Title: Thicker Than Blood

Author/pseudonym: Cappristar (Debs)

Fandom: Starsky and Hutch

Pairing: Starsky/Hutch

Rating: N/C-17

Status: Complete

Archive: Yes

Feedback: Yes

Series/Sequel: No

Other websites: N/A

Disclaimers: The characters from the series do not belong to me. I do this for fun and most certainly not for profit

Note: A very special thank you to Michelle, my beta-reader and very dear friend. Love you partner.

Summary: Starsky and Hutch get involved with a dysfunctional family and they get much more than they bargained for.

Warnings: Graphic language, violence, sex and sexual situations

Thicker Than Blood
By Cappristar (Debs)

"If I get my hands on you, you little bastard, I'll wring your miserable neck!" These were the last words Virginia Barrett said to her youngest that Thursday. Like so much of Virginia's life, words worked like angry fingers down her throat, again and again until she all but choked. And Stephen--it's doubtful whether, between the slam of the door and the ring of his own high-pitched laughter, he heard a thing.

It all began the way it so often did, the four of them tripping over each other inside the tiny terraced house: Stephen's sister, Cheryl, was finally out of the bathroom and yelling, with all the lung power she could muster, for her mother to tell her the whereabouts of her favorite blouse. Stephen, barely fifteen, barreled down the stairs two at a time singing along with the getto-blaster he held on one shoulder. Less than a week away from his eighteenth birthday, Eric, fair-haired with slate gray eyes, was the only one that was still. He sat quietly on the worn settee in the living room eating toast and sipping his third cup of coffee. The newscaster's voice coming from the television barely heard amidst the rest of the din.

Virginia, her hair uncombed and still wearing her tattered housecoat opened the back door to let in the dog that had been scratching relentlessly from outside. It very nearly sent her flying as it dashed between her legs; skidding to a halt at it's empty bowl it began to bark.

"For Christ's sake," Virginia muttered, "don't you start."

On the counter, used tea bags bled orange into spilt milk; a half-eaten bowl of soggy Corn Pops sat speckled with coffee granules. Eric's best shirt hung drying over the back of a chair; cotton boxer's made a patchwork quilt along the top of the radiator. Virginia pulled a can of dog food from the back of the fridge and began to search for the opener.

"Get the hell out of my way, Stevie!" Cheryl screeched.

"Get out of the way yourself."

Virginia could hear a punch followed by a slap and then her eldest giving a warning shout. She stubbed out the smoldering end of the cigarette she had lit earlier and had forgotten about, and fished another from the pack on the table. Not able to find her lighter she bent her head and lit it from the toaster.

"I thought you were going to iron this blouse for me, mom ?" Cheryl stood in the doorway, red blouse in one hand, outline of her ribs visible between her off-white bra and the top of her black mini skirt: she didn't appear to have been able to find one of her shoes.

"Will you cover yourself up, for Christ's sake." Virginia sighed.

"Yeah," said Stephen, pushing past her into the kitchen, "no one wants to see your puny tits anyway."

"No? Then why are you always hanging around outside the bathroom every morning?"

"'Cause I'm nearly shitting myself, that's why, waiting for you to finish filling in your pits with contact cement."

Cheryl swung at him with her blouse, flicking it at the kidney-shaped burn mark discoloring the left side of his face. Stephen danced out of the way, laughing, collided with the table and then stumbled off balance, kicking the dog's food across the floor.

Jesus. Virginia thought, when's he ever going to grow up? "Enough!" She shouted. "That's enough. Stevie, you get down there and clean up that mess, and Cheryl, get a move on or you're going to miss your bus. If you turn up late a few more times you're going to get fired."

"Again." Stephen laughed.

"Zip it up!" Virginia glared at him.

"I don't suppose," Eric said, coming through the door during a commercial break, "that there's anymore coffee in the pot?"

"That's right," Virginia answered, "there's not."

As Stephen went to move the dog's bowl, the animal nipped at his hand, and Stephen smacked it on the nose with the edge of the bowl. The dog bared it's teeth and growled but then, thinking better of it, backed off into the corner and began to whimper.

Eric kicked his brother in the shin. "Pick on someone your own size." He said.

"I want that cleaned up by the time I get back down here." Virginia pointed a finger at her youngest. "And you can clean up that crap by the sink while you're at it."

"Why me?"

"Because I told you to, that's why."

Eric chuckled as he shuffled his way back towards the living room.

When Virginia came back down the stairs ten minutes later, wearing a smock top and stretch pants to do her morning cleaning at the bar she worked at, she was greeted by Stephen with his hand in her purse and the last ten dollars she had making it's way into his pocket.

"You slimy little bastard! What do you think you're doing?"

They both knew the answer to that.

Just for a moment fear brightened Stephen's eyes before he squeezed his way around the table and bolted for the back door. For a large woman, Virginia moved fast, faster than her son ever would have thought. He had the door six inches open when with the flat of one hand she slammed it shut and with the other she slapped the side of his face, where the skin wrinkled unbecomingly up from his neck.

"You thieving..."

"Here." Stephen held the two five dollar bills towards her, high above his head.

As his mother reached for them, he swiveled hard and fast, leaving her to catch air, the door yanked open wide as he dashed through before slamming shut in her face.

"If I get my hands on you, you little bastard, I'll wring your miserable neck!"

She followed his laughter out into the yard, past the garbage cans piled and nearly flowing over their tops, the rusting shopping cart that had somehow found its way from the Qwickie Mart and never made it's way back. Stepping through the gap in the fence where the gate had once been hinged, she stepped into the narrow alley that ran between the rows of houses and stared after her son as he ran, not hurrying now, a lazy jaunting step between the dog shit and broken glass. At the end of the alley he stopped, turned and waved the stolen money in triumph, before disappearing into the street.

Virginia shivered before turning back and towards the house.

"Lock him up and throw away the key, that's what needs to be done with him." Cheryl was standing with clothes, including the once missing shoe, in place.

"Here," Eric said, offering his mother one of his own cigarettes. "How much did he get this time?"

Virginia smiled ruefully as she bent to allow him to light her cigarette, drawing in the smoke she slowly exhaled. "Only all that I had." Lowering herself into a chair she added. "You'd think that somewhere along the line he'd learn, wouldn't you?" But even the gas bomb, thrown by an angry neighbor whose house Stephen had robbed twice within the same week hadn't done that. He was all remorseful when he was laid up in the hospital with IV's strung from both arms. He was more than happy to confess the error of his ways and vow to change. Those long, lonely nights when Virginia patiently tended to the burns on his arms and legs, blistering across his chest and up his neck and face. He promised her, time and time again, that he would change.

Eric pulled a small billfold out of the front pocket of his jeans and exposed a small fold of tens and twenties, pressing one of the twenties into his mother's hand. "Don't ask, mom."

I won't ask..I don't want to know. "Thanks peach. Thanks."

Virginia had grown up in the dark streets of Chicago, the daughter of a steelworker with a mother who in the lengthening intervals between six children, had worked behind the counter of a convenience store. Virginia was the last born of seven children and ended up being the one who finally broke her mother's spirit and in the end her heart.

By the time she was three, her father had thrown in the towel and had taken off with an assembly line worker of seventeen. Virginia's memories of him were vague at best. An envelope of curling photos added a touch of bitterness and hateful thoughts aided by the blade of her mother's tongue.

Virginia spent her early years in a cot beside the jars of pickled eggs and pepperoni near the counter, alternately fussed over and ignored. Customers were often the first to pick her up and her mother the first to put her down.

"It was you that drove your father away." The blamel, for years unspoken, had happened when her mother had found her and ten year old Geoff Miller exploring each other's body parts behind the settee, Virginia's dress hiked inelegantly over her face.

"You little slut! It was because of you that your father left!"

Virginia thought her mother had to be right, she was only nine after all. Two of her brothers had been feeling her up for many years.

When Virginia was thirteen, the family packed up their meager belongings and moved to California and into a run down house with dark corners and the persistent smell of damp and decay. Her two eldest siblings had left home long before the move, one pregnant and married and the other, a brother, off to the army and then after boot camp Korea. The latter had died, drunk in a bar fight outside of Fort Benning, long before he got a chance to board the plane that would take him into combat. Virginia filled out fast, with a little makeup and some high heels she could easily pass for 18, and she milked it for all it was worth. Men elbowed each other on the street when she passed and stared. One of her biggest thrills was going to the theater, wearing the tightest sweater she owned, and walking slowly in front of the screen when the lights went up as the reels were changed. Like a movie star, she could feel eyes following her every move.

Her mother never tired of warning her that there was only one way for her flirtations to end. For almost seven months, Virginia hid the pregnancy by wearing loose clothing, a chubby girl getting fatter, nothing more.

When the baby was born, three weeks early, it was placed, bloody and wriggling into her arms for no more than a minute. The new flesh wet and sticky against her neck and cheek.

Her mother and the hospital arranged the adoption, there was no need for Virginia, underage, to sign the forms.

"Forget about it, Gin," her married sister advised her. "Plenty more where that one came from, you'll see."

More there would be, but forget she never would.

Benjamin. In the brief time that she had held him, she had named him. Whispering it to him, soft and wondering beneath his cries. Benjamin. She never saw him again, or even knew where he was. She had never wanted to track him down, preferring to think of him as happy and well loved.

When her mother's boyfriend backed Virginia up against the basement wall one night and tried to squeeze her breasts, she drove her knee up as hard as she could into his groin and told him if he ever touched her again she'd cut off his dick and feed it to the ducks. He would never again be able to walk through the park without his eyes beginning to water. Virginia learned that there were other things in her life that she could control if she tried.

She had fallen blindly in love with Cameron Miller on sight and could no more think of life without him than the air she breathed. So when she became pregnant again it was a fully thought out, pre-meditated act.

Cam was part-Irish, part-Polish and a large part wild. At twenty nine he was almost ten years older than Virginia. He was a wanderer, a gentle hippie, born too soon, with a very violent temper. He eked out a living playing street corners and bars with his guitar and eerily haunting voice. Emboldened by a few drinks, Virginia walked up to the stage and stroked the inside of his thigh.

Within three weeks they moved into a furnished two room apartment above a laundromat. Sometimes Cameron would hit her and she hit him back; a big girl-a big woman-growing bigger, Virginia was quickly learning how to throw her weight around. One night, stoned out of his mind, Cameron, with a dreamy look in his eyes, said that children and a family was what he wanted most in the world. Virginia took his words as gospel.

He left four times during her pregnancy, staying away for weeks at a time before he would move his few things back in again. He had tried to talk her into having an abortion and failing that he pushed her down the stairs.

Virginia managed to get a restraining order against him, but once Eric was born, he deluged her with wild flowers and sang to her from the corridor outside the maternity ward. Five months after taking him back, he shook the baby so hard to stop him from crying that he cracked three of the tiny ribs.

Virginia instantly packed her belongings and the baby and moved in with a friend of hers, Nicole, that had two small children of her own. They shared expenses and household chores, played bingo and watched TV. This is it, Virginia decided: men were shit.

She met Peter at Nicole's sister's wedding. After the reception they went back to the house together, her and Peter, Nicole and some man none of them had ever seen before or since. Nicole had a bottle of Drambuie under the kitchen cabinet and they drank it from chipped mugs; the man none of them knew passed out after a few shots. When they paired off, Virginia went with Peter. What was the harm? A quick fuck between friends.

The harm was she fell in love.

Peter was small and gentle, with delicate fingers that could read her body as if it were Braille, soft dark eyes and thick lashes. Whenever Virginia rolled on top of him in the night, she was afraid she might crush the breath out of him.

He played with Eric and spent endless hours rocking him on his knee, even though the baby was slow to laugh and quick to cry. Virginia read the look in his eye. Cheryl was born when Eric was two and Stephen barely eleven months after that.

'It was because of you that your father left.'

Stephen screamed whenever Peter touched him, kicking out if he ever picked him up. It got so bad that he would start to cry whenever Peter walked into the room. Virginia was the only one that calm her youngest down. His eyes would follow her from place to place; as soon as he learned to crawl, he would crawl only to her; the only way she could get him to sleep was to take him to bed with her.

Peter spent nights on a borrowed mattress, nights on the couch, nights away from home. "I can't take this," He told Virginia. "I can't take this anymore."

"It'll be all right, hon," Virginia said. "Stevie'll come around, you'll see."

Peter stopped coming around himself before the boy had the chance. When Virginia got home from shopping one afternoon, all of his things had been cleared out; his best suit, so strangely like the one her father wore in one of the old pictures, no longer hung in their bedroom closet.

There was no note. Twice a year, Christmas birthdays, he would send a card to Cheryl, always with a different postmark, never with a return address.

Virginia told everyone she didn't care, she half expected it anyway since she had long ago determined that all men were shit anyway. But when Eric suddenly got in trouble a few years later, she was forced to admit that she couldn't cope, not with them all, and Eric went off to the first of his two stints in foster care. It's just to give your mother a break, sweetie, the social worker had explained. He's a good boy, she'd said to Virginia, I'm sure he understands. Whether he did or not, Eric never said. Especially after being released back home after the second time, Eric never said much at all.

"You not going to work this morning, or what?" Eric asked.

Virginia was sitting at the kitchen table, smoke drifting up from her cigarette. "Yes," she said. "Yeah, soon."

Eric shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm gone."

Virginia nodded: one more cup of coffee, one more cigarette, one more something, before she'd pick herself up and get out the door.

Chapter 2

"Don't get too excited, everyone," Mr. Boudreau, the 10th grade biology teacher said, wriggling out of his blazer as he came into the teacher's lounge, "but there's a rumour going around that a devil-ringed Barrett was spotted this morning."

"Anywhere near the general vicinity of the grounds?" Asked one of the senior math instructors, cocking an amused eyebrow while glancing up from the newspaper.

"On the premises, apparently. Very close to where the first floor washrooms are located. It's natural habitat if my memory serves correctly."

"Maybe we should announce the sighting over the PA system. Must be quite a few staff members who've never had the chance to see one up close. After all, I doubt he'll be here for very long."

"Difficult to predict the migrating habits of the Barrett." Boudreau nodded, a mischievous glitter flashing through the lenses of his glasses.

From her seat across the room, where she was vainly trying to mark a set of papers before the bell, Holly Ferguson didn't think it was funny at all. The last time Stevie Barrett had made an appearance in her class, a wonderful lesson on haiku had been disrupted in less time it took her mind to register that her eyes were really seeing him. On second thought, she was fully aware that if he wasn't in school then the odds were, very likely, that he would be out somewhere adding to the ever growing list of offences and misdemeanors that, even in this day and age, were beyond impressive. She was well aware of all that, but even so...Holly sighed as the bell sounded, assigned one more mark to a paper, capped her red ball-point pen, and climbed to her feet. Another day.

Stephen was letting a few of the younger kids examine the label of his black cotton Armani shirt--not exactly the right size for his skinny build, but it was hard to be particular when you acquired clothing the way Stevie did most of his. Today he wore it loose, untucked and unbuttoned over a black T-shirt that had been tucked far down the back of his black jeans in order to hide as much as the crew neck could of the scar tissue that spread up from his chest. On his feet he wore All Stars', scuffed and coming apart at one heel; they would have to be replaced.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Barrett?" A kid Stephen's age asked, shoving one of the smaller boys aside.

Stevie laughed. "They begged me. All of 'em, down on their hands and knees as if I was fuckin' Allah."

"Doesn't say much about the power of prayer, since you're here anyway." He snorted and disappeared down the hall at the sound of the bell.

"Macbeth and the witches?" Holly smiled at her class. "Do you think he believes them?"

"Of course he does." Said a girl near the front.

"Okay, why?"

"'Cause he does."

"Yes, but why? I mean, would you?"

"Would I what?"

Holly bit back a pained sigh. "If you were on your way home through the forest..."

"I don't go home through a forest, Miss Ferguson."

Jesus wept. "If you were walking through the park and you saw three strange old women-"

"Hookers!" Someone shouted.

"Prosties."

"Ten bucks will get you a dime or a blow job." One of the boys in the back jumped up. "Hey, Macbeth, babe, lookin' for a party?"

"Okay, okay." Holly smiled and let the laughter subside a little. "Back to the question. If you were stopped by three strangers, and on top of that they looked pretty bizarre, and they told you that something was going to happen. Would you believe them?"

"That would depend on what they told me, Miss Ferguson."

"Alright, Laura, and why is that?"

"I think if they told me something I'd want to hear, then yes, I'd believe them."

"Yeah, like winning the lottery."

"Millions!"

"That man that killed himself because he didn't buy a ticket."

"He couldn't know the number, stupid."

"But he did! It was the same numbers he picked every week, only that week he didn't bother."

"What an idiot! No wonder he blew himself away."

"Okay," said Holly, "calm down a minute and let's think. Isn't what happens with the witches and Macbeth a little like what you've just been talking about?"

"There's no lottery in Macbeth, Ma'am."

"No, but it is about getting what you want most in the world, isn't it? Being powerful, money glory, all that power. All your dreams come true."

"It never happens, Miss Ferguson, does it?" Another girl, this one back a couple of rows said. "Dreams don't really come true."

"Do you mean in the play or ever? In real life, say?"

"Ever."

"That guy that worked in that factory." A boy piped up from near the door. "He won all that money and couldn't handle it, he went back to Pakistan."

"Should have taken all his friends with him."

"Family."

"Fazal along with 'em," Stevie said. It was the first time he had spoken during the class, he had been quite happy fiddling with the Casio mini card he had pocketed on his last visit to Radio Shack. They were just out on the market and he didn't know many kids that had a personal calculator, let alone one that was about the size of a credit card.

"I can't go back, asshole," Fazal called back, "'Cause I've never been there in my life."

"That's right." Holly said firmly. "And there will be no more talk like that." And then, taking a few steps toward Stephen, "What do you think, Stephen? Do you think that's one of the things Shakespeare's trying to get us to think about, what happens when we get what we want the most?"

Stevie pushed a few buttons on the tiny keyboard. Why didn't she leave him alone and ask somebody else?

"Stephen, do you think he's saying something about ambition in this play?"

"Fuck knows."

"I'm sorry?"

"I said I don't know."

"Why don't you know?"

Stevie pushed the calculator across the desk. "If he wanted anyone to understand what he was talking about, he should have written in normal English."

"But he did, the normal English of his day."

"Yeah, but that's not our day, is it? It's not now. If you expect us to read it, why doesn't someone put it into our English so we could understand?"

"Yeah, Miss Ferguson," someone called out, "Or give it subtitles, at least."

"Then show it on Channel Four."

"How many of you agree with Stephen?" Holly asked. That Shakespeare would be better translated into contemporary language?"

A chorus of shouts suggested that many did.

"All right, but if we did that, what would we lose?"

"Nothing."

"All that lousy spelling."

"Words you can't understand."

"Yes." Holly said. "You'd lose the words, you'd lose the language. In fact, it wouldn't really be Shakespeare at all."

Loud cheers, then, "Story'd be the same, though."

"I know, Wayne, but don't you think the reason we still bother with Shakespeare after all these years is not so much the stories but the language he told them in? After all, his actual stories weren't so different from anybody else's. In fact, he borrowed most of them from other people anyway."

"When I did that you wouldn't even give me a grade."

"I don't think, John, Shakespeare copied it out word for word, right down to the spelling mistakes."

Laughs and jeers.

Holly glanced at her watch. "How many of you have seen The Sting?" About half the class, but almost all had seen clips on television. "And The Godfather?"
Two thirds.

"Okay. Two films with quite a lot of violence--"

"Not enough, Miss Ferguson."

"Bloodshed, violence, criminals and murderers as central characters--quite a lot like Macbeth, in fact. But tell me, apart from the basic similarities what are some of the major differences?"

"The Godfather's a lot longer."

"The Sting was funny."

Holly raised a hand for quiet. "Isn't one of the most important differences the use of dialog, the use of language? Speech patterns and the way the characters communicated?"

"I don't think I get it?"

"Okay. Talking. Language. Isn't that what really makes a story? If you took all the dialog out of The Godfather what would the movie be like?"

"It wouldn't make any sense."

"And Macbeth?"

"It'd be over quicker."

"--it wouldn't be as good either. It certainly wouldn't be Shakespeare."

Before Holly could say anything else, the bell sounded for the end of the period and everything was lost to a scraping of chairs, the clamor of private chatter, and the movement of thirty-plus pairs of feet.

"Stephen," Holly tried, "can I just have a word with you?"

But Stevie, like the witches, had vanished without a trace. As had Holly's wallet, which had been pushed down to the bottom of her purse, between her work diary and a Coffee Crisp she'd been saving for her break.

Chapter 3

Stephen's grin was wide enough to leave plenty of room to eat his slice of pizza and talk at the same time. "Roger, you're lucky I bumped into you when I did. I've got just the thing that you've been looking for."

Roger looked cautiously across the table as he tipped sugar into his coffee, pouring two heaping teaspoons plus a third from the overflow into his mug; the last time he had bought anything from Stevie he ended up paying twice as much to get the damn thing repaired after less than two weeks.

"Here," Stevie said, sliding what look at first glance like a glasses case across the table.

"What kinda shit's that, man?"

"Look at it, here. Just look." Stevie encouraged snapping open the small case.

Roger shook his head and snorted. "You've got to be joking, man, what would I do with that?"

Stephen's eyes widened in disbelief, he couldn't believe that Roger could be so dense. "Business stuff, amounts owing, amounts going out, that's what you need this for. Business. You're the one that's always saying how you're always meeting someone here, somebody there and coming up short or having more than you thought you should. And sometimes you forget whole transactions entirely, right? Well with this and a pen and pad you'll never have to come up with wrong numbers or try and keep them straight in you're head again."

Roger picked up the calculator and studied it carefully while hesitantly punching in a few numbers and staring in awe as they popped up on the narrow oblong screen. "Fuck, man! Why are you trying to pass this shit on to me?"

"Because I'm going to cut you a good deal, that's why."

Roger laughed and bit into his cherry pie, coming very close to burning his tongue in the process. "Shit! Why's the stuff in these things always so fuckin' hot!?"

"Thirty bucks." Stevie ignored him and scraped the last mushroom off his pizza onto the side of the paper plate. "How 'bout it Roger? Thirty even?"

Roger's meaty finger pressed a tiny button and the screen went blank. "Nothin' man, not interested."

"Twenty five?"

Roger shook his head.

"Okay, twenty."

"Stevie, how many times do I have to tell you? Now take this piece of junk and get it out of my face."

Shit! Stephen dropped the remaining crust of his pizza onto the table screwed up the paper plate, snapped the calculator shut and pushed it down into the back pocket of his jeans as he got to his feet. "See you around, Rog."

A few feet short of the door, Stevie spun around and hurried back. "Here." He leaned over Roger from behind. "I'll give it to you for fifteen, you can sell it for twice that much."

"Ten."

Stephen balanced the calculator over the top of Roger's coffee cup. "Done."

Roger laughed again and laid a bill in the palm of Stephen's hand.

Ten, Stephen was thinking as he headed back for the street, ten and the fifty that was in old Miss Ferguson's purse, I can get myself something decent for my feet instead of these crappy things I'm wearing now.

If Detective Kenneth Hutchinson noticed the few daffodils that managed to survive unpicked or untrampled on the wedge of green near the school's entrance, he gave no sign. Four hours sleep was the most he'd managed to get the night before. How many bottles of beer? Six maybe eight, and the woman he'd been watching had laughed in his face as he finally approached her. It was after two in the morning, he knew, before he'd stumbled into bed cursing the woman, and his partner for unintentionally driving him out to prowl to begin with.

Detective David Starsky whipped his bright red Torino in behind the battered Ford of his partner, and bounced out of the driver's seat. His eyes were dark and warily attuned to the unkempt appearance of the fairer of the duo. Concern leaked out of the cobalt depths as he bit his lower lip to keep from speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Guess we've been demoted ta chasin' purse snatchers huh, blondie?" Starsky's grin barely met his eyes as they continued to rove over the blond's body, taking in the untucked shirt, ruffled hair and definitive sag of the broad shoulders.

"Not much else has been happening in town lately." Hutch shrugged, his own pale eyes failing to meet those of his partner's. "Ready?"

"Yep." Again, Starsky bit back the urge to say something, wishing instead to just whisk his surly partner home with him, wrap him in his arms and make what ever was bothering the big blond go away. Over the last few weeks his dreams had been wrought with thoughts of his partner, even more disturbing with thoughts of what he'd like to do to his partner's body if he was honest with himself.

"Can I help you?" The woman at the front office looked up from her typewriter and regarded the duo with deep suspicion.

"I'm Detective Hutchinson and this is my partner, Detective Starsky." Hutch displayed his badge, Starsky just leaned on the counter with a grin. "We're here to interview a Holly Ferguson?"

"Please take a seat."

Why was it, Starsky wondered, he only had to set foot inside a school, any school, to feel the cold compress of failure shriveling his balls, packing itself around his heart. Glancing at his partner he grinned at the ease and comfort Hutch displayed, an air of belonging surrounding and blanketing him like an aura.

They were soon guided to a small room on the first floor, the only light coming from a long, high window through which they could only see bricks and the clear blue of the sky. Two of the walls were lined with shelves, sets of tattered books with fraying edges, some of which didn't seem to have been moved in a very long time. Wasn't there a shortage of text books? Hutch wondered. Hadn't he heard that from Kiko? So what could be wrong with all of these ones?

"Miss Ferguson?" Starsky asked, seeing that his partner seemed to be preoccupied with the well-used looking books lining the walls.

"Holly."

Starsky showed her his identification as he introduced himself and his partner and sat down across from her, a narrow table in between. When he had first heard the name he had automatically envisioned a frizzy haired elderly woman with thick glasses and tightly buttoned sweater over a flower printed dress. He had been wrong. Her hair was longer than he'd pictured, fluffing out a little at the sides and back. Light brown. Under a tan jacket she was wearing a lilac top, three buttons just over the cleavage between her breasts. Lilac or maybe purple, he thought, never sure which was which. A black skirt, calf length, and comfortable, though fashionable, shoes on her hosed feet.

"I already spoke to two officers already," Holly said. "Explained to them what happened, as best that I could."

"Uniforms." Hutch nodded taking a seat close to Starsky. "That's routine, Ma'am."

"And you two are detectives, is that right?"

The pair nodded. "And now we'd like you to tell us what happened?" Starsky encouraged with a grin.

"Okay." She smiled back, the natural cockiness of his face offset by the tiredness around his eyes. "Aren't you going to take notes?"

Only when Hutch drew out a note pad and Starsky handed him a pen, did she begin.

"So do you think you'll catch him?" She asked when she finished telling the story.

"Stephen Barrett?" Hutch folded his pad as he rose to his feet and exited the room.

"That is who we've been talking about, isn't it?" They continued down the corridor as Holly escorted them towards the exit.

"You seem pretty certain that it was him." Starsky glanced at her, still trying to get rid of the first impression her name had given him.

Holly shrugged. "My purse disappeared, Stephen disappeared, both at the same time. Adding to that, he does seem to have a talent for this sort of thing."

"He's been in trouble before." Hutch grinned somewhat ruefully.

"And you didn't catch him then."

"Yeah, he was caught," The laugh lines around Starsky's mouth crinkled. "Once or twice, at least. Everyone at the precinct's heard of 'im, we reel them in but the courts let 'em go. What was he, Hutch? Twelve, thirteen when he started?"

"About that." Hutch nodded.

"You both make it all seem like a waste of time to even look for him."

"If we catch him with your credit cards or any of your possessions still on him someone might actually be able to do something about him." Hutch nodded. "If not it all turns into a he said, she said."

"And then it becomes a waste a time." Starsky finished.

Chapter 4

"You'd think," Starsky said, "when the department was finally doin' some good that the public would start ta take notice of it."

From his desk opposite his partner's, Hutch grunted something that could be taken as agreement.

"I mean we both know, Hutch." Starsky continued, leaning over with a conspiratial tone, "most forces in the country would give their eyeteeth for numbers like ours."

Nodding, Hutch shifted his weight from one lean thigh to the other. His face was slightly flushed and his eyes danced a little angrily, maybe even a bit fearfully. "It bothers you a lot that she didn't seem impressed with our record, doesn't it, buddy?" He asked testily.

"Who!?" Starsky abruptly sat back, the dangerous sparkle in the baby blues before him sent him reeling like a punch. He lowered his voice after a quick look around the office. "What are ya talkin' about, babe?"

Hutch regarded the confused indigo for a moment before running a hand through his fair hair, the seat violently scraping the floor as he abruptly pushed it back and stood. "Never mind." He paused for a second before looking down with an embarrassed smile that, unknown to him, melted the brunette's heart. "Coffee?"

"Sure." Starsky's eyes followed the blond's every move while he wondered why his stomach was doing somersaults and his pulse had noticeably quickened.

"Your caseload." A familiar voice boomed as, sure enough, Captain Dobey entered the squad room. "What's the most pressing thing you two are working on?"

"Right now? That kid, little Stevie." Starsky tossed his pencil in the air, allowing it to drop onto the top of his desk while he issued an exaggerated sigh.

"Barrett?"

"Yes, sir. Steven. He could be anywhere, of course. But we received a call a little while ago from vice and they think he's still in the city, probably looking for some action on the strip, either now or he will be tonight." Hutch answered.

"Why are you working it? I don't like my men taking on cases that should be handled by by another department?" Dobey scowled.

"It's like this, capn'," Starsky winked at Hutch, pleased to see the delighted little grin the gesture had evoked before looking back at their superior, "Hutch's little brother will soon be enterin' the elite society of our fair town's public High School system an' he'd feel a lot better knowin' that he's cleared out the trash before Kiko gets the opportunity to get more than a passin' education."

"What the Sam hell is he talking about, Hutchinson?" The big man turned his complete attention on the fairer of the duo.

Starsky felt his head begin to spin, needing to grip the edge of the desk in order to steady himself. The smell of the room, previously unnoticed, of old coffee, dried ink and stale cologne mixed with sweat assaulted his nostrils at the same time as the brief glare slapped his face, before the pale eyes mercifully turned away to look back at the Captain.

"Stephen Barrett isn't exactly the poster boy for Juvenile Hall, Captain." Hutch explained. "And though it's true," another baleful look at the brunette, "that, technically, this case is beneath our expertise..."

"Cut the crap, Hutch !" Dobey tensed.

"Okay." Hutch pursed his lips before going on. "I think...no I know that this kid is one, maybe two steps away from having us go after him for something that merits our attention."

"Homicide?" Dobey cocked an eyebrow. "He's a kid, Hutch. It's a far stretch from petty theft to murder. I mean..."

It was Hutch's turn to interrupt. "It's not the crimes Cap." He took a deep breath, looking briefly around, the nod from his partner urging him to continue. "It's the rage...the anger inside him that makes him do the things he's been doing."

"From what I understand." Dobey held up a beefy hand, "His family may be poor, but they have been far from abusive, or at least what the system would deem so...the opposite in fact."

Starsky stood just as Hutch sank wearily back into his seat, the coffee he had poured had cooled enough that the blond barely registered the spill on his thigh.

"What Hutch is tryin' ta say, Cap', is that the kid feels society itself has neglected him, thrown him away so ta speak."

Hutch nodded springing back to his feet. He slapped a hand on his partner's shoulder and tried to ignore the pleasant shock that ran up his arm at the touch, and instead fed off of it. "It's not enough...don't you see Captain? For someone like Stevie Barrett it will never be enough. He wants, but at the same time, he never wants to work to get anything...everyone owes him. He's fueled by hate, hate for what other's have and what he hasn't been given."

