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MAKE BELIEVE YOU'RE BRAVE
Part Two
by
Dawnwind
The amber liquid splashed into the tumbler for the fourth time. Hutch picked up the glass a little unsteadily. He didn't usually drink whiskey, but today he wanted to get roaring drunk. So drunk that he couldn't feel anything. No pain, no sadness, no fear....
Downing the drink in one gulp, Hutch lay back on his bed, letting it burn down to his stomach. Across the room, hymns played softly on the radio. What a hell of a day to get drunk on! A Sunday!
Sunday morning creeping like a nun... Snatches of songs whirled around Hutch's head. Make believe you're brave, you may be as brave as you make believe you are... Starsky's song.
"Yah, I'm real brave." Hutch filled the tumbler once more. "So brave." He downed the whiskey. Brave enough to drink away all the bad things, the things that he didn't want to think about. Giving up on his best friend.
"Starsky," he said groggily to himself. "I need to talk to Starsky."
Walking unsteadily to the kitchen, he settled on the linoleum with the phone book in his lap. It took him a while to find the number of the hospital, since the letters on the page had a habit of dancing around a great deal more than usual. "5-5-5-9-8-1-1," Hutch muttered to himself. After four unsuccessful attempts to dial the number correctly, he contacted the hospital.
"Good morning, St. Luke's Hospital," a cheery voice answered.
Hutch leaned his aching head onto his hand, trying to remember why he'd called. "Uh...I wanna talk to Dr. Simms. This is Sergeant Hutch'son."
"Just a minute, sir."
While he waited, Hutch had another shot of whiskey. His eyelids beginning to close sleepily, he hummed the rest of Lady Madonna. "Listen to the music playin' in your head..."
"Sergeant Hutchinson? This is Dr. Simms."
"I wan' t'know how Starsky is," Hutch demanded, "He--I need to talk t'him."
"I'm afraid you won't be able to, Mr. Hutchinson. He's in a coma," Simms answered. "I suggest you get some rest."
"I..." Hutch's voice trailed off. "Call me when he wakes up." He dropped the phone, spilling more whiskey into his glass. More of it landed on the floor than the tumbler, but Hutch drank the remainder, ignoring the increasingly urgent tones to hang up the receiver properly. "I need him." The blond man found the couch, pulling an afghan around his shoulders, hot tears on his cheeks. Starsky, don't die.
~~~
Pete Brenner glanced at the file of policeman Joe McKinley that lay on the dashboard in front of him. Dark, curly hair...blue uniform. "You're gonna die, Vegas," Brenner whispered as he slid a rifle shell into the chamber of his Winchester. He left the weapon under the seat of the car and got out, looking up and down the street. "Hey, kid!"
A small boy of about nine turned a curious expression on his face. "Yah, mister?"
"You wanna make some money?" Brenner asked.
The expression turned from curious to greedy. "Sure." The child ran up, his blue eyes wide with excitement.
"I'll leave this money in the glove compartment of this car." Brenner held up a five and a one. "And I want you to run over to that store and force open the door so that the alarm rings--OK? So the cops come, but you got to get away quick."
"Why d'you want me to do that?" the child asked skeptically.
"It's a joke." Brenner pulled out his wallet and flashed his old police badge. "A joke for my friends."
"What about ten bucks?" the boy bargained. "I don't wanna get in trouble with the cops."
"Six dollars, take it or leave it," Brenner growled. Ungrateful little whelp, trying to extort more money.
"Take it," the boy agreed.
"Be ready in ten minutes," Brenner continued, " I gotta hide first." He waved the boy off. "Now you go play, don't look like you're waiting. The money'll be in the glove compartment."
"OK." The child ran off, excited to be included in the adult's game.
Leaning into the car, Brenner grabbed his rifle and strode quickly into the darkened alley between two apartment buildings. He hunkered down next to a rusty dumpster, out of sight to any passers by. It was exactly eight a.m. There were few people on the street, mostly because there were no offices or factories in this part of town.
The little boy with the brown hair and blue eyes bounced a ball down the sidewalk and across the wide avenue, dodging a car as he did so. Taking a furtive look around, he pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and jimmied the lock on Robinson's Grocery. As the door swung open, the shrill wail of a burglar alarm filled the air. The boy darted to the parked car, collected his six dollars and disappeared around a corner.
Brenner smiled to himself as a police car pulled up only moments later. A man with dark, curly hair emerged from the passenger side. Brenner raised his rifle. "You die, Vegas." He pulled the trigger.
The alarm squealed on endlessly as the policeman fell, the red bubble on the top of the black-and-white illuminating his astonishment. McKinley's older partner pressed his hands helplessly over the wound but the blood gushed from the dying man's torn artery, saturating the sidewalk in front of Robinson's Grocery. The alarm's scream merged with the police siren, a cacophony of anguish for the death of another dark-haired police officer.
~~~
Hutch opened his eyes and gazed tiredly around the room. Sunlight streamed through the front windows, casting shadows of the hanging plants on the opposite wall. Outside, loud voices carried from the sidewalk below.
Pulling himself up off the couch, Hutch moaned at the pounding in his head. Boy, he had a hangover. He pushed open the window, looking down. What was all the shouting about?
"I was not speeding!" an irate citizen shouted at a gold-helmeted motorcycle cop who was stoically writing up a ticket. "I'll call the mayor! He is a friend of..."
Hutch slammed the window, causing his ears to ring. He steadied himself against the sill, sighing because the incensed driver's voice seemed to penetrate the walls. Stumbling across to the bathroom, he divested himself of sweatshirt and pants. A shower; some cold water would clear his head.
Some thirty minutes later Hutch had showered, dressed and forced a protein shake into his nauseated stomach. He didn't feel any better but his head was clearer and what he could remember of the day before made him feel lousy anyway. Surveying the room, he started to straighten up. The empty whiskey bottle, a glass, the afghan and the telephone lay in a tangled heap on the floor. The phone was off the hook; its cord tied in knots. Hutch replaced the receiver onto the cradle, suppressing the overwhelming urge to call St. Luke's.
The instant ringing of the phone startled him, renewing the pounding in his head. "Hello?"
"Hutch, where have you been?"
"Asleep." Hutch answered evasively. "The phone was off the hook."
"It's noon!"
"I was tired, what'd you want?" Hutch picked up the whiskey bottle, tossing it into the kitchen trashcan.
"Brenner's struck again."
"Damn!"
"Same basic operation. And your idea about those little kids may be right on the money."
"Did you talk to him--the one at the warehouse?" Hutch asked suddenly.
"No, this was at an abandoned grocery store, like before," Dobey said.
"The kid I..." Hutch trailed off when he realized he hadn't told the captain the whole story of the shooting. "I'll come down. Oh, have you talked to Dr. Simms?"
"There's been no change." Dobey answered soberly.
"I'll stop by there first."
~~~
Stepping into St. Luke's did nothing for Hutch's mood or his stomach. The image of Starsky covered in blood replayed itself in his memory and he realized belatedly that he'd never gotten to see him after they'd cleaned him up. Guilt poured in, wallowing in the acid bath in his belly, burning holes in his soul. Starsky might not be in here if he hadn't have shot him. Perhaps he would have been able to alert the others to Brenner's presence, if Hutch hadn't shot first. It wasn't logical, but Hutch was too hung over and depressed to care. He got off the elevator on the third floor with trepidation.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Hutchinson," Dr. Simms said without emotion, his jowly face like a mournful basset hound.
"I'd like to know how my partner is doing," Hutch asked politely, disliking the doctor immensely for no real reason.
"I'm sorry, but we really cannot give out much information. He's in critical condition, in a coma."
"Dammit, Simms, give me a straight answer. What are you doing about it? Is Starsky going to live?"
"Mr. Hutchinson." Simms frowned. "This is a hospital, we are doing out best. He has one bullet still in his body and lost massive amounts of blood. His body is fighting a difficult battle."
"Thanks a lot, Doctor," Hutch said sarcastically. "I could have figured that out. So why don't you operate? Can't you do anything besides giving..."
"We cannot operate at this time, his condition is too unstable."
"Can I see him?" Hutch asked, feeling helpless.
"He's still in a coma," Simms repeated, shaking his head.
"I'm not gonna dance with him," Hutch shouted. "I want to see my partner, NOW."
"Mr. Hutchinson, I can have you removed from this hospital if you do not co-operate," Dr. Simms answered firmly.
