XV

The jail was never quiet. Even in the middle of the night there were noises—the steady, rubber-soled pacing of the guards and the low hum of their idle conversation. The elusive echoes of rather sleepy vigilance. The prisoners made their own sounds. A symphony of snores and adenoidal breathing and bad dream sounds. There were other, more illicit noises—the slap of card against card in two-handed poker games, quiet battles between cellmates, quiet confrontations of another sort that were also battles in their own way, battles against the terrible loneliness.

Hutch heard it all. He didn't sleep well and before long he knew what was happening up and down the cellblock and could even predict what would happen next just from the sounds he heard. He knew when the guard named Laker was coming, because the fat man made a different noise as he walked. Another guard made his way to the end of the block every night between one and two and paused there long enough to emit a gaseous belch. Garcia, in the bunk below Hutch, dreamed every night of his wife and woke up to fulfill the imagery in solitary labor. Hutch simply learned not to listen.

He spent the days learning, too. Learning not to feel. Not to think.

Not even to hope. He simply survived.

Three days before his trial was scheduled to begin, Hutch had a summons to go to the visitor's room. He walked in and saw Dobey sitting in one of the cubicles. The captain looked dismayed as Hutch sat down opposite him. Hutch knew he looked like hell. He'd lost weight and his hair was longer. The planes of his face were angular and deeply shadowed. Sometimes he could hardly recognize himself in the shaving mirror.

"How are you, Hutch?" Dobey said into the phone.

"I'm okay." Hutch tapped one hand against the table. "Kramer says we're ready for the trial."

"Yes, I've been keeping in touch with him. Your father called me, too. He was a little disappointed that you'd asked him not to come for the trial, but he understood."

"Good. Cap'n, I gotta find a way to get out of here."

"You will, Hutch. Soon."

"Nobody else can do it," Hutch went on, as if he hadn't heard Dobey at all. "They've been screwing it up all this time. So it's up to me."

"What is?"

Hutch was surprised. "To find Starsky, of course. What else?"

Dobey sighed. "You should be worrying about yourself right now."

"I am. I'm worried about the fact that my partner is missing."

"We'll find Starsky."

"I will. That's why I have to get out of here." He glanced around and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I've been thinking lately . . . maybe I should try getting out on my own. Just . . . leave. It happens. A guy escaped just last week."

"Don't even think about that," Dobey said quickly. "That's damned stupid."

"If I could get to one of the guards, maybe bribe him . . . it might be done."

"Hutchinson," Dobey said harshly, "stop it. Stop it right now! Have you lost your mind?"

Hutch looked at him. "What?"

"Do you hear what you're saying? Are you listening?"

"I . . ." Hutch shrugged.

"You just stop thinking about escaping. It can't be done."

Hutch sighed. "You don't understand," was all he said. They were quiet for a moment. Hutch looked around the room vaguely. "You know," he said finally, "I've been doing a lot of reading."

"Have you?"

"I was reading this book the other day and it was talking about amnesia. I had an idea that maybe he got hit on the head in the accident. Maybe he has amnesia."

"Might be."

Seemingly encouraged by Dobey's unenthusiastic agreement, Hutch leaned forward and spoke with increased intensity. "Look, what I want to do is, check all the hospitals in the San Manuel area. Farther than that even, 'cause who knows how far he might have gone? Check them out and see if they have any patients with amnesia. Let me flash Starsk's picture around and maybe I can come up with something."

He sounded, Dobey thought, like a cop for the first time in a long time. Like a cop on the trail of a hot tip. It was Hutch as he had been. Dobey felt like smashing something in a sudden swell of anger against the fates. He felt like crying. "Hutch," he said softly. "Hutch . . . ."

"You can see why I have to get out of here, can't you?"

"Detective Hutchinson, you cannot get out until after the trial. You're here. I'll check the hospitals again. We checked once, but I'll do it again. We are trying to find Starsky."

"But . . . ." After another moment, Hutch nodded slowly. "Okay," he said in a half-whisper. "You check it out. Please." He switched the phone to his other ear. "I was reading another book. About insanity. I wonder if I'm going crazy."

Dobey shook his head.

"I can't sleep. Did you ever lie awake all night listening to the water pipes leak? They get louder every night. Or I listen to the guards." Hutch switched the phone again. "My cellmate jacks off every night. He thinks I don't know. Or maybe he doesn't care."

"All this shouldn't come as a surprise to you, Hutch. You've been a cop long enough."

Hutch didn't seem to hear. "I can hardly eat the food. He would love it, of course." He paused. "The two guys in the next cell screw each other twice a week. They take turns." Another pause. "What about the bay?" he said suddenly, irrelevantly.

"What?"

"Dragging the bay. Did anybody think of dragging the bay? In case he maybe walked that way, got dizzy, and fell in."

"Hutch, please."

Abruptly Hutch got to his feet. "I better go. You'll check out all those things I mentioned?"

"Yes." Dobey watched him leave the room. He sat there for a long time after Hutch was gone.

**

McPherson came the next day. Hutch was taken to a special room, one without the barriers of the visitor's room. He walked in and sat down opposite the psychologist.

"Dobey sent you," he said flatly.

"He suggested I come. Do you mind?"

Hutch shrugged.

"You look terrible."

"Yeah. Well."

"Anything you'd like to talk about?"

"No. Dobey over-reacted. Just because I'm worried about finding my partner he thinks I'm over the edge."

McPherson took his pipe from his pocket and began the ritual of lighting it. "Okay," he said cheerfully. "I had a thought, though, if you'd like to hear it."

"What?"

"What would you say about being hypnotized?"

Hutch blinked. "What for?"

"If we could take you back to the night of the murder, you might remember something."

"I already told them everything. I was unconscious."

McPherson puffed frantically. "Maybe. But there's a chance you might have had some degree of awareness that, if we could find it, might give a clue as to what happened." He had finally succeeded in getting the pipe lit and he gave a small sigh of satisfaction. "Of course, whatever we find out would be totally confidential. It couldn't be brought up in court."

Hutch thought about it. "You think it might help, really?"

McPherson shrugged. "I think it might be worth a try, Ken."

"All right. When?"

"Might as well be right now." He set the pipe aside and took a small Lucite ball on a gold chain from his pocket. "There's absolutely nothing mystical about my use of this pendulum. It's merely a device for gaining information from the subconscious mind." He held the chain between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, with his elbow resting on his knee, so that the ball dangled freely. "All right, Ken, I want you to watch the pendulum carefully as you listen to my voice."

Hutch leaned forward a little in the chair, trying to concentrate, not really aware of what words McPherson was saying, but very conscious of the low, soothing tone he was using. "You can't lift your arms, can you, Ken? They're too heavy. You try, but they won't move."

Hutch tried. "They won't move," he repeated.

"Very good. Now, though, if you want, you will be able to move them. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Okay. We're going to talk about the night of the accident. You remember the accident, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You remember hitting the barricade? Tell me what's happening, Ken."

"There aren't any brakes . . . Starsk, no brakes . . . everybody duck and hold on tight . . . oh, god—" His arms flew up as if to protect his head and face. He sat very still.

"Ken, can you hear me?"

"Yes," Hutch whispered.

"What's happening?"

"I . . . hurt . . . can't move . . . everything is all . . . dark."

"Can you hear anything at all?"

"No . . . wait . . . somebody moving . . . I hear . . . a voice."

"What do you hear, Ken?"

" . . . buddy? . . . oh shit man."

"Whose voice is it?"

"Starsky."

"Is he saying anything else?"

"Okay, babe . . . I'll get help—" Hutch's voice changed a little, taking on a vaguely nasal, New York tone. "Take it easy, buddy . . . hang in there. Oh, please, hold on. I'll be right back."

"Anything else?"

"No . . . touching." Hutch's hand lifted and lightly caressed his own cheek. "He's touching my face . . . and holding my hand . . . too tightly . . . hurts."

McPherson waited for a moment. "Ken?"

"No more . . . he's gone . . . I'm waiting for him to come back."

"What's happening now?"

"Somebody's coming . . . Starsk? Oh god, Starsk, I'm glad . . . no. No, it's not Starsky . . . somebody else . . . voices . . . somebody is taking my gun . . . no . . ."