"He's been burned, Cap. Literally and figuratively." Starsky said. "It's not much of a stretch to see him lose it when he can't get what he wants when he wants it."

"Or doesn't find what he hopes to find." Hutch added. "The kid is a time bomb and he's going to blow...next month, next year or even a long time from now, but his rage is not going to stay inside."

"You think you can find him?" Dobey looked at them each in turn, thoughts of his own happy son weighing heavy on his mind.

"If he's out there, we'll find him." Starsky answered, doing a double take when he glanced at his partner and how pale he had become. "Hutch?"

"Huh? Yeah...yeah Capn' we'll find him."

Stephen Barrett had been a busy boy. At the back of a bar edging onto the wholesale fruit and veggie market he had sold one of Holly Ferguson's two credit cards for twenty bucks; less than thirty minutes later, in the pleasant surroundings of a well tended church garden he had gotten rid of her checkbook for double that. Cutting through a back alley he bumped into Wendy Korminiki, who was just leaving the Justice department, having just been released on her own recognizance on charges of fraud. Kormaniki sent him into the corner store to buy a six-pack of bud, two of which she shared with him on one of the benches opposite the Federal buildings. She then bought the remaining credit card from him with three five dollar bills and an unopened can of beer. "Give my love to Eric for me, will you do that? And tell him I've been thinking of him."

Stephen could see how that would go down with his brother and with a belch and a wave quickly consigned the idea into oblivion.

He treated himself to a Big Mac and fries and was just finishing them off while window shopping when his eyes fell on a pair of red and purple hiking boots, fur lined. He quickly noticed that there was no way he could steal them and get away with it and that they would cost him all the cash he had on him. What the hell, he thought, what was money for?

He left his old shoes in the store and was wearing his new boots when he ran into a friend of his, Kevin Long, in the bowling alley near the Stadium. Kevin was the same age as Stephen, but more slightly built; his oversized check shirt hung loose and open over a beige T-shirt, at first glance it was tempting to dismiss him as a geek, but that would have been a mistake.

"Holy shit!" Stephen exclaimed, "I thought you were fuckin' locked up!"

"Nah. Nursery school, not a real fuckin' jail house at all." Kevin pushed the fall of dark hair from where it shielded his darker eyes and grinned.

Kevin was probably the only person that Stephen had gone on jobs with, breaking and entering in and around the neighborhood that Kevin lived in. Most of the time, Stephen preferred to work on his own. Kevin, though was a joy to be with and he always made him laugh which was why he often went along with him. The only problem he had with Kevin, was that he didn't seem to know what risk meant.

"So what are you doing hangin' out here?" Stevie asked.

Kevin nodded in the direction of the nearest lane. "Seeing how many spares I can rack up in a single game."

They bowled for the better part of an hour and then, when Kevin went to buy more cigarettes, Stephen noticed that he was holding what had to be close to a hundred dollars.

"Out on the streets last night." Keven explained, offering Stephen a smoke. "Would have scored mor'n this, but the cops came sniffin' around, bastards, and we had to clear out."

Stephen stared at him in facination. "What did you have to do?" He asked.

"Nothin' really." Keven laughed. "Hang around, just down toward the trees, until some John comes sniffin' along."

"But how do you know?"

"You always know. Sometimes they want you to go in their car--I always charge extra for that, but mostly you just do it there under the leaves."

"Yeah," Stevie said, "but what do you have to 'do'?"

"Jesus! What d'you think? Wack them off, that's the easiest. Worth a ten. Sometimes they want to suck you off, that's twenty. Nothin' to it."

"But you don't let them...."

"Fuck me?! What do you think I am? Do you think I'm mental or something?"

"No. No of course not."

"This one guy, though, loaded he was, Mercedes that was nearly brand new offered me a hundred if I'd go with him back to his hotel," disgust and dismay mingled on Stephen's face as Kevin continued. "He had a condom, so it was okay. Gave me these pills, you know, amyl nitrate. After a little while it never hurt much at all."

Stephen thought he was going to vomit. He quickly dashed out his cigarette and started to walk away.

"Hang on!" Kevin shouted. "Where are you going?"

"Home," Stephen responded dully. "I was supposed to have been in school."

"Nah, you don't want to do that." Kevin said, catching up with him. "I'm supposed to meet Ian later, stick around and chill out, we'll have some fun."

Chapter 5

"Come on in guys. Sorry about the bleak interior, but I share my normal office space with upwards of twenty folks." Lynn Gomeau led Starsky and Hutch into an interrogation room down the hall from the organized chaos of the Vice department. She was wearing a short red skirt over ribbed tights, a dark cotton vest over a cream halter top and as if she wasn't already tall enough, she was wearing three inch high leather boots.

"You don't exactly blend in with the scenery." Hutch said with a hint of a smile in his eyes.

"In my line of work it helps to stand out a little." She laughed.

"I'd say that you beat the competition by a mile." Starsky winked, pulling out a chair and sitting on the worn table, bringing his feet up to rest on the seat. At the same time he was thinking that Hutch must be, at best, a galaxy ahead of the runner-up.

"What is it that brings Bay City's finest to honor and humble little ole me with a visit?" She ran a hand up Hutch's arm then reached down and squeezed Starsky's knee. Lynn shivered involuntarily as the room seemed to suddenly dip drastically in temperature. Starsky and Hutch had both sucked the heat out of the room as jealously flamed the blood in their veins. Although it was almost imperceptible, neither one liked the other being touched in such an intimate fashion by an outsider.

Hutch wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. "Um...Stephen Barrett? We heard that you were involved with one of his arrests?"

Lynn's laugh filled the room. "I was his first, in fact. What did the problem child extraordinaire manage to do in order to bring himself to the attention of you guys?"

Starsky had diverted his gaze when he first felt his rage at the woman touching his Hutch ignite, he had riveted it back on the blond when the silkily smooth voice asked her about the reason they were here. His eyes were now focused on the pretty cop from Vice. "What can ya tell us about 'im.?"

Lynn noted the seriousness on both detectives faces and decided that she didn't really require an answer to her own question. "He had run away from a group home and ended up being caught by a K-mart store detective with over three hundred dollars of goods stashed inside an adidas gym bag we later found out he had stolen earlier that day. Since then he's been arrested and charged more than thirty times, running a succession of social workers, foster parents and us boys and girls in black ragged. Not to mention his mother."

"Even though he's a kid, why's he out now?" Hutch asked.

Lynn regarded the blond appreciatively as she had done when the brunette asked her his own question. "There wasn't a sufficiently secure place in the county, Stevie had eventually wound up in a custom-built facility just north of the city limits. Eight days later he escaped and has been on the run ever since. He goes to school, sporadically, but not often enough to warrant an officer to
wait around and try and nab him."

"He's fifteen, isn't he?" Hutch had whipped out his notebook and pen.

Lynn shook her head. "Fourteen, I think."

"Some future ahead of 'im." Starsky pushed back the chair with his feet and stood.

Lynn nodded and shrugged her shoulders.

"Wadda ya think?' Starsky asked as they left the building and approached the Torino.

"I think that little Stevie is a helluva lot more of a problem than we thought." Hutch sighed.

"I thought you might be thinkin' that." Starsky reached a hand up and ruffled the blond's hair. "So where do we begin ta look?"

"I don't know." Hutch smiled over at his partner. "His mother?"

"Sounds good ta me." Starsky unlocked the passenger side door and held it open for Hutch to climb in. When he was seated behind the wheel he paused, with the key in the ignition and looking straight ahead said. "Hutch?"

"Yeah?" Hutch did a double take at the serious expression on the brunette's face when it slowly turned to face him. "What is it, Starsk?"

"I think we need ta talk." Starsky sat back, pulling out the key he began to fiddle with the chain.

"About what?" Hutch bit his bottom lip while he racked his brain trying to come up with what he had done or said to upset his partner.

"I don't know...it's just that for the last month or so ya seem so sad all the time." Starsky's smile was small and his eyes hurt and confused. He had started to think that maybe his partner had somehow managed to catch onto how he really felt about him and was trying to slowly break away."I mean ya just haven't been yourself at all. Did I do anything ta make you feel bad?" He held his breath waiting for the answer.

Hutch was silent for a few seconds, his eyes wide before he shook his head. "You? God, Starsk you would never do anything to hurt me, at least not intentionally. No, it's nothing, nothing at all. I don't know, maybe all this shit," He waved an arm to indicate the street. "Is finally wearing me down."

"You want us ta quit?" Starsky said, after taking a deep and very relieved breath.

"Of course not." Hutch laughed. "A vacation maybe, but no, I don't want us to quit." His heart warmed at the thought of how his partner would follow him no matter how he answered the question. "Besides we're a long way from being pensionable and a return of contributions, after Uncle Sam got a hold of them, wouldn't get us very far."

"Okay. We'll put in for one as soon as we get this kid off the street." Starsky started the car with a wide grin splashed on his face. "How's that sound?"

"You have no idea how good that sounds, partner." Hutch turned his head to look out the side window his heart leaping at the thought of them being alone together away from everyone they knew. He licked his lips and turned back to sneak a peek at the man who had been haunting his dreams, only to find that Starsky was looking back at him with a gleam in his eyes that Hutch didn't recognize.

Jesus, why don't ya just blurt it out if you're gonna get caught gawkin' at him like that. Starsky berated himself while clearing his throat. "I think it sounds pretty damn good ta me too, Blintz."

Both men were lost in their own thoughts for several minutes. Hutch was glad he was sitting down. The weight from all the guilt he was feeling was threatening to crush him.

"Starsk?"

Starsky was far away, trying to decide the best place to tell his best friend, and only person he fully trusted, how he really felt. Alone on vacation felt like a betrayal...as if he had set his partner up with little room to get away. Before or after? He thought. All he did know for sure was that he couldn't hide it for very much longer. No matter what the outcome; he knew he had to come clean. The shame of not being completely honest with the blond was eating away at him.

"Starsky?" Louder.

"Huh? Wha...?"

"Please pull over." Hutch gulped, wondering if he had lost his mind as well as his heart.

Only Starsky's eyes questioned as he immediately swung the Torino alongside the curb and killed the engine.

"I lied to you, Starsk." Hutch said with a shuddering breath.

"What do ya mean, babe?" Starsky asked softly.

"Yo..you asked me why I was so sad an..and not myself." Hutch began to worry a hang nail. "I told you it was nothing."

"No. What ya said was that it was because of all the shit we have ta deal with and that we need a break." Starsky twisted sideways and leaned towards the blond.

Hutch nodded. "I lied."

"You do want us ta quit?"

Hutch shook his head. "No. I want you." He closed his eyes and turned his head away. "And I know I can't have you. And that's why I've been sad."

Starsky thought he was going to explode with joy, but managed to husk out. "If you want me, Hutch, I'm all yours."

Hutch snapped his head around, his eyes bulging in disbelief. "I don't think you understa..."

"Yes I do, Hutch. You're already the guardian of my heart and soul, an' I gotta tell ya, buddy boy, my bodies been gettin' real lonely without them."

Chapter 6

Stephen Barrett and Kevin Long met up with Kevin's friend, Ian, and the three decided to head off to the Mann Westwood, where one of Ian's cousin's worked as an usher at the fourpleax theater and could get them in for free. The first car Kevin broke into they couldn't get started, but the second, a two year old Volvo kicked in on the first try. Since Ian had borrowed his older brother's license he drove.

Loaded up with soft drinks and popcorn, they watched Rocky and then went to another screen to see Taxi Driver which Ian insisted on since another friend of his told him there were shots of Jodie Foster naked from the waist up. It didn't take long for the trio to get caught up in the dark tale and were surprised at how fast the time went as the lights came up and the credits began to roll.

They left the Volvo in the parking lot and replaced it with a black Gremlin.

"Pull over." Kevin said as they were turning a corner and passing by another shop lined street. "This is as good a place as any."

"Good for what?" Stephen wanted to know.

"Just stay here." Kevin turned and winked before getting out, Ian shut off the ignition and followed. "Don't let anyone kick the car." He laughed, "I still got four payments to make."

Stephen sat back, lit a cigarette and watched them weave their way down the block. Ian was two years older than Kevin and almost a foot taller, a moustache was already thick over his lip. Kevin had first met him in Juvie, Ian had been sitting on the top bunk looking at pictures in Penthouse and some other babe mag and listening to the Stones, over and over again.

Twenty minutes and three cigarettes later they were back. Kevin had sixty dollars in twenties, fifty in tens, and three fives; Ian had blood drying from a cut alongside of his mouth and a scratches along the knuckles of one hand.

"Better than a bank." Kevin said with a grin. "Now let's get the fuck out of here."

"Where are we going?" Stephen asked.

"What do you care?" Kevin shot back. "You'll just have to wait and see."

But Stephen was already thinking that wherever it was, it probably wasn't going to be the place he most wanted to be. Sitting around twiddling his thumbs while the others were off doing stuff wasn't his idea of a good time.

They stopped and picked up some Chinese food, sweet and sour chicken and cashew and chicken chow mein; Stephen had ordered two portions of toffee banana as well and now Kevin seemed to have decided they were for everyone and kept reaching between the seats with his plastic fork.

Stephen finally got tired of fending Kevin off and decided to let him have it all, tipping the contents forward across the seat and into Kevin's lap.

"Fuck, Stevie! Just fuckin' watch what you're doing, alright?"

Stephen was rapidly getting to the point where he didn't give a shit.

"Syrup all down my fuckin' jeans!"

"Be cool," Ian said. "Make you taste all the sweeter."

Kevin laughed while Stephen, lowered the window and threw all that remained of the food onto the street in disgust.

"We wasted enough time." Ian put the car into gear.

"Where are we going?" Kevin asked still brushing away at his clothes.

"Clubbin'."

"Not me." Stephen said.

"Come on, you got to. I know this guy that works the door at the Black Widow. Won't cost us a cent."

It was beginning to grate on Stephen more than a little, the way Ian knew someone who worked everywhere, some cousin, uncle, aunt or brother. He'd bet anything he owned that if you mention somebody doing the most far-out job you could think of, personal bodyguard to Dustin Hoffman, or something stupid like that, and Ian would swear that he knew the guy's Siamese twin.

When they pulled up outside the club, both Stephen and Kevin got out but neither one of them moved towards the door.

"Suit yourselves." Ian called back after he talked his way inside.

The two of them jumped into a cab that had just dropped off four girls with skirts up around their tits and headed back the way they had come.

Sitting in the back, Kevin did his best to persuade Stephen to work the streets with him. Saying he'd get some John back into the trees and then Stephen could jump him, then the two of them could beat the shit out of him and take him for whatever he had. "They never do anything about it," Kevin assured him. "Not the cops or anything. Most of them are married, that's why."

Stephen wouldn't budge and left Kevin bumming a light from a whore on the corner and took off down the street, heading for home.

Stephen had walked past the house three times now. It was a two-story end townhouse with lace curtains at the windows, even those on the second level. The kind of house, the kind of street where people once put out the empty milk bottles before retiring for the night. Okay, he thought, it was starting to get late, but not that late; most of the other houses had some lights on, in the bedrooms at least. He turned along the side of the house to where a narrow alley ran into the darkness, leading to the back of the homes.

Some of the units had fenced yards, but not this one. For nearly five minutes he stood in the center of the yard, letting the darkness gather around him. A couple of doors down someone had their television up too loud, in another someone else was singing one of those pathetic tunes his mother would sing when she was in the kitchen and thought no one else was listening. Delta Dawn, he thought this one was. There was an inch wide gap at the bottom of one of the lower windows. So simple, he thought, so why are you still standing here when you could have been in and out by now? Stephen took a step forward and then another. As far as he was concerned most of the evening had been a wright-off and this was his chance to finish it off to his advantage.

He pressed his face close against the glass and could see, beyond his own reflection, the contours of the neat dining room, everything in order and in it's place the way old folks' homes were. Some of them
anyway. Yes, he bet whoever lived here dusted every morning, moving every trinket on the shelves in the process. Stephen had done places like this before, money hidden away in the stupidest of places. Inside vases, between the pages of Bibles, cookie jars. Close to three hundred he had found once, pushed up the ass of a ceramic Santa Claus.

Stephen slipped his fingers under the open window, and as quietly as he could pushed it all the way up, before he silently climbed up and through.

He stood still long enough to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, gradually the details began to sharpen into place. He went to the back door and slipped back the bolts, in case he needed to get out fast. He doubted he would need to though. Whoever the people were that lived here they were off on some geriatric coach trip or away and boring the balls off some members of their family. It was as quiet as a graveyard, and he fully planned to take his time.

Stephen had turned over every jar and ornament, opened every box and drawer, and so far all he'd come up with was a few coins inside an empty whiskey bottle. It didn't surprise him in the least that they owned neither a stereo or one of the new beta-machines, just a cheap plastic radio and a tiny TV, neither of which were worth the hassle of taking them.

He decided to try his luck upstairs. Under the worn tread of carpet, the stairs squeaked a little or groaned no matter how lightly Stephen placed his feet.

Ralph Denison had gone to bed each night for the last decade or so with a metal rod on the floor within easy reach. He had picked it up one day from a pile of trash that was left after a family had moved out of their home. "What on earth did you drag that back for?" His wife, Doris, had said, and Ralph had given his usual little shrug. "It'll come in handy someday, I bet." Since the burglaries had begun in earnest up and down the street, the last thing Ralph did each night, after dropping his teeth into a glass beside the bed and wishing Doris God bless and good night, was trail his fingers down towards the piece of iron, as if it would bring them good luck.

It had always worked, at least up until now.

Standing back behind the bedroom door and struggling to control the wheezing from his chest, Ralph listened as the pressure on the last stair caused it to moan.

All Stephen could see was a faint bundle off to one side of the high bed, one hand clutching at the turn of the sheet. He waited another moment to be certain that she was asleep, then stepped carefully into the room.

Ralph brought the rod down with all the strength he could muster, aiming for the head but striking the top of the shoulder with such force that the weapon was nearly jarred from his grip.

Stephen cried out at the sudden, searing pain and stumbled back across the room, he could see the old man coming at him, swinging the bar toward his face. He couldn't understand why he wouldn't just let him run. The third time the man swung at him, Stephen was in the doorway; he ducked inside the man's arm and came up fast, head-butting him under the chin. The metal rod fell out into the hall and bounced haphazardly down the stairs.

Across the room, bed clothes pulled toward her skinny chest, the old woman was sobbing. Blood trickled from her husband's nose.

Stuped fuckers, they deserve whatever they fucking get. Nicky thought. Out loud he shouted loud enough to drive the old man back. "Where's your fucking money?"

Ralph shook a fist at him and Stephen punched him in the neck, then pushed him roughly up against the closet door. Wheezing heavily, Ralph sank down to his knees.

"Where's...the...fucking...money?" Stephen yelled in the man's ear, punching him in the head to emphasize each word.

Slowly Ralph raised his head. "Go to hell you worthless scum bag." He managed, with spittle on his lips.

Stephen stood back and kicked him in the chest.

"Don't! My God, please don't! You'll kill him!" Doris cried, and scrambled on all fours across the mattress toward them.

Stephen pushed Doris back across the bed and raced down the stairs as fast as he could. At the turn, his foot hooked under the length of iron and he tripped and fell head first. "Jesus! You bastard! You fucking bastard!"

Winded and aching, Stephen pushed himself up and leaned forward with his hands on his thighs. The rod had rolled close to him and now he picked it up and with a shout swung it at arm's length, sending every ornament and picture on the mantle piece flying. He thought that his wrist and shoulder, where the man had struck him were broken. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantle, white and scared. He was still trying to understand why the man didn't just let him run. He drew back his arm and smashed it then whacked it again. It wasn't enough.

Back upstairs, Doris Denison was leaning over Ralph, massaging his chest. When Stephen burst back into the room, she cradled herself across her husband to protect him, shaking her head in terror as Stephen raised the bar above his head, then brought it down, time and again until his arms had begun to ache and he had had enough.

His mind finally registering the sight of all the blood, Stephen ran.

Chapter 7

Hutch's jaw dropped open, his eyes widening while his mind tried to absorb his partner's words. After what seemed like days but was, in fact, less than a minute, he could feel a deep heat spreading rapidly through him, knowing that he must be positively pink. A broad grin quickly formed and soon nearly obliterated the lower half of his face, his eyes nearly disappearing as the flesh covering his cheek bones rose.

Starsky started to laugh with a perfect mixture of childish delight and barely contained glee, his own features were flushed a dark rose color. He clasped his hands together in a desperate attempt to keep the electricity flowing through his veins from bolting out from his finger tips.

Hutch gulped a few deep breaths before he managed to sputter. "How..when...you mean you too?"

Starsky leaned over and did what he had only dreamed of doing. He
quickly snaked a hand around the back of the blond's neck and pulled
him in to deliver a smothering kiss over the decadent lips that had
tempted his taste buds for longer than he dared guess. Although intense, he kept it short and released his would be lover as soon as he felt the tentative though eager response. "Yeah, me too. In spades. An' I don't care when or how." He leaned back with a happy sigh. "All I know is that knowin' that you feel the same 'bout me makes me just about the happiest guy on the planet."

"Hey, Starsk?" Hutch was running his tongue slowly over his lips as if he was trying to capture every particle of flavor his partner may have left behind. His eyes shone in adoration as he turned his head to gaze at Starsky.

"What, babe?" Starsky's own eyes glowed, a crooked grin edging up the corner of one cheek.

"I don't feel sad anymore."

Starsky reached over and squeezed a strong thigh. "I'm gonna do my best ta not let you feel that way ever again."

"You sure this is going to be the right thing to do?" Hutch frowned, worry deepening the cleft between his eyes.

"It's the only thing for us ta do." Starsky assured with a warm smile. "For the first time in my life I feel completely complete. It's like everything we are just snapped inta place."

"You heard it, too?" Hutch cocked his head to one side.

"Practically blew an eardrum." Starsky grinned, and started the Torino up. "Now let's see if we can dig this kid out of his hole so we can have some alone time."

"Okay." Hutch sat back and began to work his lower lip with his teeth.

"An' ya can stop that right now." Starsky admonished as he pulled away from the curb. "The only thing I want ya thinkin' about this afternoon is where the kid could be hidin'."

"Yes, mother." Hutch sighed and tried to relax, though his mind continued to race around what was to happen with their relationship.

They pulled up, after a fruitless day of trying to find the Barrett boy, in front of Venice Place. Although whose apartment they would be going to had never been mentioned, Starsky thought that his blond would be more comfortable on his own turf, he had been well aware that Hutch had spent a good part of the day working himself into a near state of frenzy. And knowing how skittish and closed his partner could be, he didn't want him to have anyplace to run to when he felt everything was getting to be too much.

Hutch ran a hand wearily over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose before letting it drop back down to his lap and looked at his partner with an amused smile. "I'm not going to bolt, Starsk."

"I know. Just don't wanna take any chances." Starsky smiled back.

"Come on." Hutch shook his head and got out of the car. Starsky skipping around to join him before they headed up the steps side by side.

A black cat was sitting patiently by the apartment door when the two men reached the landing. "Hey, Ditzy." Hutch bent down to stroke the glossy fur. But Ditzy turned away from his touch and presented the pair with a fine view of his backside as he ran around and between both men's legs.

Hutch shrugged with an apologetic glance at his partner and reached up for the key to unlock the door. The cat flew through before he had a chance to get it all the way opened. Inside another cat, this one a tabby began to thread it's way between his legs, purring loudly, as he walked towards the kitchen. "Give it a minute, Milton."

Starsky stood by the couch, his mouth ajar as he watched the easy familiarity Hutch had with the animals. "Hutch?"

"Yeah, Starsk? Beer?" Hutch grabbed two bottles out of the fridge along with a large can of cat food. He set one of the beers on the table and the other on the counter and dug a can opener out of a drawer.

"What's with the two cats?" Starsky picked up the bottle from the table and watched as his partner dumped the entire can of Dr. Ballard's beef stew into a plastic mixing bowl and set it on the floor beside a cake pan filled with water.

"Three." Hutch rinsed off his hands in the sink and turned, wiping them on his jeans before picking up his own beer. "That's Ditzy and Milt, and," He looked around and made his way out to the greenhouse, stopping just inside the entrance. "That's Stupe." He gestured towards an extremely fat black and white feline which lay wedged between the partially opened screen door and mewing pathetically.

"Stupe?" Starsky couldn't help ask with a raised eyebrow.

"Yep. You'll see, he's as stupid as he is fat." Hutch smiled.

Starsky then noticed that the back door was attached to a post by a piece of chicken wire to keep it from opening all the way. "You got ta be kiddin' me!" He pushed past the blond and nudged the cat with his foot to get it to move. Reluctantly, Stupe slowly rose and with a swat with one paw at the offending sneaker sashayed indignantly away in the direction of his dinner. Starsky was trembling with fury as he tried to untangle the wire, finally it came free from the door and hung twisted from the post. "Leavin' a key over the lintel is bad enough, but Jesus, Hutch! Leavin' the back door open for anyone ta waltz on in?"

"I have to let them out, Starsk." Hutch immediately jumped to the defensive. "I mean they aren't exactly toilet trained."

"How long have you had them?" Fear flashed in the dark blue depths, as he realized that Hutch had probably, no had, kept it open at night for them too. The idea of his blond laying defenseless in bed in the middle of the night brought the rage back to the forefront.

"All three? About a week and a half." Hutch admitted sheepishly, knowing full well what was going through his partner's mind, also knowing that he deserved any wrath that was unleashed on him.

"An' in that time you couldn't pick them up a litter box?" Starsky's shoulders twitched as he made his way back to the kitchen and his beer, he didn't want to know how long he'd had the first stray that wandered in, though doubted it had been all that long for it to bring a couple of friends home with it.

"I don't want to keep them, Starsk." Hutch followed. "I thought if I did get a box, then I wouldn't have the heart to give them to someone else. You know? Like that would mean that they were mine?"

Starsky shook his head in exasperation. "Then why don't we take them to the pound? Never mind." He waved a hand in the air. "They aren't cute little kittens and they'd end up going under a needle."

"Exactly." Hutch was nodding his head. "Or worse. I've put notices up in a few places, but haven't had a call yet."

"Okay, forget the cats for now. You shower an' I'll go out and get them a damn litter box. Then maybe we can eat and spend some alone time." Starsky set his empty bottle down and patted his pockets for his keys. "They're gettin' one, Hutch, that door is goin' to be locked at night and when we aren't in here. I'll think of someway ta find them a good home."

Hutch knew better than to argue and began to peel off his jacket, holster and shirt. "I'm sorry, Starsk."

Starsky turned to watch from the door for a few minutes before saying. "You may be a lean mean crime bustin' machine on the streets, Blintz but I love how big an' soft that wonderful heart of yours is."

"I'm forgiven?" Hutch bit his lower lip with a smile.

"You're loved." Starsky winked and shut the door behind him.

Well fed, the cats had disappeared out the still opened back door to prowl the neighborhood. Starsky and Hutch, both showered and having long finished eating the Mexican the brunette had brought back for them, were on the couch. The television droned on unnoticed, the pale light flickering occasionally to bathe the pair in it's soft glow. They were both shirtless and barefoot, but they hadn't made to the point of removing their jeans. Instead they had spent the last hour cautiously running their hands over the others torso, back and front, their mouths becoming more and more acquainted with each other. Tongues and lips gently nipped and licked necks and earlobes. They were beginning to squirm a little as the steady growth of their erections grew harder, steadily demanding more. Their moans of pleasure and desire turned to matching groans when the phone rang.

Hutch pulled himself away and reached for the offending instrument, his smoldering eyes not leaving the hungry cobalt of his love's. "What?"
He snapped into the receiver, quickly springing forward and reaching for a pad and pen. "Alive?"

Starsky sat forward straining to hear the other side of the conversation while trying to read the hasty scrawl his partner was writing.

"We're back on, Starsk." Hutch stood, running a hand through his already mussed hair.

"Homicide?" Starsky sprang to his feet, scanning the room for his shirt.

"Not yet. One of them looks like it will turn out that way though."

Chapter 8

Harold Dobey, arms swinging and fingers snapping, was pacing the walkway inside the yard that had been cordoned off. Occasionally he would deliver a scowl in the direction of the curious bystanders who were still lingering in the wake of the sirens' call. A uniform, Keith Newton, stood in the doorway, face paler than it should have been in the fall of the flashing lights. He possessed one of those faces that was forever young until one day it was suddenly very old.

Starsky parked the Torino at the opposite side of the street, Hutch waited for him to come around the car before they both strode across.

"What's up, Cap?" Starsky nodded a greeting.

"Break-in by the looks of things." Dobey stated, falling into step.

"Entry?" Hutch asked.

"In the back. A window was left partially opened or unlocked and he shimmied in pretty easily."

"How many?" This time Starsky.

"Hard to say right now. By the sight of what's in there, it could have been a dozen of them." Dobey motioned for Newton to step aside and let his detectives precede him into the house.

"Captain?" Newton called, stopping the three before they could enter. "I just got a call from the hospital. Woman's in surgery, crushed skull. Sounds pretty serious with some brain damage more than likely."

"And the husband?" Dobey frowned.

"He'll be okay, they think. Cuts, a lot of bruising, maybe a broken bone or two, and shock of course."

Hutch turned toward the street, faces indistinct between pulled back curtains. "Witnesses? Anyone seen running away?"

Newton fidgeted uneasily on the stoop. "No one came forward yet, sir."

"Get a couple of officers and get out there asking questions. We'll get a house-to-house organized as soon as we can." Dobey said.

"Yes, sir."

"Think he'll ever break that habit?" Starsky asked.

"Which habit?" Dobey asked.

"Calling you sir."

Dobey didn't bother to reply.

Hutch was looking at the turmoil in the small back room. It resembled one of those newspaper photographs that showed the spread of damage not too far from the epicenter of an earthquake. A small world suddenly turned upside down. "Looks like he had quite a temper tantrum."

"Him?" Starsky broke his own eyes away from the mess to glance questioningly at his partner.

"Them. Maybe." Hutch answered, although as he continued to survey the shattered ornaments and broken picture frames and the shards of mirrored glass, he thought otherwise. He could see one man, one pair of hands and a sudden unleashing of bewildered rage. At the same time he didn't discount the idea that others hadn't been present and looking on.

Starsky nodded and reached up a hand to briefly squeeze the blond's shoulder. "You're probably right."

Dobey just looked at the two of them with a puzzled expression before he gave his head a little shake and cleared his throat. "It happened up there." He said, waving a hand up the stairs.

Starsky and Hutch both nodded, casting their eyes around one last time before they headed up. Shielded by an overturned chair, something caught Starsky's eye and he reached out to stop his partner. "Hey."

"What?" Hutch turned back to ask, his own gaze instantly turning to follow where Starsky indicated with his eyes and chin.

They both approached it and bent down to take a closer look. "Looks like a library card."

"It sure as hell does." Starsky whistled between his teeth. "Hey," He lifted his head and shouted, "we need a bag and gloves over here."

The moment they entered the bedroom it was like stepping back in time to one of the first cases they had worked together after becoming partners. The way the blood seemed to have spun, spiraling around the walls and across the bedspread and dresser. The smell of it, a stench neither one of them could ever quite clear from their minds.

"Looks like they got cornered somehow," Hutch said, "between here and the end of the bed."