"Dr. Simms, I want to see Starsky." Hutch's voice had a deadly edge.
The smaller man stood stiffly for a second, then relented with a distasteful expression. "For a few minutes."
Striding down the long, shining hall to the ICU, Hutch had the impression that he was in a prison and Simms was the head warden. A few of the rooms were open and most of the patients who could be seen were chained in some way to their beds, by IV tubing or heart monitors. There was a confining feeling that wouldn't go away. Hutch had the urge to break Starsky out. How could anyone get well here?
A middle-aged nurse stood at the desk guarding the intensive care unit. "May I help you?"
"Wants to see David Starsky." Simms had trailed behind, ready to assert authority in his own territory. He grabbed up a medical chart off the counter to look busy.
"Sign in on the visitor's list." She waited while Hutch wrote his name. "Then, please come this way," she said pleasantly but efficiently. Hutch followed her down another corridor bordered by large windowed rooms that made viewing the critical patients easier. Starsky was in the last room on the hall.
"Only a few minutes," the nurse said.
Standing at the door, Hutch stared at the dark-haired man in the white bed. He looked so small and helpless, like a child lost in a sea of pillows, IV tubing and plasma bottles. A tube taped in his mouth aided his breathing, hooked to a large thumping respirator. Nothing moved, it was almost as if Starsky were dead--the only sign of life being the glowing, jagged line on the heart monitor screen. That pale greenish line kept him alive.
"Starsky?" Hutch sat down next to the bed. "Starsky, I shot you. I never even saw you. I go over and over it in my mind, but I can't get away from the fact--I shot you." He stood up, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But Brenner did too, huh? You saw him and I couldn't understand it. Brenner is the Shadows Killer--and he got another victim." Facing his friend, Hutch gripped the end of the bed. "Starsky, I have to get him. I'm not sure how--but I'm gonna find that kid--the one who told us to go to the warehouse. That kid is part of the key. I can't believe Brenner.... Starsky, I need your help...come back."
"Mr. Hutchinson?" the nurse called. "Time is up."
"Keep him safe." Hutch looked back at his silent partner, his own heart aching with fear. He left the ICU, striding past Simms without saying a word.
Out on the street, Hutch cruised his battered Ford down his usual beat, feeling very alone. Glancing expertly up and down the sidewalks, he kept watch for illegal activities. He let his mind wander back to the case at hand. Brenner had tried eight times--killed six men, missed once and wounded Starsky. All had been the same basic procedure, and all had been in a general area of inner Los Angeles. So why hadn't anyone seen anything? Why hadn't he been caught? There must be eight kids who had spoken to him. With a sudden sense of purpose, Hutch directed his Ford to The Pits.
"Huggy?" Hutch looked around the semi-crowded bar, but didn't see the skinny proprietor. He did, however, spot Reny at the bar. "G'Afternoon, Reny."
"Oh, Hutch." The little weasel-faced man took a drag from a hand-rolled cigarette. "Hi--Hello."
"Been doing anything lately?" Hutch glanced at the glass in front of the man. "S'against your parole to get drunk."
"My first and only, I swear!" Reny pushed the glass away. "I was only nursin' it to be sociable, y'know."
"Sure." Hutch ordered a beer for himself. "Go ahead, drink yours, Reny."
"Oh, thanks." Reny gulped the gold-colored liquid and took another drag on his cigarette. "You want something, Hutch? I haven't seen Julian or anybody in weeks..."
"You heard of the Shadows Killer?"
Reny nodded jerkily. " Who hasn't? The cop killer...he got Starsky, huh? How is..."
"He's OK," Hutch said quickly. "I wanna get word out on the streets--you spread it around that I'll pay for information on a man named Pete Brenner."
"Is he the killer?" Reny asked eagerly. "How much you gonna pay?"
"Depends on what I get." Hutch took a drink from his beer, the morning's hangover still hammering in his brain. "I'm especially interested in kids who might have talked to him."
"Yah?" Reny dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it to powder with his foot. "What if..."
"Reny." Hutch caught hold of the man's skinny wrist. "I want this guy, he's killing innocent people, but if you fuck this bust up in any way, I'll go after you in the same way. Watch out."
"OK, Hutch, I'm always willin' to co-operate with the cops." Reny backed up, disappearing out the door.
"Comin' down on the fink kinda hard?" Huggy said dryly from behind Hutch, collecting Reny's empty beer glass.
"The hell with it," Hutch answered.
"How's Starsky?" Huggy pretended to wipe the bar, wanting to give some support. His friendship with the two detectives had long ago transcended the usual relationship between police and informants.
"He's breathing, that's about it. He doesn't even move." Hutch took a deep breath. "Heard anything on the street about Pete Brenner?"
"He's a cop, huh?" Huggy gave the bar a final swipe with his rag. He went behind the counter, collecting other empty glasses and setting out bowls of peanuts.
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Just noise." Huggy waved a hand at invisible voices. "What you sayin' about it?"
"Yah, that's right. He was drummed off the force four years ago."
"Sets a real good example for the kiddies." Huggy raised an eyebrow. "You're takin' it pretty hard."
"How do you expect me to take it?" Hutch flared.
"Hey, hey, remember it's me, The Bear, not Reny," Huggy soothed. "I'll do anything for you and Starsky, you just tell me. What'd you want?"
"Yah, thanks." Hutch finished his beer, ignoring the hollowness in his belly. He should be eating solid food, but every fast food joint in the city reminded him of Starsky. He didn't think he could face a burger or burrito without throwing up. "There are a couple of kids in the areas where the killings were who might have talked to Brenner. I wanna talk to 'em. One is black, last seen on Rochester, and one has blond hair, I saw him at the oil yard. They're both about nine. Maybe six other kids."
"Sure, you want the moon, too?" Huggy snorted, then sobered. "I'll see what I can do." He held up a clenched fist. "Starsky'll fight this, he doesn't give up."
~~~
Outside the detective's squad room, Hutch was surprised to see a barrage of reporters and cameramen surrounding Dobey's office door. As he came down the hall, he could hear Dobey giving a statement pertaining to the most recent victim of the Shadows Killer.
"Ah!" One illustrious member of the press turned. "The partner of the wounded officer!" As one, the rest of the reporters and camera operators swung around, bright lights suddenly shining in Hutch's eyes. "Can you give us any comments on the situation, Detective Hutchinson?"
"No." Hutch looked for a way to break out, but the media had hemmed him in. At the edge of the crowd, Dobey was still verbally battling with a determined photographer.
"What about the two bullets, Hutchinson?" A hand stuck a microphone into his face. "One of them was yours, wasn't it?"
Hutch froze, his jaw tightening in anger. "Where did you hear that?" he asked, pronouncing each word with deadly precision.
"Sources, Detective. What's your answer?" Several hands clutched pens poised over notepads, ready to scribble any answer he gave. TV cameras watched him like giant eyes.
"No comment," Hutch forced out. "Now get the hell out of here."
"Detective Hutchinson refuses to comment on whether he shot his partner or not." There was a mocking taunt to the reporter's voice.
"Are you going to print that?" Hutch demanded, his stomach clenching so tightly it was difficult to breathe.
"It's copy." The reporter looked the policeman in the eye. For a moment no one spoke, the silence so loud it seemed to ring.
"Hutch!" Dobey's voice boomed. "In my office!" The reporters swarmed forward, Dobey's adversarial photographer snapping off a picture as Hutch pushed through to the door. "We will have a statement in a few minutes." The detective captain stated. The sea of news people parted to let the two men into Dobey's office, but microphones were still held out in hopes of getting any muttered word.
"I expected you here two hours ago!" the black man exploded, once they were alone. His voice softened. "You're going to have to give them a straight answer. Otherwise, they'll take you through the ringer, Hutchinson. What you don't say is louder than what you do."
"And have them throw it all over the front page--Cop shoots partner. L.A.'s finest are plugging away at each other," Hutch replied bitterly.
"I think it's necessary," Dobey said. "Besides, it could give us an edge."
"On what?"
"Could pull Brenner out and make him curious enough to call us again."
"OK," Hutch agreed reluctantly. He couldn't even name or explain the dread he felt. Maybe if Starsky were by his side, he could get through this. But Starsky was far away. "I'll..."