His voice changed again, getting higher in pitch. "I'll show you . . . rich bitch . . . it's mine . . . richbitchrichbitch . . . ." Hutch shuddered. "Shot . . . loud . . . ." He stopped, looking bewildered. "That's all . . . everything's gone now . . . all dark." He slouched back against the chair.

"Okay, Ken, relax. I'm going to count to three and then you'll wake up. You'll feel rested and he able to remember everything you just said. One, two, three."

Hutch shook his head vaguely. "Hey." He rubbed a hand across his face. "He never came back."

"Somebody came, though. Somebody came and shot Kimberly Wright."

"Something happened to Starsk and I have to know what it was."

McPherson picked up the cold pipe and toyed with it absently. "Well, at least we know he didn't just run out."

"I already knew that."

They were quiet for a time. "Harold told me you were talking about trying to escape, Ken. You know that's not very smart, right?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess. You think maybe whoever killed . . . her, the broad . . ."

"Kimberly Wright."

"Yeah. Her. You think maybe the same person followed Starsky and killed him, too?"

"I don't know, Ken. It's possible."

Hutch got to his feet. "I better go."

"What's your hurry?"

"I got some thinking to do." He glanced around the room vaguely. "There's a lot to do." He took a step toward the door, then stopped. "The next time you talk to Dobey, ask him about the dragging operation in the bay, will you?"

"Okay."

Hutch stepped back out into the hall where a guard waited to escort him back to his cell.

**

They caught up with him as he left the library. Usually the guard walked back to the block with him, but there was some kind of a problem in the M-wing and the guard answered a summons. Hutch didn't feel like waiting for him to come back. He was about halfway back to his cell, carrying three more books, when the three men stepped from the shadows of the building. He nodded and tried to step past them, but they closed ranks around him. "Shove off," he said quietly.

"Is that friendly, Hutchinson?" one said. Dirty blond hair hung to his shoulders. "We only want to talk."

"About what?" Hutch replied, edging away slightly, until his way was blocked by a skinny black man.

"Well, it's like this," Dirty Blond said. "We got a friend name of Dago. You know Dago?"

Hutch shook his head, shifting the books carefully.

"Well, Dago knows you. He seen you come in that first day and he's been keeping an eye on you ever since."

"Why?" Wondering what would happen if he just dropped the books and ran, Hutch glanced around the courtyard. Where the hell was the guard?

"Why? 'Cause he likes you, is all. That very first day he liked you. Dago, he says to me, I like his looks. He's a mighty pretty cop. We don't get a whole lot of pretty cops in here. So Dago sorta took a fancy to you." The man chuckled. "If you get my drift."

"I get it." Hutch took a firm step and found his way blocked. "Tell your friend Dago to go screw himself."

"Dago wants you. And he don't take no for an answer."

After a moment Hutch took another step and this time they let him pass.

He walked away slowly, not looking back. When he reached his cell, he slammed the door closed.

**

The guard escorted him to the shower room and waited in the entrance way. Hutch soaped quickly and rinsed, watching the soapy water spin down the drain. He stepped out of the stall and wrapped the towel around his waist. It was then that he heard the noise from just beyond the door. A noise like a heavy body hitting the floor. Fat Laker was the guard waiting for him.

"Laker?" Hutch said, "is something—" He broke off as a dirty blond and the skinny black man came into the room, taking up positions on either side of the door.

A third man came in. "My name is Dago," he said softly, his eyes moving slowly over Hutch.

Hutch forced himself to turn and walk over to the mirror. He picked up the razor and began to shave. "I've got no time to talk now."

Dago, a husky, good-looking young man with slightly pockmarked skin, smiled. "That's okay. I ain't much for talking anyway." He moved closer. "I just want to be your friend."

Hutch finished shaving and carefully rinsed the razor. His clothes were hanging on a hook by the door. He dried his hands and took a step in that direction. "I have all the friends I need."

"That's not what I hear. I hear you got no friends at all." Dago took another step toward him. "Maybe you been saving yourself for the right guy?"

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Hutch moved toward his clothes. The black man reached for them, rolled them into a ball, and tossed it into the hall.

"Hey," Hutch protested, "those are clean, man." He ducked a little, then straightened, swinging both arms into the blond's chest. A homemade knife appeared in the black's hand. Hutch backed away, groping behind him for the razor.

"Hutchinson," Dago chided, "take it easy. Who knows? You might even enjoy it." He gave a sudden lunge and ripped the towel away from Hutch's body.

Thought fled. Hutch charged-forward, but the other two grabbed him and held on. He struggled uselessly. They pushed his face down hard against the sink and he felt a rush of hot blood from his nose. He gagged. They held him bent over the sink.

The sound of Dago unsnapping his trousers echoed like an explosion in Hutch's ears.

"Nononono," he whispered, swallowing a mouthful of blood and bile. "Ohchristnoplease," he said, not even knowing that he was speaking. "Nochristpleasestarskhelpmepleasestarsk." He felt Dago's hands on his shoulders, sliding down his spine, touching his ass. "No . . ."

He kicked. This could not happen. Must not happen. He would die first. Let them kill him. He almost giggled. Fate worse than death. Rape was nothing new. He could look at it objectively. How many women had he interviewed after they'd been raped? And a few men. But now, maybe for the first time, it was real.

"Ohchrist . . . don't touch me . . . oh jesus . . . ohstarskplease . . . don't let this happen to me . . . ohbabepleasehelpme." His whispered words crashed against the sink. As Dago's fingers moved over him, Hutch gave a gurgling roar.

Dago's hands tightened on his ass. "Okay, pretty boy. I like it rough, too. I like it when you fight." He moved closer, pressing his body against Hutch.

"Please . . . no . . . I'll kill you." Above the blood roaring in his ears, Hutch could hear Dago laughing.

The door crashed open. Fat Laker and another guard stood there, two guns leveled at Dago.

"Stop," Laker said quietly. "Never learn, do you, Dago?"

Abruptly, Hutch was free. He slumped against the sink, the taste of blood mingling with bitter bile and the saltiness of unshed tears. My face will look like hell in court tomorrow, he thought distantly.

Someone handed him his clothes and he started to dress. Dressing was a normal, rational thing to do. When he was finished, the guard took him by the arm and led him toward the infirmary. He kept saying that he was all right. It was all very calm and efficient. Nobody knew that he was screaming inside.

**

XVI

Although with the beard, dark glasses, and phony passport he felt fairly safe, Starsky didn't really relax until he was through customs and walking out into the Los Angeles evening. He almost felt like dropping to his knees and kissing the asphalt parking lot, but he didn't. Instead, he caught a taxi and gave the driver Dobey's address. He didn't know for sure why he'd picked Dobey's house as a destination. Maybe it was as simple as one place being the same as another. After all, where else was there? Not his apartment or Hutch's, that was for sure. Huggy's maybe. But the Pits was a popular place, not only with Hutch and him, but with a lot of other cops, too. Dobey was a cop, of course, but Dobey was their captain. He wouldn't betray Starsky.

The house was dark when he arrived. He pried open the back door to the garage and went inside, sitting on a work bench in the corner. Leaning back, he lit a cigarette and watched its tiny orange glow in the blackness. Jet lag was catching up with him. He fell asleep sitting there.

The dream came back, the one where he saw Hutch at the end of the long corridor. But this time Hutch wasn't saying anything. He was only standing there, looking at Starsky and there were tears in his eyes. Starsky wanted so much to go to him. Wanted to take Hutch into his arms and hold him tight and tell him that he loved him. Hutch knew it, of course, but he wanted to tell him anyway. Wanted to hold on tight and never let him go. But in the dream, Hutch just sort of faded away.

Starsky woke with a jerk when the cigarette burned his fingers. "Damn," he said into the empty garage.

A few minutes later the front door of the garage creaked electrically up and a car pulled in. Starsky crouched in the darkness until the headlights went off and he heard the car door open. Then he stepped from the shadows.

"Captain?" he said in a hoarse whisper.

Dobey froze. "Who's there?" he said, one hand reaching toward his gun.

Starsky stepped closer. "It's me."