"That they did." Starsky agreed.

Behind Hutch's temple a nerve triggered a pulse of memory. If he closed his eyes, he knew he would hear, along with the cries of those who had been attacked where he now stood, the screams of Sandy Shwartz, jagged and sharp, echoing from the upper bedroom of the home they had first entered as a team. The body of the dead man's savagely self-mutilated body lodged between the floor and the wall.

"Easy, Hutch." Starsky placed a comforting hand on his partner's forearm.

"Do you think he was trying to get them to tell where they were hiding whatever he was looking for?" Hutch looked down at the hand and then smiled softly at his rock.

"I don't know, Blintz." Starsky dropped his hand and moved to the far side of the bed. "I don't know if whoever did this was being that rational."

"I wonder why the lady bore the brunt of it all?" Hutch was studying the blood spatters. "Whatever the reason, he sure was pissed off."

Starsky was staring at the floor. "Whatever damage was done, it was done there. She must have been leanin' over him, protectin' him as much as she could."

Dobey called up from below and a few moments later appeared at the door. "A couple two doors down, friends of the Denisons..." Denison, both Starsky and Hutch thought, up until then they hadn't known the name. "...seems the husband, Ralph, always kept a piece of iron railing beside the bed. According to them, it was for protection from burglars."

"Terrific." Starsky said. "Find that an' I'd be willin' ta bet that it's the weapon that caused all this."

The increased noise from downstairs let them know that the rest of the crime lab had arrived. It was time for them to disappear and let them dust and collect.

"Why don't you two head out to Memorial, I'll stay here for a while longer. We'll meet the station and get started on this first thing in the morning." Dobey instructed.

Hutch lifted Starsky's wrist and looked at the watch as they left the house. Morning had already started.

They spoke briefly to the head nurse in neurosurgery; Doris Denison was still in the operating room and it was impossible to determine at the moment which way it would go. At the moment Doris was holding her own, but that was all the nurse could tell them. The next of kin had been informed and they were on the way.

They thanked her and went down to the ward.

Sitting next to Ralph Denison's bed, another uniform was browsing through the pages of yesterdays Times. He jumped to his feet, dropping the paper behind him onto the chair when Starsky and Hutch slipped into the room.

"What's your name?" Starsky asked the large young man.

"Ron Osowski, sir."

"Relax, Ron." Hutch moved towards the bed and peered down at Ralph, adjusting the covers so they lay just under his chin. "Has he said anything?"

"Just kept asking about his wife, wouldn't say anything else." Osowski replied.

"Okay, go on. I'm sure you have more important things to do." Hutch smiled at the officer.

"You're sure? "Cause I really don't mind..."

"Sure he's sure." Starsky gently maneuvered the man out of the way, picked up the paper and sat in the chair. "Now skedaddle, if we need ya we'll find ya."

Osowski didn't need to be told a third time.

It was an improbably young, bright-eyed nurse in a blue uniform that they soon found out was in charge of the floor. "We gave him something for the pain," she said, "poor old boy. I'm hoping he'll sleep as long as he can."

"We won't disturb him." Hutch assured her.

A bandage was wrapped around Ralph Denison's head, light patches of skin around it from where they'd had to shave the hair away. The arm that poked out from the end of the hospital gown was gray and shiny. Hutch was thinking of the last time he had seen his grandfather alive. He carefully sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the old man's halting, stubborn breathing. He had sat, virtually alone, in a side ward similar to this one with his grandfather for thirty-six hours, watching the occasional movement of the older man's mouth, each gasp of air into his damaged lungs sounded like rust scraping against rust. "Go home," the doctor had said. "Get some rest. We'll call you if there's any change." When the phone rang somewhere between four and five, the change had been that his grandfather was dead. It was the hour those kind of calls had come ever since it seemed.

Starsky had feigned reading the paper when in fact he was peering over the top watching his love and soon to be lover. He recognized the faraway glaze in the cyan eyes and his own deepened to a midnight blue with concern. How he wished he could crawl into the fair head and shake loose every memory and sight that brought that beautiful mind pain. He sighed heavily and glanced at his watch, hoping that they could get this finished soon so he could finish what they had started before the hated phone call.

Both men were startled out of their thoughts when Denison spoke. "Doris." He said his voice barely audible, coming out as little more than a croak.

"She's alright." Hutch answered softly. "She's being looked after and I'm sure she'll be fine."

"She did it for me," Ralph said. "she was trying to protect me."

"We know." Starsky had risen and moved closer to the bed.

Ralph stretched out the fingers of his hand and Hutch placed his own between them, leaning close over him, smelling his old man's smell.
"The person that did this..." Hutch began.

"A boy, nothing but a boy."

Hutch was about to ask more, but Denison's head slipped a little to one side and his eyes were closed. His long bony fingers were tight around Hutch's hand. As the sound of the older man's breathing steadied down, Hutch continued to sit, arm at an awkward angle, unable to move. "Um, Starsk?"

Starsky chuckled and came around to the other side of the bed freeing Hutch's hand and slipping Ralph's fingers beneath the edge of the sheet.

The nurse had come back just as Hutch stood. "You'll have to leave now." She smiled.

Hutch hesitated, waiting for her to add, 'We'll call you if there's any change.'

Chapter 9

Starsky and Hutch drove back to the precinct by way of the Denison house. By all accounts there was no indication that any of the adjacent properties had been broken into. Starsky slowed the Torino as they passed the empty little row-house. Although a cruiser sat out front there wasn't much left to see; unless someone got a particular thrill out of looking at a forlorn little dwelling with police tape slowly flapping in the slight breeze.

"They were married for over fifty years." Starsky raised a hand in salute to the pair in the squad car as they passed.

Hutch tore his eyes from the home and turned to face his partner. Leaning towards him he lifted a hand and began to gently massage the neck under the thick curls. "We should be that lucky."

"Mmm." Starsky pressed his head back into the warmth. "We're gonna be a whole lot luckier, Blintz."

"I hope we can start soon." Hutch mumbled, causing Starsky to raise both brows. Hutch gave one final squeeze before removing his hand.
"I was hoping we would make it a lot farther than the couch." He added a little more audibly.

"Yeah. Me too." Starsky felt his body tingle from the glow his heart was emitting. "Won't be long, Hutch. Not long at all."

The litter of half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray in front of Brian Livingston had grown to the brink of overflowing, though under normal circumstances, he rarely smoked. He looked at his watch and, again, counted the patches on the opposite wall where the paint had begun to flake away, shifting awkwardly in the hard seat.

"You aren't intending to charge me, are you?" He asked, and Lynn stared back at him, eyebrow raised. "But what with?"

"That's the problem." She said. "With so many options available, if you know what I mean?" She shrugged. "Gross indecency would be a good place to start."

"Look, my wife..."

"Oh, yes." Lynn grinned. "There usually is one of those."

He demanded to make a phone call and dialed his own number, hanging up before the first ring finished.

"Anyone else you want to try?"

"No. Thank you."

After that they left him alone sitting there, looking in from time to time. Uniformed officers mainly, once to offer him a hot drink, another time a sandwich that turned out to be stale. But more often a head would poke around the door, stare for a few silent moments, then disappear.

When Lynn returned she had a beef kabob wrapped in foil with her. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. It's been a busy night."

Livingston said nothing.

Lynn held the kabob out toward him, but Livingston shook his head

"Not hungry?"

"I'm a vegetarian."

"You don't like meat?" She looked at him quizzically.

"That's right."

She was still looking at him, the corners of her mouth tilting up in a smile. "You surprise me." Lynn slid a thick chunk of spicy beef off of the stick with her fingers and slipped into her mouth.

"Please," Livingston said, "tell me...?"

"What?"

"What you're...what you're going to do?"

"With you?"

Livingston looked up at her and then quickly away; he couldn't stand the mixture of mockery and contempt in her eyes.

"Did you hear about that boy?" Lynn asked. "The one they found in a wooded area about a block or two from where you were picked up tonight? Or what was left of him. It was all over the news, remember? Nine, wasn't he? Just nine years old."

"Look," Livingston said with alarm, "I don't know why you're telling me this, it has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all. There's no..."

"Comparison?"

"That's right, there isn't."

Lynn sat on the corner of the table and crossed her legs at the ankles. "You're not a pedophile, is that what you're saying?"

"Of course I'm not!"

"No, of course you're not." Lynn said. "You just like having sex with young boys."

Hutch had just started a fresh pot of coffee, Starsky was in the process of placing a call to the hospital when Lynn Gomeau strode into the squad room. "Hi guys."

"Hey there, it's not quite ready yet." Hutch said, indicating the dripping coffee machine.

Lynn smiled, a tired smile, there for a moment and then gone. "I thought that I might be able to give you a tip about Stephen Barrett."

Starsky hung up the phone. "Seems we got bigger fish ta fry right now, darlin'."

"That's okay, we'll here it anyway, Lynn." Hutch countered.

"Alright, for all it's worth. We busted a kid named Kevin Long servicing a John earlier tonight at the Forest." Lynn said. "Apparently he had spent a good part of the day with two friends, an Ian Parsons and, drum roll please, Stephen Barrett."

"Stephen wasn't with him, trying to roll Johns?" Hutch's interest quickened.

"Apparently not. There was some kind of argument by the sound of it. Last he saw of Stevie, he was headed off for home."

Neither Starsky nor Hutch need to look at the map. If you drew a straight line from the area nicknamed the Forest and the Barrett residence, it would pass right through where the Denisons lived.

'A boy, nothing but a boy.'

They thanked their new friend from vice, and after she left Starsky sat back in his chair and began tapping a pencil on the desktop.

Hutch poured them both a cup of coffee and brought them over before he too slumped wearily down into his own seat. "Well it looks like our bigger fish just turned out to be our little guppie after all."

"No kiddin'."

Dobey came into the room carrying a narrow object secured inside two plastic bags. He stopped at their desks and held it up. "This was found in a dumpster two streets away from the site."

It was the length of iron railing from beside Ralph Denison's bed.

"We have a pretty good idea who we might be lookin' for, Cap." Starsky tossed the pencil into the air and let it fall where it may on the desk and pushed back his chair.

"Really? Who?" Dobey looked from one to the other.

"The Barrett kid we were looking for earlier." Hutch answered, pushing his mug away with a look of disgust. "Nothing concrete yet, but the time-line fits."

"You two look like hell." Dobey had taken a closer look at his best. "Go home and get a few hours sleep, I'll get this down to forensics and give you a call when we find out anything."

"You don't think we should bring him in for questioning?" Hutch asked a little bewildered.

"Bring him in now and we'll have to let him go before we can possibly tie him to this." He hefted the rod in one meaty hand. "Let's see what the lab finds first."

Hutch nodded, tilting his head to the side. "Right. We'll be at Starsky's place, Capn'."

"Good. We may need to move fast, it'll be better if I don't have to chase you both all over town." Dobey grinned in approval. "Now get out of here."

"Why my place?" Starsky asked while they put on their jackets.

"Milton, Ditzy and Stupe." Hutch grinned.

"Oh yeah." Starsky rolled his eyes, then laughed. "Good idea."

"What?" Dobey looked at them in confusion.

"Hutch here decided ta open an animal rescue center in his apartment." Starsky informed their superior. "An' let's just say that I don't get along very well with one of the drop-ins."

The sun was just touching the tops of the buildings when they pulled away from Parker Center. The ride to Starsky's filled with silence, both men lost in their own thoughts.

Hutch was stunned when he found himself thrown up against the door with a growl after they entered the apartment. Starsky's mouth found the blond's and delivered a searing kiss that was sure to bruise. His lips parted to accept the throbbing tongue that was thrust between, his own happy to compete for dominance for a few minutes.

Hutch pushed him away, gasping and laughing. "I guess we aren't going to get much of a nap."

"Plenty of time for that...later." Starsky's eyes took on a feral gleam, grasping a leather clad arm he pulled his partner towards the bedroom.

Neither of them could remember how they managed to end up completed naked on top of the bed, but then again neither one of them really thought about it at all. Chests pressed hard against each other a low moan escaped them both when nipple grazed nipple. Starsky slipped his hand down and ran his calloused palm slowly up the length of Hutch's shaft. Hutch threw his head back, thrusting his hips forward and gasped in delight. He quickly brought his mouth back down and devoured the eager lips below while bringing one of his own hands down to cup a rounded butt cheek and pull his lover's hips towards his own. Their cocks surged with need as they meshed together; their hearts soaring with the love they had for each other. They found the rhythm as if they had been making love together throughout time and it wasn't long before they both spewed their essences mere milliseconds apart.

They remained tightly wrapped around each other as their breathing slowly subsided. Cheek to cheek neither one could see the happy grin on the other's face, though they both knew it was there.

"Why haven't we done this before now?" Starsky asked, stroking the sweat damped silk.

"I didn't think you'd like it." Hutch turned his head slightly and suckled on an earlobe.

"You shouldn't think so damn much." Starsky sighed happily.

Several hours later the phone rang. Starsky winced as he lost a few belly hairs while pulling away from the dried cum that had glued him to his lover while they slept. "'Lo."

"Dobey, Starsky." The Captain's voice boomed, hardly needing an introduction. "We've got blood and hair samples that seem to match the Denisons, we're just waiting for confirmation. Talk to that kid and see what he has to say."

"We're on it." Starsky's eyes shone as he watched Hutch get up and look around in bewilderment, the soft blond hair sticking out in all directions. Hutch pointed towards the washroom and with a nod from Starsky, he stumbled off in that direction. "An' if he's hiding, we'll find 'im."

Chapter 10

In his panic to get away from the Denison's house, Stevie hadn't realized the iron railing was still in his hand. As soon as he did, he quickly dumped it into the nearest garbage bin and continued to run. Only when he was within sight of his own home did he slow down, panting heavily, his chest tight and tears stinging his eyes. It was only then that he thought about the blood that was splashed across his clothes and staining his face and hands. There was no way he could go in like that, no way at all. Backtracking, he climbed into a neighbor's yard and took a towel from the clothesline; hiding behind a tree he rubbed his skin, shirt and jeans. Even though it was getting late the odds of someone still being up were more likely than not.

Keeping close to the back alleys, ready to turn away from any passersby, Stephen walked and walked, trying not to think about what might happen, what had happened, what he would do if the man or the old woman died.

When he finally turned his key in the front door, his legs aching, it was after two. All of the lights in the house were out. After quickly slipping out of his boots, he was on his way to the stairs when he heard a muffled groan from the front room. Slowly undulating shapes stretched along the sofa; his brother was getting a piece from his latest girlfriend.

Any other time, Stevie would have stayed and watched, but now there were more pressing things to do. He slipped up the stairs and into the bathroom, locking the door before turning on the light.

He never would have thought that black would have shown the stains so clearly, but there was no denying the thick patches that seemed to have been thrown across his shirt and T-shirt as if he had ridden a mountain bike through muddy terrain. There were more across the top of his jeans. And the blood was not only smeared across his skin, it was also matted throughout his hair. He stripped down to his underwear and thought about rinsing the shirt out in the sink, letting the jeans soak in the tub, but realized there was too little time and anyway, it would never work. He quietly ran back down the stairs and got a garbage bag from the kitchen, stuffing the bundled clothes inside when he returned. First
thing in the morning, he would get them good and lost. Burn them if he could.

Oh, shit! Footsteps on the stairs. The door handle turned but didn't give.

"Hang on a minute." Stevie said.

"Stevie?" Eric asked. "That you?"

"Yeah, I won't be long."

"What the fuck you doin' in there?"

"What do you think?

Stephen waited until his brother had walked away before returning to the sink. He found an old scrub brush beside the tub and lathered it with soap. He would have to wash not only his face, but clean between his fingers and nails then shampoo his hair. As he looked into the reddening water, he saw the woman's gray head breaking below him, feel the impact of the blows reverberating along his back and arms. Who would have thought the old girl could have so much blood in her?

He knew he should probably run. Take whatever money he could find in the house and catch the first bus out of town. If worse came to worse he could survive by whoring, doing the kind of stuff Kevin Long had set out to do last night. At the back of his throat, Stevie could feel himself beginning to retch. The smart thing to do was to stay here. Run and it wouldn't be long before the cops would put two and two together. No, the best choice was to stay cool, get rid of the clothes and go to school.

Just as his mother was getting up, Stevie fell fast asleep suckling the end of his thumb.

Virginia was in the kitchen when the cars arrived, a black and white pulling in behind the bright red Torino. The uniforms hurried around to the back to cut off any possible escape. If she heard them while taking a carton of milk from the fridge, she gave no sign. She sat down with a cigarette and a cup of tea to enjoy her favorite moment of the day.

First up the path, Hutch stood aside, leaving Starsky to ring the bell and then knock. Starsky paused, and then rang the bell again.

"What the hell! Who is it?" But Virginia, padding to the front door in her slippers, knew that whoever it was, the news would not be good. Seeing the two men that had spoken to her just the day before, standing there with badges at the ready, she felt a sudden stab of pain slash sharply across her chest.

"Is Stephen home?"

"Of course he is." She answered, her gaze flicking from one to the other, trying to read the expression in their eyes. "What do you want him for?"

"Just a couple of questions, Ma'am," Starsky told her, "about what he was doing last night."

Last night he was here," Virginia said, "with me all evening." It was a response as automatic as drawing a breath.

"I think we better ask him that." Starsky said with a quick glance at his partner.

Virginia stood her ground, not knowing what to do.

Hutch moved half a pace toward the doorway. "I think you should let us in, Mrs. Barrett, don't you?"

Starsky wandered off into the living room and then the kitchen, while Hutch stood with Virginia near the foot of the stairs.

"Is he still in bed?"

"Of course he is."

Hutch laid his hand upon the banister and she took hold of his wrist. "You call him, then, Ma'am. Get him to come down and right now." Out of the corner of his eye, Starsky reappeared slowly shaking his head.

"Mrs. Barrett." Hutch prompted.

Heavy hearted she released his wrist and called Stevie's name, set her foot on the step and called again.

In his room, Stephen was awake instantly and throwing back the bedding.

"Stevie, it's the police."

He grabbed a pair of old jeans and was still pulling them on as he threw up the window and scrambled out onto the sloping roof above the small shed that held the seldom-used garden implements.

"Stevie!"

"He's gone." Hutch hissed.

"He sure is." Starsky answered, already on the move.

Hutch elbowed past Virginia and took the stairs at a run, while Starsky bolted out the front door.

Stephen slithered down the steeply angled roof, dislodging a few shingles as he went. One of his hands caught a rusted end of the guttering and it snapped off, clattering to the ground below. Twisting as best as he could, Stevie half-jumped, half-fell, and then he was off, vaulting the gate and running straight into Starsky's arms.

From the bedroom window, Hutch watched as Stevie swore at Starsky and struggled until one of the uniformed officers got his arms behind his back and between them they got the cuffs on.

"Kick me again, you little bastard," Starsky growled, "and I'll have your balls for breakfast."

Closing the window, Hutch didn't hear. Eric was out on the landing, pulling a pair of cords up over his boxer shorts. "What the fuck's going on?"

"Everything's alright, nothing that concerns you."

"Well, s'pose I want it to concern me?"

"Would you like me to remind you what the judge said the last time you were in court?"

"Fuck him!"

"I'd rather not. Hutch sighed. "Why don't you go look after your mother? Make her another cup of tea if nothing else."

Eric pushed past him and slammed the bathroom door shut behind him.

Virginia was in the kitchen, head in her hands.

Starsky stopped Hutch just before he entered the room. "I had the boys take Stevie downtown."

Hutch nodded and reached out to lightly touch his lover's stomach as he entered the kitchen. "Mrs. Barrett?"

"What?"

"Would you mind if we take a quick look around? And then we'll drive you to the station to be with your son while we talk to him."

"If I say no, I suppose you'll come back with a warrant and tear the place to shreds." Virginia let out a deep breath and fumbled on the table for her cigarettes.

"I can pretty much guarantee it." Hutch said.

"Go ahead, then."

"I got it." Starsky winked at Hutch and skipped upstairs.

It took him less than five minutes to find the trash bag full of bloodied clothes stuffed under Stevie's bed. He motioned for Hutch to come into the hall to show him what he found.

"We'll drop them off at the lab as soon as we get there." Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, what was he thinking?"

"Give me a coupla minutes ta get these in the trunk before you bring her out?" Starsky quickly glanced around before picking up the other large hand and giving it a soft kiss and a gentle squeeze before letting it go.

"Yeah." Hutch smiled shyly. "Yeah sure."

Chapter 11

Stephen Barrett's interrogation went smoothly and carefully. For the best part of the first hour, his mother sitting beside him, a lawyer just behind, Stevie had said absolutely nothing. After more questioning, Starsky and Hutch alternating, he admitted to spending the first few hours of the evening with Kevin Long and another friend. Where? Cinema. What did you see? Stephen told them. Had he been near the Denison house? No, he had not been near the Denison house. Didn't even know what they were talking about, let alone know where it was.

"Stephen, listen to me." Hutch said. "We're doing some tests right now. The blood on the clothes we found underneath your bed, blood around the sink in your bathroom at home, blood on an iron rod we found near the house--who's blood, Stevie, do you think that it belongs to? Could it possibly have come from that woman lying in intensive care at Memorial? Do you think that's what we're going to find out?"

Stephen stared at the table, his hands clenched tightly together. Beside him, making very little noise, Virginia started to cry.

"Whatever you can tell us abut this, Stevie," Starsky said. "Anything at all, I think you'd better tell us now. Why don't ya come clean while we're here? While we can."

Virginia had turned away, unwilling to look at her son, afraid to. Hutch leaned, almost imperceptibly, forward. "Stevie, this house we're talking about, where all of this happened, were you there?"

Stephen's reply was so quiet it was almost as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Sorry, Stevie, what did you say? Could you just repeat it a little louder again for us?"

"I said yes. Yes."

Virginia held her face in her hands and began to sob.

"But all I did was break in. I never touched nobody, never hit anyone. I didn't even see anyone, none of that stuff you said. All I did was get in through the back, I was never upstairs at all."

"Alright, Stevie, one thing at a time. We'll come back to that later." Starsky said, raising his brows and shaking his head, giving his partner a knowing glance.

"When the lawyer requested a break for his client, both detectives were more than happy to accede. Hutch wanted to get away from the precinct to clear his head and maybe find something more trivial to do. Starsky was famished and just happy to get a chance to go grab a bite.

Dobey told them both to go home for the rest of the day, telling the pair that they both looked like they'd been through a carwash on horseback. He would assign another team to keep an eye on the Barrett boy but for the most part forensics would do the rest of the work for them. The fact that the kid admitted to being in the house at all was good enough for him.

"That was a bonus." Starsky clapped his hands in glee when they left the building. "I'm starved, Hutch, but I don't know what I want more. You or food."

Hutch grinned. "I want to make one more stop before you make your final decision."

"Another delay?" Starsky groaned. "It's definitely gonna have ta be food first, then you."

Wearing a pale blue jumper and white and blue trainers on her feet, Holly slowed to speak to two boys who were engaged in one of those arguments young boys are forever getting into, a push here, an angry word there. Only when they shuffled grudgingly away did she continue on toward where her car was parked.

Starsky and Hutch got out of the Torino and moved to intercept her.

"Miss Ferguson?" Hutch said.

With a slight jump, she turned.

"Sorry, we didn't mean to startle you."

"That's all right." She placed her briefcase on the hood of her car and turned back to face them. "Don't tell me you've recovered my purse?"

"Not exactly." Starsky smiled.

"Just the money and the credit cards, right?"

"Wrong, again."

Holly smiled. "So what is it?" She liked the way their eyes stayed focused on her instead of wandering off like so many people's did.

Hutch took her library card from his wallet.

"Where did you find that?" She asked.

They told her, going light on the details of the injuries the Denisons had suffered, but making sure she understood the seriousness of what had happened. The skin prickled at the back of her neck when Stephen Barrett was mentioned. When they had finished she pulled out a tissue and wiped her nose.

"You seemed pretty sure that it was Stevie Barrett that took your purse." Hutch said.

"Yes, that's right." Somehow, absurdly, Holly wished that she hadn't.

"When we brought Stevie in, he had some cash on him, though not a lot. It's not clear yet where he got it, but there were no credit cards or anything else." Starsky told her.

"In light of all that's happened, I hardly think that any of that is important anyway, is it?" She looked at one then the other.

"If the card was in your purse, and it was Stevie that took it, then that places him in the house around the time the assault took place." Hutch said.

"I see."

"Would it have been in your purse?" Starsky asked.

Holly nodded yes, and looked away towards the Boulevard, the slow moving traffic blurring in her eyes. "Of course I knew he was always skipping school, getting into trouble here and there, but this..."
She turned back to face them. "It's hard to believe."

"What will happen to him?" Holly asked. "Now, I mean?"

"We'll arrest him and child services will take him into custody and put him into a secure facility somewhere until the trial." Starsky answered.

"And then?"

Hutch shook his head and stepped away. Starsky also didn't reply.

Holly looked at them both, shook out her keys and opened the car door. "See you around."

They watched her pull out of the parking lot and onto the street. Starsky reached out and tugged at the black leather sleeve. "Let's go home, babe."

"How about grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup?" Starsky asked from the kitchen.

"Sounds good to me, Starsk." Hutch unlocked the back door, Milton and Ditzy came bounding through. Stupe following behind at a quick trot, his ample belly swaying from side to side.

Milton and Ditzy began to mew and circle around Starsky's legs purring up a storm. Stupe stopped suddenly and Hutch nearly tripped over him, he looked at Starsky then back over his shoulder at Hutch before walking towards the food dish. Finding it empty he turned and hissed at Starsky.

"I don't think he likes you, Starsk." Hutch laughed and drew an unopened can from the cupboard. The other two cats instantly coming over to twist between the blond's legs.

"It's mutual." Starsky muttered, handing him the can opener and dumping the soup into a pot.

After they had eaten and cleared up the dishes. Hutch felt he could barely keep his eyes opened for very much longer. "I'm going to grab a shower, Starsk."

"Not without me, you're not." Starsky looked stunned. "If ya think for one minute I'm staying out here alone with that," He pointed at Stupe, who was sprawled on the couch. "You're nuts."

"You want to shower together?" Hutch looked around unsure of where to rest his gaze.

"Hutch? We're lovers now, remember?" Starsky came over and began to undo the blond's shirt. "We can do everything together, now."

"Yeah." Hutch grinned. "Yeah, we can. Can't we?"

"Race ya." Starsky tore his own shirt out from his jeans.

Between the hot water and the passion with which they cleaned each other it was hard to say what steamed the bathroom more. When Starsky lathered Hutch's cock he thought he was going to fall to his knees, instead he wrapped one arm tightly around the slick torso and pressed them into a searing kiss, dropping his other arm he used the soap to stroke and manipulate the full testicles, Starsky pulled his head back and moaned, spreading his legs wider to afford his lover better access. Hutch dropped the bar of soap and moved his hand further up the shaft, at the same time Starsky increased the pressure on his own.

Stepping back a little, Hutch looked down watching the water rinse the soap away from Starsky's penis at the same time mesmerized by the manipulations his partner was carrying out on his own throbbing cock. Want got the better of him and he went down on his knees taking the rosy organ hungrily into his mouth. Starsky threw his hands over his head and pressed his back up against the tiles at the same time thrusting his hips out further, and biting back a shriek.

Holding the pulsing rod with one hand and running his hand over the head, Hutch tentatively ran a finger of his other hand slowly between the cheeks of his lover's ass. That one touch at his center enough to send him over the edge. With a loud yell he gripped the matted blond hair and spurted his essence down the waiting throat. Feeling the build-up Hutch released his hand from around Starsky's cock and moved it to bring himself closer to climax, he exploded just as his throat began to swallow reflexively.

Sated they helped dry each other off and with arms wrapped around each other they staggered with happy grins plastered on their faces to the bedroom. No words were spoken as they both drifted off contented to lay together and bask in the wonder of how they both felt complete.

The rest of the investigation went pretty much as Starsky and Hutch had anticipated; Holly read the reports in the newspaper the next day, though for legal reasons Stevie's name was never mentioned. Stevie was remanded into the care of child services pending trial. Holly went on with her teaching, poems and book reports, trying to lose herself in Shakespeare's Macbeth. For Starsky and Hutch other things came pouring in to keep them busy. A suspected arson attack; a thirteen year old who stole a delivery van and drove it into a bus shelter, leaving one person dead and four more seriously injured, a doctor who was accused of illegally prescribing drugs. They had plenty to keep their minds off of the Barrett case.

They were buried under the covers the following Sunday morning, arms wrapped tightly around each other when the phone rang just shy of 6 A.M. Hutch who was already beginning to stir, quickly untangled himself from his partner and snatched the phone out of it's cradle. He hung it up slowly after hearing the news and sat on the edge of the bed with his shoulders slumped.

Starsky pushed himself up, his eyes groggy. "What is it, babe?"

"Stephen Barrett." Hutch turned to look at his lover. "He was found dead this morning."

"Wha...?" Starsky's mind instantly cleared and he sat up further.

"He was found hanging from the shower by a guard."

Chapter 12

The building was separated from the main road by a parade of tightly packed trees. Its brick and concrete facade and high barred windows told of decades of institutional use. Starsky and Hutch pulled into the circular driveway, parking in front of the ambulance already there.

"Charming place." Starsky mumbled as Hutch pressed the buzzer.

The heavy door was opened by a slightly built man with thinning hair. He glanced at their badges and stepped back. "Peter Matthews, I...Mr. Jordon's busy with the Director of Social Services, on the phone, er...He asked me to show you where...where it happened, and to tell you that he would like to talk to you before you leave."

They stepped onto the worn parquet flooring of the hall.

"It's the washrooms on the second floor."

Starsky and Hutch both nodded and followed him towards the staircase. Voices echoed faintly back and forth along cold corridors. The interior smelled of disinfectant and waste, not a pleasant combination. Several yards short of the bathroom, Mathews stopped and stared at the floor.

"Guess that's as far as he's going." Hutch leaned over and whispered to Starsky. Both men had a clear and defined image of what they would see. It wouldn't be the first time nor the last. Hutch turned the rounded knob and they went in.

Stephen Barrett lay on a sheet of thick polythene, which had been doubled beneath him on the bathroom floor. His torso was naked and his soiled pajamas had been lowered below his buttocks to midway down his thighs. Across his rib cage and taut between his hips, his skin stretched opaque and milky white. The bruising at his neck and underneath his chin had already darkened to a color that was neither black nor purple. Old burn marks stood out kidney red in the bright overhead light. In death his face was that of a small child.

"Starsky, Hutch."

Starsky turned towards the coroner's voice. Hutch heard him, but continued to stare at the body. So small and broken, he thought.

"Asphyxiation, guys. Dead a couple of hours, hour and a half, maybe." Charlie Parkinson offered them both a mint and when they refused, popped one into his own mouth. "You see the way the lips have turned blue like that? And there, the nail beds of the hand."

Hutch bent and saw the skin around the fingers chewed raw, nails bitten down to the quick.

"There was a wet and twisted towel by the body, probably what he used."

Hutch could see it, coiled against the edge of the shower stall, white with a faint blue stripe.

"You're boys are likely to find fibers aplenty." The mint cracked between the coroner's teeth.

"You didn't take him down?" Starsky asked.

Parkinson shook his head. "He was propped up against the wall there, back against the tiles. Staff did it, I guess."

Starsky squatted down beside the body, opposite Hutch, wondering if, when he was discovered, Stevie's eyes had already been closed.

