the mistake of asking him to read the story. He had no intention of publishing it. He thought it wasn’t worth anyone’s time, but he couldn’t resist sharing it with Nathan, apparently. Nathan recognized it as a miraculous effort for someone with only a partial high school education, and he urged LeRon to submit it, but LeRon was just too frightened of the process.”

“‘Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt’,” Starsky quoted. He flushed when all eyes turned his way. “Sorry.”

“That was beautiful,” Mrs. Markus said, smiling.

“It’s from Shakespeare. ‘Measure for Measure’,” Starsky explained. He motioned for Hutch to continue with the subject at hand.

“Nathan went back to visit LeRon a week later and found him in an altered state from the heroin. The manuscript was just sitting there, too tempting. Nathan took it. At first, he planned to try submitting it on LeRon’s behalf, but when LeRon never questioned the manuscript’s absence, never asked Nathan about it, Nathan got greedy. He decided to take a chance on publishing it under his own name.”

“You see, Mrs. Markus, Nathan’s a top-notch academic writer,” Starsky said. “He can churn out prize-winning papers. His dissertation was a breeze for him. But he admits that he has no talent for producing fiction. He can analyze it blue in the face, but he can’t write it. LeRon could.”

“Nathan’s clever.” Hutch’s voice turned slightly angry. “He researched copyright law and tampered with LeRon’s manuscript just enough that the finished product would be technically considered a ‘separate’ book. You’d be surprised how little change of text that required.”

“After he succeeded gettin’ the book published, he started to resent LeRon. He knew who should be getting the credit, and it nagged at him, but not enough for him to come clean and do the right thing. He simply went back to acting like LeRon didn’t exist.” Starsky shook his head. “It’s really sad.”

“I remember Nathan,” Mrs. Markus said softly. “He was always such a nice boy. I knew it was hard for him growing up a white kid in this neighborhood.”

“He was a nice boy, but he’s a faulty man,” Hutch pointed out. “He covered the bases well. With LeRon’s manuscript gone, and Nathan’s version sufficiently altered to pass through a copyright loophole, LeRon would have had little ground to stand on, and few people would have believed an uneducated drug-addict could write a story of that caliber. His word against Nathan’s wouldn’t have gotten far, and Nathan had a good cover story for how he acquired certain material in the book he shouldn’t know first-hand.”

“The means we used to get this information won’t really stand in court either, Mrs. Markus, even if you had the time or money to pursue it. But we’ve done the best we can for you. With the help of Nathan’s mentor, we’ve made an arrangement in writing. You’ll receive a full half of any proceeds from the book or any movie based on the book.” Starsky pointed at the manuscript. “And at least we managed to acquire the original for you to keep. You’ll know what your son could do.”

“Nathan has also lost his postdoctoral position at Jameson College. His mentor won’t officially denounce him, out of kindness, but Nathan won’t have an easy time of it.”

Mrs. Markus breathed harshly and shook her head at Hutch, reaching over to pat him on the knee. “Well, truth be told, what’s the use in there being more pain on top of pain?”

“Another thing,” Starsky said, clearing his throat, “Um, we can’t go into specifics for reasons of police protocol, but we do want you to know that your son died because he did something selfless. It took great courage, and he left this world on the right side of the law.”

Mrs. Markus’ face crumpled into tears at that point and she bowed her head. “The money that comes from the book is nothing,” she sobbed, “compared to what you’ve given me. You’ve given me my son back. My firstborn. I hated so much to send him away, but I had to protect his little brother.”

Starsky left the chair and stumbled to the door. The slapping shut of the door broke the spell that had seized both of the other people in the room. “Is he all right?” Mrs. Markus asked.

Hutch stroked his brow and tried to smile. “Detective Starsky has been battling a bug the last couple days. Perhaps we’d better be on our way. Please know that if you need anything, you can call on us.” He held out his contact card.

When he rose, she joined him and wrapped him in a hug. “Tell your partner, there’s a special place in Heaven for both of you.”

“Actually,” Hutch said, embarrassed, “you can thank an Angel.”

He found Starsky standing beside the Torino, kicking at loose pebbles. “You all right, Starsk?”

“Yeah,” Starsky looked back at the house. “Sorry for the scene. It just hit me, y’know? My being sent away might have kept Pop from beating on Nicky, but it didn’t help Nicky any other way.”

“No!” Hutch said, taking Starsky’s hand. “You’re not playing the blame game. Not today. I won’t allow it, even if you were to blame, which you’re not, and you know it!”

“Right,” Starsky smiled. “You’re right. No bad feelings today. This is The Angel and LeRon’s day. Let’s go drink to their eternal joy.”

“Good idea,” Hutch approved, squeezing his partner’s hand before letting go.

“One thing I thought about in there, though. Listening to us tell the whole story about Nathan. As hard as he worked to cover his tracks, it’s weird that he fell for Marcel’s bluff.”

Hutch smiled. “Tell you the truth? I think The Angel knew her stuff, sending him the ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’ All those notes and the phone call, too. That kind of psychological probing was just what Nathan couldn’t handle. By the time Garner had heard enough to be convinced, and showed up at the table, well…you were there, you saw it. Nathan folded like a chair.”

“‘Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall’,” Starsky quoted, grinning. “Pretty much sums up Nathan and LeRon, don’tcha think?”

Hutch looked around, noticed they were alone, and cupped Starsky’s chin. “You keep quoting Shakespeare, and you’ll have to deal with the consequences.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. A perpetually horny partner.” Hutch packed every ounce of sexual energy into his voice and watched with pride as the result showed in Starsky’s open mouth and heavier breathing.

“That’s it. I’m ordering the entire leather-bound collection. What would ya say if I decided to go for a Lit degree instead of Criminal Justice?”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Starsk. Dobey would shoot both of us.”

“Speaking of Dobey, we should really hit him up for some off time. The last couple months have been rough. We deserve a long weekend. Get out of the city. Go somewhere special.”

“And where would we go?” Hutch asked, eyebrows aloft.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d think of something,” Starsky laughed. “Right now I just want you to take me home, my horny blond beauty, so I can try quoting Shakespeare in the privacy of a bedroom.”

Hutch pushed him toward the door. “What’re you waiting for, get in the damn car already.”

“Love you, too, Hutch.”

 

 

Author’s Note: After more than twenty years of striving for independence, Belize became an independent nation on September 21, 1981 and a full member of the Non-Aligned Movement on September 25th. The UN resolution to call for Belizean independence was adopted in November 1980 after the United States finally voted in favor of Belizean nationhood. I used these historical facts as the springboard for my fictional use of the State Department, the DEA, and their involvement in Belize.

 

 

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