Dobey opened the car door wider, sending a shaft of light through the darkness. He stared for a full minute. "Starsky? My God. Dave."

"Yeah."

Dobey shook his head. "My God," he said again. "Where have you—wait, let's go inside before we talk." He led the way to the side entrance of the house. "Edith and the kids are visiting her sister," he explained rather vaguely as he unlocked the door. They stepped into the kitchen and Dobey waved Starsky to a chair. He didn't speak until he had poured two shots of bourbon and joined him at the table.

"Dave," he said again. "We thought . . . ."

Starsky took a gulp of the liquor.

"Cap'n," he said, "is he dead?"

There was no need for Dobey to ask who "he" was, of course. Still, a somewhat bewildered look crossed his face. "Dead?"

"Is Hutch dead?"

"No."

There was a long pause. Starsky took another drink.

"Hutch isn't dead?" he said in a whisper.

"He's alive. We thought . . . we thought you were dead."

Starsky lowered his head onto his arms and cried. Dobey sat and waited, sipping the bourbon.

In a few minutes Starsky raised his head again. He took a paper napkin from the holder on the table and blew his nose loudly. "Where is he? I have to see him."

Dobey reached over and poured Starsky more bourbon. "You don't have any idea what's been going on here, do you?"

Starsky shook his head. "Hell, I've been halfway around the world." He brushed it off. "Hutch?"

"He's in jail. Hutch goes on trial tomorrow for the murder of Kimberly Wright." Dobey watched the disbelief fill Starsky's face and the black man began at the beginning, telling him everything that had happened since Hutch woke up in the wrecked car. Including the fact that there was a warrant out on Starsky himself.

Starsky slumped on his spine in the chair, drinking, smoking, listening, his face revealing nothing. 0nly the way the fingers of his right hand gripped the edge of the table showed the tension he was feeling. When Dobey finally finished, the cheerful red-and-yellow kitchen was quiet for a few minutes.

Dobey got to his feet. "Why don't I make us some food?" he suggested. "A bacon and egg sandwich sound okay?"

"Whatever," Starsky said absently. He stood and began to pace the room as Dobey busied himself with a frying pan and food. "You have any idea who's putting the frame on Hutch?"

"No. Kramer and I have explored every angle we could think of and all we have to show for it is a big zero," Dobey replied, carefully arranging bacon strips in the pan.

"I'll find out." It was an oath the way he said it.

"Starsky, where the hell have you been? The San Manuel cops think you ran out."

"I was . . . kidnapped. Took a boat trip—" He lit another of the cheap Hong Kong cigarettes. "What does Hutch think?"

Dobey gave a forced laugh, needing suddenly to try to lessen the almost unbearable tension in the room. "Your partner is full of theories. Everything from maybe you got amnesia to maybe you fell in the bay. I think he wanted us to drain the whole damned harbor." He knew that his attempt to lighten the mood had fallen flat.

Starsky scratched at the beard. "Shit." A sudden thought struck him; it was a thought that hurt. "Hutch doesn't think I ran out, does he?"

"That never once entered his mind," Dobey said firmly. He turned the bacon. "What are you going to do?"

"Whatever I have to."

"You should turn yourself in." The words were said without emotion.

"Oh, yeah? Why, so they can maybe give Hutch and me adjoining cells?" He stopped his restless pacing and stared at Dobey. "You gonna turn me in?"

"I had to say that, Dave."

"I know." Starsky sighed. "I know this puts you in the middle, Cap'n. You want I should take off and we both pretend I was never here?"

"Don't talk like an idiot."

"First of all," Starsky said after a moment, "I have to see him."

"You plan on just walking into the Diablo Correctional Facility?"

"Not me. Jerome Lasko. His I.D. got me into the country, it should get me into some shitty county jail."

Four eggs slithered into the pan. Grease splattered and popped. "You'll be taking a chance."

Starsky shrugged and sat down again. They were both quiet as Dobey made toast, piled the eggs and bacon on top, and poured more bourbon. As they ate, Dobey questioned Starsky about what had happened to him. Despite their best efforts, there seemed no way they could tie in his kidnapping with the murder of Kimberly Wright. The two incidents were unrelated. Just as they finished, the phone rang. Starsky reached for the receiver and handed it to Dobey.

"Yes? Oh, Sam, there's something—what?" Dobey glanced over at Starsky, who was lost in contemplation of his drink. "What happened? When? Was he hurt bad?"

Starsky straightened slowly, his deep blue eyes suddenly sharp. "What happened?" he said.

Dobey waved him quiet. "What about the trial? Okay. Hey, Sam—since this happened, you think they'd let a visitor in? Okay, thanks for calling. See you tomorrow." He hung up slowly, not looking at Starsky.

"What happened to him?"

"A couple of punks jumped him in the shower room. Beat him up a little." Dobey cleared his throat, wondering just how far he could stretch Starsky's endurance. "Sam says . . . they were trying to . . . rape him."

Beneath the beard, Starsky's tanned face went deathly white. "Did . . . ."

Dobey reached out and gripped his arm.

"No, Dave," he said, "the guards got to him in time. But he got pretty bruised up. Sam said he thought about asking for a delay in the trial, but Hutch refused."

Starsky got up and moved around the room, barely reining in the fury he was feeling. "I gotta see him."

"Sam said he thought they'd let a visitor in."

"How fast can we get there?"

Dobey was already dialing. "I went up on a charter flight before. Let's see if we can get it again."

Starsky only nodded. He stood in the middle of the room, massaging the back of his neck wearily.

Less than three hours later Starsky was waved through the door of the visitor's room at Diablo. It was very late and the jail seemed to be asleep. The room was lit by only two dim lights. He sat down in the first cubicle and waited.

Another door opened and a tall, skinny man with shaggy blond hair came in. His face was bruised and his nose looked swollen. He didn't even bother to look up as he crossed the room and sat down. It was as if he had absolutely no interest in who his visitor might be.

"Hutch," Starsky whispered. Uselessly, because neither of them had lifted the phone.

It was another minute before Hutch lifted his gaze. He blinked twice.

"Hutch," Starsky said again. He wanted to touch his partner. Raising one hand, he pressed it against the glass. "Oh, babe."

Hutch seemed not to trust what he was seeing. It took a very long time before he slowly lifted his hand and pressed it opposite Starsky's. They stayed that way for a few minutes, before Starsky picked up the phone and waited for Hutch to do the same. Even then they didn't speak right away.

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"You came back," Hutch said hoarsely.

"I been trying for a long time, man."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry it took so long."

"Doesn't matter. You're here now."

"You okay?" It was a dumb question, of course, and Starsky knew it.

Hutch nodded. "Yeah."

Starsky wanted to let it drop, but he needed desperately to know for sure. "They didn't . . . hurt you?"

"They didn't rape me," Hutch said flatly. They sat, looking at each other, each seeming to drink in the sight of the other.

"I thought . . . I thought you died," Starsky said. "Because I didn't bring back the help I promised. I thought you died and it was my fault."

"No, I didn't die." Hutch glanced toward the door. "They won't let you stay long."

"I know. But I'll be back. We're going to beat them, Hutch. All of them. And then we're going to tell them to take their whole fucked-up system and shove it."

"I want to get out, Starsk."

"You will." Starsky wanted to smash the glass that was keeping them apart. He remembered the dream, Hutch asking for help, and he not able to give it. He remembered wanting to take Hutch in his arms to reassure him and to tell him how much he cared. His fingers moved against the glass. "I'll get you out, Hutch, if I have to blow up the whole frigging place." His voice lowered, although there was no one but Hutch to hear. "I love you, man."

"I know." Hutch looked at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

The guard opened the door and gestured.

"I have to go," Hutch said softly.

"Damn. Hey."

"Huh?"

"We're together again, so it's gonna he okay, buddy."

For the most fleeting moment a smile hovered on the edges of Hutch's llps. "Together again?" he said. "Hell, man, we were never really apart." He pulled his hand away and then was gone from the room. Starsky stared at the closed door for a long time.

Back outside, in the grey light that preceded the dawn, Dobey was waiting, his stolid bulk pacing noiselessly. He stopped and watched Starsky cross the pavement. "Is he all right?"