"I'll tell them," Dobey cut in, not blind to Hutch's obvious anguish. "If they ask you a question, just answer it without starting anything." He opened the door and was momentarily blinded as the photographer snapped off a few quick shots. "Our department is ready to make an official statement regarding the shooting of Detective Sergeant David Starsky," Dobey announced. "Detective Starsky was in fact shot twice, once by a suspect whom we feel may be the Shadows Killer, this, however, has not been completely verified. He was also shot accidentally by his partner Detective Sergeant Hutchinson who was in pursuit of an armed youth. This young man had fired on my detectives and was later brought into custody. We are withholding his name because he is under age. Detective Starsky is in critical condition. That is all we intend to say."
"Hutchinson, what...?"
"What's your feeling about shooting your partner?"
"Hey, Sergeant Hutchinson?" All the reporters clamored forth with questions, their voices blending into one unintelligible noise. Hutch couldn't respond, paralyzed by guilt. What would they be saying if Starsky died?
"Sergeant Hutchinson, why are you still on duty?" a female voice rang out above the lower tones. "Shouldn't you be on administrative leave during the investigation?"
"I am extremely concerned about my partner's condition," Hutch managed to speak, watching as each word was inscribed on each notepad as he spoke. The TV cameras watched him back, recording every syllable.
"Internal Affairs has already cleared Detective Hutchinson of any wrong-doing in the accidental shooting," Dobey informed them formally. This was news to Hutch, who hadn't even spoken to any IA detectives.
"Captain Dobey, is it true that you know the identity of the Shadows Killer?" a loud voice asked.
"The department has nothing further to say at this time," Dobey said quietly. "This meeting is over." The photographer snapped three more shots before Hutch and Dobey disappeared into the office.
"Where were you this afternoon?" Dobey sat down wearily.
"I went to the hospital, first," Hutch said. "I want that Simms off Starsky's case, I don't think the man knows what he's doing."
"We don't understand all that medical jargon. He's just being cautious," the Captain placated. Hutch bristled but remained silent. "Look, Jenny came up with some old case files that look important." Dobey passed a pile of papers to the other man. "The top one could be the gas station robbery Brenner mentioned. It's a case he and Vegas worked on. And, get this, Vegas shot and killed a kid named Paul Brenner in the hold up."
"Was he related...?" Hutch nodded. "Well, it gives Brenner a motive: good, old fashioned revenge."
"Except that reports were that the brothers were never close." Dobey consulted a sheet of paper. "The case was investigated fully and--uh...Paul Brenner and another boy, Sean O'Herlihy, had robbed several other places, had wounded an owner on one of their jobs. They were considered armed and dangerous. Vegas identified himself, and when he was shot at, returned fire. When Brenner found out his kid brother had died he wasn't even phased. They were half-brothers and twenty years apart. They hardly knew each other."
"But they're still blood." Hutch shook his head. "Family ties are sometimes funny things." He came around the desk so he could read over Dobey's shoulder. "How old was Paul?"
"Fifteen."
"Just a kid.... I got word out on the street that I wanna talk to any and all kids who've talked to Brenner," Hutch said. "What happened to O'Herlihy?"
"Went to Juvenile Hall. There's no update here. Records were probably sealed."
"How long after that did Brenner start shotgun practice?" Hutch leaned back, trying to stretch. The tension in his neck was knotting the muscles all the way down his back.
"One month."
"Captain Dobey." Jenny Dreyfess stuck her head in the door. "The personnel files for Officer Joe McKinley are missing."
"What?" Dobey raised out of his chair.
"Diane can't find the inner office copies, she's going through the central computer to get that copy."
"Well, where the hell are they?" Dobey growled angrily.
"Captain Dobey?" A pretty, dark-haired policewoman walked in behind Jenny. "While I was going through the computers, I remembered something very strange," Diane Killmer spoke hesitantly . "A few weeks ago...a man...a policeman, in uniform, came in with a request for several files. It was all straight forward and in correct order so...I gave him the files."
"Diane, whose files?" Hutch asked, his heart beating in triple digits.
She lowered her head for a moment, as if fearing his wrath. "Mckinley's, Bob Estrata's and...Starsky's."
"And two of the three of them have been shot," Hutch finished in a strangled voice.
"Diane, was this him?" Dobey pulled up a photograph of Pete Brenner in uniform.
"Yes. Isn't he a real officer?" she asked, frightened.
"He was, Diane, that's the problem." Hutch answered. "He must be going to each department in the city and requesting the files of the men he wants to kill. That's how he knows their beats, their covers, their.... But, he must know they aren't Vegas."
"Jenny, get a hold of Bob Estrata. He's the only one who hasn't been shot at. Then get on the horn and call up other stations who've lost men in the last weeks. See if Brenner's been there," Dobey ordered.
"Captain, I...I'm sorry," Diane said tearfully, wringing her hands.
"Diane, you were just doing your job." Dobey looked grim. "It can't be helped now."
Hutch put his arm around her sympathetically, except that he couldn't think of anything sympathetic to say. A few months before, Diane's boyfriend, also a cop, had been killed in the line of duty. All Hutch could think about was Starsky lying in the hospital on a respirator. He was the only one Brenner hadn't succeeded in killing. Yet.
"I'll go print up Mckinley's file off the computer." Di walked slowly from the room. Jenny followed, talking softly to her.
"Brenner walks coolly in here, gets a few files and ambles out again, rifle in hand to shoot up his favorite cop." Hutch paced, wanting to explode. "Other cops saw him, talked to him.... He must have gotten most of the files before he ever started killing."
"What precinct was he based out of?"
"Blackburn Street." Hutch answered, so restless he could hardly stay in the confines of the small office.
"And so were two of the men killed." Dobey frowned. "Ravelli and Collier."
"He's setting a stage." Hutch roamed the perimeter of the room, unable to keep still. "He gets some kid to commit a minor felony, then waits for the local beat cop to come--he knows in advance who will probably show up." His whole body felt jittery, as if he'd drunk too much coffee, when he hadn't had any at all. That bastard had lain in wait, knowing that he and Starsky were often within a few blocks of Miller's Bar and the oil yard on 110th Ave.
"Here." Dobey held out a sheaf of papers, "The transcript from the questioning of Leroy Jefferson, the kid who shot at you. He said that the other kid--who's still at large--was given one hundred dollars to stage a gunfight. They split it."
"But did Jefferson see Brenner? Talk to him?"
"No." Dobey glanced up at the blond man. "Sit down, you need to calm..."
"How can I be calm?!" Hutch retorted. "That crazy bastard tried to kill my partner--he..." Hutch sat, clasping his hands in his lap. They trembled and finally he grasped the arms of the chair. "What about IA--you told the reporters they cleared me?"
"Yes. Several officers at the scene saw Jefferson take the shot at you. All who saw Starsky said it would have been impossible for you to see him before hand. It was accidental." Dobey wished he could say something to ease the younger man's fears, but he too was thinking of the dark-haired man in the hospital. Starsky was the one who could lighten a tense situation with a joke, or smart remark. His absence was palpable. "Internal Affairs will still want a statement from you, but there won't be any hearing."
"I need to get out on the street." Hutch started for the door, but froze as the phone rang.
Dobey answered on the first ring, identifying himself. He held up his hand, motioning Hutch back into the office. "OK, Doctor, we'll be right over." He hung up the phone. "Simms says that Starsky's breathing on his own, his temperature had come down and there's been some body movement.'
"Is he conscious?" Hutch asked anxiously.
"His condition has improved from critical to guarded," Dobey finished softly. "He could still take a turn for the worse."
"Oh, God." Hutch prayed.
~~~
Sighting down his rifle barrel, Pete Brenner watched the front of the Nightcap liquor store. Although it was mid afternoon, the place was shuttered and dark, only the raucous sound of the burglar alarms out of place. The little brown-faced child had already collected his reward for smashing the front window with a rock, and vanished, probably to spend the ill-gotten gain on some silly bubblegum card. Brenner had never liked small children. They pestered, following where they weren't wanted, never leaving you alone. He could remember Paul.... He shook his head, focusing on the storefront. Where was that patrol car? The response time in this neighborhood sucked.
"Vegas, you can't hide from me. Change your name.... Huh, you can't hide that hair..." Brenner muttered to himself. He corrected the rifle's angle, leaning against an abandoned plaid sofa. He applauded whoever had dragged the couch into this alley. No one in their right mind would want the ugly piece of furniture in their house, and it made a perfect cover. Where was that damned patrol car?
He laughed to himself. Who in their right minds, indeed? Who was in their right mind? He'd long ago decided that few people had any minds at all.