"What was he? Sixteen tops?" Parkinson asked, putting tools of his trade back into his case.

"Not yet." Starsky answered.

Not ever, Hutch thought and rose to his feet. The crime lab would be here soon, complaining about their Sunday being ruined. Senior social workers in once-good suits would join them deeply engaged in trying to handle damage control, eager to off-load the blame onto someone else.

"Nasty burn marks." Parkinson observed. "Not more than a year old. House fire?"

"Firebomb." Starsky said. "A little surprise waiting for him one day, some locals out to teach him a lesson."

"Light handed, was he?"

"He was fond of takin' what didn't belong to him."

"Well it ends this way sometimes." Parkinson snapped his case shut. "I'll schedule an autopsy for tomorrow, no point on missing a chance to get on the green bright and early this morning."

"No, I suppose there isn't." Starsky said with a glance at Hutch.

Mathews was still waiting in the corridor. "Mr. Jordon is ready if you are, I'll show you the way to his office."

Hutch looked at him closely and quickly understood that it was more than tiredness lining his eyes. "You were the one who found him."

Mathews flinched and looked away, Starsky snapped his head around.

"What time was that?"

"Five, it would've been...Not long after five."

"You were on duty at that time?' Starsky asked.

"Yes."

"Just you?"

"No, my colleague, Theresa, she...it was routine, you see, I was just checking the washrooms. Routine." His words were beginning to collide haphazardly, his hands at his sides couldn't seem to stay still. "As soon as I went in there, I could see--Stevie, I mean--I could see what had happened, what he'd done. The towel, he'd fastened it around the pipe to the shower. Behind the...behind the showerhead...he..."

"It's all right, take your time." Hutch gently took his arm.

"I could see the way his neck was twisted off to one side.."

"Go on." Starsky urged softly.

"...and he'd, you know, messed himself. I mean, I could tell that he was dead, Stevie, that he was dead already. It was too late to help him."

"You took him down?" Starsky asked.

"Not right away. I..."

"But you checked for vital signs?" Hutch again.

Mathews's eyes were birds trapped in the space of Hutch's gaze. "I didn't know what to do. Whether I should touch him or not, I wasn't sure. Theresa, she was..like I said, she was on duty with me. I ran for help."

Hutch struggled to keep his temper in check and keep the incredulity out of his voice. "You left him hanging? Without establishing whether or not he really was dead?"

Mathews scratched hard at the side of his face. "Yes, I mean, no, not for long. Just till..." He looked at Hutch imploringly. "He was already dead. He was."

Starsky recognized the look in Hutch's eyes and thought he'd better divert Mathews attention away from his lover. "You called for the ambulance?"

"Yes." Mathews turned to look at Starsky.

"You and not your partner, Theresa?"

"I'm not...I'm not...It might have been Theresa, I'm not sure."

"All right. We'll talk some more another time. You can give us a statement later. Now let's not keep Mr. Jordon waiting any longer."
Starsky said.

Hand gripping the banister, Mathews pulled in air gratefully, getting himself together before leading the way.

The name had been written in black copperplate on a white card--Derek Jordon--and slipped into the brass frame attached to the oak-finish door, more letters after it than in the name itself. The sound was hollow when Starsky knocked.

"Detectives." Jordon raised himself up from his chair to shake their hands. "Please, take a seat."

Beneath the curtained window and along one wall, shelves stood thick with books on psychology, social work and young offenders, bound copies of professional journals and reports. A write-on, wipe-off calendar bearing the names and duties of staff members was fixed to the wall on the other side. On a gray filing cabinet close by the director's chair, framed by a browning ivy and a spider plant that had seen better days, was a photograph of Jordan in cap and gown receiving a scroll.

Thirty years later, the face was more fleshy, thin lines had appeared, crisscrossing the nose and cheeks, blue like Roquefort cheese. His dark hair was now graying at the temples and small flakes of dandruff decorated the shoulders of his dark blue suit.

"Of course, this is terrible," Jordan was saying and both Starsky and Hutch nodded, waiting for the second "terrible" to follow, which it predictably did.

"Terrible, such a young boy."

"Yes." Starsky said.

"A tragedy."

"Last night, this morning, when the incident occurred, were you on the premises?" Hutch asked, not intending to sound hostile, but from Jordon's expression he could see that he had.

"I can't be here all of the time, detective."

"No, of course not. I didn't mean..."

"I left quite late in fact. Nine-thirty or ten. My staff contacted me at home this morning when the...when Stephen's body was discovered."

"And that was Peter Matthews?" Starsky asked.

"Yes, Peter." Jordon's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, chest pressing the edge of the desk. "Please, detectives, you do appreciate that we shall be carrying out a full internal inquiry. I've discussed this already with the Director of Social Services. In the meantime, I must ask you not to question any of my staff unless either myself or a lawyer is present." He settled back into the curve of his chair. "I have no doubt whatsoever the inquiry will establish that, as far as we are concerned, correct procedures were followed."

If the correct procedures had been followed, Hutch thought, then maybe a boy wouldn't be lying dead in an upstairs washroom. He hadn't said anything, but Jordon read the unmistakable accusation in Hutch's eyes.

"Stevie's mother," Starsky said. "Has she been informed?"

When they left the building less than ten minutes later they both felt a huge sense of relief.

"What do ya think?" Starsky shivered.

"Stevie's dead. But how or why...I just don't know."

"You don't think he killed himself?" Starsky trotted a bit to catch up.

Hutch sighed. "That seems the most likely."

"I hear a but." Starsky grabbed his arm and stopped him. "You don't think..."

"I don't think anything right now, Starsk. But there's a social worker in there ready to fly apart at the seams. And that Jordon character is getting all the hatches battened down like he was about to be under siege."

Starsky was nodding. "I think we should keep this one completely by the book."

When they got to the car they both looked back at the tall windows and saw a hundred faces staring down at them.

"Jesus." Starsky shivered again and opened the car door.

"It's creepy." Hutch agreed and got in the other side.

Chapter 13

For Virginia Barrett the best Sundays were in the past. She could remember when she was still with Cameron, waking up late with the sunlight making patchwork patterns on the walls and Cam sitting propped up with pillows beside her, rolling his first joint of the day. Lying there getting more and more stoned until finally the munchies overcame them and together they raided the refrigerator for leftover stew and chocolate ice cream.

Or later, Sundays with Peter, his hands fluttering at her back like wings. Cheryl, nine months old, fast asleep beside her. The baby's tiny chest exerting no more force than the delicate pressure of Peter's fingers at the base of her spine. The tension building within her as she bit the underside of her lip, waiting for his hands to move lower.

Virginia shook herself out of her reverie and reached for the mug of tea she had made earlier and had long since grown cold. From downstairs she could hear the faint sound of the television, though she was certain that she heard Eric leave close to an hour ago. She adjusted the sheet around her and reached for a magazine. She could now hear Cheryl running herself a bath. But not Stevie, she could feel the emptiness deep within her heart. Locked up in the shit hole. This afternoon she would put on some makeup and go out to see him. Bring him some chocolates and cigarettes and something special, something for a treat. No matter what he had done, he was her son and she loved him to pieces. She would stay in bed ten more minutes then get up for good and make some fresh tea. She lit a cigarette and turned to the puzzle page.

She was still lying there, a half an hour later, when the doorbell rang.

When it became clear that, whoever it was, they weren't going to go away, Virginia pulled on her housecoat and shuffled to the window overlooking the street.

"What the hell?"

She instantly recognized Starsky and Hutch and when the blond member of the team looked up, what she saw in his eyes and on his face drove into her stomach like a fist.

Downstairs, she could see them silhouetted through the mottled panels of glass at the top of the door. Her nerves shot, she finally managed to unbolt the door.

"Mrs. Barrett.." Hutch started.

"It's Stevie, isn't it?"

"May we come in, Ma'am?" Starsky asked, gently.

"Something happen to him?"

Starsky turned away slightly, the woman's grief hitting him too close to the bone.

"I'm afraid so, yes." Hutch nodded grimly and pushed the door open a little further and took a step forward.

Virginia dropped her hands to her sides and clenched them into fists, she closed her eyes for a moment and sucked in a shaky breath.

"Virginia, I think we'd better talk inside." Hutch took her by the arm and led her into the small foyer, Starsky followed and softly closed the door behind them.

"Tell me."

"Ma'am..."

She caught hold of the lapel of his jacket. "Fucking tell me!"

Hutch's breath caught in his throat. "He was found earlier this morning. Virginia, he..."

"He's dead."

Hutch's voice was low and soft, each word screaming in her head. "Yes. Yes, Virginia, I'm afraid he is."

She flung back her arm and lunged forward smashing the glass in the door with her hand. What came from her mouth was more of a hiss than a scream. Hutch caught her and held her close, her breath hot and angry against his face. Blood ran from her palm and wrist, down past her fingertips onto the floor.

"Virginia, come on. Take it easy." He led her, half-dragging, down the short hall. Cheryl was standing, white-faced, a towel wrapped around her, at the foot of the stairs.

"Help us get your mother into the front room." Hutch implored her.

Cheryl didn't move.

Virginia kept repeating Stevie's name over and over again. Hutch manoeuvred her onto the sofa and raised her arm so that her hand was level with her head. Rocky and Bullwinkle were saving the world on the TV.

Starsky looked around at Cheryl, silent in the doorway. "Get a clean towel, dish towel, anything as long as it's clean." Exasperated when she still didn't move he barked. "NOW!"

There were slivers of glass visible in the fleshy part of Virginia's hand below the thumb. "What....happened?" She gasped. "Stevie, what happened?"

"Let's get this mess cleaned up first..."

"No! No. Tell me, I want to know."

Hutch carefully eased the longest of the shards of glass away and tossed it onto the coffee table.

Cheryl came back carrying a hand towel, she had also taken the time to pull on a T-shirt and jeans. "It's all I could find." She handed it to Starsky.

"That's fine, now call for an ambulance...."

"No." Virginia was sobbing and shaking her head.

"You need medical attention for that." Starsky told her watching as his partner deftly removed another piece, then turned back to Cheryl. "Get a kettle on too, and make her some tea, hot and sweet. Alright?"

Cheryl nodded and scurried from the room, grateful for something to do.

"Detective, please..."

Hutch took another small chunk of glass out and set it on the table with the others, then took her other hand in his. "He was found in one of the bathrooms with a towel around his neck. It..it looks like he took his own life."

She pulled away from him so suddenly that he wasn't able to tighten his grip in time. She punched and slapped against him as the cries tore from her throat. She didn't stop her assault until Starsky managed to grab one of her hands while Hutch caught the other one. By that time his face and the front of his shirt were smeared in blood.

"It's okay, Virginia." He pulled her into a tight hug against his chest. "It's going to be alright."

But all Virginia could remember was Stevie's face as she chased him away, holding her ten dollars in the air and laughing.

'If I get my hands on you, you little bastard, I'll wring your miserable neck.'

Starsky was pleased to see a black and white show up within minutes of the ambulance. Leaving Hutch to explain to the paramedics what had happened, he approached the officers and told them the same, only telling them to give the daughter a ride to the hospital and to make sure that they got back home safely. While still talking to the uniforms he watched as Hutch slowly stepped away from the grief stricken woman and went over to talk to Cheryl. The corners of his mouth twitched and his heart glowed watching as his partner pulled out his wallet and proceeded to give the teenager what looked to be more than enough to cover cab fair home and any prescription her mother may require. The blood on the fair skin had begun to dry to an ugly rust, although the front of his lover's shirt still looked unpleasantly wet.

"How 'bout we get you home and cleaned up?" Starsky reached over and squeezed the blond's thigh after they were back in the Torino.

Silence.

"They'll be alright, Blintz," Starsky pulled away, frequently glancing across the seat. "They'll give her a shot at the hospital an' Cheryl already called her older brother."

"I don't know." Hutch shook his head, his eyes weary and faded. "We should have gone with them."

"Hutch?" Starsky said quietly, taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it. "As bad as all this is, they aren't our responsibility."

"I know that." Hutch snapped, closed his eyes then opened them, raising a hand to place it beneath the curls at the back of his lover's neck, he added in a more subdued, apologetic, tone. "Knowing it and feeling it are two different things."

"And none of this is our...your fault."

"I know that too." Hutch said and sank back in the seat, letting his head fall back, whispering. "God, I'm tired."

Starsky pretended he didn't hear the last, but pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator. He would have preferred spending the rest of the day at his own place, but knew his love far too well. Gotta figure out what ta do with those fuckin cats, He thought.

While Hutch showered and washed the blood out of his hair and off of his skin, Starsky puttered around the kitchen chopping tomatoes and onions, eggs already mixed together in a bowl. He grinned at the first sounds of scratching at the back door, not making a move until the crying increased in desperation. He had been ready for this moment, the food dish filled and water refreshed, he wiped his hands on a towel and went through the greenhouse to let the threesome in.

As expected the two lean ones were indifferent to him and more interested in breakfast. Stupe, however gave him a withering look while waddling by, Starsky smirked and stuck his tongue out at him. When he caught up with Milt and Ditzy his green eyes widened and his head snapped back towards Starsky, his head tilted to the side as if confused.

"Nana nana boo boo." Starsky sneered and turned back to making the omelettes.

"Oh that's real good, Starsk." Hutch bit back a laugh. "Am I going to have separate the two of you?"

Starsky jumped, nearly cutting his thumb with the paring knife. "Jesus, Hutch! Don't sneak up on me like that." He glanced over his shoulder with a grin. "Just lettin' him know who's in charge."

"You're quite the disciplinarian." Hutch snickered.

Starsky turned all the way around, admiring the smooth chest and lean though muscular torso. "You need ta be put in your place a little too, blondie?" He asked with a throaty growl.

"I don't need too, but sure wouldn't mind it." Hutch drew his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, knowing in the short time that they had become lovers, how much it drove the brunette crazy.

And that's how they passed the rest of the day. Slowly making love and exploring each other's bodies as if it was the first time all over again. Through unspoken agreement they both wanted to wait to get away for a few days before fully consummating their love. They knew many other ways to fully satisfy each other and put a great majority of them to good use in between leisurely naps and snack breaks.

It was only seven in the evening when they both went down for the final count a mixture of world weary fatigue mixed with sexually induced exhaustion causing them to drift away in the comfort of each others arms.

Dawn was just cracking the horizon. Starsky was draped over Hutch's chest when his nose began to twitch and after a few minutes it scrunched up and his eyes cracked open. "What the hell is that?" He muttered pushing himself up rubbing his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Following the foul smell, he found himself in the greenhouse. Stupe, with his ass hanging over the side of the litter box, managed to look mortified. Starsky turned his head away for a moment in disgust before looking back. "You're a real bundle of joy, aren't ya tubs?"

"Starsk?" Hutch sleep filled voice called. "What's that smell?"

"Shit." Starsky shouted back.

"What's wrong?"

He could hear Hutch struggling to get up. "Nothin's wrong, Hutch, we forgot ta let the kiddies out to play last night."

Hutch stumbled out to the greenhouse holding his nose he began to laugh. "Looks like one of our darlings needs a bigger toilet."

"One of our little darlings needs ta be flushed." Starsky said.

Stupe hissed and struggled to get his hind legs upright. Giving a few disheartened swipes at the litter he stepped out of the box and sat, ears flattened, with his back to them.

Chapter 14

Dobey was surprised to see his finest show up not only on time but almost forty minutes early. He called them into his office as soon as they had their jackets off and coffees poured.

"First of all, I want to say how sorry I was to hear about the Barrett boy." Dobey said, both of his men acknowledging the sentiment with a nod. "Now I don't know how you two managed in such a short time to ruffle so many feathers, but you've managed to get a hair stuck up that director's backside of sizable proportions. I had the Chief on the phone with me last night, Assistant Director of Child Services had been asking him not to allow either of you to be involved in whatever investigation we intend to carry out.

Starsky and Hutch shared a knowing look.

"According to Jordon, you questioned staff without his authority."

"We talked to one man, the one that let us in. What were we supposed to do? Ask him if he thought it might rain later in the day?" Hutch retorted.

Dobey ignored him. "And then, apparently, you accused Jordon of culpability in Barrett's death."

"That's bullshit, cap. We didn't accuse anyone of anything." Starsky bristled.

"Fine. It was implied, then."

Hutch looked past Dobey's head and out the window. With what seemed unnatural slowness, a plane was making a diagonal pass across a blue-gray sky. "With all this defensiveness, Capn', doesn't it make you wonder if he hasn't got something to hide?"

Dobey looked at them both for a moment. "You think that it may not have been a suicide?"

Hutch shrugged. "Not necessarily. But if that is what happened, I'd like to know the reasons why."

"With the viciousness of the attack on that couple, kid or not, he would be facing some pretty hard time. Maybe it was thinking of that and that's what drove him over the edge." Dobey reasoned.

Starsky shook his head. "I'm with Hutch, cap. I think it would've taken a helluva lot more than that."

"What then?"

"We don't know. Could have been a lot of things." Starsky sighed.

Dobey leaned forward, hands clasped together on the desk. "There will be a routine inquiry, of course. The Chief mentioned Roger Arnold."

"I thought he was put out to pasture long ago." Hutch looked up.

"Not quite. They found an office the size of a shoe box downtown and gave him bits of paper to push around the desk." Dobey grinned.

"You make it sound like occupational therapy." Starsky smirked.

Dobey unclasped his hands and sat back in his chair. "It was kinder than kicking him out a few years short of his pension."

"And you think he's the right man for this?" Hutch asked.

"I said it was a suggestion."

Both Starsky and Hutch remembered Arnold, a tall, ramrod straight, figure with iron gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses. A complete by-the-booker, he cared more about shiny buttons and polished boots than he did about police work. Although he had proven himself to be thorough, hard working and completely devoid of imagination. Police work changed and Arnold got lost in the past, and had been set on a shelf because of it.

"He'll do a meticulous job," Hutch said. "crossing every t and dotting every i."

"An' he'll be polite." Starsky added with an amused grin.

Dobey nodded. "Good. You two have come to know the family fairly well, talk to him and make sure he's current."

"We'll tell 'im what we can, cap." Starsky stood.

"Jordon's objections aside, I doubt either one of you would have wanted this yourself."

"Probably not." Hutch agreed.

"Oh, and Starsky, Hutch...." The pair turned back just as Starsky was about to open the door. "I had a call from Lieutenant Cossall. Vice is setting up an undercover sting. Fraud, theft, dealing. He wants to know if I can spare a body. Three or four nights, no more."

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other then back at their superior. "I think we've put in enough overtime this month, Captain." Hutch frowned.

Dobey smiled, knowing full well that his boys had almost doubled their normal hours in the last few weeks. "I'm asking who you'd recommend. Bellafontaine likes this sort of thing, doesn't he?"

Hutch gulped and Starsky shuddered. "I think Taylor would be the best choice, cap." Starsky said.

"Bellafontaine will just join in for the overtime pay that he'll just end up drinking away. Starsky's right, cap, at least Taylor will put the extra money to good use, and he's a good cop."

Dobey gave a curt nod and waved them away, reaching for the phone before they were out the door.

It was almost one and Starsky and Hutch had just started to unwrap the sandwiches they had picked up in the cafeteria when the phone rang, Hutch answered, watching with mild disgust as what looked like spaghetti sauce escaped from the wrapping around the concoction his partner had ordered.

"Put it away, Starsk." Hutch was in the process of re-wrapping his own and tossing into the top drawer of his desk. "Front desk just called, we've got company coming."

Naturally a big woman, Virginia seemed to have suddenly shrunken in on herself. The black dress she wore hung from her shoulders like poorly fitted curtains; her face, previously full, had become gaunt. Dark circles around her eyes suggested volumes of tears and very little sleep.

With her, Eric was a little taller than Hutch. By the looks of things the frequent trips to the pool hall and various bookies hadn't stopped him from working out. He wore loose-fitting jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Like Hutch he was fair, but not nearly on the same scale, his darker blond hair had been meticulously trimmed. Standing at the entrance to the squad room, Eric fixed his eyes first on Starsky and then on Hutchinson, quickly dismissing the two of them.

"Come on in." Hutch moved across the room and held the door open, ushering Virginia into the room and towards a chair. Eric chose to stand behind her.

"Can I get you anything?" Starsky asked, pushing his chair back.

No answer.

Hutch walked back around to his desk and sat down, Eric's eyes following him all the way. "How have you been?"

"How d'you think?" Eric snapped back before she could speak.

"How's your hand, Virginia?" Hutch ignored him.

"Never mind her damned hand. That's not why we're here." He started toward Hutch. Perceiving a threat to his partner, Starsky quietly stood and moved to stand closer to the young man. "My brother was in your care and he died--that's why we're here."

Hutch eased back in his chair and sighed. "He wasn't in our care, not directly. Child Services..."

"Fuck Child Services!" You arrested him." Eric's finger jabbed toward Hutch's face. "You. You're the one that dragged him out of the house, banged him up in here and had him sent away. And what happened to him, what happened to him is your fault. Your fucking fault!"

His fist was now mere inches from Hutch's face. His voice more than filling the room. Starsky sidled up beside him and took his wrist in a firm grip. "Put it down, right now or I'll break it." Starsky whispered threateningly.

Eric and Hutch were staring at each other, neither breaking contact.

"Eric..." Virginia reached up with her bandaged hand and touched her eldest's arm. "Please, don't."

Flexing his muscles, Eric lowered his fist, pulling it roughly out of Starsky's grasp and stepped away. Hutch watched him for a few seconds, knowing that Starsky would keep his eye on him, and turned his attention back to his mother. "How is it we can help you, Virginia?"

"My Stevie," Virginia said, leaning closer, "never mind what happened to him in the past, no matter how bad he got hurt, he'd always bounce back. Always. Even that time those bastards threw that pipe bomb at him. Stevie, he was laughing and joking about it while he was still in the hospital. That's why I don't think he would ever have done a thing like that, Mr. Hutchinson, take his own life. It's not the way he...not the way he was. Not unless there was good reason, something we don't know about. Something that happened to him while he was there."

"There is going to be an investigation..." Behind his mother, Eric laughed a short, bitter laugh. "Two. One carried out by Child Welfare, and another that we'll conduct ourselves."

"Bullshit," Snorted Eric. "That's all that will be."

Starsky advanced with a warning glare, his eyes boring holes into Eric's head. "Put a cork in it now, or I'll shove one in so deep you'll never get it out." Although his voice was angry, he knew that it was low enough that only he and the kid heard him.

"You, Mr. Hutchinson," Virginia said, "you'll be looking into it yourself?"

Hutch shook his head. "A senior officer will lead the team. Very experienced. You couldn't ask for anyone to be more thorough..."

"But you knew Stevie. This stranger, whoever he is..."

"He's a good man, Virginia, I can assure you of that. And Starsky and I will be giving him all the help we can."

A smile showed fleetingly on her face and slipped away.
"Stevie's body, the funeral..."

"We'll release it as soon as we can. I'll do my best to find out today and let you know. Okay?"

For a moment, Virginia let her head drop forward, eyes closed. Eric started to say something, but Starsky's quick look reminded him that he'd already said enough.

Hutch got to his feet and started around the desk to help Virginia from her chair, but Eric placed himself in his way.

"Come on, mom. Let's get out of here."

Chapter 15

Virginia's friend, Nicole, arrived in the middle of the afternoon with a large bottle of white wine and a dozen roses. She managed to convince Ginnie to go into the bathroom and wash her face, put on some makeup, and change her clothes. The two of them sat in the living room while Nicole plied her friend with glass after glass of wine, seizing Virginia's wrists whenever she had a sudden, flailing fit of anger, holding her tight whenever she gave way to tears, Virginia's body shaking inside Nicole's stubborn arms. "The stupid, stupid twerp! Why did he have to go and do a thing like that?"

Cheryl hovered at the entrance to the room, watching the two women, riveted by the force of her mother's tears, which she could not hope to replicate. She went into the kitchen and made some coffee she never drank, smeared slices of bread with peanut butter she never ate, then escaped up the stairs. In her room she turned her radio up high to drown out the sounds of mourning.

As the afternoon slowly past, Virginia slept in Nicole's arms, twitching suddenly with the vividness of her dreams. "Benjamin. Oh, Benjamin." She moaned.

"Shh, now." Nicole gently patted her head. And then asked as Virginia opened her eyes, "Who's Benjamin? You kept repeating his name."

"The baby I lost."

Nicole squeezed her hand. "That was Stevie, sweetheart. You're confused, that's all."

But Virginia knew what she had meant. "No, it was Benjamin. My little Benjamin." Doubling over, she could almost feel again the final thrust and tear before seeing him small and bloodied in the doctor's hands.

Nicole had left for a short time to check on how the youngest of her own children was doing and then returned with a frozen lasagna and some more wine. After they had eaten and worked their way through god knew how many cigarettes, Virginia had slept. "Stevie's dad!" She woke up shouting. "Peter. How am I ever going to find him to tell him?"

Cheryl dug out an address written in pencil on a sheet of torn paper and handed it to her.

"How long have you had this?"

"My fourteenth birthday, it was tucked inside the card."

Virginia rubbed her eyes. Denver. "Doesn't mean he's still there now, he could be just about anywhere."

"You'll let him know, my dad?"

"Here." Virginia pushed the paper back toward her. "You tell him. You're the one he gave his address to."

Eric paused in the doorway of the bar letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting for a few minutes before fixing them on one of the people he had been looking for. He walked quickly toward Ron Hayes and head-butted him in the face. "You bastard! You fucking piece of shit!" Blood was running down Hayes's forehead, partially blinding him. "You're going to pay for what you fucking did." Eric brought back his fist and slammed it into his face, breaking his nose. Eric's shirt was splattered with blood and snot. As Hayes sunk to the floor, Eric brought his knee up hard and shattered his nose a second time. It had been Ron Hayes and his brothers that had hurled a firebomb from their car into Stephen's path, though it had never been proven. Eric caught hold of Hayes's shirt and hauled him off the floor.

"For crissake!" someone called, "Leave the poor bastard alone!"

Eric let Hayes go and the back of his victim's head collided with the bar, then he walked away, swivelled around and kicked out, burying the toe of his boot into Hayes's gut.

"Somebody call the cops!" The same voice shouted.

Eric slapped five bucks on the counter and ordered a beer.

He had almost finished it when the door was shoved open and Hayes's two brothers arrived. They had a few friends with them.

Eric smiled, this was exactly what he wanted, to be lost in the physical pain so he could forget the ache in his heart. They started on him there, beside Ron Hayes moaning over his broken nose and fractured ribs. They dragged him off to the washrooms, Eric didn't even bother to fight back now, he was barely able to even raise his hands. Finally they hauled him out to the street and left his body splayed across the sidewalk, the sound of sirens saving him from an even worse beating.

While a young uniformed officer talked to the bartender, who had seen nothing except a little scuffle, Eric was loaded into an ambulance and taken to Memorial. More than an hour later he would be in a cubicle next to Ron Hayes, waiting for the same doctor to examine both of their injuries.

Virginia Barrett lay on her bed in the dark and when she slept she cried and when she woke she cried some more.

Even with the sweet memory of their lovemaking still tingling through his flesh, Hutch had a hard time falling asleep. Finally, just before four, he threw on a pair of pajama bottoms and padded out to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. With a fresh mug in hand he went into the living room and sat down on the couch. He looked around in the gloom, his happy smile seemed to illuminate the entire room as he wondered how everything could look so familiar and yet suddenly become so much more special. "Starsky." He whispered, then clamped his lips tightly together, afraid he might let the magic that one name filled his soul with escape from inside of him.

Starsky stood quietly at the entrance to the bedroom watching Hutch, a soft smile on his lips as his eyes glowed in adoration. He had been waiting for him to start questioning the recent broadening of their relationship, and was more than delighted to see that, so far at least, his lover wasn't trying to find and debate any reason he could as to why they shouldn't be lovers.

Suddenly, Hutch thought of Virginia Barrett and the smile instantly disappeared. He leaned forward and set the coffee on the table and sighed heavily, feeling a little guilty for feeling so complete when not far away a woman's world was falling apart.

Starsky was instantly alert. "Hutch?"

Hutch spun around, his eyes wide. "Starsk?"

"Easy, babe. What were you just thinking about?" Starsky came over and sat next to the blond, placing a hand on a bare shoulder.

Hutch smiled hesitantly. "I was thinking about how lucky I am."

"And then you thought of the Barrett's." Starsky nodded. "We all have ta live our own lives, Hutch." He stood and held out his hand. "Let's go back ta bed, and see if I can make you think about how lucky you are again."

After a quick stop for bagels, Starsky and Hutch went to the hospital first thing the next morning. Checking in on Doris Denison, who was still making cautious progress but managed to treat them to a pale smile. Her husband was making slow but significant progress of his own at home. Eric Barrett was propped irritably between hospital pillows, fiddling with the headset of his radio. One side of his face showed some deep bruising and a neat line of stitches butterflied its way from behind one ear and down his neck, but apart form that he had gotten off surprisingly lucky. Not a bone was broken and he was set to be discharged the next day.

"Mornin', Eric." Starsky said cheerfully. "Looks like ya got hit by a Mac truck."

He and Hutch took seats on opposite sides of the bed.

"I've got nothing to say." Eric said.

"The people who did this," Hutch said," You wouldn't be able to identify any of them?"

Eric shook his head.

"I suppose the name, Hayes, doesn't ring any bells?" Starsky offered.

Another shake of the head.

"What a coincidence, eh, Hutch? Both him and Ron Hayes gettin' all banged up at the same time and at the same place, what do ya figure the odds of that happenin' are?"

"I guess you won't be making a complaint, pressing charges or anything like that?" Hutch asked.

"None."

"Fine." Hutch started out of his seat. "All right, Starsk, we may as well go."

Eric looked surprised that they were letting him off the hook so easily, and had just begun to relax back against the pillows when Hutch spun on his heels like a dancer. From nowhere he was suddenly leaning over the bed, his right hand gripping Eric's shoulder where it was bruised and swollen, finger tips not too far from where the line of stitches ended.

"Listen to me. I don't give a fuck how you spend your nights, or what kind of scum you choose to hang around with, but I do care about your mother. She's had a hard enough time as it is, bringing up the three of you, and now after what's happened to Stevie, you're the last thing she should have to worry about." Hutch increased the pressure with his hand, enough to force tears to the corners of Eric's eyes no matter how much he fought to keep them back. "So keep your nose clean, alright? If you don't, I'll be down on you so fast you'll wish you had paid more attention." Hutch relinquished his grip and stood to his full height. "You understand all that, Eric?

Eric stared up at him, angry and humiliated, a single tear making a slow track down his face.

Hutch nodded once then turned and stormed past Starsky and out the door.

Starsky raised his brows with a little smirk on his face, shrugged his shoulders and caught up to his partner at the elevator. "Hey, Hutch?"

"What?"

"I'm glad you're my friend."

Hutch laughed and lightly swatted the curly head.

Chapter 16

Cheryl hadn't punched in for work at the factory since Stevie had died. The first day, the Monday after it happened, she'd phoned in and explained. The next day she called her boss and said her mother still needed her. Her supervisor had been sympathetic and told her to take whatever sick days she had owing and suggested that she see her doctor about prescribing a sedative.