Starsky didn't answer immediately. He yanked the cigarette pack from his pocket and lit one. "I gotta cut these out," he mumbled. "Hutch'll kill me." He took a long drag; releasing it into the slightly chill air. "What the hell have you people done to him?" he asked softly, almost casually.

"What?"

"You should have done something!" It was a shout this time.

"Dave, we've been trying—"

Starsky's hand crashed down on the hood of the rented car. "Shut up! Don't tell me that. My best friend is locked up like some kind of animal. He's going crazy in there and nobody has done nothing." He stopped, turning to stare at the walls of Diablo. "I'm going to do something. If I have to . . . no matter what I have to do, I'll get him out." He got into the passenger seat and slammed the door. After a moment, Dobey got behind the wheel and they drove away.

**

XVII

He made a phone call and set up a meet with an astonished Huggy Bear.

It was nearly noon when Huggy showed up at the Keith Motel, located on the outer fringe of San Manuel. Starsky opened the door to him and they looked at one another for a long moment.

"Hi," Starsky said.

"The Prodigal Policeman returns," Huggy said lightly. A handshake turned into a slightly awkward embrace, then they sat down.

Huggy looked around the dismal room, raked Starsky's appearance shrewdly, picked up the cigarette pack and sniffed at it. "How's the boy?" he asked finally.

"I need help."

"Hope you aren't askin'?"

Starsky smiled faintly. "No. I was assuming."

"Damned well better."

Starsky sat silent for a moment, Organizing his thoughts. He was feeling a little shook. The phone call to his mother had been an emotional, yet necessary task. Now that it was done, he could relax a little. She knew he was alive and well, and that no one must know yet except herself.

"I need some I.D.," he said finally. "Jerome Lasko has done about all he can for me. I need some wheels. I need a gun—something inconspicuous."

Huggy nodded. "Okay."

"And I need it all like yesterday." He reached over for a glance at Huggy's watch. "He's in court right now. I gotta get over there."

"That ain't too smart, is it?"

"Nobody knows me." He slipped the dark glasses on. "Can you be back here sometime tonight with the stuff?"

"You don't want much, do you?"

"I want whatever it takes," he replied shortly.

Huggy pulled his lanky frame up from the chair. "We all want Hutch out of this, man."

"I know. Oh, one more thing—Dobey has a box of my clothes at his place. Can you bring them?"

Huggy promised that as well and then he gave Starsky a lift over to the courthouse. The single cop on duty waved him through the door and he slipped into the back row. Jury selection was in process. He stared for a long moment at the defense table, where Hutch sat between Kramer and another man.

Hutch turned around suddenly and saw Starsky sitting there. He smiled faintly. Starsky lifted one hand in a half wave and Hutch turned his attention frontward again.

**

The jury selection process is tedious, repetitive and crucial. Starsky tried to keep his mind on what was happening, although he itched to leave and get busy . . . to do something instead of just sitting. But there was something he needed to do here first.

At last the judge called a halt to the activity and dismissed the court for lunch. Starsky edged his way through the crowd to the defense table. Hutch watched him approach and when he reached the table, they stared tentatively at one another. This time there was no glass between them, but there was the watchful eye of the guard. Still, Starsky reached out one hand and Hutch clasped it like a drowning man might clasp a life preserver.

Kramer watched, obviously aware of who Starsky was, but not saying anything.

"I hafta go," Starsky said after a few moments.

Hutch nodded, but didn't let go.

"It's gonna be okay."

"Yeah, I know."

Starsky managed to pull his hand free from the almost painful grip Hutch had on it. "I hafta go," he repeated.

"I know. Hey—"

Starsky, turning away, stopped. "Yeah?"

"You be careful." He sounded like himself for the first time.

Starsky rewarded him with a real grin. "Tell them to be careful."

Hutch watched his partner stalk from the room and then followed Kramer to the holding room, where Dobey waited with lunch. He sat down and toyed unenthusiastically with a tuna on white toast.

Kramer eyed him. "What does Starsky think he's up to?" the lawyer asked around a huge bite of corned beef on rye.

"Huh?" Hutch took a sip of iced tea. "Oh. He's gonna get me out."

"How?"

"By finding out who killed Kimberly Wright."

Dobey was eating and listening.

"What makes you or he think he can do that on his own? The police had no luck. The P.I. we hired had no luck. Why should Starsky be able to do more?"

Hutch was a long time answering. He studied the crumbs on the paper plate, moving them around with a fingertip.

"Two reasons," he said finally, softly. "First of all, Dave Starsky is the best damned cop I've ever seen." He took a bite of the sandwich. "A lot of people don't know that. But when he gets all the wheels turning, he can leave the rest of us eating dust."

"You said two reasons."

"Yeah. He'll do a better job because he's not doing it for money or duty or even to see that 'justice is done.' Whatever the hell that means." Hutch looked at Kramer. "He's doing it out of love."

They finished lunch in silence.

**

Starsky walked to a nearby drug store and downed without really tasting a hot dog and a Coke. He asked for and got directions to the public library. His movements now were tight, yet with an undercurrent of freneticism. He had to keep his emotions in check. That was the only way he could operate now and do what had to be done. Just like when he was on the BLUE LADY, he could not let himself think much about Hutch. About his partner's bruised and ravaged face. About the way Hutch had gripped his hand so desperately in the courtroom. For at least a little longer, Dave Starsky had to keep thinking and acting like a cop.

The plump redhead behind the information desk displayed some curiosity when Starsky requested that she provide him with the local, Los Angeles, and Frisco papers for the day of the murder and those days immediately after. He smiled at her in his practiced charming way until all of the newspapers were piled on a table in front of him and then forgot her. In a moment, she gave a sniff and went away.

He spent three hours ensconced there in the corner, devouring everything that had been written on the case. Finally, his fingers blackened with newsprint, he straightened, rubbing his stiff neck and craving a cigarette. He noticed that the redhead was staring across the room at him. His smile this time was absent-minded.

The steps of the library were still warm in the late afternoon sun and he sat down to have a smoke before walking to the bus stop for the ride back to the motel. Had the last three hours been worth it? What did he know that he hadn't known before? Not much really. He now knew just who Kimberly Wright had been. And who Owen Wright was. He knew about Wright's rags-to-riches success story. How the son of a junkman had accumulated a fortune and learned to hobnob with presidents and international celebrities. He knew about the triumphs of Wright and also about his tragedies. The death of Kimberly was not the first blow of ill-fortune to strike the Wright family. Their first child, a daughter called Torrie, had been kidnapped at the age of thirteen months and never found. That blow seemed to strike hardest at Mrs. Wright. There were hints of a breakdown and subsequent trouble with alcohol, problems that seemed not at all alleviated by the birth of a second daughter, Kimberly, two years later.

It was obvious why Hutch had been railroaded. But he was no closer to knowing why Kimberly Wright had been killed. Or who might have done it. After a few minutes, Starsky sighed and crushed out the cigarette. Dobey had promised to get him copies of all the police reports. Maybe there would be something in them. Maybe, but he wouldn't count on it. What it came right down to was the fact that there was nothing he could count on, no one to depend on, except himself.

**

Dobey was waiting for him back at the motel, carrying a thick file folder. He followed Starsky into the room and dropped the folder onto the bed. "If it ever comes out that I gave you those," he muttered, "my ass will be in a sling."

"Yeah?" Starsky said, walking into the bathroom. "They get the jury all picked?" he asked through the half-closed door.

"Yes. It could be worse."

Starsky came back, zipping his jeans. "Won't matter. The case won't get that far."

Dobey settled himself into the one chair in the room. "Starsky, don't get your hopes up. You're new in this. Kramer and I have been over the same damned ground half a dozen times."

"I won't fail." Starsky seemed unable to be still. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet and shadowed-boxed in front of the cracked and yellowed mirror.

"How can you be so damned sure!" Dobey exploded suddenly. They both knew that his outburst was caused by frustration and worry.

"Because I can't fail." Starsky moved aimlessly around the room for a moment. "It's like . . . remember when Hutch was so sick and we were waiting for Callander to turn himself in?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Everybody else kept saying 'what if he doesn't come in.' But I knew he would." Dobey looked at him blankly and Starsky sighed patiently. "Because he had to come in or Hutch woulda died," he said simply. It made perfect sense to him.