Douglas Hancock. That was the name Vegas was hiding behind now, but Brenner wasn't fooled. Vegas was truly a coward. Killing innocent young boys, just for getting a few kicks.... OK, maybe Paul hadn't been innocent--but who in this day and age hadn't committed a few crimes? It meant nothing. The kid just needed guidance. A few misdemeanors just made you realize the difference between right and wrong. Like using the belt.... Brenner shot the image out of his head. That was a long time ago. Where was he?
He eased his finger off the trigger, loosening the joint, as a black-and-white car finally pulled onto Lincoln from Blackburn and stopped in front of Nightcap Liquor.
Ah, yes. Now things were going according to plan. Brenner smiled until both cops climbed out of the car. A black man and an older, fat geezer Brenner recognized as Sergeant Riley. Where was Douglas Hancock? A second, unmarked car rolled up, disgorging a petite blond woman and thin, tall balding plainclothes detective who conferred with the two uniforms about the break in. Where was Vegas? Douglas Hancock? Whatever he was calling himself?
His breath coming in short gasps, Brenner tried to calm himself. This wasn't the day. He had to remain in control, in his right mind. Vegas was still out there and he would still be able to kill him, this just wasn't the right day.
Laughing at the four police investigating a simple broken window, Pete Brenner felt his breathing ease. This just wasn't the day. Maybe Douglas Hancock was just a ruse, to throw him off the track. The last name on his list was Bob Estrata. It would be him. Vegas could no longer hide, now.
~~~
It was dinnertime at St. Luke's. Candy-stripers pushed carts laden with food down the hallways, stopping every few feet to distribute covered dishes to the patients able to eat. Hutch realized that he hadn't eaten a good meal in several days. His stomach growled hollowly but the smell of food left him nauseated.
"Good evening, is Doctor Simms around?" Dobey asked the ward clerk at the intensive care desk. She was much younger than the nurse Hutch had seen earlier in the day.
"Back in Mr. Starsky's room." She pointed, smiling gently.
In the ICU, only one patient was eating. The other six were unconscious, their food dripping through IV tubes directly into the blood stream. Hutch again felt the overwhelming urge to break Starsky out of the prison-like ward. He'd been in a coma for three days.
"...Change the dosage to half a gram tomorrow morning." Simms instructed a nurse, who nodded and hurried away.
"Mr. Hutchinson, Captain Dobey." Dr. Simms closed the chart he held in his hands, coming out into the hall.
"How is he?" Hutch stared at his partner through the glass partition.
"I'd like to say I was encouraged," Simms said grimly. "His temperature is lower, and vital signs are steady, but I can't predict the future and I've seen too many patients get remarkably better only to die a few hours later."
"Isn't that somewhat harsh, Simms?" Dobey frowned, looking over at Starsky's still form.
"It's the truth, Captain." Simms took a deep breath. "If he makes it through the night like this, things'll be looking up."
"Please, Starsk," Hutch whispered, sitting down by the bed, closing his hand over his partner's. Starsky's fingers fluttered for a second, like weak butterflies on Hutch's palm. "His fingers moved," he gasped.
"Yes, he's done that before," Simms agreed. "If he becomes conscious, it would be a hopeful sign, but don't be deceived by muscle spasms."
"Doctor, dammit, can't you say one encouraging word?" Hutch spoke sharply, trying to keep his voice lowered. He kept willing Starsky's fingers to move again, cherishing the feeling of something alive held in his hand. Starsky was alive.
"Mr. Hutchinson, I am trying to be realistic with you. Your partner is critical," Simms said stiffly.
"Critical, guarded, whatever that means." Hutch stood, moving away from the patient. "If you're being realistic, as you call it." He glanced over at Dobey for support. "I would like you to explain exactly what is wrong with Starsky to me, Doctor, because, so far, you've been realistically vague."
"All right," Simms agreed. "If you'll come into my office?" He led them across the hall and into a small but well-furnished office. Sitting down at the wide oak desk, he opened up the chart he still held, extracting several x-rays. "These are the x-rays, if you understand how to read them." He slipped them onto a lighted screen on the wall. "The first bullet hit the upper shoulder and went out the back--the residents call that a through-and-through. Little serious damage was done." He indicated the typical x-ray negative image of a chest, white ribs against the blacker lungs. "You can see that the second bullet entered here," he pointed to a place between two ribs, "and traveled across the chest cavity, where it lodged against the diaphragm, between his heart and left lung. Remarkably, neither organ was punctured. Two ribs were broken from the bullet's passage. If the bullet moves one way or the other, it would probably kill him instantly, especially if it tore a hole in the artery. Surgery will be risky because of the bullet's position, and a post operative blood clot is a real danger." He surveyed his stunned audience, slightly smugly. "A chest tube has been inserted to help evacuate the blood in his chest cavity. He has a temperature, most probably from bacteria brought in with the bullets."
Hutch let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.
"If you operate, could you get the bullet out?" Dobey asked.
"Yes. But I would never operate in the condition Starsky is in right now, nor will I until he improves. Post operative complications could kill him," Simms answered.
"Thanks a lot, Doc, you're a real barrel of laughs," Hutch shouted. "What do you have, a death wish out for Starsk? You can't say two words without mentioning something else that could...kill him." His voice softened, close to tears. "Don't say that."
"Mr. Hutchinson. I only..."
"I don't want to hear it." Hutch pointed an accusing finger at the man. "I will listen when you tell me he's conscious and you are going to operate." He burst out of the office, slamming a fist against the door.
"Hutch," Dobey admonished. "Come to the cafeteria with me."
"Oh, thank you, Captain. Let's get Hutch out, huh?" The blond detective rubbed skinned knuckles, sickened by the explanation Simms had given. He almost wished he hadn't asked for it.
"Let's get some coffee," Dobey said firmly.
"That's a dumb solution," Hutch sighed, allowing himself to be led to the elevator. Dobey punched the second floor button.
"We either get Simms out, or Starsky." Hutch stared at the lighted floor indicator. "That man's a damn idiot."
"He told you what you wanted to know," Dobey pointed out as they stepped off the elevator. The cafeteria was crowded with families waiting for word of their sick loved ones. Hutch's guts heaved at the heavy aroma of cooked meat, but he swallowed the bile. Dobey got in line, collecting two cups and a slice of pie.
"He told me what he wanted to tell me," Hutch retaliated. "Captain, I can't wai..." he stood silently for a moment, watching his superior pay for the food. "Brenner keeps trying to kill Vegas. He keeps trying...because Vegas died and Brenner never killed him. So he knows that he's not shooting Vegas."
"What are you talking about?" Dobey growled, placing the cups on the table. He stabbed a fork into the viscous cherry pie, taking a large bite.
"I dunno--nothing." Hutch dropped heavily into the chair. "What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty," Dobey answered, glancing at the wall clock.
"I want to wait until he comes to." Hutch fingered the coffee cup, making no effort to drink it.
"Hutchinson, it could be a long time." Dobey toyed with the fork, separating the cherries out of the crust. It wasn't very good pie; his wife made far superior.
"I didn't stay last night." Hutch massaged his aching temples, guilt so strong it was like a physical appendage. "I shot him."
"Yours isn't the wound that's keeping him in here." Harold Dobey longed to say something that would help in any way. He shook his head. "If you want company..."
"Thanks," Hutch acknowledged the kindness. What if Starsky blamed him? What if this severed their friendship? What if Starsky never woke up? The damn song kept repeating in his head, like a record caught in the grove. No one ever knows I'm afraid...Make believe you're brave and the trick will take you far. Well, he was afraid. And whistling wasn't going to change that. "I'm so damn tired of waiting for something to happen."
Waiting was the only thing Hutch could do that night, and eight-thirty changed to midnight as the clock hands turned slowly up to twelve. It suddenly seemed imperative to Hutch that he be there when Starsky opened his eyes, to re-establish their link. The cups of coffee went cold and even when Dobey succeeded in convincing Hutch to try a ham sandwich, he only ate two bites of it. Dobey went home after midnight and Hutch curled up on a hard leather couch in the waiting room to try to catch some elusive sleep.
"Mr. Hutchinson?" a soft voice asked for the third time. She was about to give up when she detected that he was waking up.
"Huh?" Hutch sat up stiffly, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
"Dr. Simms would like to talk to you," the young nurse said.
"Well, I don't wanna talk to him..." Hutch frowned. "Is Starsky awake?"