This morning Cheryl said nothing to her mother and had slipped out the door with her uniform neatly folded and tucked into a plastic bag and wandered without any particular destination in mind until she found herself where Stevie and Kevin Long had separated that ill fated night. She watched a gang of youths that were sprawled expansively on the worn grass near the sidewalk sipping beer and shouting at anyone that passed by wearing a suit. They were the usual gathering of latter-day hippies, pony-tailed boys with multi-colored T-shirts, ripped jeans and small chains hanging from their ears. There were girls younger than Cheryl in tight halters and black stretchy jeans with their mouths painted into little red beaks.

Cheryl sat a safe distance away on a low stone wall with her wrists tucked between her knees, there was no way she was about to go anywhere near them.

"Hey."

She turned with a start, almost losing her balance. Janice Chandler had come up behind her, a superior expression on her face, and offered her a cigarette from the open pack in her hand.

"Go on, have one."

Cheryl blinked up at Janice, her hard young face framed by frizzy red hair. On the other side of the street, Janice's friends stood watching them. Leslie Gilbert, Irene, Tracy Daniel, Diane and Carol. Janice shook the pack again and with a breathed thank-you Cheryl took one and angled back her head as Janice leaned forward and lit it for her.

After a quick glance at her pals, Janice lit a cigarette for herself and sat down. "We were really cut up, like, about what happened to your brother."

"Thanks."

"You must be feeling like shit."

"Yeah. Yes, I am."

Janice had been in the same grade as Cheryl all through school, they all had. Girls whose breasts were evident sooner than most, and whose periods had started first, all of them forever bringing in scratchy little notes to excuse them from gym class. They would smoke openly on the way to school and light up again the minute they set foot off the grounds. They were the ones that boasted that they had done it at thirteen, going all the way, and Cheryl had believed them, Jealous, frightened and in awe. After school, when Janice and the rest of them had huddled among the cars parked on the strip, laughing with boys who were as old as Eric and even older, Cheryl had loitered close enough for them to call her over, but they never did. Now this. Stevie's death had given her the notoriety she had been looking for, making her acceptable when she never had been before.

One of the girls called out to Janice, who turned and gestured for them to go on ahead. "We're going up to Diane's," she said to Cheryl. "why don't you come along?"

Janice took Cheryl's bag from her and dropped it, uniform and all, into a wired garbage bin.

Diane and Carol were black. Except for those times when they had a brief falling out, they told everyone they were sisters. Their families never spoke to one another and would even cross the street to avoid contact. Carol's father was a minister in the Baptist church and Diane's was doing fifteen years for shooting another drug dealer in the face at close range. When Carol found out she was pregnant just eighteen days short of her fifteenth birthday, her father prayed for her while her mother took her to the clinic to arrange for an abortion. As soon as Diane heard, she went out and got herself knocked up by a friend of her brother's and miscarried after eight weeks. The next time she was more fortunate. The baby's name was Melvin and Diane's older sister had looked after him until Diane finished school, at which point Diane and the baby's father were given temporary shelter in a high-rise that the city Council was planning to demolish. The father had left but the apartments were still standing.

"Fucking elevator!" Diane screamed, kicking at the graffitied doors. "It never fucking works!"

Diane's neighbor had been looking after Melvin, and Diane collected him to show him off to Cheryl.

"Gorgeous, isn't he? Isn't he just fucking gorgeous?"

With tightly curled black hair, coffee skin and wide brown eyes--Cheryl had to admit that he was.

The girls all squeezed into Diane's living room to play with Melvin and watch TV, passing around a bottle of vodka that Irene had lifted from her parents. Seated on the floor next to the battered sofa, Leslie carefully rolled a couple of joints. An hour or so later, when Janice tipped some pills into Cheryl's hand, she didn't think twice about it and popped them into her mouth, swallowing them down with the last of the vodka.

Peter was waiting when Virginia got home from visiting Eric at the hospital. Sitting on the uneven sidewalk where days before the flowers neighbors had left in memory of Stevie had wilted and died. He was leaning back against the fence when Virginia saw him, a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers and his feet bare, his shoes neatly placed beside him with the socks rolled into a ball. Upon seeing him something like a fist lurched through Virginia and she thought that she was going to be sick.

Peter spotted her and started for a minute before pushing himself slowly to his feet. My God, Virginia thought, how he's changed. Most of the hair had gone from his head and what remained was dark and flat against his scalp. His face had never been full, but now the skin seemed to be stretched too tightly across his forehead and his cheeks were sunken in. Inside a striped shirt, his chest appeared to have collapsed inward, though a little potbelly strained awkwardly against the top of his slacks. How long was it since she had last seen him? Twelve years, maybe more? She had never imagined he could look so old. He couldn't have been more than forty-five.

Virginia could no more stop the tears than she could stop time.

Peter tossed the butt of the cigarette into the street and took her into his arms.

"Get away, you crazy little man! Let's get in the house or we'll have the neighbors coming out to see what the fuss is about." Virginia pushed him away, took his arm and led him into the yard.

Once in the kitchen she made him toast and tea while he told her how he had hitchhiked from Denver and how it only took three rides. He asked Virginia how she was and told her how good she looked in that blue and orange dress and if she had lost a bit of weight. Peter then asked about Cheryl and Virginia told him she was at work. After she told him about the beating Eric took he became agitated and very concerned. It wasn't until Virginia put on a second pot of tea that he mentioned Stephen.

Without shedding a tear this time, Virginia told him what she knew.

Peter was quiet for a long time and then asked if the inquest was over with.

Virginia nodded and Peter rolled another cigarette. "If you like," He said, not looking at her, but staring at the pile of dishes beside the sink, "I could stay for a while. A few days at least. I wouldn't get in the way."

Virginia didn't reply. She wasn't sure what Eric, when he got out of the hospital, might think. Nor Cheryl either, for that matter. He was her father, she should be pleased, but after all this time who could know?

"I was just thinking that it wouldn't hurt to stay just until the funeral. That's all."

"All right." Virginia said. "That should be okay."

He reached out a hand to touch her but she pulled away.

Early that evening Starsky and Hutch met with Roger Arnold at a mutual watering hole.

"Sure that's all you want, boys?" Roger asked when Starsky and Hutch both asked for a beer. "You don't want a chaser to go with them?"

"We're fine." Starsky grinned while Hutch just shook his head.

Starsky and Hutch filled him in on the Barrett family and what they knew of their background and most importantly what they knew about Stephen.

"Poor little bastard." Arnold said with feeling. "He never had a chance, growing up like that."

Hutch leaned back and lifted his glass. "She did her best."

Arnold shook his head. "Never good enough, though, was it, Hutch?"

Starsky and Hutch slowly sipped their beer while Arnold delivered his sermon on the breakdown of the social fabric and the lost virtues of the two-parent family.

When it was over Starsky asked while emptying the second bottle of beer into his glass. "How's the inquiry going, Rog?"

"Oh, shouldn't take long to wrap it all up, it all looks to be pretty straight forward."

Hutch regarded him skeptically. "Nothing went on out of the ordinary?"

"No, not so far as I can see. Supervision might've been a little lax the night he died. But if you're looking for any hint of mistreatment or bullying..." Arnold gave a quick shake of his head. "I didn't find any sign of it."

"No clear reason, then, for him to do what he did?" Starsky asked.

"We aren't mind readers, Starsky. It's not like he left a note or anything like that. The kids that knew him and the youths that shared a room with him all swear that he never even hinted at what he might do. Sure, he complained and bitched about being there, but that's just par for the course." Arnold took another sip of his drink and set his glass on the table. "If you ask me, he couldn't face the idea of going to prison. Poor little guy must have been terrified, missed his mommy."

Hutch waited until a sudden splurge of laughter at the next table died down before asking another question. "Child services see it the same way?"

Arnold nodded. "Pretty much straight down the line."

I bet they do, both Starsky and Hutch were thinking. They've got enough stains on their books as it is. Starsky stood, immediately followed by Hutch.

"At least there's nothing ta keep the body from being released. His mother should be happy ta hear that." Starsky said shaking Arnold's hand.

"Take care, Roger. And give Margaret our best." Hutch also shook his hand.

Chapter 17

"Where are we going?" Hutch noticed for the first time that they weren't going in the right direction to get to either one of their apartments.

"A little surprise." Starsky glanced over with a wink. "I know it's gettin' a little late, but we really haven't had much time to ourselves ever since all this," he waved a hand to indicate the both of them, "began."

Hutch looked a little worried. "We aren't off tomorrow, Starsk."

"I know, but we also haven't been late in a long time." Starsky grinned. "Not ta mention that we haven't had a break since this whole thing with the Barretts started."

"Where are we going?" Hutch repeated, smiling coyly while sitting back visibly more relaxed.

"Home." Starsky smirked. "A little place I acquired and was just hopin' that I'd get ta share it with my dream partner."

"What did you do?" Hutch tensed once more and leaned forward and to the side. "Starsky, what did you do?"

"It's not much." Starsky answered. "But it's all ours."

"Oh, no." Hutch ran a hand over his eyes. "Please tell me you didn't buy another house."

"This isn't a monetary investment, Hutch." Starsky turned serious. "It's a helluva lot more than that."

After several turns, Starsky turned down a side street with neatly packed houses with small lawns and compact cars lining the driveways. He pulled into an empty, gravel lined driveway facing a small but sturdy house with a concrete slab under the front door.

"It's pink." Hutch said as the engine shut off.

"Yeah, it is." Starsky agreed. "We can change that though, it's probably one of the reasons I got it so cheap." He sat back waiting for the litany of questions to come as to how much he had paid for it and what other things were wrong with it.

"I like it." Hutch looked over with a smile. "I think I'm going to like it a lot." He opened the door and got out, leaving Starsky to sit in stunned silence for a few moments.

"You do? You really think so, Hutch?" Starsky fumbled out of his side of the car and bounced over to where the blond was running a hand along the sill of a small window.

"There isn't much of a yard." Hutch said walking towards the side of the house.

"Not in the front or the back, but we got this whole side." Starsky quickly followed, holding his hands out to indicate the fair sized expanse of dying grass in between this and the next house. "I was thinkin' that half of it could be used for just sitting around and the other half we could build you a greenhouse."

Hutch smiled softly, his eyes glowing in the dark. "You thought a lot about this, didn't you, hon?"

Starsky looked embarrassed and proud at the same time. "I was hopin'." He admitted.

Hutch caught himself before asking when his partner had actually bought the house with them in mind, thinking that it really didn't matter. Just the thought that he had was more than enough to make his blood tingle. "How about showing me inside?"

"Okay." Starsky rubbed his hands together and pulled Hutch back towards the door. "There's not much, just two bedrooms...it's got a master bathroom though, and a little kitchen with a small dining room and..."

"You're babbling." Hutch laughed. "Let's just look, okay, Starsk?"

Starsky unlocked the door, swung it opened and stepped back holding his breath.

Hutch walked past and flicked on the two light switches just inside the door. Slowly walking down the hallway he studied the walls and floors. He was pleased to see that the hardwood flooring needed a good polishing, but other than that it was in great shape. The walls had only a few hairline cracks and could be easily patched. He stopped in the living room and slowly turned around, surprised to find that he was already mentally putting both of their possessions in order. He chuckled and then reached out, pulling Starsky into a bear hug. "I can't believe you did this for me."

"I did it for us." Starsky let out the air he hadn't realized he had been holding. "I mean if we worked...if we..well you know?"

"If I didn't scream and run for the hills?" Hutch pulled back a little and nodded with a grin.

"Somethin' like that." Starsky bit his lip, an erection becoming painfully obvious.

"Looks like we aren't going to have such a relaxing vacation after all." Hutch glanced down and licked his lips. "How about we go back to my place for now and I can take care of that for you?"

"How 'bout we stay here and christen the place?" Starsky waggled his eyebrows. "I do have one room almost ready."

Hutch allowed himself to be dragged down the narrow hallway, wondering the entire way how his partner managed to get his bed over here without him knowing it.

Starsky turned on the light and stepped inside and to the side. "What do ya think, babe?"

Hutch was speechless. There was a walnut finished carriage bed with a thick down comforter and forest green sheets already pulled down and ready for someone to crawl in. Four plush pillows dominated the lower half of the headboard, matching heavy drapes covered the window. "When....?"

"Coupla months ago." Starsky grinned. "Like I keep sayin'...I was hopin'."

Hutch tentatively reached out and grasped the footboard, giving it a little shake. "It doesn't move. This must have cost a small fortune, Starsk."

"Actually it came with the house. Apparently it doesn't come apart and they couldn't figure out how ta get it out of here." Starsky shrugged.

"Lucky for us." Hutch wrapped an arm around his lover's shoulders and squeezed.

"How about we get naked and climb in?" Starsky laced his own arm around the slender waist and with the other began to undo the button's of Hutch's shirt.

Hutch looked down and laughed. "I don't suppose you brought anything?"

Starsky paused. "What do ya....you mean, like, stuff?" His eyes widened.

"Yeah, stuff." Hutch turned to the side and bent his head, running his lips along Starsky's Addams apple. "I'm ready."

"No you're not." Starsky pushed back and swallowed thickly. "Not yet, anyway, Hutch. We need some time."

"Time for what?" Hutch couldn't keep the hurt out of his eyes as Starsky pulled away.

"It's not that I don't want that more than anything, Blintz." Starsky soothed. "It's just that we're rookies in this department and I don't want to hurt you knowin' that we have to be on the streets in less than eight hours."

"Oh." Hutch glanced at the bed then back at his partner. The hurt was gone but the longing still remained.

"We'll put in for some time off after this case is over, and then we'll make our first, official, night here one we won't ever forget." Starsky shucked out of his jacket, and undid his holster. "In the mean time there's no reason for us not ta make the earth move in all the other ways."

It was still dark when Hutch woke up and lifted himself up onto one arm, surprised to find that he was shaking a little. He couldn't remember a time, even when he first fell head over heals with Vanessa, that he felt so strongly about another person. Just laying beside the still sleeping man beside him sent chills coursing through his body. He watched as Starsky's breathing changed and he mumbled and stretched until, fleetingly at first, he opened his eyes.

"What time's it?"

Hutch reached under the covers and pulled Starsky's left hand out and squinted at the dial. "Quarter to four, we have to get going, Starsk."

"Yeah, yeah." Starsky groaned rubbing his eyes. "The fuckin' cats."

Hutch chuckled and bent down and kissed him softly on the lips. "You don't want to get Stupe mad at you again."

"He'll blame me for not comin' home last night, anyway." Starsky smiled and pulled Hutch down and into a more forceful kiss.

"Keep that up and he won't like me anymore either." Hutch laughed and pushed himself up and away. "Come on, hon. I'll make sure we're tucked in real early tonight." He threw a pillow over top of Starsky's face.

The phone was ringing when they arrived at Venice Place. Hutch picked it up while Starsky went to get the cats food ready before letting them in.

"Where the hell have you been, Hutch!?" Dobey's voice boomed loud enough for Hutch to wince, and Starsky to turn and look with can opener in hand.

Taken aback a little by the ferocity in Dobey's voice, Hutch wasn't quite sure how to respond.

"And where the hell is Starsky!?"

"What happened." Hutch finally asked.

"Roger Arnold," Dobey said his voice still angry. "He's dead, some bastard killed him."

Chapter 18

They could see the lights of the emergency vehicles as soon as they turned the corner and approached the small bridge. Patches of muted color were bleeding out of the horizon and into the day. Mist hung in low gray rags over the surface of the canal, the threat of rain teasing the air.

A temporary covering had been set up on the flat spread of the grass of the embankment, a tent of ill-fitting orange plastic with temporary lighting rigged around it. Figures in dark blue overalls were already examining the surrounding ground on hands and knees. At the perimeter of the scene there were small groups of others gathered around in conversation with heads bowed.

Captain Dobey turned away from one of these groups as Starsky pulled the Torino in at an odd angle and they got out of the car.

"Where were you two?"

"When was he found?" Hutch asked, not breaking his stride.

"An hour ago."

"What was he doin' out here?" Starsky took in the scene with a shiver.

"He was walking his dog. It's back there in one of the cars." Dobey answered.

Hutch pushed back a flap of plastic and ducked inside, Starsky right behind him. The medical examiner turned his head towards Hutch and then looked away.

"Jesus." Starsky pursed his lips and swallowed hard.

Whatever had been used to batter Roger Arnold's head and face had been heavy and had been wielded many times and with a lot of force. Beneath coagulating blood, hair and bone, it looked as if the top of his skull had completely caved in. Lower down, there was more bone, sharp-edged and splintered through the skin. The globe of one eye lay, barely attached, among the bloodied pulp of what had been Arnold's left cheek.

Hutch had to will himself to stay bent over the body. There were thick mud and grass stains on the sports jacket, gray slacks and striped shirt. A clump of earth in the fleshy palm of his right hand. One of the nails had a deep split running underneath and one of his shoes was missing, something that looked like the vibrant yellow of dog shit was stuck to the heel of his woolen sock.

"Time of death?" Hutch asked.

Parkinson removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Between four to six hours ago. Around one."

Hutch nodded and stood, then followed Starsky out of the tent and over to where the Captain stood waiting for them.

"Alright, cap', what do we know?" Starsky said.

"Besides Parkinson getting another early tee-off." Hutch added sarcastically.

"A teenager was sleeping off a party he had been to on the far side of the bridge, the dog's barking woke him up, he says he followed the sound to the body."

"He called it in?" Starsky asked.

Dobey shook his head. "Not right away. He panicked and ran off, sometime later he went back and took another look. He called it in after that." Dobey turned his head down toward the canal, the splash of ducks disturbing the water. "The patrol that arrived first had no idea who he was. It was only after the ambulance arrived that one of the paramedics found his wallet hidden in the grass. The only thing left in it was his driver's license and that's when all hell broke loose."

"The kid that found him..." Hutch started.

"At the station now being questioned."

"And Arnold's wife?" Hutch raised his brows.

Again, Dobey shook his head. "Would you want her to see him like this?"

A wave of cold air slithered into Hutch's lungs, he could already see Margaret Arnold's slow-collapsing face and the lance of pain striking her eyes.

"She hasn't reported him missing? Called around asking about him or anything?" Starsky asked.

Dobey closed his eyes for a second. "Not as far as we know. You know her, Hutch, don't you? Socially I mean."

"Not very well."

"Not well is better than not at all. There will be a task room set up at the station, whoever it was we'll get him." Dobey assured them.

Starsky and Hutch both sighed and began to walk back towards the car.

"Starsky, Hutch?"

"Yeah, cap." Starsky answered.

"You both spoke to him about the Barrett kid, right?"

Hutch nodded. "Last night."

"Did he say anything about it that might lead you to believe that this had anything to do with the inquiry?"

"No. Nothing. but..."

"But what, Hutch?" Starsky asked before the Captain had a chance to.

Hutch recalled the almost glib ease with which Roger had seemed to be accepting the Social Services version of Stephen Barrett's death. He wondered if there was something new that had come to light in between the time they met him for drinks and the attack.

"No," He finally said. "Not as far as we know."

Dobey released a slow breath of relief. "Mugging then. Out on his own late at night and someone saw their chance."

"That's probably what happened." Starsky agreed and tugged on Hutch's sleeve.

"We'll see." Hutch muttered. Starsky heard him and cocked an eyebrow.

They stood with their backs facing the door as a next door neighbor eased his BMW out of the drive and onto the street, both of them wishing they were anywhere but here. Birds were making a racket in the trees when the lock clicked open and the door swung inward, they both turned.

"Roger, I swear you'd forget your head if it wasn't attached , never mind your keys..." Seeing Starsky and Hutch, only partially recognizing them, she faltered into silence.

"Hello, Margaret." Hutch made an unthreatening move toward her.

"Roger, I thought he went out early with the dog. To..to..." But she had been a policeman's wife long enough to know this moment, to have rehearsed it often enough in the long flat hours before dawn.

"Why don't you let us come inside, Margaret?" Starsky said.

Short and stout with a pink dressing gown tied around her waist and curlers in her hair she stood her ground, challenging them for the truth.

"Margaret, we're so sorry..."

She opened her mouth to scream, drowning out Hutch's words with her grief.

"...he's dead."

Hutch caught hold of her and held her close, muffling her screams against his chest. After a few minutes, Starsky helped him get her far enough into the hallway to push the door shut behind him. There was a strong smell of lavender in the house, a moist soapy smell.

"Tell me..tell me what happened."

"Why don't we go and make..." Starsky started to say.

Her voice was shrill and angry. "I don't want..! I want to know."

Starsky took her arm, his hand steady beneath her elbow.
"Alright, but let's go sit down at least."

The living room was at the rear of the house, tasteful ornaments and family photographs lined the shelves and tables. If the curtains had have been opened, they would have revealed French doors and some sixty feet of well cared for lawn filled with flower beds and neatly trimmed shrubs.

Starsky and Hutch sat on a sofa in the shadowy half-light, Margaret sat in an armchair, her face angled toward another one, empty by the side of the fireplace. The detectives both thought that it was probably the one that Roger usually sat in.

They told her as much of the details they knew themselves, keeping the description of Arnold's injuries to a bare minimum. She listened, straining toward them, head tilted slightly to one side, her hands fidgeting on her lap.

"Roger." She said when they had finished. "Poor Roger. What did he ever do to deserve this?"

"Nothing, Margaret. Nothing at all." Starsky told her.

She stood up. "I want to see him."

"Later, Margaret." Hutch cast a worried glance at his partner. "Why not wait for a little while?" He gently led her back to the chair. While still up he went to the doors and opened the drapes.

"When you first came to the door, you thought it was Roger back from walking the dog?" Starsky asked.

"Yes."

"But when this happened, as far as we can tell, it was in the middle of the night. One or two in the morning." Hutch said and waited for his words to sink in.

"Yes, he...sometimes he couldn't sleep. Not right away, so he'd take the dog out for a walk. He didn't like to just lie there, he hated that. The last few years it kept getting worse. That's why he moved, he took a room across the hall. That way, if Roger had trouble sleeping he wouldn't feel guilty about waking me up." She plucked at the hem of her house coat.
"Not that I ever minded. Not..." She started to cry again, flapping her hands when Hutch tried to come over.

Hutch motioned with his head for Starsky to follow him into the kitchen and give her some time alone.

"If Roger went out after midnight with the dog with him she wouldn't have thought it weird." Starsky said while Hutch put the kettle on to boil.

"And if she slept through until this morning she would have thought he had gotten up early and gone for a walk then." Hutch agreed.

The tea was ready when Margaret, red-eyed, came into the room. "I want you to take me to see him now."

Starsky smiled gently. "Let's have a cup of this first, okay?"

"I'll call the hospital and then we'll drive you over." Hutch was already reaching for the phone. "Is that alright with you, Margaret?"

She stood, staring at them, lost between the table and door. How long until it would ever be alright again?

Chapter 19

At eleven fourty-five, cigarette smoke hung in the air like a gray-blue cloud in the center of the windowless room. Enlarged photographs of Arnold's body had been tacked to the wall, both in color and black and white. Higher up and to the right hung a picture that had been taken of Roger a year and a half before at a retirement party for a colleague, champagne glass was held up, and he was smiling and very much alive.

On another wall a blown-up map showed the precise spot on the embankment where the body had been found. Another map detailed the city and its surroundings and a grease pencil marked Arnold's home, his office and the place where the Barrett inquiry had been carried out.

Copies of the pathologist's initial report had been handed out to everyone in the room: multiple fractures of the cranial cavity, severe damage to the upper and lower jaw, the mandible and orbit walls, rupturing of the blood vessels to the brain and consequent internal hemorrhaging. The damage to Arnold's hands and bruising on the forearms suggested that he had put up a considerable struggle against his attacker.

Captain Dobey stood near the front of the room with Starsky, Hutch and the officer in charge of the uniforms. Dobey was looking more alive than Starsky and Hutch had seen him in months, he glanced down at his neatly written notes before slipping them into his back pocket; as soon as this was over, he would go directly down to the news conference that was scheduled to begin at 1300 hrs. With a nod towards his boys he stepped into the center of the room and introduced Doug Payne, fifteen of his officers would be responsible for the initial close search, and Jane Durham, the Sergeant that would be liaising between the investigation and the intelligence team. He also introduced detective sergeant Phillip Khan as Roger Arnold's assistant on the Barrett inquiry.

Dobey cleared his throat. "I don't need to tell you that a fellow officer has been killed." Nods of agreement, and murmurs of assent and anger came from all around. Dobey waited before going on. "Many of you knew Roger and some of you, like myself, worked with him. He was a good officer, fair and decent. Scrupulous in everything that he did. Roger was due to retire at the end of this year."

Once again a litany of voices rose. Dobey held up a meaty hand. "We all know what happened in the early hours of this morning. You've all had a chance to see the photographs and read the report. Some of you were present at the scene where Roger Arnold's body was found. This was a callous, brutal attack and I know that what you all want is to get whoever did this, person or persons, locked up behind bars as soon as possible. We want results and we want them fast. We want it for Roger Arnold's widow...and we want it before whoever was responsible can act again."

Dobey waited for the volley of fierce and emphatic noises to subside. He wanted every face turned toward him, everyone's attention exclusively on what he had to say.

"Before we get to work, I want to make it clear that there are dangers here. The last thing we can afford to do is rush headlong into this and let our emotions get the better of us. Nobody, not one of you, is going off half-cocked on this. It's too important." Dobey's voice dropped to a lower pitch, with the room now silent he didn't need to use his full baritone. "What we can't afford to do is to bring in the right person, the right people, and then not be able to make any charges stick. So we're going to be thorough, exact, and we'll work through proper channels, we are going to check and then double check. When we catch the bastard we want him to stay caught."

Cheers. Dobey waited a moment longer before stepping aside. "Starsky, Hutch?"

Starsky nodded for Hutch to go forward. When he was positioned in front of the maps Hutch began. "The most likely scenario so far is that this was a random, unpremeditated attack carried out for personal gain. Whatever he had on him at the time they were going to take. It's possible that he or they saw Roger as being a fairly affluent, aging man out alone with a small dog. Not much of a threat there." Hutch pointed up at one of the maps. "Roger parked his car here, opposite the Memorial Gardens and walked, as far as we can tell, in this direction here, along the embankment toward the bridge."

Starsky joined him and added. "Walkin' around late at night isn't somethin' out of the ordinary for him. His wife told us that during the last year or so he had a hard time gettin' to sleep and that he often took the dog out at odd hours. Now we're assuming that there wasn't anyone else around at the time and that whoever it was marked him as an easy target." Starsky took a turn indicating a spot on the map. "He was ambushed here, close ta these trees, and his wallet was found here, not far from the body, cash and credit cards gone." Starsky paused and looked around the room.

"Margaret Arnold told us that the most he would have had on him was thirty or forty dollars." Hutch added.

"Bastards!" Someone said loudly.

"Thanks, men." Dobey, again, took the floor. "Listen up. Here's how it's going to go. Doug? Anything and everything that took place on that embankment between midnight and four, anyone that set foot, anything that breathed, that's your playground." Payne nodded and looked down at the floor. "Supervision of the house-to-house falls on you. With all of those homes along the canal, not all of the inhabitants could have been tucked in with their hot milk and ovaltine. Anyone that heard anything or saw anyone, we have to know about. We'll be using local radio and television news coverage, even the Times, to appeal to anyone who drove along that way during that time-frame, any joggers or late-night fishermen, whatever, to come forward. Besides the houses, I want any bars along that stretch canvassed, try and find out who was around the area especially during last call.

"Starsky, Hutch, I want your team in close. Forensics, anything found at the scene--give us as exact a picture as you can of what actually happened. Follow up on the twenty-four hours leading up to the attack, we want to know where Roger went, who he spoke to and everything else that he did. If we have to look further than that or dig a little deeper, then we will."

Dobey cleared his throat, wishing he had a glass of water. The troops were getting restless and it was time for the last push. "Pay attention. One of the things we have to watch out for is tunnel vision. The most obvious suspect doesn't always end up being the one that we're looking for, which is why," Dobey's eyes flitted over to Hutch for a fraction of a second, "I, even though I don't believe there is any connection, am going to be talking to Khan about the inquiry Roger was leading into the apparent suicide of Stephen Barrett. There may not be any link, but it will be checked before being eliminated. There will also be other avenues we need to explore. Cases Roger worked on, people he send down the river that have come up for parole, and anyone else that may have held a grudge, professionally or personally. I don't see Roger as being a man that made enemies easily, but we'll talk to Margaret and see what she says. Finally, if any of you have any ideas or can think of different angles we can try, talk to me. I want to hear them."

"Anything else?" Dobey looked first at Starsky and Hutch and then Doug Payne before he glanced around the rest of the room.

None of them had anything to add.

"All right, let's get moving. And good luck."

Less than thirty minutes later, Hutch had just finished pouring two cups of fresh coffee when Starsky returned from the cafeteria and tossed a tuna sandwich down on his lover's desk and opened the pepperoni and cheese he had gotten for himself.

"Everyone got something?" Hutch asked the rest of the team. Tim Aitkens was sitting close to Hutch's right, chair angled back on it's rear legs. Chuck Bellafontaine was down toward the end of the narrow room, chair reversed and legs spread wide over the seat. Lynn Gomeau sat with her head resting against the left-hand wall. Keith Taylor was seated near Starsky's left, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Okay," Hutch said, opening the sandwich and holding it in both hands. "Let's talk this through. First things first, this homeless kid that found the body and phoned it in. Chuck, I want you and Tim to question him again, push him if you have to. Find out what he knows and make sure he's telling us everything."

"You think he might have been involved, boss?" Aitkens asked with a glimmer in his eye.

Starsky grinned. "Wouldn't be the first time. No better way ta throw off suspicion than ta report your own crime."

Hutch smiled at him and moved on. "Keith, we'll need all the details pertaining to footprints, boot marks around the area the body was found, photos, casts, whatever. Make what sense you can of them. Everything else aside it should help us narrow down how many people were involved."

We're pretty sure that we're dealing with more than one person, are we?" Tim asked.

Starsky swallowed the last half of his sandwich. "That's our gut feeling. Two at least, maybe more. Roger kept himself pretty fit, he wouldn't have looked like such an easy mark to just one man. And unless whoever struck the first blow managed to take him completely by surprise, I doubt that a single attacker would have been able to do as much damage as he did."

Hutch forced his eyes away from his partner's mouth. "Lynn, we have to build up a detailed picture of Roger's last twenty-four hours--everything he did, everywhere he went and anyone and everyone he spoke to. Think you could take care of that? I'll take you out to introduce you to Margaret Arnold and then you're on your own."

"No problem." Lynn said with a smile.

We'll be taking you out to meet Margaret, Starsky glared at her.

Starsky and I will go over the material from the Barrett inquiry with Khan." Hutch set both hands on the desk and pushed himself to his feet.

Starsky also stood. "Before any of you sign off tonight, check back with me an' Hutch, let us know what you've come up with."

"Starsky? Hutch?" Dobey opened the door to his office and motioned for them to join him.

The last few drops of water spurted noisily into the carafe of the coffee maker in Dobey's office. Starsky's stomach rumbled in sympathy, it was past noon and he and Hutch hadn't managed to grab a bite yet that day.

The Captain waited until Hutch prepared each of them a mug and took a seat beside his partner.

"It's hard not to think about how close he was to retiring." Dobey said in a subdued voice.

Starsky and Hutch were both thinking about his wife, and how, after so many years together she was going to manage to adjust. Their kids were all grown and living lives of their own.

"I've got that press conference at one." Dobey continued. "It'll be brief since there isn't very much we know at this point."