After a moment Dobey got to his feet. "I better go. Trying to run the damned department by long distance." He handed Starsky a roll of bills. "Here, this should keep you going for awhile."

"Thanks. Pay you back when Hutch and I collect all our back pay."

"Don't worry about it."

"You going to court tomorrow, Cap'n?"

"Sure."

Starsky was quiet, staring at the floor. "Tell him . . . ." He shrugged. "Never mind. He already knows."

Dobey, his hand on the doorknob, nodded.

"Just tell him I said 'hi', willya?"

"I will." Dobey nodded and left.

Starsky ran across the street to a quickie fried chicken place and brought some dinner back to the room. He sat cross-legged is the middle of the bed and ate the chicken, cole slaw, and fries, while watching a KOJAK rerun on the fuzzy black-and-white TV. When he was finished with the food, he settled back to read the police reports.

By the time he heard a soft tap at the door, Starsky was half-asleep. He struggled to the surface and staggered over to open the door. Huggy, clad in a lime green jumpsuit and matching beret, bounced into the room. "Howdy," he said.

Starsky waved him to a chair and went to splash cold water on his face. "Whatcha got for me?" he mumbled through a towel.

"Why everything you asked for, of course," Huggy said. "Plus one or two surprises."

Starsky dropped onto the bed. "First things first. A car?"

"A jaunty little subcompact is parked right outside your door. The blue job." He tossed a key and Starsky caught it with one hand.

"Thanks."

Next Huggy took a brown envelope from his pocket. "Driver's license and a couple of credit cards, plus the first little surprise I mentioned."

"What?"

"A private snoop's license. Figured it would make your poking around look a little more legitimate."

Starsky smiled. "Terrific. Should I ask how you happened to get your grubby little fingers on all this stuff?"

"Not unless you want to cause yourself undue worry," Huggy said lightly. "Just say I have a friend with a most handy printing machine."

"Suits me. They haven't been fair in what they've done to Hutch, why should I fight fair against them?" He thought fleetingly of the stolen passport and the money he'd ripped off in Hong Kong. To hell with it. It was to save Hutch. "There's more?"

Huggy handed him a Browning .25 automatic. It was no larger than a pack of cigarettes. "Guaranteed to be clean."

"Yeah?" He turned the small weapon over in his hands. "Hope I don't have to go in after any elephants," he said sourly.

Huggy snorted. "Knowing you, you'd go after them with your bare hands."

Starsky smiled again. "The mood I'm in, you may be right."

"Glad you ain't on my case."

"You said there were two surprises?"

Huggy gave a self-satisfied smirk. "Been doing a little digging in my family tree and I think I finally found something. A connection for you here in San Manuel."

"A connection?"

"A cousin of mine. Lived here for years. He owns a place down on the docks. Granny says what Cousin Abraham don't know ain't worth talking about."

"I love your granny."

"Oh, she's crazy about you, too. For a honky, she say, you an all right dude."

Starsky laughed briefly. "You have cousins everywhere?"

"Probably. Anyway, I called him and said you'd be coming to talk."

"Thanks." Starsky rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand.

"You better get some sleep, man, before you crash."

"Sleep?" Starsky said dryly. "What's that?"

"See what I mean?" Huggy dropped a slip of paper onto the nightstand. "There's Cousin Abraham's address. I gotta run."

"Where you going?"

"A friend is waiting to drive me home." Huggy smiled. "She don't like waiting."

Starsky walked him to the door. "Thanks, Hug," he said.

"You don't have to say that."

"I know."

Huggy opened the door. "Look, man, you gotta have faith. Hutch is gonna come through this okay. Don't the White Knight always win in the end?"

"I guess."

Huggy touched Starsky's shoulder lightly. "But it ain't gonna do him no good if you get wiped out in the meantime." Starsky shrugged. "When Hutch gets out, man, he's gonna need you. He's gonna need you bad."

"Yeah, I guess," Starsky said slowly.

"Damned straight." Huggy left and Starsky closed the door. The low buzz of television conversation was the only sound in the room. Starsky stripped off his clothes and crawled naked between the sheets. He switched off the lamp and stared at the TV screen. Johnny Carson was talking to somebody Starsky didn't know and the audience was laughing. Starsky wondered what Hutch was doing. Blearily, he planned his itinerary for the next day. He hoped Hutch was okay.

After a while, Starsky curled on his side, shoved the pillow over his head, and went to sleep, leaving Tom Snyder droning on.

**

XVIII

Cousin Abraham operated a small tackle and bait shop next to the Strip. His age was impossible to determine—he might have been fifty or twice that. He sat on a small camp stool in front of the battered grey shack that housed his business and watched as Starsky approached. "'Lo," he said around the corncob pipe in his mouth.

"Hi," Starsky replied, leaning against the dock rail.

"No good going out today," Abraham offered. "They ain't biting."

"Why not?"

The old man shrugged. "Some days they does and some days they don't. I ain't in the business of understanding fishes. Hate to see my good bait wasted, is all."

"Well," Starsky said, "to tell the truth, I'm not here for the fishing anyway."

Abraham eyed him shrewdly. "No?"

"Huggy sent me."

"Well, to tell the truth, I had that figgered out."

"You did?"

"Anybody could tell by looking that you ain't no kind of a fishingman."

"Wish somebody would tell my partner that." They were both quiet for a moment, watching several small boats drift by. "Huggy tell you why I wanted to talk?"

"Not exactly. Said it had something to do with that girlie what got herself killed."

"Right." Starsky sat down on a crate and took out the last of his Hong Kong cigarettes. "My partner's in jail. I want to get him out."

"You figger he didn't do it?"

"He didn't."

Abraham nodded. "Cousin Huggy said that, too." He puffed thoughtfully on the foul-smelling tobacco in his pipe. "I don't generally like to get mixed up in matters involving the po-lice."

Starsky smiled a little. "This is all very unofficial."

"Considering that you be something of a fugitive yourself, I guess it would have to be, wouldn't it?"

"What can you tell me about Kimberly Wright?"

"Miss Kimberly Wright? Well, she was a rich girl. Her daddy about owns this town."

"I know that."

Abraham seemed a little miffed by Starsky's apparent impatience. "I gotta have time to get my thoughts organized, boy," he said sharply.

"I'm sorry." Starsky hunched forward a little and spoke intensely. "It's just that every minute this takes, every second, means more hurting for Hutch. My partner. That hurts me, understand?"

"Yes, indeedy I do," the old man said, speaking gently now. He sighed. "So much trouble in the world. Born in pain, live in pain, die in pain. She was a bad girl."

"Kimberly? What do you mean, bad?"

"I watched her grow up. Back when I was younger, I runned a charter boat and her daddy liked to go fishing with all his fancy friends. The little girl was all the time running around the docks. Even then, she had a bad streak in her. She liked to tease the other childrens."

Starsky arched the cigarette butt into the water. "Yeah?" was all he said.

"Wright finally sent her away to some fancy school back east. She was gone until just a few years ago. But when she come back, I could see right away that she hadn't changed none. She begun to run around, drinking and carrying on with a bad crowd."

"Men?"

"One after the other. Some from the fancy pants country club and some of them sailors who ain't worth spit."

Starsky was listening carefully. "You know a girl named Maura?"

Abraham was quiet for a moment. "Can't say I recall the name. But I seen Kimberly with a little blonde birdie a few times."

"That's her." Starsky bit his lip. "Yeah, that sounds like her. What else can you tell me?"

"Well . . . for a time, Kimberly was running with a bad penny named Lucas."

"Lucas?"

"That's all I ever heard."

After another minute Starsky got to his feet. "Okay." He reached for his wallet. "Thanks, sir—"

"I ain't taking no money. Huggy say you both be like family."

Starsky nodded. "Okay."

"Hope you git what it takes to help your friend."

"I will." They contemplated one another solemnly for a moment.

He left his car where it was and walked over to the Whistling Parrot Bar, stopping at the cigarette machine in the entrance to dig enough change out of his pocket to buy a pack. At that hour there were only a few patrons in the place and none of them displayed the slightest interest in Starsky as he crossed the room and sat down at the bar.