She shrugged apologetically turning as the grim doctor emerged from the ICU.
"What do you want?" Hutch asked, making no attempt to conceal the dislike in his voice. "How's Starsky?" His tone softened on the last word, knowing the argumentative doctor wouldn't give him any answer if he were openly belligerent.
"That's what I wanted to speak to you about," Simms answered stiffly, but making no further explanation.
"I didn't expect you wanted to discuss the weather." Hutch started angrily for Starsky's room.
"Your partner is conscious," the doctor said flatly.
Hutch felt like a giant band had been taken from his chest. "Conscious?" he echoed, so joyously relieved he wanted to run down the hall to greet Starsky. "When did he...? How is he?"
"I am not particularly pleased that his temperature is up again, and his hematocrit indicates there was more internal bleeding," Simms said, making it sound as if the entire thing were Starsky's fault. "But if his condition stabilizes and he stays conscious, I could probably operate."
"Simms, I am not even going to let you bother me this morning." Hutch dashed down the hall. He stopped at Starsky's door, wanting to burst in but restraining himself. "Starsk?" He spoke softly, sitting in the plastic bedside chair. "You there?" The respirator had been removed, and now a plastic nasal cannula supplied oxygen for the injured man. He pressed his hand over Starsky's hot fingers. "Starsky."
"Hutch?" The name came on a breath, so soft it was almost nonexistent.
"Glad to see you're back, buddy." Hutch smiled, ignoring the tears wetting his eyes.
"What happened?" Starsky asked, barely moving his lips. His whole body was so hot. Breathing had never been a difficult process before, but his chest was one solid mass of pain, and if he didn't breathe very deeply or speak very fast, it didn't hurt so much.
"You got shot," Hutch answered, placing his hand gently on Starsky's forehead. Fever radiated from his skin like fire.
"Feels good." Starsky muttered. "What?"
"You were shot, Starsk." The blond man sighed. Starsky was so sick, and he obviously wasn't fully alert.
"Oh, shot." Starsky tried to remember what being shot was. He took a deeper breath and almost lost his tentative hold on consciousness. It was like trying to breathe while being crushed under a metal smasher. "Hurts."
"Yah." Hutch blinked his eyes to get rid of the tears. "Starsky, try to understand me, OK?"
"Yah?"
"Did you see Pete Brenner shoot you?" Hutch asked.
"Brenner?"
"Right. Pete Brenner, did he shoot you?"
"A rifle?" Starsky whispered. He licked his dry lips. "Too fast."
"What's too fast?" Hutch gave a frustrated groan. Starsky didn't understand.
"Time's up, Hutchinson," Simms said suddenly.
Wondering how long the physician had been standing there, the detective nodded, "Starsk, I gotta go now, OK?"
"OK," Starsky agreed weakly, closing his eyes.
"Get well, huh?" Hutch squeezed his partner's limp hand, walking out with a worried feeling. Starsky might be conscious, but he wasn't much better. As he left the hospital, Hutch noticed it was nine o'clock in the morning. He needed to get some clean clothes and something into his stomach. He literally couldn't remember when he'd last eaten a full meal.
After a stop at his Venice apartment for blue jeans and a bowling shirt, Hutch drove over to a local pancake house. He and Starsky had never eaten there, reducing any memories of breakfasts together. The scrambled eggs were dry and hard and the hash browns greasy and cold, but he forced himself to eat them, knowing he hadn't had anything in his stomach in over a day. Carrying a paper cup back to the car, Hutch took a last reluctant sip of the disgusting brew. It was probably the worst coffee he'd ever had. With a fervent curse about wasting good money on slop, Hutch poured the coffee onto the roots of a stunted shrub. Absently watching it soak into the bare dirt, he willed the food in his belly to say where it belonged, inside him, but the need to put it into the dirt next to the coffee was too strong. He dropped to his knees, retching, losing the rest of his breakfast.
Empty, Hutch stood shaking. He couldn't go on this way. He'd never be able to go after Brenner in this condition. Using the restaurant's bathroom to clean up, he rinsed his mouth with water. The lined, pale face that watched him in the mirror didn't even look familiar.
Starting the car, Hutch drove slowly, not really knowing where he was going until he stopped the car on 110th in front of the oil storage yard. Getting out, Hutch passed through the familiar gates and walked between the rows of oil drums. Markings on the ground made by the lab crew still indicated where Starsky had fallen. In fact, Hutch knelt, touching a dark place on the cement: Starsky's blood still stained the ground.
Brenner had stood beside that shed in the shadow of the warehouse and shot Starsky without a second of remorse. But why? Brenner was trying to kill Vegas. He was never going to succeed but he was sure trying. That had to be the reason--Brenner knew he'd never be able to kill Vegas, so he was venting his frustrations by murdering anyone who looked like his ill-fated partner.
A small, blond-haired child crouched behind a barrel, a few feet from the detective, his face serious. He didn't move as the man stood up and turned around slowly as if looking for something. At first, the man didn't see the boy, because he was looking over the tops of the oil drums to the small building beyond.
Hutch sighed, glancing around him at the multi-colored oil drums. He almost missed the child, but the shining gold of the hair caught his eye. Hope buoyed in Hutch's chest. Could this be the elusive child they'd been looking for?
"Hello." He looked over the top of the barrel at the boy.
"Hi."
"You were here the other day, weren't you?" Hutch recognized the wide blue eyes and blond hair. He was the boy who'd directed them to the warehouse.
"Yah."
"My name's Hutch, what's yours?"
"Keeley," the boy replied. "You're a cop, huh?"
"You're right." Hutch crouched down, to be nearer to Keeley's level. Although he was probably eight or nine, he was tiny. Hutch didn't want to scare him off by looming over him like some evil interrogator in a Nazi movie. "When you were here the other day, did you see what happened?"
Keeley nodded, shifting just his eyes to the dark stains on the cement. He'd meant to stay away that day. The Big Man had told him to. But the gunfire and shouting had been too alluring and he'd returned in time to see the curly-haired cop get gunned down.
"Did anybody tell you to make us come over here?" Hutch asked carefully.
"Yah." Keeley tucked his hands between his bent knees. "He gave me six dollars."
"Six dollars. Wow, I bet that made you glad. Do you know his name?"
"Sure." The boy stood up, the sun catching his shining hair, making it gleam like fire. "It's Mr. Brennen."
Brenner--Brennen? It was so absurdly similar. "Why did he give you six dollars?" Hutch asked.
Keeley looked skeptical. "I don't think he'd like me to tell a cop."
"Well, Keeley," Hutch stood up, too. "Mr. Brennen might have hurt a lot of people, including a friend of mine. He should be in jail."
"But..." Keeley stared up at the cop. "Did he shoot your friend?" He pointed to the place where Starsky had lain.
"Yah, I think so. My friend's name is Dave Starsky. He's in the hospital. He's very sick and I want to help him by finding the man who shot him."
The boy's small face crumpled. "He...told me he wanted to play a trick on you. Not..." Keeley looked down at his feet, "not shoot anyone."
"Keeley, I understand." Hutch placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "I just need all the help I can get to find Mr. Brennen. Do you remember anything else?"
Scratching his arm, Keeley took a trembling breath. "I know..."
"What?" Hutch tried not to sound too urgent.
"I know where he lives," Keeley said softly.
"Thank God," Hutch whispered. "Can you show me?"
"But he'll know." Keeley's eyes widened so much they seemed to encompass his whole face. "He might shoot me."
Hutch thought fast, needing that address. "I don't think so, Keeley. He usually only shoots people who have dark hair, not blond hair like you and me."
"Starsky had dark hair." Keeley nodded, remembering seeing the other detective in the car with Hutch.
"Yah, now, do you remember where he lives?"
"Sure--next door to me." Keeley started out the chain link gates to the street. "Down there, at 43 One-hundred-tenth Street, on the second floor." He pointed past Miller's Bar to a rundown apartment building. It was one of a dozen or so identical apartment blocks built for public housing. Colorful graffiti tags decorated the entire length of the outside walls.
"Thank you, Keeley, very much." Hutch patted the boy's arm. "How old are you?"
"Eight."
"You did a very important job. Don't worry about Brennen, I'll never tell him it was you." Hutch smiled gently. "Me, or one of my other friends on the force will be back to talk to you and your parents later on today, OK?"
Keeley brushed a hand through his tousled hair. "Mister...Hutch, can I see you friend when he's better?"
"When he's better," Hutch nodded. "Why?"