"It's a good opportunity to ask for information and help." Hutch said, wondering why they had been asked to meet in here when they should have been out pounding the pavement.

Starsky groaned. "We'll be flooded with calls, most of it useless information from the wide assortment of cranks, psychics and backyard psychiatrists, not ta mention the usual one or two that want ta confess."

"There's a young officer being transferred in. There's a good chance he might come here." Dobey said.

So this is why he wanted to see us, Hutch thought. "Is this definite or just rumor?" He asked.

"Definite as these things usually are."

"This guy have a name?" Starsky leaned forward and set his coffee on the desk.

"Vincent. Kyle Vincent."

"And he's a detective? Homicide?" Hutch asked rubbing his chin.

Dobey nodded. "Five years."

"It's possible that he could be here within a couple of days." Dobey said. "It's not a bad thing, boys. With this investigation we'll be needing all the bodies we can get. Feel him out and see if he can plug a few holes. If he turns out to be half the cop that young Granger would have been, we won't be sorry to have him on board."

Starsky and Hutch sat silent, remembering the first time they had met Chris Granger. He was as bright as they come and eager to please. The memory of blood drying on the sidewalk, the purplish hue around the wound, one slash that had found the artery by chance. The killer never found. His father's face and the way it had twisted in; the uncomprehending grief.

Margaret Arnold.
Virginia Barrett.
It never seemed to end.

Chapter 20

Virginia had tried to ignore the smell on Cheryl's breath when her daughter came in. It was tobacco, and not quite gin. It was grass, she knew, remembered it distantly but well. "Where, do you think, you got this?" She asked, tilting her head back and sizing up the black leather jacket, studs on both pockets and zippers unfastened along both sleeves.

"I don't think," Cheryl said, doing her best to swerve past. "I know."

Virginia grabbed the back of the jacket with one hand and swung her around. "So tell me."

Cheryl gazed, not quite as steady as she would have liked to, into her mother's accusing eyes. "Diane," she said. "That's where. My friend Diane lent it to me, okay?"

But before Virginia could say anything else, Peter was in the doorway, three cans of beer balanced one on top of the other in the palm of one hand and leaning against his chest. "Why don't we all sit down and have a drink?" Winking at Virginia he pushed one of the cans into her grudging hands; aiming a kiss at Cheryl's cheek that she only partly managed to evade. "Did you have a good time this evening, sweetheart?"

"I...I don't think you should call me sweetheart." Cheryl said, articulating too carefully.

"Oh, and why's that?"

Cheryl thought about it and after some consideration decided that she didn't know. She sat on the arm of the couch and wobbled a little.

"For Christ's sake." Virginia said from the armchair beside the TV. "Take that coat off indoors."

Cheryl tried, but got her arm caught up in the sleeve and couldn't seem to shake it free. Peter finally got up and helped her. Cheryl started to giggle. "You're not going to call...you're not to call..." Losing her balance, she began to topple backwards against her father. Peter wasn't strong enough to hold her and they both fell to the carpet, sprawling and rolling until they ended up against the wall, laughing and crying in each other's arms.


"For heaven's sake pull yourselves together!" Virginia shouted, but despite herself, it wasn't long before she was laughing along with them. Wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater she swallowed too much beer and began coughing so hard that she couldn't see through the tears and Cheryl held her hands while Peter patted her back and cooed softly in her ear for her to get a grip.

Needing to get to the press conference on time, Dobey left his favorite duo to interview Arnold's second hand man. It was uncomfortably warm in their superior's office, the air hanging stiff and heavy. A large blue fly, fat and lazy, had woken from its long sleep and now buzzed aimlessly around the room.

"This is it? There's nothing else?" Starsky dropped the last sheaf of stapled papers on top of the rest.

Kahn responded to the implicit criticism by tugging at the cuffs of his shirt and sitting up straighter in his chair. "The preliminary interviews, yes. They were transcribed from tape."

"Preliminary? You were planning to interview some of these people again?" Hutch asked, leaning forward he straightened the pile.

"If necessary, yes sir."

"I'm Hutch, he's Starsky. And?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand what it is you're asking."

"What I'm asking," Hutch tried not to sound irritated, but did anyway. "is if there were any definite plans. Did Roger intend to speak again, officially, to any of these people?"

The fly which had lain silent for a while, started up again. Starsky looked around the office for something to swat it with. Not seeing anything, he rose and moved closer to it. In one deft move his arm flung out and he had it neatly cupped in a loose fist, opened the door and flung it into the hallway.

Kahn smoothed the palms of his hands along the top of his legs, he could feel the heat rising and knew he was starting to sweat. Soon, he thought, he would be able to smell it; how he hated that. "No, sir." He finally answered. "Not that I was aware of."

"There were no conclusions as ta why Stephen Barrett took his own life?" Starsky asked resuming his seat.

"No, sir."

"An' no blame?"

"Sir?"

"He wants to know if any of the staff had any kind of culpability attached to them." Hutch clarified.

"No, sir. There wasn't any."

"How do you feel about that?" Starsky asked.

"Did you feel that everyone was being honest, and telling the truth?" Hutch expanded before Kahn could ask. Amazed that so many couldn't read what his partner was thinking as easily as he could.

Kahn's underwear were beginning to stick uncomfortably to his skin and he had to stop himself from easing his ass up from the chair and pulling them free. "Detective, I'm not sure..."

"What we're getting at?"

"No, no. I think I understand that. But..."

"But Roger Arnold was a senior officer and he was just found brutally murdered." Starsky said.

"Yes."

"You don't want to be thought of as disloyal." Hutch's crystal eyes flashed knowingly at his partner before riveting them back on the nervous young man.

"That's correct."

Hutch rubbed at the top of his chest where the V of his shirt left it bare. Starsky's eyes were glued to the movement, his mouth instantly watering at the same time his cock twitched in approval.

"In your own words, what this represents is the basis of a preliminary report. There is nothing to say, that had he lived, Roger would not have taken this a little further. He mentioned to us, for instance, that he thought that the supervision on the night of Stephen's death was a little slack."

Kahn nodded yes, at the same time thinking of how glad he was that he was one of the good guys, a bad guy wouldn't stand a chance being bounced between these two.

"You were there when Peter Matthews and Theresa...Beck were interviewed." Starsky leaned back with a bored expression on his face, though his eyes were intently studying Kahn.

"Yes, sir."

"Did ya think they were hiding anything?" Starsky got to the point.

"Matthews, he was nervous. Stuttering all of the time. Not stuttering exactly, but stumbling over his words a lot." Kahn's eyes widened with the remembrance.

"And the woman?"

"Defensive. Resentful was my first thought, as if we shouldn't have been questioning her at all."

"All right." Hutch stood. "Here's what you're going to do. Try and find out when Social Services are planning to publish their report. Given what happened to Arnold, you might be able to get some idea of which way they're planning to go, and if they think there are any serious reasons for concern. Then contact Jordon and tell him that we will probably need to come back and talk to his people again. Try not to get his back up or alarm him. You could tell him that there are a few loose ends that need to be tidied up. Under the circumstances he should buy that."

"Think you can handle all that?" Starsky grinned coming to his feet.

For the first time since entering the room, Khan felt able to smile. "Yes sirs, of course."

"That was like pullin' teeth." Starsky sighed and sat back down when Kahn left.

Hutch smiled. "He's young, we probably scared him half to death. Not to mention that he just lost his boss."

"Yeah." Starsky agreed. "What's next?"

"I guess I should go and get Lynn, and take her out to see Margaret." Hutch poured another coffee instead.

Starsky held out his own empty mug for a re-fill. "We'll go together."

Setting the carafe back down, Hutch spooned some sugar and added a creamer to Starsky's cup. "Afraid to let me out of your sight?" He grinned.

"Nope. Just don't like the idea of you bein' alone in a confined space with a beautiful woman." Starsky peered over the rim of his mug.

"Beautiful women haven't moved me for a long time now, hon." Hutch bent over and nipped Starsky's earlobe. "It's you that makes my head spin and my knees go weak."

"Mush head." Starsky laughed at the same time feeling his groin perk up. "Don't start what ya can't finish."

Hutch frowned and pulled back.

"What?" Starsky was instantly alert.

"It doesn't look like we'll be able to finish anything soon." Hutch answered.

"Do not despair my fair-haired bride." Starsky said with a flourish. "I've been thinking about that."

"You have, have you?" Hutch chuckled.

"Yep. I've been thinking about our vacation when all this is over." Starsky grinned.

"You don't think we'll be too busy moving in to really get a chance to..." Hutch waved a hand between the two of them.

"We'll have plenty of time." Starsky licked his lips and stood up. "That's what I've been thinkin' about. We'll hire a moving company ta pack us up and move us in."

Hutch was silent for a few moments, before looking up. He slowly smiled. "That would save us a lot of sweat and hassle."

"It was the time I was thinking about." Starsky's smile widened. "The biggest plus being that we can save our muscle power for more enjoyable things."

"I was just thinking that too." Hutch's own smile broadened.

"Good. Now let's go get Lynn and keep your mind focused on us." Starsky lightly patted Hutch's belly before opening the door.

"That won't be too hard to do." Hutch whispered under his breath and led the way out of the office.

Chapter 21

When they re-entered the squad room, Lynn was waiting for them with a smile that lit the room as she stood. "All set to go, Hutch?"

Starsky noticed that Lynn appeared to be wearing more makeup now than she had when they had been called into Dobey's office. An added dash of color, blue-green, above the eyes. Lipstick, no liner and not overly done, but there. She wore a thin turtle-neck under a light tan jacket and matching skirt.

"Pretty much." Hutch smiled back. "Since I don't have my car we'll be taking Starsky's."

Lynn laughed and looked at Starsky. "You're going to trust him with your car?"

"I trust him with my life." Starsky shrugged. "But he'll be ridin' shotgun with you in the back."

Lynn's blazing smile faltered for an instant when it dawned on her that the dark half of the duo would be going along with them. Recovering quickly she looked back at Hutch. "We could take mine."

Hutch shook his head. "It works out better this way. We'll probably just have enough time to drop you off at the door on the way back before heading out to make a few other stops."

Starsky tongued the inside of his cheek but managed to keep his mouth shut. It was only when they were at the car and Hutch opened the passenger side door that jealousy hit him with a bang. Lynn removed her jacket as Hutch pulled and held the seat forward for her, her right breast pressing up against his arm as she climbed in. Sitting back while Hutch took his seat, she glanced into the rear-view mirror and was frozen in place. Icy crystals of dark blue reflected back at her with an unmistakably dangerous glint.

Flushing darkly she sat back and with little to look at, now that the front seat and the blond were so obviously off-limits, she stared out the side window.

Hutch yawned and glanced across the seat, catching the angry scowl his partner had on his face. Twisting around a little he saw that Lynn had turned not only quiet, but seemed to be sulking as she stared out the window. Rubbing his temple he faced the front again, wondering what it was he had missed.

"Roger Arnold's wife." Lynn's voice suddenly broke the uncomfortable silence. "What's she like?"

Hutch thought for a minute before answering. Remembering a shortish woman, not lively, but a good listener. The times they had met her socially at police functions she had kept pretty much in her husband's shadow, but whenever they had been to the house, she was much more relaxed and liked to talk. Roger fading into the background, clearing dishes and makeing sure the drinks were filled.

"A really nice woman." Hutch said. "Straightforward and sensible."

"Kids?"

"Two I think, eh, Starsk?"

"No, three. They're all grown up and left home." Starsky corrected. "I think one might be married, but don't remember for sure."

"You know, we really didn't know them that well. In the last couple of years we'd hardly seen them at all." Hutch added.

Lynn made a slight nod with her head, concentrating on the driver in front, who couldn't seem to make up his mind which lane he was supposed to be in. A few hundred feet ahead they could see the area where the body was found, still staked out and cordoned off.

The young man who answered the door looked enough like his father for none of them to wonder who he was. Terry Arnold had inherited Roger's facial expression, the color of his eyes and the beginning of the same peaking of the hair. Although he had enough of his mother's genes to be shorter, stockier, and set more squarely on the ground. He had come with his wife and two year old son from where they lived on the outskirts of San Diego.

Terry shook hands with Starsky and Hutch, accepting their condolences, nodded a little awkwardly at Lynn Gomeau, and led the three officers through the house and into the living room.

"I'll tell Mom you're here."

Starsky thought that Margaret may have been in bed resting or somewhere alone with her own thoughts. But through the French windows, he could see her bending to deadhead a rose, her grandson behind her, running and falling, arms akimbo, onto the gravel path. Stifling his squawk of tears, Margaret scooped him into her arms and held him tight against her, shh-shhhing into his blond hair. His mother came hurrying over and took him from her, hoisting him high into the air and turning the tears into laughter. Crushed against Margaret's chest the white petals of the rose fell aimlessly to the ground.

"Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson?"

The girl that came toward them from the doorway had to be eighteen, possibly nineteen, but looked younger. Fair hair pulled loosely back, she was wearing a cream shirt tucked into faded jeans. The eyes she regarded them with were alert and half-amused.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other, hoping one would jog the other's memory.

Starsky looked at her again. "You're Stephanie?"

"Not a bad try. Actually, it's Susan. But I still don't think either of you really remember."

Hutch shook his head.

"You both came here with Dad. I think I was eleven or something like that. I remember pestering you about how you got to be policemen. It's all I wanted to be at the time and Dad, well, he wouldn't talk about it. Said it was the last thing in the world I should do. Not a job for a girl, that's what he used to say, it's not a job for a girl." She looked over at Lynn. "Do you think he was right?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

Lynn realized she wasn't certain. If there was an easy answer she couldn't think of it. "I suppose it depends on what kind of woman you are. But then we all have different ideas, don't we? About what work should be."

"And women." Susan said.

Lynn looked at her, saying nothing. There was a clear smile at the sides of Susan's mouth and in the corners of her eyes.

"But do you like it?" Susan asked. "You enjoy what you do?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"Good. It must be terrible being stuck in some job you can't stand. A boring nine to five grind."

"Well," Lynn smiled, "this certainly isn't that."

"You still thinkin' about joining the Force?" Starsky asked.

Susan laughed. "I think all my dad's propaganda must have worked." Almost apologetically, she looked at Lynn. "He thought it was man's work, I'm afraid. Men six foot and over." She smiled a little wistfully. "Bit of a traditionalist, my Dad, where gender roles are concerned."

Hutch watched her face for any sign of what she was feeling. Talking about her father the way she was, seemingly forcing herself to do so. Making herself talk about him in order to keep him alive, he thought.

"What are you going to do?" Lynn asked.

"I'm going to agricultural college."

"You're going to be a farmer?"

Susan shook her head. "Trees. That's what I'd like to do eventually. Get into forestry. Grow trees, hundreds of them. Thousands."

Lynn was grinning broadly.

"What?" Susan asked. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I was just wondering where that came on the list of
traditional women's jobs. Not very high, I wouldn't think."

"Dad said I'd grow out of it." Susan laughed again. "A phase I was going through. Bless him, he didn't really understand. Not that or a lot of other things."

She was smiling at Lynn when her mother walked into the room. "All this cheeriness," Margaret Arnold said, "I wondered what on earth was going on."

Susan stepped back, guiltily silent; the smile disappeared.

As Hutch moved forward to greet her, Margaret's good intentions evaporated and her brave front collapsed into tears.

"I'm sorry." She said, again and again, as Hutch hovered uncertainly around her, he reached out a hand and Starsky placed a handkerchief in it. Offering it to her, she refused shaking her head. "I kept telling myself I wouldn't do this. That I wouldn't create a scene."

"Mom," Susan said, "It's okay to cry."

Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a wad of damp tissue and blew her nose, pushing automatically at the ends of her hair. "Time enough for that later. It's not what Ken and David are here for, is it boys?" She sniffed. "I'm sure there are questions to be asked, isn't that right? Work to be done."

"Mom..." Susan started.

"No. It's what your father would have wanted. Right Ken? Dave? It's what Roger would have wanted done. Leave no stone unturned."

They had gone out into the garden, the house too cramped for Margaret, too confining, too full of her husband's memory. She told them all that she could remember, most of what they wanted to know. Roger's early-morning swim, the trips they had made together to the supermarket and then to the garden center later in the day. The letter from their pastor inviting Roger to preach on Sunday a couple of weeks from now; the phone calls from Susan and from their middle child, a son in Vancouver, and the call that Roger had taken in the hall, somebody that called him and he'd phoned them back and they talked for quite awhile. Something else to do with the church, she thought, Roger hadn't said.

Standing now near the bottom hedge, the four of them, Margaret, Starsky, Hutch and Lynn, they were all silent for a few moments. The electric hum of unseen lawn mowers rose up and merged with the dulled roar of a passing plane.

"He was angry, Ken, Dave, you can understand that. These last few years were very hard on him. He felt that he'd been passed over. He had given them everything he had and they didn't want any more, so they hid him away in the wretched place. Offices with closed doors." She smiled. "You knew him, both of you, better than most. He wanted to be out there, doing things. Real things, work that mattered." She half turned away, shaking her head. "That doesn't mean anything, though, does it? Not anymore...not now. He was a dinosaur. That's what Roger was; he embarrassed them."

"Margaret, no..." Hutch began.

"He embarrassed them and that's why they shut him away and waited for him to die."

"Margaret..." Starsky tried.

"An now this..."

"Margaret, plea..."

"All this..." She was facing them again, eyes raw not with loss but anger. "This performance, this great paraphernalia, all of you running around like headless chickens. 'who did this? Who did it? Isn't it tragic? Terrible?' Of course it's terrible. He was my husband. But it's what you wanted all along."

"Margaret, you know that's not true." Starsky said.

"Isn't it? Not you two, maybe. Not personally. But the rest of them, all those smart young men--and women--with their smart young attitudes and psychology degrees. They don't care about him, none of them. Not a one."

"Mrs. Arnold," Lynn said, "we'll catch whoever did this, we will."

Margaret looked at her long and hard, this young woman who could almost have been her daughter, so earnest and believing what she said. "And if you do," She said, "what difference will it make? What difference will it make now?"

Hutch waited until they were all seated back in the Torino. "That call, the one unaccounted for. Have the number checked out, Lynn. Just in case."

Chapter 22

It turned out that the young man that found Roger Arnold's body was probably not guilty of anything other than being stupid. Walking away from a full scholarship from UBC mid-way through his second year, he seemed to be more intent on throwing his own life away instead of setting out to harm others.

The police divers working off their launch were still dragging the canal on both sides of the bridge. So far they had come up with two reels of fishing line, several discarded rods, the rusted frame of a bicycle, one picnic hamper, four nasty-looking knives, a pair of roller skates, assorted pots and pans and finally a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. The latter of which was generating a lot of interest from the detectives involved in a three month old robbery. Nothing had turned up that might have been used in the attack on Roger Arnold.

Forensic's had recovered enough splintered fragments from the dead man's skull and face to be certain that the weapon involved had been varnished. In this country, where the game was a National past-time, the odds were pretty good that it was a baseball bat. There was also some blood, not a lot of it, but enough to show that it was a different type than Arnold's.

The support team had gone over the ground with a fine-toothed comb. Dog turds, cigarette butts and empty packs, fast-food containers, used condoms and so on. They managed to find two items of potential interest: an audio-cassette tape, unlabeled, and a large-sized left-hand leather glove. It was well worn and scuffed around the finger tips and smooth in the palm. Both of the items were undergoing further tests.

Twenty-seven sets of footprints were counted within the vicinity of the attack. A chart showing the positioning of them was still in the later stages of completion. It already seemed to suggest that only nine were strongly present close to where the body had fallen, and of that, five looked like they partially circled it. The impressions of three of these had been made by some kind of running shoe, one by a heavy work boot and the last, most likely, came from an everyday type rubber-soled walking shoe.

It was soon discovered by the door-to-door officers that there had been a racial scuffle between two sets of youths in one of the nearby bars late that night. The owner didn't know any of their names or where they went after he threatened to call the police, but he guessed they would have headed towards the canal.

Starsky and Hutch were just on there way back from Dobey's office, when Lynn intercepted them with her analysis of Roger Arnold's movements and contacts during the last twenty-four hours of his life.

"It's pretty much all there." She said, all business and not quite meeting either man's eye. "There's still one or two gaps I have to fill in."

Hutch gave the first sheet a quick glance. "Anything that looks helpful?"

"Afraid not. Trips to the market and the garden center, like she said. A dip in the pool and walking the dog."

Starsky took the report and began skimming the remainder. "Okay, thanks."

"There's one more thing, Hutch." Lynn said, ignoring Starsky altogether. "You remember you asked me to track down that call Arnold made the day of his death? The one that was unaccounted for?"

Hutch looked at her expectantly and she pushed a folded piece of paper into his hand. He opened it, looked thoughtfully at the name, then folded it again before pushing it down into an inside pocket of his jacket.

"There were two other calls, too. Unanswered, but logged in Arnold's office."

Hutch smiled. "Good work." And then as Lynn turned away. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, still not looking directly at him. "I'd like to take an hour later, for personal time?"

"Okay."

They continued their separate ways, Starsky and Hutch down the corridor and another meeting, this time with Kahn, and Lynn making her way toward the stairs.

Hutch looked back at her, then at his partner with a raised eyebrow.

Starsky shrugged. "I didn't say a word ta her."

"You probably didn't have to."

The meeting with Dobey had not been encouraging. The blood type wouldn't be useful until they actually had a suspect. Which left the shoe prints, the cassette, and--the most unlikely to find--the baseball bat. The gang members were a strong possibility, and the bartender was going to be pushed a little harder to supply them with a few names. Until they found out more on that they were pretty much back to square one, depending more on information and calls the media appeals were bringing in. These were being processed slowly, the more promising of them, laboriously checked out. But so far...nothing.

For his meeting with Starsky and Hutch, Phillip Khan had worn a blue-black blazer, lightweight tan slacks and highly polished brown shoes. His tie, a deep dull red, was one that his girlfriend had given him a month after their second date and the first time they had slept together.
He was dressed to impress, and the fact that the famous pair nearly scared him out of his wits, he chose his clothing that day as if picking out armor. He was fidgeting nervously when he saw them hurrying up the short flight of steps and through the door to the reception area. He had thought they would talk here, but Starsky insisted they walk a short distance to a deli. Not hungry and not a big fan of tea or coffee, he was content to sit and watch until they both ate, sharing a sandwich and belting back a couple of cups of coffee.

"Okay," Starsky wiped his mouth still chewing his last bite. "how far've we got?"

Kahn told them that he had been given a hundred reasons why the contents of the Social Services report couldn't be revealed before it was published. Then it was hinted to him, quite heavily, that there had been no serious lapses in security, nor any reasons other than whatever was the state of his own mind as to why Stephen Barrett had taken his own life.

"And Jordon?" Hutch asked.

"Defensive, basically. One minute borderline aggressive, the next not able to do enough to help."

"Then he doesn't have any objection to us re-interviewing the two staff members on duty that morning?"

"None, but," Kahn smiled, "Peter Matthews is off sick, it's quite serious according to Jordon, says he doesn't know how long he may be out. And the woman, Theresa, um...Beck, she's on vacation."

"Since when?" Starsky's eyes widened at the same time his partner's did.

"Since this past weekend."

Hutch's second coffee gave hot chase to the first. "Come on," he said, getting to his feet, "I think It's time we paid Derek Jordon another visit."

"Don't you think we should call him first? I could..."

But Starsky and Hutch were already on their way. "Let's make it a surprise." Starsky called back over his shoulder.

The sound of 'KISS' and the 'Sex Pistols', identifiable to Kahn if not to Starsky and Hutch, squeezed out from beneath a dozen doors. There was a lot of swearing and laughter ringing through the halls. Two teens played pool in one of the larger downstairs rooms, while others sat around watching and waiting for their turn.

Jordon kept them waiting only five minutes and then greeted Starsky and Hutch with firm handshakes and a surprising show of warmth. "I'm afraid we got off on the wrong foot the last time, detectives. Let's blame it on the strain of what happened, shall we? Come in, come in. Please sit down. Would you like some tea or coffee?"

All three declined. Kahn took his note book from inside his blazer and uncapped a pen. Starsky glanced at his partner, the slight nod he received telling him that they both had noticed that the veins crisscrossing Jordon's face were even more pronounced than before.

"Well it looks as if, unofficially of course, as if the report will put us in the clear." Jordon treated them to his best PR smile, the one usually saved for the occasional middle-class parent or visiting minor politicians. "I spoke to the head of Social Services not even an hour ago. It seems they'll be giving us a clean bill of health, thank heavens." Abruptly he leaned forward, arms resting on the surface of the desk. Serious now, smile set aside. "Of course, it does nothing to minimize the awful tragedy of that boys death."

If he expected agreement, a sharing of sympathy, congratulations even, he got nothing. Starsky and Hutch both leaned back at the same time, two sets of blue stared at Jordon's face.

Nervous under the intensity of their gaze, he flicked at some dandruff on his shoulder, then tugged at the lobe of an ear. He looked from Starsky and Hutch to Kahn, then back again. "The, er, officer here, Phillip Kahn, explained that there were questions you might want to ask me..."

"Your staff." Hutch said.

"Sorry?"

"There are questions we need ta ask your staff." Starsky answered.

"Of course, if..."

"Mr. Matthews and Mrs...Miss. Beck." Starsky prompted.

One of Jordon's hands swatted the air in Kahn's direction. "As I explained to the young man here, unfortunately neither one of them are currently available."

"Unfortunately?' Starsky's brow raised.

"I'm sorry, I..."

"Ya said, unfortunately."

"Yes, I..."

"Not fortunately?" Hutch interjected.

Jordon seemed to be suddenly short of breath. "Detectives, I don't see..."

"Miss Beck is on vacation?" Starsky.

"Part of her annual leave, yes."

"How long ago was this arranged?" Hutch.

Jordon's head swiveled toward a chart attached to the wall behind him. "Usually such things are arranged, you know, at the beginning of the year."

"So there was nothin' sudden about her takin' off now?" Starsky hid the smirk that his lips tried desperately to form.

"Oh, no."

The green lettering denoting her absence looked, to both detectives, remarkably fresh. Starsky raised an eyebrow in Kahn's direction and Kahn made a note in his book.

"And you have no idea, I guess, where she decided ta spend this time off? Overseas, maybe? At home redecoratin' the bathroom, anything like that?"

Jordon shook his head. "My staff and their private lives..." He shrugged as if it was none of his concern.

"And Mr. Matthews?" Starsky continued, relaxed and relishing Jordon's discomfort, it was giving him a sense of satisfaction he didn't understand. "We understand that he's off sick?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Tummy bug? Flu? Typhoid fever?" Hutch took over after a wink from his partner.

Jordon was giving his ear a little more attention. When his hand brushed the side of his head another little flurry of dandruff showered down.

"What is wrong with him, Mr. Jordon?" Hutch leaned forward.

"I believe the doctor's note mentioned nervous exhaustion."

"Brought on by what happened here to Stephen Barrett?"

"The note gave no indication..."

"But that's probably the reason, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't know if it's wise to conjecture..."

"As a member of your staff, you would have realized if he was abnormally upset. He did find the body, didn't he? That morning we spoke ta him, he seemed pretty distressed ta us." Starsky also leaned forward.

Kahn, who had been enjoying the volley between the detectives, suddenly sensed that they were moving in for the kill.

"Naturally. Peter is a very caring man. Dedicated." For a moment, Jordon's eyes switched anxiously toward Khan, as if unnerved by the movement of his pen. "Something like that, would have had to have affected him."

Starsky was nodding agreement. "Then there's nothin' else, no other reason that you can think of, no other cause for Mr. Matthews ta be suffering from--what was the expression--nervous exhaustion?"

"No."

"He wasn't apprehensive, for instance, about the results of the inquiry?"

Jordon shook his head. "He had no need to be. He would have known that and rightly so, as I said the report..."

"I meant the police side of it. Mr. Kahn here, and detective Arnold." Starsky said.

"Certainly not."

"And Miss Beck, as far as you know, she wasn't upset by what Detective Arnold may have found?" Starsky leaned back, silently letting his partner know that he had had enough for now.

"If she was, she certainly never expressed these concerns to me. Quite the opposite, in fact. After her interview, as I recall, she said that she thought it had been less of an ordeal that she had been afraid of." Jordon was feeling secure enough to try a smile again. "I'm sure, in no small way, it was due to your colleague here." He waved at Kahn.

Hutch nodded. "I see. You have no idea, then, why she left two messages at Detective Arnold's office, or why, when she finally did get to speak to him at his home on the day that he died, they talked for almost three quarters of an hour?"

Jordon's head dipped forward and he closed his eyes. You slick bastards, Kahn was thinking, looking at Starsky and Hutch in wide-eyed awe.

"Mr. Jordon?" Hutch said.

A vein on the side of Jordon's head was beginning to throb. "I'm sorry, I know nothing about that at all." He held Hutch's glare for several moments. "I don't even know if it's true."

"We'd like you to give detective Kahn some addresses and phone numbers for both Mr. Mathews and Miss Beck." Hutch said, getting to his feet. "You may as well give him the same for all the other members of your staff while you're at it. We don't know how many we need to talk to and it will save time down the road. Oh," He snapped his fingers, "we'd also like a copy of that medical chit you mentioned."

Angry, but uncertain, Jordon gave one last try. "I don't see that you have any right, detective..."

"Mr. Jordon." Hutch slammed his hands onto the desk and hovered over him, his own anger rising to the surface. Starsky moved in close to pull his lover off if need be. "Not only has a boy died while under your care, a police officer, the one looking into that death has been murdered. Just how much right do you think we need?"

Chapter 23

Eric Barrett discharged himself from the hospital and caught a taxi, giving the driver his home address. His face still showed signs of bruising and his ribs would have to stay taped for the next couple of days, but otherwise he was feeling better than he had a right to with the beating he had taken.

Virginia greeted him with a kiss and hug that made him wince, and Peter grinned and reached up from the sofa to shake Eric's hand and say welcome home, as though it was his home to welcome him into.

"How much longer is he staying?" Eric asked Virginia out in the kitchen, not bothering to lower his voice.

"Come on, hon." Virginia said. "Don't be like that."

"I'm not being," Eric said, "like fucking anything."

Less than half an hour later he was gone again, ignoring his mother's questions about where he was going and when he might be back. He caught a bus and after a ten minute walk was at the house where his friend Gerry Hovenden lived.

Hovenden was one of the guys Eric hung around with, drinking themselves silly on weekends, a good friend. When Eric came around the corner, Hovenden was down on his hands and knees by the front walk, the exhaust of the motorcycle he was repairing laid out on an old length of oily cloth near the front door.

"Hey, how's it going?" Eric said.

"Slowly, How about you?"

Eric grinned. "Slowly, too."

He stood for a while on the threadbare patch of front lawn, feigning interest.

"There's not much point asking you to lend a hand." Hovenden grinned.

"Not a lot." Eric agreed.

"Go on inside if you want, nobody else is home. You know where everything is."

Hovenden lived in the rental house with his dad, his mother having moved somewhere up north with a truck driver that hated Gerry's guts. Since she'd left, his father had taken up with a woman who worked in a flower shop and he spent more time at her house than here. Added to that, he worked shifts. So most of the time now it was as if Gerry lived there by himself.

It was a flat-roofed house built sometime in the fifties on a spent up estate. A few of the homes were owner-occupied, but most of the tenants rented. Maintenance was haphazard at best, paint flaked away from around the window frames, and once enough water had collected on the roofs it always found a way in.