"Yeah?" the bartender said, taking a swipe at the counter with a filthy rag.

"Beer." He waited until the bottle was set in front of him. "Seen Lucas around lately?"

"Who wants to know?"

Starsky glanced around the room. "Anybody else asking?"

"Nope."

"Then I guess it must be me who wants to know."

The other man was silent, rubbing the rag in a haphazard circle on the bar. "You a friend of his?"

"Sort of."

"Well, he ain't been around in a while."

Starsky lit a cigarette. "How about Maura?"

The bartender only shrugged and moved away to wait on another customer. Starsky sipped beer and waited. They had what looked like a Mexican stand-off until the bartender finally wandered back. "Maura left town, I heard," he reluctantly offered. "You a cop?"

Starsky pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to his private investigator's license. "Arnie Schwartz," he muttered. "Private cop."

"Who you working for?"

"Ahh," he demurred, "I can't really say."

"Uh-huh. You want another?" the man asked, gesturing toward the bottle.

"Yeah, I guess," Starsky replied, although he didn't. "Does Maura have a last name?"

Another bottle of beer was opened and set in front of him. "This have anything to do with the Wright girl's murder?"

"What makes you think so?"

"'Cause the cops was asking about Maura, too, right afterwards."

Starsky took a swallow of beer. "What'd you tell them?"

"Nothing." He sounded proud of the fact.

"Why?"

"Why should I? Pigs never done nothing for me but make trouble. 'Sides, they already had the guy that did it, so they didn't much care."

His attitude was tiresomely familiar to Starsky. Except that this time he was grateful for it. He took a bill from the wallet and tossed it onto the counter. "Keep the change." He gave the man a minute to pick up the twenty and fold it. "You have anything to tell me? Maybe we can make the pigs look like a bunch of stumbling idiots."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Like what if they've had the wrong guy locked up all this time?"

The bartender thought about that for a moment and then he chuckled softly. "You think so? Well, I don't know Maura's last name. But I know she used to live down on the beach somewhere . . . a boarding house just below the canning factory. Usta bitch about the smell all the time is how I know."

"Lucas?"

He shrugged. "Ain't seen him since before the killing."

"Just before?"

"He was in that night. Not since. But he comes and goes a lot, so that don't mean nothing."

Starsky finished the beer and slid from the stool. "Thanks," he said, already moving toward the door.

He paused on the sidewalk to light a cigarette. Through the grimy window he could see the bartender lift the phone and dial. Starsky smiled tightly. So. He was already beginning to make waves. Good. Before this was over, he'd cause a goddamned tidal wave, big enough to drown them all, all the bastards that had done this to Hutch.

**

Hutch felt strangely detached from what was happening in the courtroom, almost as if it were all just some movie on TV and not a very interesting movie at that. He listened impassively to the medical examiner's testimony concerning the death of Kimberly Wright, listened to the first officer on the scene describe what he'd found there, and listened to Sheriff Collins' account of the arrest. As they talked, he made doodles on a pad of scratch paper.

When the lunch recess came, he ripped off the used sheets of paper and shoved them into his pocket. Kramer left for a fast meeting on another case, so he ate alone, except for the sullen company of a guard. Dobey arrived just as Hutch was finishing. "How you doing?"

"Okay."

"I had to make some phone calls. Sorry you had to eat by yourself."

"Doesn't matter. I wasn't very hungry anyway."

Dobey looked at him. "You can't let this part of the trial get you down, Hutch. Just remember, our turn will come."

"Uh-huh." Hutch gathered the remains of his lunch and shoved it into the wastebasket.

"Oh, by the way—" Dobey glanced toward the guard. "A friend of yours said to tell you 'hi'."

Hutch smiled. "Yeah?"

The guard got to his feet. "Time to go, Hutchinson."

"Okay. Cap'n?"

"What?"

"You got a pen?"

"Yeah . . . ." Dobey took a green Spree out of his pocket and handed it to him.

"Thanks. Mine went dry just before lunch." He followed the guard out the door.

**

There were a lot of cheap boarding houses along the dock and Starsky was in and out of four of them before he struck paydirt. The landlady, a scrawny woman carrying a copy of TRUE ROMANCE in her hand, answered his knock. She carefully studied his investigator's license, giving Starsky cause to wonder why that cheap piece of cardboard seemed to carry more weight than his badge had. Or maybe it just generated less hostility. She nodded sagely at his question. "Maura? Yeah, I remember her. She moved out, though."

"You know her last name?" Starsky pulled a small notebook from his hip pocket.

"Yeah . . . something foreign, I think. Gonzalez. Maura Gonzalez."

Starsky felt a twinge of doubt. Admittedly the evening he'd spent with the girl was hazy in his memory, but she hadn't seemed Mexican. Maybe she was the wrong girl after all. "Gonzalez? You're sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. Although she kept saying that she was gonna go back to her maiden name after the divorce."

"Gonzalez was her married name, you mean?"

The woman gave him a look of pity such as one might cast upon an idiot. "Ain't that what I just said?"

"Would you happen to know what her maiden same was?"

"Nope." She rustled the pages of her magazine "I got things to do, ya know."

"One more thing, please . . . what was her husband's first name?"

"Never met him." She paused, studying Starsky a little more closely. "She always just called him 'that bastard Rico.'"

"When she left, did she leave a forwarding address?"

The woman gave a sigh of saintly patience. "Nope. Blew in here one night, shoved all her clothes into a suitcase, and took off. Give me not one word of notice."

"Was she alone?"

"I don't remember." She thought for a moment, during which time Starsky read the title of the story she was itching to return to—I HAD MY BROTHER'S BABY. "Wait, there was somebody with her. A man. He waited out in front in a oar. It was dark and I don't know what kind of car," she added quickly.

"Maura ever mention a man named Lucas?"

"No." She raked him once more with a glance that seemed strangely regretful and started to close the door.

"Wait—did Maura leave town the same night that Kimberly Wright was killed?"

That gave her pause. She chewed her lower lip for a minute and then nodded. "Now that you mention it . . . yeah, yeah, it was."

"Thank you very much," Starsky said as he started down the steps.

"Sure thing, honey," she replied with rather surprising cheerfulness.

Starsky drove to a McDonald's on the edge of town and went inside. He sat in a corner booth and downed two Big Macs, fries, and a large Coke as he mulled over the results of his morning. Well, it was progress, no matter how slight. He had some names. Lucas. Maura Gonzalez or whatever. Rico Gonzalez. He swiped at his chin with the napkin. Yeah, the case was shaping up. Wait until he told Hutch.

He glanced up at the clock. Court was probably in its afternoon session. But that wasn't his concern at the moment. The next logical step for him was to try the local Records Bureau and see if there was any record for either a marriage or divorce for Maura and Rico Gonzalez.

Unfortunately, when he reached the neat adobe building that served as the county hall of statistics, there was a sign on the door informing all and sundry that this was the afternoon the office closed at twelve o'clock. He gave an impatient and useless kick at the door and went back to his car. So much for that.

Lacking any other brilliant inspiration for the moment, he went back to the motel and caught some sleep. Feeling somewhat less foggy when he woke, he called Dobey, who was just out of court. "How'd it go?"

"Oh, you know," the captain replied vaguely.

"He okay?"

"I guess." Dobey lowered his voice. "He's down, you know?"

Starsky started undressing. "Yeah? Well, look, tell him I'll come out for visiting hours tonight."

"If you keep coming around, Starsky, somebody's liable to spot you."

"Naw. Tell him I'll be there, huh?"

"All right, all right." Dobey turned official again. "You uncover anything?"

"Yeah. Things the pigs here woulda found if they'da taken their noses out of their asses for a minute. You wanta run a check for me? Rico Gonzalez. And Maura Gonzalez, although her name is probably different now.'

"That the missing broad?"

"Yeah. Look, I gotta grab a shower and head out for Diablo. Talk to you in the morning."