"So I can say I'm sorry."
"Me, too, Keeley, me, too."
There was no name on the mailbox for apartment 2B of number forty-three One-hundred-tenth Street, but Hutch figured that it had to be the right one. Number 2A had the very Scandinavian sounding name of Gunderson taped under it. Coupling that with Keeley's blond hair, and the fact that Brennen, or Brenner, lived next door, made it a sure bet to be Keeley's home.
Hutch took the stairs two at a time and knocked gently on Apartment B. He hadn't given very much thought as to what would happen if Brenner pulled his rifle. He acutely missed Starsky's presence. He'd go high and Starsky'd go low, bursting into the apartment together. Hutch loosened his pistol in the shoulder holster, just in case.
"Brenner?" Hutch knocked louder, getting no response. "Pete Brenner? This is the police, open this door." He drew his pistol, and held it ready. "Brenner, I'm coming in!" With a swift kick, Hutch slammed open the door. Nothing moved inside the tiny apartment except a large brass pendulum encased in a grandfather clock. The deep tick-tock echoed through the room.
A quick tour of the three rooms proved that Brenner was not in residence. Hutch sat down, defeated, on a low couch. He looked curiously at a pile of papers and files cluttering the floor. Something looked very familiar. Moving the old newspapers aside, Hutch swallowed against the bile rising from his stomach. Ravelli's file, Collier's file.... He clenched his teeth as he pulled out Starsky's file. Damn, damn, damn.
Enough circumstantial evidence to nail Brenner with four counts of murder and there was no way to use any of it against him. Hutch growled and stomped out.
~~~
"No, I didn't have a damn search warrant." Hutch slammed his hand on Dobey's desk. "But Captain, if I got back there at least I can get him..."
"How are you going to explain knowing those files were there?" Dobey exploded, "Hutchinson, I cannot have my best detectives breaking into suspect's homes!"
"Captain," Hutch insisted, "we go there--get him on...having stolen police records, anything, but at least we get that menace off the streets."
"Not for long."
"Once we get him, we can make something stick."
"You sure?" Dobey frowned, "OK, Hutch get a search warrant, get the bastard, but you better get him good!" The phone rang, but he ignored it, letting Jenny answer. "Did you find his gun?"
"No, he probably had it. How soon can I get that warrant?" the blond man asked impatiently.
"Captain?" Jenny stuck her head in the door, a frightened look on her face. "It's Brenner."
"I'll take it." Dobey nodded. "Get a trace going, Jenny."
"Wait," Hutch said as the Captain put his hand on the receiver. "Let me talk to him."
"Keep him talking," Dobey urged.
"Hey, Pig Captain, you there?" Brenner's voice poured forth from the room speaker. "I keep readin' how incompetent you are in the papers."
"I'm here, Brenner," Hutch spoke firmly.
"Hey, Hutchinson, I went an' saw your little partner th' other day. He don't look so good."
Hutch went cold, his hands shaking. "How did you get in there?"
"Just walked in, fuckin' nurse didn't even care."
"Brenner, you bas..."
"Hutchinson, little cops shouldn't use words like that," the killer chided, a sneer in his voice. "What would your public think? I ain't gonna stay on this phone long. I just wanted to know how you piggies are doing?"
"Brenner," Hutch said quickly, "you were a 'piggie' once, too."
"A different life." Brenner boasted. "I've learned the..." he laughed sadistically, "the error of my ways."
"Your error is that you ever lived, Brenner," Hutch spat vehemently. Dobey shot him an angry look. "I want to meet with you, Brenner."
"I don't make deals with cops. I kill them. Like they killed him."
"Vegas is dead!" Hutch shouted. "He's dead and you didn't kill him. That's your problem, isn't it?"
"Fuck you, Hutchinson." Brenner dropped the receiver onto the cradle, the sound cracking loudly around Dobey's office.
"Dammit," Hutch swore. He laced his fingers together to stop them from shaking. "How did he get into the hospital without being seen?"
"He's just yanking your chain, Hutchinson," Dobey reasoned. "They have a visitor list there. Nobody just walks in." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll put a stake-out on Brenner's place and get that search warrant.
"A lot of good it'll do now." Hutch couldn't shake his anxiety. "An' keep that stake-out out of sight."
"Hutch, I know," the Captain growled. "Get out there and earn your pay."
It didn't take very long to learn that Reny hadn't heard anything, Huggy hadn't heard anything, and both were convinced that the lack of street talk was because no one else knew anything either. Brenner had slipped through the cracks, despite massive media coverage and most of LA's finest looking for him.
~~~
The offices of Brenner's police department-appointed psychiatrist were in a much more high rent district than Hutch usually circulated. Feeling slightly underdressed he crossed the marble-floored lobby to an office directory. Dr. Patrick Sullivan resided in suite 1912. Hutch twitched his leather jacket straighter, waiting for the elevator to the nineteenth floor.
Pushing open a door etched with the names Sullivan, Badijian and Associates, Hutch stepped inside. The waiting room was well appointed with over stuffed chairs, large lacy ferns and a coffee machine, but it was completely deserted.
A white-haired woman with piercing blue eyes regarded him coolly. "May I help you?"
Opening his wallet to expose the gold detective shield, Hutch explained his reasons to see Dr. Sullivan.
"I'm afraid the doctor is in conference," she answered primly.
"Do you understand that this is an extremely dangerous situation? One of his patients is killing innocent people." Hutch started down the small hall behind her desk. "Which one is his office, or do you want me to barge right in on a patient?"
"You can't go in there!" she bristled, following him.
"Ah, here we are." Luckily, the doctor's personal offices had their names engraved on brass plaques. He swung the door open as the receptionist grabbed the knob, nearly knocking her over in the process.
"Doctor..." she sputtered.
"Miss Haversham, what is this?" Sullivan was an overweight man with a puffy, florid face. He was also obviously drunk. A bottle of Jim Beam sat next to his desk blotter, and an empty soldier lay on the floor, the stale smell of whiskey permeating the room.
"Detective Hutchinson of the Metropolitan Police." Hutch flashed his badge.
"Why d'you come barging in like this?" the doctor growled.
"You used to treat a patient name Peter Brenner?"
"I'd have to check my files." Sullivan said blearily. "Miss Haversham?" She nodded, turning to a large bank of locked cabinets. "What's this all about, Detective?"
"He may have murdered six policemen."
Miss Haversham froze, dropping the keys. "Are you talking about the Shadows Killer? Pete Brenner may be the Shadows Killer?" When Hutch nodded, she bent, retrieving the keys from the Chinese rug, and unlocked the cabinet marked 'B', fingering the files until she pulled out Brenner's.
"It's all here." She checked the contents of the envelope. "Doctor?"
"Jus' give it t'me." Sullivan stood unsteadily, one hand out to the file. This overbalanced him. With an almost comic timing he pitched forward onto the desk, sprawling bonelessly across the blotter and telephone, out cold.
"Good God!" Hutch exclaimed.
Miss Haversham pursed her lips, her face a blank mask. "Unfortunately, this happens all the time. Can you help me get him to the couch?"
Even with both of them lugging the heavy man, it took quite a bit of effort to transport him the relatively short distance to the leather couch. While the efficient woman covered her employer with a crocheted blanket, Hutch caught up Brenner's psychiatric profile, sitting down at the recently vacated desk chair to read it.
"You shouldn't look at that without the doctor," Miss Haversham said sharply.
"Well, he's not a lot of help, now, is he?" Hutch flipped through the pages. "This man shot my partner, and killed six others..."
"I just can't believe that." She shook her white head. "He seemed so genuinely distraught and...not at all like a killer."
"You remember him?" Hutch asked hopefully.
"Yes. He came in after he was discharged from the police force." The woman took the papers from him, looking for particular medical notations. "There." She pointed to the doctor's diagnosis. "He had temporary depression due to the loss of his younger brother."
"And schizoid-type personality? With delusions?" Hutch read with growing horror.
"Most of the doctor's patients have those diagnoses," she countered. "That's why they come to him--well, came...he had to stop seeing patients due to the..."
"Drinking." Hutch finished. "And he last saw Brenner just over a year ago." He found the notes to the last session.
"Dr. Badijian is keeping him on til his sixty fifth birthday--he can retire then without stigma," Haversham said quietly, looking over at the drunken man snoring loudly on the couch.