Eric turned on the TV and wandered away without really looking at it. There were four cans of Bud in the fridge and he snapped one open and sat down on the folded piece of foam that served as a settee. Someone was babbling away on the screen, Eric, still not bothering to watch pulled a bundle of comics toward him and started to leaf through them. Finding a Judge Dredd, he read it from cover to cover. Looking for another one, he found, not a comic, but some kind of fanzine. 'The Order' it was called, the cover showed a large white skull on a black background. One of Gerry's old biker things, Eric guessed, back from when his hair was long and his leather stank of engine oil. Inside, above a picture of a crowd of youths standing outside iron gates, he read: 'The holocaust is a load of shit. Experts examine the myth.'

As he started to read it, Hovenden came into the house, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Oh." He said, seeing what was in Eric's hands. "You found that."

"I didn't know you were into politics." Eric said.

"Yes." Gerry shrugged. "Now and then."

Standing in line at the sandwich counter across the street from the precinct, Starsky and Hutch pondered their rather fruitless day. They had driven with Khan out to the house where Peter Matthews lived. At first, the place had been so quiet that they thought nobody was home, but then Mathews's mother had come through the side gate that led from the rear of the house. A birdlike woman in a yellow dress. Peter she informed them, had been terribly upset by what had happened, that poor, poor boy--Starsky and Hutch assumed she was referring to Virginia's son and not her own, but weren't sure. The doctor had ordered him to take time off work, nervous exhaustion, yes, that was right, signed him off with medication and told Peter to rest. He had gone to stay with a favorite aunt in the Florida keys.

"Coached." Kahn said when they were back in the car.

"What's that?" Starsky glanced in the rear-view mirror.

"She was coached. Every word she said was aimed directly at you two. I don't think she even knew I was there."

Theresa Beck's house, one of those new pseudo-Georgian places, was locked up tighter than a drum. Blinds were pulled, curtains drawn. The burglar alarm had been set and not one but two Falcon locks were on the front door. The neighbors knew her but not very well, one of them did know that she had gone away on holiday, she didn't know to where or when she may be back. Back in the Torino they debated on whether or not to see if they could get permission to send Kahn out to search the Florida coast, but opted to keep that particular idea aside. It was Theresa Beck that had spoken to Roger Arnold and now they wanted her to speak to them. What they did do was send Kahn off to try and establish whether or not she owned a car and to then check with travel agencies, the airport and train stations to see if he could get a line on where she'd gone and when she might be back.

Before they could get their sandwiches into the comparative privacy of the squad room, Taylor intercepted them. "This shoe stuff, guys, it's inconclusive to put it mildly. But I had them look again at the markings and one thing's pretty much agreed on. Whoever was wearing the boots, you can tell from the movement and variations in pressure, he was the one that did most of the damage. The really heavy blows that killed Arnold? He was the one."

"Good work, Keith." Starsky patted him on the shoulder.

"Well done." Hutch agreed.

Starsky had just bitten into his sandwich, Hutch nearly doing the same, until a glob of mayonnaise landed on the cuff of his leather jacket caused him to reach for a tissue instead, when Aitkens entered the room.

"Any luck, Tim?" Hutch asked, tossing the Kleenex aside and picking his sandwich back up.

"Not a lot, the bartender is still claiming not to know any names, but he has agreed to come in and look at some mug shots, we may come up with something that way. I did talk to a couple of regulars who were there that night when the fight first broke out, though. They confirmed that these kids that were throwing their weight around were talking about a ball game they had either seen or played earlier in the day."

"See if you can find out who was playin' where and if there was a league set to play that day or if it was just a bunch of kids getting together to slam a ball around." Starsky said after swallowing a large bite.

Aitkens was barely out the door when Lynn Gomeau came in. "I've been going over that breakdown I did." She said. "Arnold's last twenty-four hours? And there's one period I'm not clear about. He met you in the bar on the Friday night to talk about Stephen Barrett and he didn't get back to the house until pretty late, between eleven-thirty and midnight Mrs. Arnold said."

"And we left him at around half past nine with a half inch of whiskey in his glass." Hutch put his sandwich back down.

Lynn nodded. "According to Mrs. Arnold, he told her that he had been there talking to you two the entire time, made a point of it."

Starsky shrugged. "She could have been getting confused."

"She might. Or Arnold might have been lying."

Hutch looked at her seriously. "In which case he'd probably have had a good reason."

"I thought," Lynn said, "before taking it any further, I'd pop out there and talk to Mrs. Arnold again, see what she says, if that's alright with you."

Starsky was already reaching for the phone. "I'll call her first, then we'll ride out with you. We'll ask her together."

Chapter 24

Susan Arnold met them at the door wearing jeans and an oversized sweat shirt; her hair hung slightly damp against her shoulders. She smiled a greeting and stood back to let them enter, but there was a tiredness behind the smile that she couldn't disguise.

"Mom was lying down." She said. "Why don't you come into the kitchen? She's just getting dressed, but I don't think she'll be very long."

Susan made them all instant coffee, chatting with just a slight awkwardness to Lynn.

Starsky and Hutch stared out the window and into the back yard.

"It won't be long before it will need to be cut." Hutch said quietly.

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, it will."

By the time they had finished their coffee, Margaret Arnold had come downstairs and was waiting for them in the living room, the curtains pulled almost completely closed. No matter how much powder and foundation she used it wasn't enough to hide the extent to which she, in the last few days, yielded herself to tears.

"Margaret," Starsky said gently, "are you sure you're up to this?"

"Yes. Thank you, Dave, I'll be fine."

Seated on the carpet close by her chair, Susan reached up and patted her mother's hand.

"Mrs. Arnold," Lynn began, "you remember there was a phone call your husband made that afternoon?"

"Yes of course. Someone called and he called them back from the hall phone."

"Why did he do that?"

Margaret shook her head. "They hadn't finished their conversation, I suppose."

"Yes, but why go out into the hall? Why not call them back from where he was?"

Margaret looked bemused. Her gaze transferred from Lynn to Hutch then Starsky and slowly back again.

"I mean," Lynn persevered, "wouldn't that have been the easiest thing to do?"

"I really haven't given it any thought, but Roger had his reasons, I'm sure."

"What were you doing, Mom, at the time?" Susan asked looking around.

"Oh, I don't know, dear. Reading, I guess. Yes, I was, a book from the library. I can't remember..."

"There you are, there's your answer." Susan said. "Dad didn't want to disturb Mom's reading, that's why. Nothing sinister about it at all."

Starsky and Hutch exchanged glances.

'I don't suppose you've been able to remember, Mrs. Arnold," Lynn said, "who it was you're husband spoke to? You couldn't when we talked before."

She shook her head. "As I told you then, Roger never mentioned who it was. But I'm almost positive that it was someone from the church. He's been a lay preacher for years. Quite well known too, isn't he, Ken? You would know, very well known."

Nodding agreement, Hutch leaned forward slightly in his chair. "I wonder, Margaret, does the name Theresa Beck mean anything to you?"

She was lost in thought for several moments before answering. "No. No, I can't say that it does. But I expect you're about to tell me that's who Roger was speaking to, is that it?"

Hutch rubbed a hand over his mouth. "It was her number he called."

"So who is she?" Susan asked, agitation lifting her voice.

"A social worker. She's employed at the same place Stephen Barrett died." Starsky supplied.

"Well then, of course," Margaret said, seizing on it quickly, "that's why she would have wanted to talk to Roger. The inquiry. And why he would have been careful to have spoken to her in private. Confidentiality. He was scrupulous about things like that, my Roger, even around me. Ken and Dave? I'm surprised, you both should have known that yourselves."

"The problem is, Margaret, that only makes it harder to understand why he would have a long, private conversation with one of his main witnesses. Especially when it was clearly off the record." Starsky said.

"Oh, no. I'm sure he would have at least made a note of it."

"Sorry. We've been through all of his papers, notebooks, everything. There's nothin' written about this conversation having taken place." Starsky sat back wishing his seat was closer to Hutch. He felt a deep need to make physical contact with his lover, even if it was only to touch a knee or a shoulder.

Margaret Arnold sighed, and seemed to have shrunken even deeper into her chair. "Susan, dear"--touching her daughters arm.--"I'm feeling very tired. I wonder if you'll help me back up to bed. Ken, Dave, you'll excuse me, I know."

They all stood as Susan helped her mother to her feet. Hutch moved closer and as Margaret, leaning on her daughter's arm, passed by, he asked. "What time did Roger get back here that night, Margaret?"

She stopped. "Almost midnight. A quarter, ten to. You should know, Ken, it was you and David he was with. I remember him coming in and up to my room. I was in bed by then, of course. He knocked softly on the door to see if I was still awake. He sat on the bed for a minute and held my hand, telling me what a nice evening he had. Ken, he'd really enjoyed talking to you and Dave. You could see it in his face, some of that old life again. 'Long time since I've done that, hon.' He said. 'Me and Starsky and Hutchinson, closed the bar together. I'll sleep well tonight.' He said and kissed me here, on the top of my head, before saying goodnight."

Less than a half a mile down the road, Starsky signaled right and pulled into the parking lot of a small strip mall. Lynn thought that he intended to get out and buy a newspaper or something. But, engine idling, he sat there, forearms resting on the wheel.

"You think she's lying?" Hutch asked. "Holding something back?"

"No." Starsky answered.

"She's telling the truth, then."

"Yep. As she sees it."

"It would be easier if she was lying, if she knew there was something going on." Hutch released a slow breath.

"And is there?" Lynn piped up, startling the two men.

"What do you mean?" Starsky asked, his eyes watching her in the rear-view mirror.

"That he was having an affair with the Beck woman? Roger?" Hutch had to stifle a giggle.

"That is what you both are thinking, isn't it?"

"With Theresa Beck?" Starsky asked.

"Why not?"

Starsky shook his head, his lips twitching into a smile. "He'd known her less than a week !"

"Come on," Lynn said with a grin, "how long does it take?"

Instead of answering, Starsky focused his eyes straight ahead. He was seeing Hutch for the first time, walking down the corridor in the academy, trying to find the room he had been assigned to. How long does it take?

"I think she's talking about an affair Starsk, not true love." Hutch kept his voice light but his heart soared guessing what his partner was thinking about. "Even so," Hutch continued, "it's doubtful that Roger would have had the chance to speak to her alone."

"The interview?" Lynn pushed.

Starsky shook his head. "Kahn was there the entire time."

"Then it had something to do with the inquiry itself. Maybe something she didn't know at the time, maybe something she felt she couldn't say for the record."

"Because she was afraid?" Hutch swiveled around to look at her.

"Possibly, yes. Or maybe it was something she didn't know at the time, but learned about later."

"Then why would Roger break a lifetime habit and not write it down?" Starsky asked, more to himself than to Lynn.

He and Hutch looked at each other across the front seats, Lynn studying them from behind.

"You guys think it was something personal, don't you?" Lynn broke the silence.

"I don't see how it could have worked. Time, access..." Hutch began.

"Maybe," Lynn broke in, "it wasn't, you know, an affair. At least not yet. What if they just connected somehow and they were just starting to--I don't know what you'd call it--explore?"

"What? In his own house in the middle of the day with his wife in another room?" Starsky bit back a laugh.

"Wouldn't some people find that exciting? The possibility of getting caught?"

Hutch shook his head. "I wouldn't know."

"Did you know Roger Arnold well enough to be sure?"

"No." Hutch answered.

"He and his wife have separate bedrooms. Do you know for how long?"

"Quite a while, I think. I'm not sure for how long, but that doesn't mean anything." Hutch was getting agitated.

Lynn smiled. "It must mean something."

"You're barkin' up the wrong tree." Starsky's eyes darkened and he was tempted to add bitch, but caught himself in time. "Sex may be involved in all this, but it wasn't with Roger and Beck."

Hutch smiled gratefully at him. "You're right there, partner."

"What? What did I miss?" Lynn hated the way the two men spoke to each other without really saying anything.

Hutch turned around. "He loved, no adored, his wife. He may have had a hundred affairs over the years, but there was no way he would allow anyone to threaten or hurt his wife. You're trying to drum up something that never happened, or if it did, had nothing to do with this case, and/or the inquiry."

"Then what did Starsky mean about sex being involved in all of this?"

"Just another theory we're working on." Hutch said before turning back around.

Starsky started the car and pulled back into traffic, not another word was spoken although the partners continued to cast knowing glances at one another.

After dropping Lynn off they went back to the bar to see if anyone could tell them when Roger had left. The same barman that served them on the night they met with Roger was also there now. Yes, he remembered their friend. He had ordered another shot of Canadian Club after they left, but it remained on the table, hardly touched, when he left fifteen minutes later, twenty tops.

Chapter 25

"I think I should make us some spaghetti for dinner tonight, Starsk. I've got a pound of hamburger in the fridge that is going to go bad very soon if we don't use it." Hutch stretched as well as he could in the confines of the Torino. "Besides, I'm sick to death of sandwiches."

"I'd rather go over ta Huggy's, we haven't checked in with him for a long time." Starsky looked hopefully across the seat. "The kids can wait another hour without starving ta death. Tubs could probably last a coupla weeks."

"His name's Stupe." Hutch said with a little grin.

"Ya shoulda called him Stinky." Starsky chuckled.

"Hey, you weren't the one that had to clean it up." Hutch laughed. "I'd still rather go home."

"Come on, babe, I got my heart set on a thick steak and a plate of fries." Starsky said. "Besides, maybe Hug knows somethin' about the gang hangin' around near the place Roger was found."

"Slick, Starsk. Very slick." Hutch shook his head. "But maybe he does."

"Well here comes a blast from the Bear's recent past." Huggy said from behind the bar, already drawing them each a draught.

"Sorry, Hug," Starsky said, taking a stool. "We've been kinda busy."

"I figured as much." Huggy said setting the beer before them. "I imagine half the force is out trying ta find who did one of your brothers in."

"We were hoping you could help us out, Hug." Hutch asked, taking a sip of his beer.

"I will endeavor to do my best. Can you give me twenty minutes?" Huggy smiled.

"Sure thing, Hug. We'll be in the corner, pass it on that we want a coupla steaks one baked and one fries." Starsky said, using the bar to push himself to his feet.

"This bar fight?" Huggy said after Starsky and Hutch filled him in on what they had so far. He had slid into the booth shortly after they had begun their meals. "Gang related?"

"Don't know, we aren't getting a whole lot from anyone that was there." Hutch popped a slice of steak into his mouth.

"Baseball bat, huh?" Huggy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Was there a game that night?"

"There had to have been a bunch of ball games that night, Hug." Starsky swallowed and reached for his beer.

"No, I mean the Dodgers, were they playin'?"

Hutch sat his fork down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Yeah. Yeah they did, Hug, they played the Mets. Won too."

"Nah...couldn't be some of them." Huggy frowned. "Too far away from their usual hangouts.

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other and then back at Huggy. "Who's them?"

"The Choir boys." Huggy said, shrugging his shoulders. "But it's not likely them that did it."

"What are the Choir boys?" Hutch asked after Starsky shrugged his shoulders, looking just as confused as he was.

"A bunch of anti-semantic, anti-other race but white kind of group. I think they started overseas under a different name, but it's been growing ever since. They even have a monthly magazine type thing called 'The Order', they even claim the Holocaust was a hoax, sorry Starsk, set up by the Jews themselves." Huggy shuddered.

"You know any of them, Hug?" Hutch asked.

Huggy looked at him in wide-eyed disbelief, his jaw falling before he answered. "What!? In case you haven't noticed, blondie, I'm not only thin but am also black, add the fact that my personal religious beliefs can be deemed somewhat less than conventional, I would not only not want to know one of them but would run as fast as my skinny little legs could carry me, away from them."

"Why baseball?" Starsky slowly popped a fry into his mouth.

"I don't know, man." Huggy shook his head. "Probably got started by a small group of fans and they do most of their recruiting at the games. Who knows."

"Are they violent?" Hutch picked up his knife and fork and began cutting his steak again.

"I don't think the average member is any more violent minded than you or me, but the fanatics? Let's just say that a lot of the gang-related deaths in this town aren't always drug or gang related, a lot of them are hate related." Huggy said.

"True." Starsky agreed, Hutch nodded.

"Now I know that this cop friend of yours wasn't black, and with a name like Arnold chances are slim that he was Jewish. So why are we wastin' time talking about this?" Huggy slid out and stood up. "Enjoy the rest of your meal, I'll send out another couple of beers."

"Thanks, Hug."

As was predictable, Starsky had an urgent need to use the washroom as soon as the bill came to the table. Hutch automatically picked it up with a smile. He didn't think twice about Huggy following his partner seconds later, when you had to go you just had to go.

"Wanna go for a drive?" Starsky asked when they got back in the car.

"I want to go home, Starsk." Hutch said shifting to the side. "You hate the cats that much?"

"No. I don't hate the cats, Hutch. I just thought it might be nice to go for a drive." Starsky reached over and patted his lover's thigh.

Hutch had caught the guilty look in Starsky's eye just before the curly head turned away. "Why don't you want to go to my place?"

"I do want to go to your place. I just thought...never mind." Starsky sighed. "To Venice we go." He said, changing lanes.

Hutch's suspicions that his partner was up to something...or more precisely, hiding something strengthened when they climbed the steps to the apartment. Starsky was nervous, his eyes staying close to the ground while he chewed on a nail.

Hutch unlocked the door, returned the key to the lintel, and turned the knob. Before he had it opened more than a few inches, he pulled back, blocking Starsky with one arm and reaching for his gun with the other.

"What is it?" Starsky whispered sharply.

"Shhh...I think someone's in there." Hutch said under his breath. "I can smell cigar smoke."

Starsky relaxed. "No one's in there, Hutch. The smell probably drifted in through the windows."

"Mixed with lysol?"

Starsky gently shoved Hutch aside and reached in to flick the switch that turned on the overhead light just inside the door. With a reassuring glance back at Hutch, he pushed the door open and walked in. Hutch cautiously following.

"See? No one but us an' the three stooges tryin' ta bust down the back door."

"Um, Starsk?"

"What?"

"Where's my piano?" Hutch's eyes bulged when he looked up. "Hell! Where...where's all my furniture?"

"Well the piano and your guitar are in our living room. Your couch an' coffee table are in our rec-room, end tables too. All of my stuff is already there. I'm a mortgage man now an' rent free." Starsky grinned proudly.

"Starsky? I told my landlord I wouldn't be moving for another month." Hutch spun around in a jilted circle.

"I know, but Huggy figured that if we left the bed and most of the kitchen and bathroom stuff here we could half-way move in and get a greenhouse, or a rough start of one, built before we moved the plants and all the rest."

Hutch thought that he should be angry, but a worm of delight circled his heart instead, bringing a smile to his face. "Huggy, huh?"

"Yeah. He got us a real good deal on the movers, Hutch, and he's been supervisin' them every step of the way. I gave 'im a list of where every things supposed to go." Starsky said, then bit his lip. The smile lighting his love's face calmed him, but he still wasn't sure if what he'd gone ahead and done, without consulting him, would blow up in his face.

"How much?" Hutch asked draping an arm around his partner's shoulders.

"How much for what?" Starsky leaned into the embrace.

"Both places. The packing, the moving, the unpacking." Hutch said.

"Oh. Eight hundred total, plus a promise ta pay off our tab at the Pits when it's finished."

"You drew him a map of where to put everything?" Hutch snickered.

"An itemized list." Starsky grinned.

Hutch reached his free hand over and pulled Starsky's face toward him, capturing the still smiling mouth in a tooth clashing kiss. The teeth stopped clattering within seconds as their tongues meshed and their lips danced.

A loud yowl from the direction of the greenhouse broke them apart, happy grins on both faces as they caught their breaths.

"I'll feed the kids then we can shower and make love." Hutch bent his head to rest his temple in the soft curls.

"Go shower, Blintz." Starsky gently pulled away. "I'll feed the hoodlums and you can get the bed ready while I clean up."

Knowing that the missing furniture might upset the cats, Starsky filled both their food and water dishes, letting them in just as the water began to run in the bathroom.

Ditzy and Milt began to explore the empty space immediately, Stupe, however, looked around and sat staring at Starsky's back.

The tiny mew made Starsky turn around. Stifling a laugh, Stupe was sitting, his belly too big for his front paws to be placed comfortably in front, instead they were placed on each side of his ample haunches.

"Don't know what's goin' on, eh, Tubs?" Starsky wiped his hands and gently picked the overweight feline up and held him to his chest, careful to support the broad backside. "Here ya go. We haven't moved the food yet." He said, setting the cat down in front of the dish. "We will though, but don't worry, I'll show you where we put it." He thought he heard a little purr, but then considered who it was thought that it was probably gas.

Their love-making was a little nostalgic as it hit them both that soon they would not only be sharing a home but that they'd also be leaving behind two places that were full of precious memories and, not so important, tragic ones.

Their bodies pressed tightly together, they slowly rubbed their hands over each other while their cocks met, dug elsewhere, then met again. They took their time letting the passion build, preferring to explore and savor each touch, each kiss, each other. As their need grew their hearts quickened and their breaths grew louder. Reaching down, hand over hand they brought their cocks together. Hutch threw his head back, Starsky pressed his forehead into the sweat-coated neck. Together they stroked themselves to a climax that was both bittersweet and complete.

"Starsk?" Hutch murmured on the edge of sleep.

"Mmm?"

"Where exactly is the rec-room?"

"Basement." Starsky yawned and snuggled closer.

"I thought so." Hutch mumbled, wrapping his arm more tightly around his partner.

Chapter 26

They were told before even entering the building that Dobey was looking for them. Not stopping to grab a coffee they went straight to his office, Starsky knocking on the door.

"Come in." Dobey said, sitting behind his desk with his hands lightly clasped on top. "This is Trevor Ulman from the Sports League Intelligence Unit."

Starsky and Hutch shared an amused look, Starsky's lips twitching at the corners.

"The Sports League Intelligence Unit?" Hutch asked, shaking the man's hand, and noting the television set beside Dobey's desk.

Ulman was tall and looked to be in his late twenties, about five-eleven, slim and clean-shaven, his dark hair was cut short. He was wearing a tan suit, creased but unlike Dobey's, fashionably meant to be that way, and olive-green shirt and black knitted tie.

"I know it sounds bizarre, but with all the riots over the last several years, Washington set up the unit to try and get the ring-leaders and put a stop to it all." Ulman said, with a smile.

"This is Detective Hutchinson, and that's his partner, Detective Starsky." Dobey introduced them and then waved for them all to be seated.

"This all started in Europe with the formation of the Football Intelligence Unit, when self-styled groups of young men could afford to invest a considerable amount of time and money in promoting violence in and around major soccer fields. Often they would cause the game to be canceled by ambushing visiting fans at railway stations before or after the game. Officers went underground, spending months establishing solid covers before infiltrating the more dangerous of the gangs." Ulman said, giving them a brief history of his job profile.

"When they changed to all-seater stadiums and spiraling admission prices, lots of young people stayed away, hardcore fans intent on causing trouble began to spread out and move abroad, until we now have the same problems here, though on a much lesser scale. Information about known troublemakers was passed on to other national police forces, and although the violence was to a large degree curtailed, it didn't stop. Wrecked bars and cafés, tear gas and riot police." Ulman took a deep breath. "Here take a look at this."

Starsky and Hutch leaned toward the screen as, on somewhat bleached-out videotape, a mob of chanting youths erupted from a curbside bar and swarmed across a broad square, despite the attempts of heavily outnumbered uniformed police to stop them.

Ulman fast forwarded the tape. "Now watch this." He said as the camera closed in on a group of five young men as they chased, tripped, and then proceeded to punch and kick--especially kick--the single youth who had been their prey. Ulman paused the video a couple of frames before a boot made contact with the victim's head.

"That was taken two years ago, Yankee Stadium. But this second clip is more recent, February of this year. I probably don't have to tell you where it was shot."

"Chicago." Hutch said with an edge of disgust in his voice.

"Right."

The screen, in color this time, showed a man in the upper tier, his face, except for the eyes, hidden inside a black balaclava; he stood and turned away from the camera and back toward the crowd, and made a signal with his arm. Immediately the rioting began. Arms were thrust skyward and small paper flags were waved. Seats were ripped off and tossed down onto the unprotected crowd below.

"The Choir boys." Starsky said.

Both Dobey and Ulman looked at him in surprise.

"Huggy told us a little about them last night." Hutch clarified.

"But you're not tryin' ta tell us that all these punks are politically motivated, are you?" Starsky asked.

"Well," Ulman said, "I doubt they're paid members of any party, but that's not the way it works. "They're racists hiding under the flag, and they use baseball and football as a way of spreading propaganda, and gaining converts who'll stay interested just long enough to let them pull off some stunt like the one you just seen. Then they get maximum publicity and can brag about it in 'The..."

"Order." Starsky finished. "We heard about that too."

Ulman nodded. "The difference is, their racism is real: they believe it. To most of them it's more of a game. They're the kind that'll throw bananas at the visiting team's black players and jump up and down making monkey noises, but not notice they've got--what?--three or four black players, at least, on their own team. It's most likely they don't think of themselves as racist at all. And when you get down to it, they probably aren't a whole lot different than the rest of us."

"This racist slant, that would fit in with what the bartender told us about the fight that was there that night." Hutch looked at his partner.

"It does. Though, I have to say, we've got no record of that particular establishment being a meeting place for the kind of character we're talking about. However, habits change. What I can't do, at least until you can provide me with some kind of visual identification, or a name, is tell you whether these youths that created a disturbance that night are known to us already."

"We could try and find out about any locals that might fit the profile." Starsky was looking at Hutch.

Hutch nodded. "That would be the best way to start."

"Absolutely." Ulman took two large envelopes from his briefcase and passed them across to Hutch. "The quality of some of these is a little suspect, they've been blown up from video, but the rest, ones we've taken ourselves are pretty clear. There are brief descriptions included, known associates and addresses, though those do tend to slip out of date pretty quickly."

Phillip Kahn was waiting for them when they left Dobey's office, his head buried in a copy of the 'Times', as soon as he saw them, he hastily folded the newspaper and set it aside. "Theresa Beck. She booked herself on one of those package deals using an American Express card... to Buenos Aries."

"Good. Shouldn't be too hard ta track her down." Starsky said.

Kahn frowned. "That's the problem, I'm afraid. The agency was quite good about it all, and put me in touch with the hotel, the place she was supposed to be staying at."

At the "supposed to," Starsky and Hutch's hearts sank.

"She flew out and checked in and also signed up for a bus trip for the first day, some sort of tour kind of thing, but after that she seems to have disappeared."

"Did the tour company report this to the local police or to anyone?" Hutch asked.

Kahn shook his head. "Apparently they aren't too concerned. She left a message with the tour guide, saying she didn't have any complaints about their service, but just that it didn't seem to be what she had in mind. She was going to go off and spend the rest of the week on her own."

"She checked out of the hotel." Hutch said.

"That afternoon."

"Perfect. That means she could be just about anywhere." Starsky scowled.

"Should we contact the Argentinean police? Interpol, maybe?"

Starsky and Hutch walked over to the water cooler, Starsky leaned on it while Hutch pulled out a Dixie cup and poured some water into it.

"What do ya think?" Starsky asked.

"I think we should talk to Dobey and see if we can get authorization to send Kahn and maybe Taylor to Florida. See if they can dig out Peter Mathews and see what he has to say about Theresa Beck."

Starsky nodded. "Maybe they can find out why she wanted to talk so badly ta Roger."

"It's early, with any luck we can have them cleared and down there by early this evening." Hutch said.

"Go find Taylor," Starsky raised his voice, "an' then the both of you go home and pack a bag."

"Sir?" Kahn asked.

"You're both going to Florida." Hutch turned and answered with a smile.

Aitkens caught up with them just as the Torino indicated it was going to turn left out of the parking lot.

"Win the lottery, Tim?" Hutch asked, lowering his window.

"It's the cassette, boss. The one that was found on the embankment, near Arnold's body." Aitkens said, breathing heavily.

"Music on it, punk rock or something like that didn't ya tell us?" Starsky put the car in park and leaned toward Hutch.

"Audio guys picked up something. The music was taped over it, and there's only bits and pieces, but it sounds like some guy spewing off about white power'n crap like that."

"I'm glad you think it's all crap, Tim." Hutch grinned. "Thanks, we'll look into it."

Gerry Hovenden throttled down and brought the bike through a slow curve that ended outside the house where Frank Miller lived. For a couple of years now, he and Frank would spend Saturdays at a game, out of town games were the ones they really didn't like to miss. They'd have a few drinks before the game and a lot after, making sure to meet up with a few people. Once in a while it turned pretty heavy and that made the trips even better--Frank didn't know his own strength.

"This is it." Removing his helmet, Hovenden nodded toward a two-story brick building, its front door facing the street. There was a piece of paper taped to the door telling visitors to go around to the back.

Eric, the spare helmet Gerry always lent him in one hand, waited while he lifted the bike onto its stand.

"Frank?" Hovenden pushed at the back door and as usual it swung inward, unlocked. He wondered what idiot would be stupid enough to try and rob Frank Miller. "Frank? It's Gerry."

"In here." There was loud rock coming from the front of the house.

Hovenden entered, nodding for Eric to follow. The back room was a kitchen, blackened pan on the stove, mugs and plates overflowing in the sink. Old newspapers were spread across the table, more in piles on the floor. A shelf with books about the Second World War was the only thing neatly arranged in the small room.

"Bit of a reader, is he?" Eric asked.

Hovenden didn't reply.

Frank Miller was standing in the middle of the front room, bare to the waist except for tattoos running up his arms and on his back.

The only piece of furniture in the room, a leather sofa one of his bailiff pals had got him a good deal on, was pushed back to the wall. He had been doing one-handed pushups in front of it and sweat was now dripping down his torso. There was a television on the floor and a four piece stereo and speakers mounted high on the ceiling, right now it was playing Queen, 'We will Rock you'.

Miller turned down the volume, but not by much. He grinned at Hovenden, nodded abruptly at Eric. "Beer?' He asked.

"Yeah." Hovenden said. "Thanks."

"Why don't you grab a couple of cans, Eric? There in the fridge."

The moment he was out of the room, Miller grabbed Hovenden between his legs and began to twist. "What's going on with you two, anyway?" Miller hissed. "In and out of each other's pockets all the fuckin' time, like a couple of fairies."

"Christ, Frank, let go!" Tears were in his eyes. "It's nothing like that, honest."

Frank let him go. "It better not fuckin' be."

"Be what?" Eric asked, leaning against the doorway, three cans of bud balanced on two hands.

"None of your fucking business."

Eric stared at him, Miller staring back. You fat bastard, Eric was thinking, you think I'm afraid of you like everybody else. And one of these days you're going to have to learn that it just ain't true.

"You got a problem?" Miller asked, taking half a pace toward him.

"Maybe, yeah."

"What with?"

"That," Eric said, nodding toward the speakers, "It sucks."

"No," Miller laughed. "That's Queen. They're the best."

But he turned it down some more and Eric tossed him a beer and all three of them drank and started to chat. For now everything was cool.

Eric wondered what Frank's reaction would be if he told him that the lead singer, Freddy Mercury, was gay. He smiled a secret smile and shuddered.

