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EMPATHY

Hutch leaned back in his chair, feeling suddenly incapable of the effort which more words would demand. The thought of the way his apartment looked at this moment was imprinted on his mind, every detail vivid. Diana Harman had worked the place over with thoroughness and dedication which suggested more than immature caprice or a bad temper tantrum. He'd seen both qualities in her during their short acquaintance. Had she enjoyed her star performance? The suspicion was inescapable and disturbing. A dangerous lady?

"Hutchinson, you sure can pick 'em," he told himself again as he called his partner's number, checking that Starsky was home. He felt too weary to consider the drive to no purpose.

But Starsky was there on the end of the line. "She wrecked the place?" His tone was incredulous.

"Surprise?" Hutch asked bitterly. "Could have seen it coming."

"You sure about that? Hindsight? Like twenty-twenty vision?"

"I should've seen the signs."

There was a pause as, for both of them, the memory surfaced: Diana outside the squadroom door, in pursuit of her prey even there, the hatred strong, the abuse loud, no attempt to hide it. Enjoying the interest of a growing audience?

"So -- you planning to stay here tonight?" Starsky enquired.

"On my way."

Images of the destruction left behind haunted Hutch's short journey: the scattered plants, the overturned furniture, the slender, snapped neck of the guitar. Was repair possible? But restoration would never eradicate these sour memories. He carried out what rescue operations he could on the leafy tangle of broken ferns, locked the door on all the rest. He was conscious of an almost desperate need to be out of the devastated apartment. It wasn't the first time he'd driven fast and urgently to Starsky's place -- or Starsky to his -- prompted either by their own need or in response to a partner's. Now, it felt natural to be heading there.

Once at Starsky's place, beer can in hand, Hutch poured out the story, letting the anger emerge, while Starsky listened to the torrent of words, not interrupting, not commenting, beyond the hazarded surmise that this might be the final act of spiteful reprisal for imagined wrongs.

"You think so?" Hutch sounded unconvinced.

They thought about it, neither finding satisfactory answers. This woman had shown herself insanely unpredictable.

"There's one hell of a clear-up job waiting," Hutch said gloomily.

"Figures. Tomorrow, huh?"

Hutch popped open his beer, absorbing the quiet of the shadowed room where they now sat, trying to let its tranquility blank out the chaos he'd left behind at Venice Place.

There was peace here in watching Starsky's careful concentration on the magnificent ship model which he'd been working on for over a year...a lot of loving care and skill invested in the task. Hutch had seen the ship in various stages of its assembly, admired the patience which the delicate task required. Nothing could be hurried here, and Starsky clearly enjoyed the exercise of the craftsmanship involved. Hutch had guessed that part of the appeal might lie in the same kind of satisfaction which came from the processes of maintaining a well-tuned auto engine.

"It's really coming along," he observed as Starsky, head on one side, surveyed the tiny piece of rigging he had just fixed in place.

Starsky looked up, nodded. "Yeah." Then -- "She trashed everything?"

Hutch thought again of the mindless damage inflicted by a crazy woman. "Looked that way. I didn't stop to take an inventory. Plants...they looked like she'd trampled them. Everything...."

Starsky frowned. "Even...even the guitar?"

"Left it with its neck broken."

Starsky's look met his, sharing the sorrow at the thought of beauty broken, craftsmanship destroyed...guitar -- or ship. He didn't try for facile words in the silent sharing. Loss, destruction, malice, in so many forms, were things they encountered day by day on the job. And now so close to home.

The ship model was set gently aside and Starsky picked up his own beer.

"You think we need to work on this?" he asked. "How big is it? Seems she doesn't just...not like you?"

Hutch managed a wry smile. "You have a gift for understatement -- you know that?"

"Seriously. Suppose there is a next time? Like I said, I'm no shrink but --"

"Maybe we should start asking a few questions," Hutch agreed. "Like at the place where she works -- at that hospital. Could make sense. Tomorrow, huh?"

"Tomorrow," Starsky said decisively. "Picking up pieces time."

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