"He's an alcohalic that let a crazy person loose on the streets to murder police!" Hutch gathered up the file. "It says here that even on the last day Brenner was still blaming Vegas for his brother's death and wanted to kill him."
"I'm sure that was harm..." She trailed off, recognizing how wrong her words were. Standing behind Hutch, she read over his shoulder. "It says that he felt that the man who killed his brother was hiding from him. That he was afraid that Mr. Brenner would exact revenge and so he had to change his name."
"That man was his partner, Dan Vegas, and he was already dead when Brenner said that."
"I didn't know," she said softly, her pale hands twisting the pearl necklace she wore. "I'm sure that when Dr. Sullivan is feeling...better, he will co-operate with you fully, but I'll have to ask you to leave the file and go now."
"I got what I came for," Hutch bit off. "Those will be impounded soon enough." He turned on his heel, stalking out.
~~~
Hutch parked the car in a red zone and walked down One-hundred-fifth Street to where several streetwalkers lounged on a corner. Four girls regarded him with predatory intent. Lacy Calhane turned casually, and permitted herself a small smile. Hutch certainly was handsome. In any other circumstance, she'd be sorely tempted. She fluffed up the blond wig, which hid her red locks.
"Looks fine," one of the other girls commented admirably, watching the tall blond man approach.
"He's mine." Lacy staked her claim, smiling professionally at Bambi. "Hands off."
"Hi," Hutch greeted coolly. "Have some time?" He held out a hand to the platinum blond in the blue lace mini, who glanced majestically over her shoulder at her companions.
"Sure." She accepted his hand and they walked up the windswept avenue together.
"Well, Hutch, I didn't think you liked a pickup."
"I prefer redheads."
"A little change. Mike's murder made headlines and some unneeded publicity." Lacy shook the short curls. "Where are we going?"
"How 'bout a hotel."
"We're both on the job." She looked up at his tired face. He looked one hundred years older than only seven days ago. "What's wrong?"
"A lot."
"Brenner hasn't struck again, has he?"
"No." Hutch opened the glass door to a small diner and led her in. It was such a narrow restaurant there were only seven booths along one side and a tiny curved counter on the other. A bored waitress looked up with disinterest as they walked in.
"Then, what's the matter, Hutch?" Lacy slid into the first plastic booth. He snagged a menu from the counter and sat across from her.
"This case is going nowhere." Hutch shrugged. "It's like Brenner really is a shadow. No word on the street. Nobody ever sees him. I dunno whether it's me or what...and then there's that fuckin' doctor."
"Who?"
"Simms-who's in charge of Starsky's case. If that man doesn't do something soon..."
"Hutch, I think you're beating a dead horse." She grimaced. "Sorry, bad choice of words. Why don't you get a new doctor?"
"Yah." He blankly read the menu, wondering if he'd be able to keep anything down. The waitress came over, pencil poised above her order pad. Hutch ordered, "Coffee, black, and a bowl of tomato soup. Lacy?"
"Iced tea," she added.
"Have you seen that little kid around?" He asked when the waitress had gone to get their food.
"Well, I'm not working the same street anymore, so...I don't really think so." She sighed. "It's not like I really took a good look at him the first time around."
"Luckily, I found the kid who talked to me before Starsky got... And I found where Brenner lives." Hutch paused as the waitress placed the drinks and soup on the table. "Evidence all over the room, the missing files--including Starsky's--and no way to use it. Dobey's getting a search warrant, but I'm not holding out much hope--Brenner used to be a cop, he knows all the games..."
"Hutch, I just...you can't keep rehashing what you haven't done until you're blue in the face. Concentrate on catching him." Lacy touched his hand. "I think for the first time in a long time you haven't got Starsky and you blame yourself so much for that it scares you." She sipped her tea. "A doctor doesn't work on the case of a friend, I don't think a cop should either..."
"Thanks a lot, Lacy, you just about said I..."
"No, I didn't. I'm saying that I don't think you should, not that you can't."
"Know a lot for a dumb blond, don't you," Hutch said without malice. He stirred the tomato soup with a spoon, unable to taste it. It looked like a bowlful of blood.
"I've been around." She stroked his fingers. "So."
"I have a stake in this case," he said firmly, taking a gulp of the lukewarm coffee. "I can't desert Starsky."
"I know, but..."
"Stay out of it, Lacy." He cut her off. "Thanks for hearing me out."
"That's it?"
"For now." He threw six dollars on the table, leaving his soup uneaten.
"Are you angry at me?" Lacy had to hurry to catch up with him as he left the diner.
"At myself." Hutch felt tired and useless. His very bones ached with weariness. "Let it be, Lacy."
"Are you doing anything tonight for dinner?" she asked softly.
"I'm supposed to ask you that."
"You didn't and you didn't answer me." She touched his arm.
"You want to go out or what?" He stopped regarding her pretty delicately boned face. A night out? With Starsky laying in the hospital? It was absurd, and yet a part of him wanted it very badly. Just to enjoy Lacy, without all the violence and pain of the last weeks. Strangely, the thought that Starsky would have certainly encouraged him with an approving leer allowed him to agree.
"Go out--and maybe a little 'or what', too." She reached up and kissed his cheek. "I usually get paid for that, Sailor, but for you I'll make an exception."
His kiss found her lips and for a moment, neither moved, connected in the most primal way. "I'm no freeloader." He said when they'd both taken a breath. "Dinner, be ready at 9 o'clock?"
"Yah, I'll need to change out of my glad rags."
"I can't guarantee I'll be the best company."
"I think you will be." Lacy waved as she went back to join the girls on the corner of One-hundred-fifth Street and Marvella, swinging her hips just a little more than necessary.
Hutch started towards the car, stopping for a minute at a newsstand. Out of four newspapers displayed, three of them featured stories of the 'Shadows Killer' and his victims. Hutch stared at a picture of himself and Dobey, which covered the front page of the Los Angeles Times. Large bold type proclaimed 'Detective Shoots Partner!'
"D'jou wanna paper?" The old man who ran the newsstand peered nearsightedly up at Hutch.
"No, I already know what they say." Hutch went back to the battered Ford. As he slid into the seat, he flicked the 'on' switch to the police band radio. "This is Zebra Three."
"Zebra Three?" the dispatcher responded.
"Patch me through to Captain Dobey." Hutch said. He was resigned to the fact that Lacy had been right. He was too closely involved in what had happened to Starsky to be objective about Brenner. Besides, suddenly, he didn't even want to have to think about the former cop. Breaking into Brenner's apartment had only tainted the evidence. He was unable to help Starsky heal and he had become a hindrance to Dobey's investigation.
"Dobey here. What do you want, Hutchinson?" The captain's voice crackled over the radio.
"Did you get the search warrant?" the blond man asked.
"Not yet--the judge isn't ready to issue on such flimsy evidence."
"Flimsy eviden... Well, if it ever comes through, issue it to somebody else."
"What?!" Dobey bellowed.
"I want off the case," Hutch said shortly.
There was no answer from the other end. Asking to be taken off a case was so unlike Hutch that Dobey couldn't even frame a response. "I want you in my office, now!"
"I'm off duty in half an hour," Hutch answered stonily.
"The hell you are--that gives you time to get your tail in here," the captain growled. "I want you to do some explaining."
~~~
"What did you ask me on that radio?" Dobey yelled as Hutch walked into his office literally half an hour later.
"I want off."
"I don't think I heard you right."
"Hennesey's good. He could work on the case. I haven't gotten anywhere, anyway," Hutch said slowly.
"You want to explain yourself?"
"I can't be objective about this...I'm too involved."
"And you weren't yesterday or last week?"
"Dobey, I want out." Hutch insisted. "Besides, I have vacation time coming."
"Now is not a good time," Dobey stonewalled. "What's the real reason?"
"I can't fight Brenner." Hutch sat down tiredly, confused emotions welling up inside him. "He's a schizophrenic. I talked to his doctor--well, his receptionist." He related the brief visit to Sullivan's office and the importance of getting all of Brenner's medical records in evidence.
"You still haven't given me one good reason to take you off the case."
"He killed six people and Starsky's hanging on by next to nothing." He rubbed his forehead, "I dunno if I'm scared or discouraged or what. I just want Starsky back in here with his feet on a chair and Brenner in prison. But I can't do it. I can't even make believe anymore."
"He's not Superman," Dobey said softly.
"I know and neither am I!" Hutch retorted loudly. "Contrary to what I've tried to prove in the past, and I don't wanna be. Let me drop it!" He sagged, not enough energy to continue the argument. "I go out and make believe I'm brave, but it doesn't work. I can't do it anymore, not without Starsky."