Within a few minutes Starsky had showered, changed into a somewhat less grubby outfit, and was walking out the door. Whistling, he climbed into the ear, inserted the key into the ignition, and felt the cold metal of a gun barrel suddenly pressed against the side of his neck. Goddamn, he thought with more exultation than fear. Goddamn, if my frigging tidal wave ain't washing a few creeps up on shore already.

**

Hutch finished dinner even more quickly than usual and went back to his cell to wait for the beginning of visiting hours. Even though he realized that it might be stupid and possibly even dangerous for Starsky to come hack out to Diablo, he'd be so damned glad to see him that it didn't matter. Maybe this time they could really talk. He gave himself a fast shave, carefully skirting the bruises, and changed into a clean work shirt. All ready, he sat on the floor and waited impatiently for the summons to the visitor's room.

Garcia had left a deck of cards in the cell and Hutch finally started a half-hearted game of solitaire to pass the time. He lost three games before finally winning, his attention distracted by the flow of inmates through the corridor. He kept playing until the lights blitzed to signal the end of visiting hours.

click illo to see larger image

He got to his feet, carefully hung the shirt back on its hook, and pulled off his trousers. Just as Garcia came back into the cell, Hutch climbed into bed and closed his eyes.

His dreams that night were muddled, almost feverish. Over and over he relived the moment in the parking lot, the instant when he came around the corner of the Torino and saw his partner lying sprawled on the pavement. That moment when the nightmares of years seemed to have come crashing in on him with a dreadful reality.

He woke up drenched with sweat and listened to Garcia jerk off in the cot below. The soft moans of the other man seemed to echo in the room, mingling with the memory of Starsky's dying groans that day in the parking lot, until Hutch felt he was going crazy with the sound. He shoved the pillow over his head and waited for morning. Seemed like this night had lasted a very long time.

**

A blindfold was pulled across his eyes and his hands were tied. Someone searched him and took the gun and the I.D. Then he was dragged across the parking lot and shoved into the back seat of another car. The ride didn't last very long, so he figured they were still in San Manuel when they stopped and entered a building that stank of cheap booze. Starsky was shoved into a chair and, apparently, forgotten.

After a while, he could hear soft voices coming from the next room, but he couldn't make out what was being said. The rope around his wrist was tight enough to bring on gangrene if left there long enough. It was visiting hours at Diablo and Hutch was probably waiting for him. And here he sat. Shit.

He didn't know how long it was before the door opened and what sounded like two people came into the room. They stood in silence for a moment.

"Forgive me for not standing," Starsky said finally.

"What'd you say this funny guy's name is?" an almost musical male voice said.

"Schwartz. Arnie. He's a P.I."

"Is he?" Someone walked around the chair with measured steps. "Mind telling me just what it is you're privately investigating here in San Manuel, Schwartz?"

Starsky sighed. "Well, it's like this. If I went around telling every Tom, Dick, and Harry who snatched me off the street just what I was investigating, it wouldn't stay private very long, would it?" he said.

Someone slapped Starsky on the side of the head and he fell halfway off the chair. A hand jerked him back up.

"That ain't an answer, Schwartz."

His ear throbbed from the blow, but Starsky only shrugged.

"Forgive Eddie. He gets a little impatient sometimes."

"Have you considered trying a leash?" Starsky muttered.

The man chuckled. "I like you, Schwartz. Why are you snooping around the Kimberly Wright case?"

"Is that what I'm doing?" Starsky jerked his head away, but this time the blow struck him across the cheek.

"Why are you snooping around the Kimberly Wright case?" the voice asked again, calmly.

"To find out who did it," Starsky spit out.

"But everybody already knows that. The pig from L.A."

Starsky only shook his head.

"Who you working for?"

He managed a smile. "I don't know."

"What?"

"See, this guy snatched me off the street one night and blindfolded me and tied me up. He said, 'Hey, Schwartz, go snoop around the Kimberly Wright murder and see what you come up with. I do all my business this way."

The third blow hit him square in the face, knocking both the chair and him over backwards. His head collided against the floor with a dull thud and he felt a warm stickiness begin to cover his hair. Everything went fuzzy for a minute. Someone jerked him up by the front of his shirt and lifted him back into the chair.

"We don't want to hurt you, Schwartz, so we're just going to make this a friendly warning. Leave San Manuel and leave the Wright case alone. We're happy with the way things are. The cop is going to take a long fall for this."

"He . . . didn't . . . do it," Starsky mumbled through swollen, bloodied lips.

A hand grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked his head back painfully.

"We don't give a damn," the whisper said. "Understand?" He was pushed away. "Get rid of him."

Still groggy from the blow to his skull, Starsky felt himself being half-carried and half-dragged back out to the car. This time they rode for what seemed like hours as he passed in and out of consciousness. At last the car stopped.

"Nice night for a walk," Eddie said with a chuckle.

Starsky felt his wallet and gun being tucked neatly back into place and then, rather surprisingly, the ropes on his arms were loosened.

He was shoved out the car door and slid down the side of a ravine. The car door slammed and he was alone. After a few minutes he sat up. Even with the ropes loosened, it took nearly two hours of diligent and painful twisting, turning, and swearing in three different languages before his hands were free. He sat for a moment, trying to catch his breath, and then whipped off the blindfold.

He couldn't see a thing. It was pitch dark out in the middle of nowhere, the only points of light a few stars peeking through the clouds. His head was pounding; his wrists were bleeding; and he thought two teeth were loose that hadn't been loose before. Inventory over, he got to his feet and began to walk along the road, hoping he was going in the right direction. Every few steps he had to stop and spit out some blood.

So much for Arnie Schwartz's first day on the job. Not exactly what you could call ending up on a high note. But not all bad either, Someone was getting worried. Someone had something to hide.

Yeah, he was on the right trail. He stumbled and nearly fell. Shit. A guy needed a partner at a time like this, somebody to back him up, to hold him up if it came to that. A partner was a definite help.

He peered at the black ribbon of the road ahead and tried singing a couple verses of STOUT-HEARTED MEN. Didn't help his morale much, but it was better than the silence.

**

XIX

Hutch waited only until the guard had gone out and shut the door of the holding area before he leaned across the table toward Dobey and spoke urgently. "Where is he?"

Dobey barely glanced up from the morning paper's account of the trial. "What?"

"Where's Starsky?"

"Hell, I don't know, Hutch. Out playing private eye, probably. Why?"

Hutch sat back in the chair gnawing at a hangnail that had been annoying him for days. "You told me he was coming out last night. He never showed."

"No?" Dobey folded the paper. "Well, something probably came up."

"Something came up?" Hutch waved a hand and swept the newspaper to the floor. "Like what? He told you he was coming. Starsky wouldn't say that and then just not show up. Something's wrong."

Kramer was gathering his papers. "We gotta go, Ken."

"Hutch, don't worry so much. Starsky's fine. He'll turn up before the day is over," Dobey said reassuringly. "You're just . . . uptight."

Hutch was going out the door behind Kramer, but he stopped and turned to look at Dobey. "You call him." He raised his hand and pointed a finger at Dobey. "Call him."

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Every day the courtroom was jammed with the press and the curious, but Hutch was hardly aware of them anymore. He walked to the defense table, taking his usual chair, and pulled the scratch pad and the green Spree from his pocket. A moment later the judge entered and court was convened. As the first witness was called to the stand, Hutch picked up the pen and began to doodle. He did so absently, not paying any more attention to what he was drawing than he paid to what was being said on the stand. The testimony was like a faint whisper on his consciousness.

His drawing this day was mostly a series of question marks—big ones, small ones, question marks that looked like S's. As each page was filled, he carefully tore it off and set it aside. Kramer didn't like it, having already pointed out several times that it might have a negative effect on the jury. "Even when the accused is innocent," the lawyer had explained, "the jury would like him to sit there looking just a little bit guilty and contrite. As if he was sorry for having gotten himself into such a position and causing everyone else so much trouble."

But Hutch only shrugged off Kramer's words and kept drawing. It helped him not to think.

He didn't see Dobey again until lunchtime when the captain came into the holding room, looking harried.

Hutch pushed aside the lunch he hadn't touched anyway. "Well?"