"I don't want to do this, but all right, you're off the case." Dobey picked up the phone. "Jenny, get Hennesey in here."
"Thanks."
"You're off duty," the captain noted. "I'll expect you in on time tomorrow. We do have other cases."
Standing in the wardroom, Hutch gave the table where he worked a vicious kick, sending papers and his piggy bank off onto the floor. Two detectives at the end of the room looked up in surprise. He bent down to retrieve the piggybank, shaking it hopefully. Starsky usually kept loose change in it for the candy machine. The bank was empty. Everything was gone.
~~~
"You look a little high priced for me," Hutch joked, admiring the long purple jersey dress, which clung beautifully to Lacy's curves.
"I get very tired of hooker jokes," Lacy sighed good-naturedly, leaning against her door jam.
"You look beautiful." Hutch ran his hand down her long, curly, red hair. "I like your hair--like autumn leaves and fire."
"You're poetical tonight." She smiled, pulling the front door closed and locking it. "I've never seen you so...almost happy."
"I resigned from the case."
"Oh, Hutch, I thought..."
"And that's the last we're going to mention of it or anything concerning police business." Hutch escorted her down the stairs, then paused to open the car door so she could slide in.
"Alright, I guess."
"No guessing, Lacy." Giving her hand a gallant kiss, he swung the car door shut. "Tonight is for a good time," he insisted, mostly to himself, making every effort to enjoy the rest of the evening. Actually, dropping the case had, momentarily, taken the weight off his mind. Let someone else concern himself with Brenner. There were others on the force who were capable. He pushed the nagging feeling of failure to the back of his mind.
Hutch had picked a quiet, dimly lit steak house. After a beer, he managed to eat a small portion of his baked potato and a bite of his porterhouse steak. If Lacy noticed his poor appetite, she didn't mention it, playing absently with her Cobb Salad.
All through dinner both detectives forced themselves to make small talk, avoiding the subjects of police work, Brenner, Starsky, and Mike O'Brien all together. Having known each other only a few weeks, it left them little in common to discuss. After half-hearted stories of childhood and the latest movies, they finally danced. Then, suddenly there was nothing to say and nothing to do.
"Want to come to my place?" Lacy slipped her arm through his. "We can talk about...it, if you want to."
"No, I honestly don't." He led her through the dark parking lot to the car. "But I'll go to your place if you'll offer me a nightcap."
"It's a deal."
The ride to Lacy's was silent, but not uncomfortably so. Both were wrapped in their own thoughts on the events of the past weeks.
"Y'know," Lacy said finally, as Hutch turned on to her street. "Mike died only nine days ago, and I hardly feel it." She shivered, waiting until Hutch parked the car and both had gotten out. "Police work makes you callous, doesn't it?"
"Lacy, it's not callous--you miss him, don't you?"
"All the time, especially when I'm on the street, without him."
"But you can't go around mourning a person every second." He took her in his arms. "You've got to go on living and accept what's happened."
"Big words." She rested her head against his chest, the feel of his blue silk shirt blissful against her cheek.
"Especially when I don't follow my own advice." Hutch kissed her lips, tasting red wine and chocolate pie.
Lacy fixed drinks while Hutch sat on the green couch, pushing aside a bag of yarn and several crocheted squares. He thumbed through the nearest magazine--the TV Guide.
"Anything on?" she asked.
"I dunno--what?" He took the glass she offered, handing her the little magazine.
"Midnight, new day--Wednesday, February 22nd." She consulted the local listings. "Two movies and Johnny Carson." She sipped sherry, reading the movie descriptions. "Oh, what's the song Starsky likes...what movie is it from?"
"'Whistle a happy tune?' It's from 'The King and I'."
"It's on again. Let's watch it." Lacy switched on the television, settling down on the couch next to the blond man, her head on his shoulder. "It's very sad."
"Just what I need." He closed his eyes, listening to Deborah Kerr whistle bravely. The lines drifted through his mind, 'When I fool the people I fear...' why did that sound important?
When he opened his eyes, small children in elaborate Siamese costume were parading across the TV screen to the majesty of Rodgers and Hammerstein's music. "I'm getting tired."
"You were asleep. You want me to turn the movie off?" Lacy curled up against him, rubbing her palm over his blue silk shirted chest.
"No, s'nice, just sit like this." He kissed her lips, sliding his hand down her back. She turned completely into him, curving her body so they fit like puzzle pieces. Two traumatized souls brought together for mutual comfort. No thoughts to the future, just a moment in time to satisfy their immediate urges. Lacy kissed his clavicle, lingering on the soft warmth of his lightly-tanned skin. Their mouths met again, breath mingling as tongues collided. They both craved human contact, their hands roaming over each other's bodies with a longing for intimacy.
"Lacy?" Hutch pulled back far enough to look into her smoky blue eyes. " Do you...?"
"Don't stop," she insisted. It had been too long since she'd been in a man's arms, much less gone any further. The aborted relationship with Mike lay like a minefield in front of her--guilt over his death, regret that she hadn't pursued what was started. She wanted release, and recognized Hutch's desperate longing matched her own.
Hutch hitched the purple clingy fabric up over Lacy's hips, jerking her tiny underpants down with increasing need. She pulled her hands away from his chest long enough to fling the panties away, pulling at his belt and zippered fly. Hutch's khakis slid down without much effort, he stretched his legs over the couch cushions, hastily removing his boxers. Swiftly unbuttoning the front of his shirt, Lacy pushed the blue silk down his lightly muscled arms, running her fingers over his biceps. Molding her still-clothed body against his now naked skin, her skirt bunched around her waist, Lacy angled her legs around him, kneeling above him on the velvet couch. She traced her fingers from the pulse in his throat down the firm flatness of his chest to the heat in his groin, feeling the throb of his pulse as she curved her fingers around his penis. Hutch groaned with desire, the sensations she created sending cascades of pleasure along his length. Tangling one hand in her hair, he brought her mouth to his, the other catching her hip, guiding her into his loins. He entered her swiftly, almost violent in his desire for the union. Lacy kissed him hungrily, catching his lower lip in her teeth as she arched her back, impaling herself on him.
As Yul Brenner's King waltzed Anna Llenowens across a gleaming marble floor, Lacy felt wildfire racing through her body, flames licking her core. Hutch rammed against her hipbones as the orgasm grew, letting out a triumphant shout. Her whole body quivering, she felt her inner muscles contracting around his penis, and bucked her hips to prolong the climax. The music swirled around the room as the couple on the green couch danced the oldest dance of all.
~~~
"Hutch?" Lacy stretched lazily, trying not to disturb the man who slept wedged up against her. She carefully got off the couch, working the kinks out of her back as she crossed to her tiny bedroom. Sometime during their coupling, her jersey dress had ended up in a heap on the carpet. Wrapping herself in a Japanese kimono, she padded to the kitchen. It was eight o'clock in the morning. She got a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator and poured two glasses full. "Hutch, wake up!" Lacy called, setting his glass down on the coffee table. "It's morning."
"G'morning," he mumbled sleepily, sitting up. "What time is it?" It was probably the best sleep he'd had in several weeks.
"Eight-oh-five, on a fine Wednesday morning, February twenty-second. The weather looks...rainy." Lacy recited like a radio announcer. "And Lacy Calhane signs off with a kiss for her anchor man."
"Mmm, is the news over so we can get back to the action?" Hutch returned the kiss with heat, cupping her buttocks to pull her closer.
"Hutch." Lacy slipped her arms around his neck. "We both have things to do today."
"Yah." He kissed her wistfully, not wanting to go anywhere at all. He reluctantly released his hold on her. "I should go see Starsk this morning."
"How is he?"
"I dunno." Hutch pulled on his shirt, searching around in the jumble of clothes for both his socks. "Hey, how'd the movie end up?"
"I was with you, remember? I wasn't watching." Lacy grinned. "But I think the king dies."
"I thought musicals were supposed to be happy." He groaned, getting his shoes on the right feet. "I gotta go, Lace."
"Aw, drink your orange juice first." She ran fingers up his arm. "I..."
Hutch leaned over for a quick kiss. "Don't say anything, I'll see you later."
"Drink your orange juice," Lacy urged. "Cops need vitamin C."
"I usually take vitamin E." Hutch downed the juice.
"I know." Lacy grinned again.