Dobey sat down, sighing heavily. "His car is at the motel, but nobody's seen Starsky since late yesterday when he came in. The bed looks like maybe somebody took a nap, but it wasn't slept in overnight. His dirty clothes are on the bathroom floor." He shrugged. "That's all."

"All?" Hutch stared at him, fighting down a sudden surge of fear. If anything happened to Starsky, his case was lost. He'd never get out. If anything happened to Starsky . . . .

Kramer stuck his head in the doorway. "Come on, Ken," he said.

Hutch, looking and feeling like a shellshock victim, pushed himself to his feet and followed Kramer wordlessly. Dobey watched him go. Alone in the room, the heavyset policeman smashed his fist against the table. A paper cup half-filled with coffee tipped over and sent a small brown river across the floor.

**

Three cars had gone down the highway all morning. Each time, he tried to flag the vehicle down and each time, after slowing down just long enough to get a look at the filthy, bloodied man trying to get him to stop, the driver sped by. Each time Starsky flipped them the finger as they vanished.

His progress was slow. It was early afternoon when the Highway Patrol car came down the road at a rapid clip and squealed to a stop.

One tanned cop stuck his head out the window. "Somebody called us, said there was a guy needed help out here. You must be him."

Apparently one of the speeding drivers had suffered an attack of delayed conscience.

Starsky leaned against the side of the car. "Yeah, I must be."

The cop reached to open the door and Starsky fell in across the back seat. "Accident?"

"Uh, not exactly." The soft seat made him want to sleep. "It was more like a . . . difference of opinion."

"You mean somebody beat you up and dumped you?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"You got a name?"

He had to think for a minute. "Arnie Schwartz."

"From San Manuel?"

"Staying there for a while."

They drove him to the hospital, where, despite his protests, Starsky was checked over. They shaved a small patch of his hair and put four stitches in his head, and also taped both wrists. The Highway Patrolmen waited for him, but when Starsky made it clear that he had no intention of pressing charges or of pursuing the matter any further at all, they left.

Starsky caught a cab and went back to the motel. Not bothering to shower, he only changed clothes quickly and drove just within the legal speed limit to the courthouse. Despite all his hurrying, it was too late. The van had already left to take Hutch back out to Diablo.

Dobey and Kramer stood together in the parking lot and watched as Starsky walked over.

"What the hell happened to you?" Dobey asked.

"I got caught up in a tidal wave," Starsky mumbled.

Kramer tossed his briefcase into the car. "I have to tell you, Starsky, that your partner is in pretty bad shape."

Starsky leaned against the car wearily. "What do you mean?"

The lawyer got behind the wheel. "He's hanging on by a thread. When you didn't show up last night and nobody heard from you all day . . . ." He studied Starsky's face, as if trying to gauge the depth of his caring. "That guy sits and draws pictures all day in court and do you know why?"

"Uh-uh. Why?"

"Because he's decided that the trial doesn't matter. Ken has put all of his hopes squarely on you."

Starsky straightened slowly. "That's okay. I won't let him down. We're partners. Don't you know what that means?" Kramer only looked at him. "It means that we count on each other." He shook his head. "I better go. Get out there and cheer him up a little." He smiled, lightly touching the bandage on the back of his head. "We can compare injuries." The smile faded. Starsky stood there a moment longer, looking around the lot vaguely. "I better go." He walked toward his car, favoring his left foot, which had a large blister.

Dobey and Kramer watched him go.

The captain swore under his breath. "Damnit, Sam," he said. "Those two . . . they're like part of my own family. Best street cops I ever saw. And now I'm just standing here watching them both fall apart."

Sam started his car. "Think Starsky can pull it off?"

"If anybody can. The question is, what happens if he doesn't?" Kramer had no answer for that.

Dobey stepped aside and watched the lawyer drive away.

**

The guard stopped in front of the cell. "Hutchinson?"

"Yeah?" Hutch said, not lifting his head from the cot.

"Visitor."

He rolled over and looked at the guard. "What?"

"You gone deaf? I said you got a visitor. You coming or should I say you ain't receiving tonight?"

Hutch followed the guard down the hall, not allowing anything as alien as hope into his being. Hope was a long forgotten emotion. He only went where he was told and not until he was actually sitting in the cubicle did he look up and see Starsky sitting on the other side of the glass. Hutch picked up the phone. "Where the hell have you been?" he said almost savagely.

"I'm sorry," Starsky said faintly, startled.

"You were supposed to come last night—" Hutch broke off suddenly as he saw the gleaming white bandages Starsky wore. "Oh, damn," he said. "What happened?"

Starsky smiled. "I'm making progress. Somebody's getting itchy."

Hutch leaned forward a little. "Yeah?"

Quickly Starsky told him what had happened. When he was finished, he sat back, a small smile still lingering. "How's that? These idiots around here couldn't do anything, but old Arnie Schwartz gets on the case and things start to happen."

Hutch looked at him blankly. "Who the hell is Arnie Schwartz?"

"Me. That's my new moniker, sweetheart," he Bogeyed. "Arnie Schwartz, private eye. I work fast and cheap." He grinned.

Hutch laughed. "Shit," he said after a moment, "I haven't laughed . . . in a long time." He was staring at the wall. "Sometimes I thought I'd never be able to laugh again."

His partner sighed and didn't say anything.

"I love ya, man, 'cause you can always make me laugh."

"Yeah, well, everybody has to be somewhere, right?" Starsky said lightly.

"You know what I wish, Starsk?" Hutch said after a time.

"What, buddy?"

"I wish we could be on one of those damned all-night stakeouts. Where we could just talk as much as we wanted, you know?"

Starsky nodded. "I know."

The visit was going too fast. Hutch gripped the phone so tightly that his fingers were beginning to ache. "Or even just not talk. Just sitting together and not talking. Is that stupid?"

"No." Starsky's brow wrinkled thoughtfully. "One good thing, though. We don't have any regrets."

"What?"

"I mean . . . we don't ever have to say, shit, think of all the time we wasted. Cause I don't think . . . I don't feel like a single moment of it was wasted. Whether we were talking or not or fighting or whatever. Every second mattered. Every second still matters." He paused, smiling wryly. "I'm no frigging philosopher like you. Probably what I'm trying to say doesn't make any sense at all."

"It makes sense. You're a pretty good frigging philosopher, actually."

"Been hanging around you too much. Next thing, you'll have me eating boiled walnut shells or something." He glanced around the room; the visitors were beginning to drift away. "You okay?" he asked quickly. "I mean, nobody's bothering you or anything?"

Hutch shook his head. "No."

"Good." Starsky took a deep breath. "Look, things may get a little hot and heavy the next couple of days, so if I don't come around, you just hang loose, okay? I ain't saying I won't show up here or in court, but I also ain't promising. Got that?"

Hutch nodded and smiled a little, fully understanding Starsky's motivation in saying what he did. "I'll keep my cool," he promised.

"All right. And, listen, if things get a little boring in court, maybe you could get some paper and a pencil, and write down anything you can think of that might help me. We're supposed to be partners, right? Why should I do all the work?"

"Okay, Starsky. If I can think of anything."

Starsky grinned. "Great. We'll get the team of . . . ah, Schwartz and Hutchinson rolling and the bad guys won't have a chance." He glanced at the clock. "I better go, buddy."

"Yeah, I know. You be careful."

"Sure thing." Starsky hung up, gave him a quick thumbs up gesture through the glass and was gone.

**

Starsky picked up some tacos and took them back to the motel. He turned on the TV and sat in the darkened room to eat, the only light coming from the flickering images on the screen. His whole body ached. He wished that he could still feel some of the optimism he'd fed Hutch earlier. Sure, somebody was getting nervous because Arnie Schwartz was asking questions, but that was a helluva long way from cracking the case. And if the Gonzalez clue led nowhere, he would be right back to square one. Hutch, he knew, was in bad shape. Like Kramer had said, hanging by a thread. Well, maybe the busy work he'd given him to do would help. Who knew? Hutch just might come up with something.

Starsky shoved the remains of the dinner into the wastebasket, undressed, and got into bed, leaving the TV on. He fell asleep quickly and dreamt about busting Hutch out of Diablo armed only with his Browning .25 automatic and Arnie Schwartz's P.I. license.

**

Part Five