Chapter 27

Days into the investigation, the photographs of Roger Arnold's beaten body had been in danger of becoming little more than part of the incident room decor, scarcely drawing a second glance. But now with some concrete information to work with from the SLIU and a list of names of known right-wing activists in the city, they had some potential suspects to target, getting the adrenaline pumping again. Spirits were high, voices boisterous and loud. The ranks of the investigating team had swelled to include over a dozen more officers, besides Lynn Gomeau, two more came in from Vice.

The map showing a thirty-mile radius of the city had been newly marked with pins in three distinct colors. Three teams were formed, one to cover each area. Brian Mulliak, the man that supplied the list of names of known white-supremecists and was invited by Dobey to assist with the briefing would be running the blue team.

"Some of these people we'll be interviewing may surprise you." Mulliak said. "Some will look like nice law-abiding business men with a wife who works part-time and the regulation two-point-whatever kids. That doesn't mean, though, that they don't have subscriptions to a magazine with step-by-step instructions on how to construct a letter bomb complete with suggestions to where they should send it. Other times the door will open to three Dobermans and a tattooed guy with a beer gut hanging over his jeans and you'll think you've got one of them, only to find out that he's got the biggest heart on the planet. Don't underestimate anyone, and for God's sake don't turn your back on any of them."

Hutch stepped forward. "Remember we haven't got any warrants here, we're not going to go barging in. What we are doing is asking questions, establishing links and finding out where they were the night Arnold was killed."

"But if you do get inside," Starsky said, "if you are invited in, be on your guard an' keep your eyes peeled. If there's anything that makes you think twice, we want to know about it."

"All right. Any questions?" Hutch asked.

There were none and within three minutes the room had cleared, Starsky and Hutch the only ones left.

"You know, Starsk?"

"What?" Starsky moved closer, his voice low.

"Most of the circumstantial evidence points to a random attack, the footprints, the nature of the blows, and it seems certain that there had been a gang of probably drunk, possibly violent kids in the area at the right time and yet..."

"You think it was somethin' more specific, more personal than a random attack where he was a victim solely by chance and circumstance."

Hutch looked again at the blurred black and white images on the wall. "Maybe it's just some kind of sentimentality that makes me want to find a reason...a purpose for Roger's death."

Starsky nodded then looked at his watch. "Taylor and Kahn should be makin' contact with Mathews pretty soon."

Lynn Gomeau along with her new partner, and friend, Sharon Garnett, from vice had almost given up on trying to rouse anyone from this house, it was the second last one on the road, what remained of the front lawn was blackened with engine oil. Sharon was giving Lynn the thumbs-down and turning away when there were footsteps and a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

A runty little man in an open shirt and jeans, opened the door, scratching himself and yawning.

"Sorry to wake you," Sharon said, identifying Lynn and herself. "We're looking for Gerry Hovenden. That's not you, by any chance, is it?"

Unaware, possibly, that he was now standing there scratching energetically between his legs, the man shook his head. "Not by any chance. That's the boy you're looking for, and he's not here."

"Do you know where he is?" Lynn asked.

"Damned if I know."

The sound of a motorcycle approaching gave them a more positive answer. Moments later, Hovenden swung his leg over the seat, Eric was already standing and fumbling to get his helmet off. Fucking law, he thought, what in the fucks name do they want now. It soon became clear.

"Can you tell us, Gerry," Lynn asked, "where you were last Friday night?"

"Home." he replied, with no hesitation.

"Last Friday," his father said dismissively, "I never saw hide nor hair of you all night. "

Brightly covered from the neck up, Hovenden shook his head. "Home at Eric's, that's what I meant. Watched a movie and had pizza, right Eric?"

"That's right." Eric said. "He slept on the couch."

"You're sure about that?" Lynn said, moving a little closer and fixing him with her best stare.

Eric wasn't about to be intimidated. "If I said he was there, then he was." His hard, brittle eyes daring her to call him a liar.

"Well, in that case," Lynn said, "we'd better have your name and address also."

"Eric Barrett?" Hutch said. "That's interesting."

Lynn and Sharon reported to Starsky and Hutch as soon as they finished the last house on Hovenden's block. The four of them were in the squad room, the sky through the window slowly darkening toward evening.

"Came up on the back of that bike, large as life." Lynn smiled.

"Yes." Sharon said. "And he was pretty quick to give Hovenden an alibi, too."

Starsky looked at the two officers, one after the other. "Did either of you believe him?"

Sharon shook her head.

"Not Hovenden, that's for sure." Lynn said. "Lying through his teeth, if you ask me. I'd bet he's covering something up."

"And he's on the political shit list?" Hutch asked?

"That's an apt name for it, partner." Starsky chuckled.

"Thanks." Hutch tossed him a quick grin before turning his focus back to Lynn.

Lynn made a face. "Marginally, really. He isn't a member of any extremist group as far as we know. Hangs around with them, that's all. He's been spotted at a few rallies, but nothing criminal has ever been recorded."

"Okay, let's follow up on it. Check Hovenden's contacts with the others and if he's linked to anyone else that looks interesting." Hutch said.

"And Eric Barrett?" Lynn asked. "Talk to him as well?"

Starsky grinned. "Better let me 'n Hutch pay him a visit. He might be a bit more open with Hutch, here. I think he looks up ta him as kind of a father type figure."

Hutch gave him a withering look.

"I think we should move the cats out if we get off earlier tomorrow." Starsky said, soaking up the remaining sauce on his plate with a piece of garlic bread and popping it into his mouth. Hutch had insisted they stop at a bakery to get it, determined that he wasn't going to allow the hamburger to go bad.

"This case isn't over yet, Starsk." Hutch pushed his chair back, wishing he hadn't eaten so much.

"Does that really matter?" Starsky also sat back, pushing his plate away.

Hutch let his eyes wonder around the empty living room. The table plant the only things left on the floor. "I guess not. It would be nice to be able to cuddle on the couch and watch television before going to bed."

"Exactly, besides we planned ta move in as soon as possible anyway." Starsky grinned. "We can take the house plants out at the same time."

"We could dismantle the kitchen table and tie it to the roof of my car." Hutch's eyes darted about, mentally calculating what else they could fit in both of the cars.

Starsky's eyes gleamed with love watching his blond's mind race. "We could box up all the bathroom stuff an' take that, too."

Hutch was vigorously nodding his head. "Most of the dishes and food stuff as well. I could even clear out the fridge, have to do that last though."

"Leave the dishes for Huggy's crew." Starsky shook his head. "Why bother wrappin' them all up when you're payin' them to do all that."

"You're right." Hutch agreed. "Maybe I can even...what do you mean I'm paying them?"

"I bought us a house." Starsky said, a little defensively.

Hutch smiled. "Yeah. Yeah you did."

Starsky laughed at the glee shining in his lover's eyes. "Maybe you can what?"

Hutch looked a little confused. "Oh, yeah. I was thinking that if I could figure out how to rig up the right kind of lighting we could even get them to bring all the plants in the greenhouse out at the same time they pick up everything else. Then I could turn the keys in right away and not worry about forgetting to do it at the end of the month."

"Sounds like a plan ta me, partner."

Hutch bit his lip and looked, almost shyly, across the table. "This is pretty exciting."

"It sure is." Starsky smiled tenderly.

Hutch let out a contented sigh. "Want to go to bed?"

"I can't think of anything I'd rather do." Starsky nodded, his smile widening. "We'll just dump the dishes in the sink first, we'll have ta make sure we wash them before the movers come in, Huggy said they'd pack anything whether it's clean or not."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's go." Hutch stood, quickly gathering his plate and utensils and dumping them on the counter.

"You're quite the eager little beaver, aren't you?" Starsky laughed, bringing his own over, glancing down he understood why. "Oh boy, maybe we should move more often."

Chapter 28

When Virginia got back from her morning stint of cleaning, Cheryl was sitting at the table with her feet up on another chair and smoking a cigarette. Peter was boiling eggs for his breakfast, his or Cheryl's, she didn't know. At least father and daughter were in the same room together and, if not exactly talking, they weren't shouting either.

"That place," Virginia said, shucking off her coat and dropping it onto the back of a chair, "I don't know if the beer was a little skunky or what, but the state of that men's room this morning was enough to make my eyes water."

"Thanks, mom." Cheryl grimaced, stubbing out her cigarette. "For sharing that with us."

"Yes, thanks, sweetie." Peter grinned. "Just what I needed to give me an appetite for these eggs. Maybe I should have scrambled them after all."

Cheryl leaned over the side of the chair and mimed being sick.

"What I could do with..." Virginia began, lighting up herself.

"Is a smoke and a nice cup of tea." Pete just started to say it when Cheryl joined in, they finished the sentence in unison.

"You two are awfully perky this morning." Virginia said, filling the kettle at the sink.

"We've been getting along great, haven't we, Cheryl?"

"Okay, yeah."

"Then I better not ask you why, young lady, you're not at work, it could spoil this grand mood you're in."

"Leave her alone." Peter urged, bending forward and carefully spooning the first of his eggs from the pot.

"Or where," Virginia continued, "you got another jacket from? And don't waste your breath telling me you borrowed it. Or that you bought it, because with the number of hours you've been working lately, it's you that should be paying them instead of the other way around."

"Ginnie, hon, please drop it."

"That's easy for you to say, you'll be out of here soon enough. I'm the one whose pocket will hurt if she gets a pink slip."

"Yeah, well," Cheryl said with a sniff, "shows what you know, 'cause I already got it."

"What! You stupid young cow, what's the matter with you? What did you go and do that for?"

"I didn't do it, did I? It was done to me." Cheryl swung her legs off the chair, revealing a new pair of black ankle boots, still shiny and un-scuffed.

"You...and what about those shoes?"

"What about them?"

"You stole them, that's what. No two ways about it. You and those uppity new friends of yours. You watch out, my girl, or you'll end up in the same place as Stevie."

"Yeah? Like you fucking care."

Virginia moved to stand over her. "I've told you, umpteen times, before, don't use that language around me."

"No?" Cheryl sprung to her feet, face jutting forward into her mother's. "I'll use whatever language I fucking like. You don't own me, you know."

"Is that right?" Virginia swung her arm wildly, and if she hadn't ducked into instead of away, Cheryl would never have gotten hit. As it was, the heel of her mother's hand caught her hard, alongside her mouth and she stumbled away, blood flowing from her lower lip.

"You bitch!" Cheryl yelled. "You fucking bitch!"

Virginia let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a howl and went after Cheryl with both hands, Peter saying over and over, "Cheryl, Ginnie, cut it out!" and doing his best to drag Virginia back. Cheryl was covering her face with her arms, both she and her mother crying now.

"Cheryl, Virginia, stop it now." Peter still pleaded until Virginia turned on him and shoved him clear across the kitchen.

"Stop whining you pathetic little shit. You get on my nerves more than anyone I've ever met, you really fucking do."

Cheryl seized the moment and ran up the stairs and into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it before she sat, trembling, on the toilet seat.

She hadn't stolen the boots, Diane had, the previous afternoon. As for the jacket, the whole group of them were there when some girl came down the sidewalk going in the opposite direction and straight toward them. Janice reached out and grabbed her by the hair and told her to take off her leather jacket, and the girl of course refused. Janice pulled her hair tighter, then pushed her hard up against the wall, and when she bounced back, smacked her in the face with the heel of her shoe and told her to take off the fucking jacket. The girl realized the error of her ways and turned it over. Janice bowed and laughed, thanking her very much, and with her shoe back on she gave the girl a good kick before strutting across the street, the jacket around her shoulders. Janice stopped and looked at her reflection in some store front glass, crap, she'd said, I look like crap in this. Then she tossed it over to Cheryl, here, you have it, it'll look good on you.

Awesome, Cheryl had thought. Fucking awesome!

And she still thought the same now, sitting there on the toilet, almost able to feel the bruises coming out on her arms and neck.

Kahn and Taylor had gone straight to the precinct after getting off the plane, and were in the squad room waiting when Starsky and Hutch arrived. After telling them about their conversation with Peter Mathews they waited patiently for a response.

"He thinks that he might've saved Stevie Barrett's life if he'd acted quicker, is that the bottom line?" Starsky asked.

"Yes, sir." Taylor said. "He said he couldn't stop thinking about it."

"You don't think there was anything else?" Hutch asked. Taylor shook his head, but Hutch was looking at Kahn.

"I honestly don't think we could have gotten anymore out of him at that time, he was pretty shaken up. But I'm sure he hasn't told us everything." Kahn said after a moment.

"And you think he will?"

Kahn nodded. "I hope so. For his sake as well as ours." He allowed himself a slight smile. "Keith here's not always going to be around to stop him from throwing himself off the edge of the cliff."

"You gave 'im your number, in case he decides ta talk?" Starsky asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Alright. Let's have a closer look at Jordon. Dig around in his background a little. Previous appointments, whatever you can find. Let's try and find out if there are any other reasons for wanting to keep this all under wraps. Okay?" Hutch said.

As the two men turned to leave the office, Taylor automatically stood aside to let Khan through the door first.

"Looks like a partnership in the makin'." Starsky grinned.

"They do seem to work well together." Hutch agreed.

"Guess we should head out and check in on your buddy, Eric." Starsky patted him on the shoulder.

"I can't wait." Hutch grumbled.

It was Peter who answered the door, a light figure in a button-down shirt and a pair of old cords. He looked almost absurd with his little belly sticking out from below his concave chest. Starsky identified himself and Hutch and by the time the introduction was finished, Virginia was there.

"How are you doing, Virginia?" Hutch asked, softly.

Virginia thought they were here about Cheryl, worried that the stupid little thief had gotten caught by some uptight store detective the minute she set foot outside of the shop. But no, not this time.

"Your son, Eric." Hutch said. "Is he here?"

He was in his usual place when home, stretched out on the sofa watching a race on TV, can of beer within easy reach. Most of the time, if he didn't come out ahead with the bookie's, he didn't manage to lose too much.

He looked around at Hutch with flat, cold eyes, took in Starsky and dismissed him with a glance. Signs of the beating he had taken at the hands of the Hayes brothers were fading but hadn't disappeared.

Hutch nodded in the direction of the television and Starsky walked around the sofa and turned the volume down. A horse with a white noseband seemed to be winning by seven or eight lengths.

"That friend of yours," Hutch said. "Gerry Hovenden."

"Yeah, what about him?" Eric was watching the screen, the last runners fading past the post.

"You gave him an alibi for last Friday night."

"So?"

"We thought that now that he isn't here, you might change your mind. Remember things a little differently."

"You're not saying I lied?"

"Loyalty," Hutch said, "is a funny thing."

"Mom," Eric said, pushing himself up onto one elbow, raising his voice toward the kitchen, "where was I last Friday?"

"Here." Virginia answered coming to the doorway. "Here with that pal of yours. Gerry. He brought those tapes, remember? Those scary ones, horrible things, nothing but blood and gore." She then looked at Hutch. "He was here, Mr. Hutchinson. They both were." She looked like she was waiting for him to say otherwise.

What Hutch did was move closer to where Eric was and sat down on the arm of the couch. "You into the same things as him, Eric? Aside from horror movies, I mean. The Choir Boys and things like that. Extremist stuff. Fascist rallies, racist attacks."

Eric shifted his glance over to Starsky, standing easily near the back of the room, and then back again.

"Because if you were, I'd be very surprised. I would think that you'd be too smart to be taken in by stuff like that."

Eric made a circling motion with his shoulders before looking back toward the screen and the winning jockey dismounting in the winner's circle.

"Take it easy." Hutch said, standing up. "Don't get yourself into any trouble if you really don't need to."

Eric didn't budge, and gave no indication that he even heard or heeded Hutch's advice.

Virginia walked the two detectives to the door. "The old girl," she said, "the one, you know, my Stevie..."

"Doris. She's gettin' better, Virginia. Slowly, but she's on the mend. They both are, her and her husband." Starsky answered, he reached up and gently squeezed her arm.

Virginia nodded. "Good. I'm glad for that at least."

Starsky and Hutch walked back to the car, Starsky unlocking the doors and the pair of them getting in, kids along the street and parents at their windows watching.

"What in Christ's name," Virginia shrilled at Eric the minute she got back in, "have you been up to now?"

"Relax." Eric waved her away. "My first horse of the day just came in, twenty-five to one."

Part 29

It didn't take as long as they thought it might. By eight that evening they had everything moved out of Venice Place, except the bed, dishes, dry goods, and of course, the rest of the plants.

Ditzy and Milton were excitedly darting from place to place, pausing to smell this or lightly paw that.

With most of the things in the house, Starsky helped Hutch get the table and legs down into the basement, then he ordered a pizza while Hutch went back outside to start bringing in the non-greenhouse plants.

Hanging up the phone, Starsky rubbed his hands together and went to retrieve the box in the hallway containing his lover's bathroom belongings and bent over to pick it up.

"Mewp."

Starsky raised his head to find Stupe, sitting in his most comfortable position, front paws hugging the back thighs, staring at him. His yellow-green eyes round and confused.

"Hey, Tubs." Starsky straightened, wiping his hands on the side of his jeans.

"Eeow?"

"Hey, come on, kitty, don't be scared, Stupe." Starsky walked the few feet between them and gently picked him up. Holding him close against his chest, lightly petting his head, Starsky took him back to the kitchen.

"This is our new house an'," Starsky placed him on the counter beside the fridge, "you'll see, you're gonna love it here."

Stupe farted, making a little hissing sound.

Holding a can of cat food in one hand, Starsky pointed at Stupe with the forefinger of his other. "I'm startin' ta like ya, Tubs, don't blow it."

Stupe, who was in the process of licking his chest, looked up, his tiny pink tongue sticking out of his mouth.

Hutch had come in and stood quietly in the doorway, an African violet in one hand and a Christmas cactus in the other. A small smile ghosted his face while his eyes lit with love watching his partner interact with the most difficult of the cats.

"Insolent little critter, aren't ya? Well what'll ya do if I don't feed ya?" Starsky was grinning as he opened the can.

Tongue back in, Stupe was on all fours, trying to paw and sniff the can as it quickly turned in a circle, his belly hair lightly brushing the counter-top.

Hutch silently backed away, a contented smile on his face. He knew that if his partner was bonding with Stupe, then the cats wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon.

"All right, big guy," he could hear Starsky say, "ya can help with the preparations, but you're eatin' on the floor here in the corner. Hutch watched in amusement as Ditzy came barreling towards the kitchen from what looked to be the main bathroom, at the same time, Milt came flying out of what was to be 'Hutch's bedroom', lost his footing on the hard floor, his hip hitting the hardwood before gaining purchase and chasing close behind Ditzy. Home, Hutch thought setting both plants on the coffee table. We're finally home.

"Whadda ya want ta do?" Starsky asked, shoving the empty pizza box behind the kitchen garbage can.

"I wouldn't mind taking a short walk around the block, just to get a feel of our new...our neighborhood."

And so they did. Reaching the road at the end of the gravel driveway, there was no sidewalk on their side of Hargrave Street, they automatically turned right. The quickest approach from both of their apartments and work had been from the left, so they continued further down the block than either man had previously explored.

Along the way they discussed plans for building the greenhouse, Starsky getting caught up in his partner's excitement as Hutch detailed his desire to build it in a rectangular U, with the hollow becoming an outside deck with patio furniture and a couple of lawn chairs.

"If we attached an awning, Starsk, we could even sit out there when it rains."

"Sounds perfect." Starsky grinned. "I'd rather that we put in some kind a stone floorin', though, everyone seems ta have a wooden deck."

"That's because most decks are built off the ground." Hutch explained, sighing happily. "Stones would be too heavy."

"Gee, why didn't I think of that?" Starsky laughed and playfully punched Hutch in the arm. "I knew that, dummy."

They had just come to a four-way stop with Lexington running through Hargrave.

"Let's turn left here." Hutch said, wincing and rubbing his arm as he feigned receiving a hurtful blow.

"Why not keep followin' our street?" Starsky asked, not really caring where they went as long as it was together.

"We can if you want." Hutch smiled. "I just thought that, maybe, we've
been going straight for too long as it is."

Starsky groaned then laughed.

They crossed the street, deciding to turn in that direction every couple of blocks until it led them back to their own street. The homes abruptly stopped, making way for a sizeable parking lot bordering a church. They could see that a wrought fence led off from the other side of the long ago built, though well cared for structure, then suddenly ended. Passing by the pair noticed that it continued down along the side of the church and deduced that it probably turned again, at some point, after passing the rear of the building and, in all likelihood, ended at the inner most end of the parking lot.

Coming up to the corner, Hutch tilted his head left, Starsky shrugged with a grin and they made the second of what they thought would total four turns.

"There's a park here, Starsk." Hutch squinted, trying to see further down the sidewalk.

"There sure is." Starsky beamed. "It's not very big, but there's some picnic tables and a joggin' trail running through it, there's even a pond near the middle...well more like a big puddle, but sometimes there's a duck in it."

Hutch stopped. "Another reason you bought the house?" The love in his eyes out shining the brightness in his smile.

"Well...yeah, okay." Starsky bit his lower lip in a shy grin. "I thought it wouldn't hurt ta have a little nature close by that we didn't have ta camp in."

Fifty feet from them, a man stumbled out of the bushes, directly in front of them. Instantly on guard, both of them reached for weapons that weren't there as the adrenaline ignited.

The man swayed, his face a pale blur in the feeble light from the windows of the homes across the street. He tried to hurry past, but when Hutch moved to block his path, raising a hand to stop him, he cowered back and began to shout.

"It's okay, it's alright." Starsky said, cautiously stepping sideways and moving forward to cut off any attempt to run in another direction.

The man stopped yelling, but was now mumbling, over and over, the words running into one another. "Keepbackkeepbackkeepback."

He suddenly bolted, trying to dart past Starsky and squeeze by Hutch.
Hutch caught him by the arm and swung him around, all resistance went out of the man and he broke into tears. There were cuts, Hutch could see now, high on his face, a broad gash above his left eye and a graze that ran all the way down one cheek.

"It's all right," Hutch said softly, not letting go of the man's arm he loosened his grip a little. "No one's going to hurt you, it's okay."

"I'll run across the street an' call for an ambulance." Starsky was already off the sidewalk and about to run.

The man began to scream.

"Go on." Hutch said when Starsky hesitated.

"Not the hospital," the man sobbed, "please not there."

"Let's take 'im home, Hutch." Starsky slowly came back, not wanted to startle the man further. "We could sit him down and try an' get him calmed down. The hospital's not far, anyway."

Hutch was thinking, thinking about the marks on the man's face and how they might have been caused. "All right, I don't think he can walk that far, though, Starsk. You feel up to running back and getting one of the cars?"

Starsky nodded, looking across the street with disgust, not a door was opened nor a drape parted. "You gonna be alright with him?"

"Yeah, go." Hutch glanced over. "Just hurry, okay?"

Starsky took off at a dead run, within seconds he rounded the corner and was out of sight.

Hutch gently led him back to the corner, hoping to get him at least as far as the church and someplace with more light to help see if there were other injuries. The man let Hutch support him as he walked very slowly, as if each step hurt more than the other.

With the lights on in the kitchen, Starsky could now see that the man was older than he had first thought, mid-thirties he would now guess. He wore black jeans with patches of dirt down one side and below the knees, a collarless black shirt was also spotted with blood, he wore white running shoes with a blue stripe.

"Here." Hutch came over with a mixing bowl and a washcloth, he was wearing rubber gloves. "Just in case." He mouthed at Starsky's questioning look.

While he cleaned the man up, Starsky made coffee. "What's your name?" Hutch asked softly. "I'm Ken, Ken Hutchinson and that's Dave Starsky."

"Declan," he said, so quietly they had to strain to hear. "Declan Farrell."

"Would you like to tell us, Declan," Hutch said, while Starsky set a mug in front of still trembling man, "just what happened?"

Declan slowly stirred sugar into his coffee, eyes flicking from one to the other, constantly shifting in his seat, forward and back, crossing and uncrossing his legs and tugging at his jeans. He didn't make any attempt to lift the cup to his mouth.

"You were going ta tell us how this happened." Starsky prompted.

Farrell started, stopped, started again. "This man...this man..." He closed his eyes and quietly began to cry. There was a wedding ring, Hutch noticed, broad and dull, on his hand.

"Go on," Starsky said gently when the crying had ceased. "This man..."

Farrell sniffed loudly, wincing he rubbed tenderly at his eyes. "I was in the park," he began, "I was in the park, walking, cutting across, you know, on my way home from the bar. I had to go. Needed to take a leak and I was just stepping out of the rest rooms when some guy, he...he just came at me with this thing, this--I don't know what it was--bat, maybe."

Starsky and Hutch were both thinking, remembering the same thing:
'mud and grass stains on the dead man's clothes, a smear of earth thick on the fleshy palm of his right hand, a varnished implement, a bat of some kind, baseball most likely.'

Farrell continued, saying, "He just started hitting me, here, you can see. I yelled at him and tried to get away, but he wouldn't stop. I couldn't run anymore, all I could do was lie down on the ground and cover my head until...until he stopped."

"He just stopped, no reason why?" Starsky asked.

"One minute he was hitting me, shouting bastard, things like that. Then he ran off. I heard him going, but I was too frightened to look up. Not for ages, and then when I did, well that was when I met you."

"He didn't take your wallet, ask you for money? Nothin' like that?"

Farrell shook his head, not able to look at Starsky for more than a few seconds at a time, squirming on his chair the entire time.

Hutch leaned forward a little and Farrell flinched. "Would you like to go and sit on the couch?" Hutch said. "You don't seem very comfortable at all."

"No. No, no, it' okay. I really should--my wife, she'll be worried, you know..." He was half out of his seat now, the chair on which he'd been sitting was patched with blood.

Hutch stood and moved towards the doorway leading into the hall, beckoning for Starsky to follow, his eyes never leaving Farrell. "Call an ambulance and then Dobey, tell him to call Maureen Madden. I think he was raped, Starsk."

In the quiet of the house, shock leaped from Starsky's eyes. Hutch took his hand and held it for a moment, the fingers unnaturally cold. Farrell was sitting with his eyes tightly closed, his arms clenched across his chest as if it was the only way he could hold himself together.

With an audible gulp, Starsky nodded and went towards the living room to use the phone there. Declan Farrell started to cry again, tears that seemed as if they would never stop. Hutch sat back down and held him until the ambulance arrived.

Chapter 30

Maureen Madden was the sergeant who ran the rape suite, set up as an attempt, largely successful, to make rape victims--the one's that came forward--feel more at ease than they would amongst the cold brusqueness of the squad rooms. The interview rooms were set up with comfortable chairs, subdued lighting, carpet and soothing landscapes on the walls. In the three years or so since the project had begun, she hadn't had one victim to deal with that was male.

Not that the cozy rape suite was any use to her now, she was called to go straight to the hospital and had no time for anything to give but the most rudimentary of counseling before the doctor on duty carried out his examination. Maureen wasn't certain whether Declan Farrell would have been relieved to discover that the doctor was male, or if by that stage he even cared. She also had no clear idea how he would respond to talking to her rather than to a man about what had happened. It crossed her mind to contact a friend of hers with the Gay Straight Alliance, but then again, she had no way of knowing if Farrell himself was gay. A married man, two kids apparently--she wondered if he knew himself. He had pleaded with them, when they informed his wife of where he was, not to give her the details of what had happened.

Now Mrs. Farrell was pacing the waiting area, chewing stick after stick of Juicy Fruit and dropping coins into the vending machine for lukewarm cups of coffee, and Declan was unburdening himself little by little as Maureen, patient and well trained, gained his trust.

Dobey had rousted out Taylor and Aikens, but wasn't able to track down Bellafontaine. No surprise there. "Nearly midnight on a Friday, cap?" Starsky was quick to point out. "The state Chuck is probably in right now, he wouldn't even make a good ornament."

The public washrooms were tucked in amid a group of trees near the southern entrance to the park and lay in the shadow of the church. They checked the interior, a short line of urinals and one cubicle, careful not to disturb anything Forensics might find useful. The small, squat building was ripe with the stench of stale urine, its walls festooned with barely decipherable graffiti and gouged here and there with crude slogans; some racist, most sexual.

Lights were still showing in a good number of the homes bordering the park, so they began the slow and diligent process of knocking on doors. Uniformed officers, using emergency lighting, made an initial search of the mainly grassed area between the toilets and where Farrell had stumbled through the brush and onto the sidewalk where he was found. At sunrise, the same procedure would be repeated more thoroughly, taking in the area of thick shrubs lining the fence that separated the church from the restrooms.

"How'd you know, Hutch?" Starsky asked, his eyes cloudy with anger that something like this could happen so close to their home.

"I didn't at first." Hutch shook his head and shrugged. "It wasn't until I saw all the blood...then I knew."

"Christ! It must have been horrible for him."

"Yeah." Hutch wanted to wrap his love tightly in his arms, but settled for reaching out and squeezing his arm. "I know." Except I don't, he thought, not really. And hope to God we never do.

The doctor was a young Canadian working there on a short-term contract he didn't expect to be renewed, though that was due to lack of funding rather than any fault of his own. The room in which he spoke to Starsky, Hutch and Maureen Madden was small and white, the overhead lighting so strong it discouraged anyone from looking up. His voice occasionally slurred and it would have been easy to think he'd been drinking if he wasn't so obviously tired.

"You've all seen the cuts on his face, nothing new there. He took quite a few stitches and he won't be anxious to look in a mirror anytime soon, but other than that it's not too serious. There is evidence, though, of severe bruising on the neck.

"Finger marks?' Hutch interrupted to ask.

"The doctor shook his head. "More like some kind of bar, I don't know, something solid like a stick, you know, like a cane. Pulled back against the neck below the Adam's apple.

"Forcin' the head back." Starsky said.

"Yes, that's quite possible. We'll know better once the bruising comes out more." He cleared his throat and looked up into the brightness of the light and then at the floor beneath his feet. "Look, I'm sorry. I seem to be avoiding the issue here."

"It's alright," Maureen said, "take your time."

Hutch caught himself wondering if he would be so reluctant to speak if it was a woman he had just examined. A quick glance at his partner told him that Starsky was thinking the same thing.

"There was penetration," Maureen prompted him.

"Yes. Without any doubt. But not..." For an instant he caught Starsky and Hutch's eyes. "I mean it was clearly sexual, but I think what was used was some sort of, well, instrument."

"What do you mean?" Maureen asked. "A dildo, or what?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. Nothing that appropriate. It would have been much better for him if it were. No this was quite large, two to three inches in diameter at the end and solid, probably not tapered toward any kind of a point. Not sharp edged, though or the damage would have been much worse than it is. But whatever it was, it was used with a lot of force. There is a lot of tearing of the sphincter muscles and around the orifice itself, also considerable rupturing of blood vessels along the anal canal." He shook his head again. "Poor guy."

The story Declan Farrell had told Maureen Madden was this: He had needed to use the washroom on his way home from the bar and cut through the park. Easy to do and he'd done it before. The man was already there when he went in, though he was inside the cubicle so Declan couldn't see him. He had followed Declan out, jumping him from behind and hit him across the face with some kind of club, almost knocking him out. He forced him to his knees on the grass, pulled down his slacks and underwear, telling him he was going to give him what he wanted. His words: 'This is what you want.' And then...and then at that point Declan's voice had choked and Maureen had held his hand and said, "Okay, now. It's all right. Declan, it's okay."

"We're going to have to talk to him, Maureen." Hutch said.

"Tonight?"

"The sooner the better." Starsky said.

She nodded. "I suppose so. Do you want me with you?"

"If you wouldn't mind." Hutch nodded.

"Let's take him back to the rape suite, then. Not here."

Starsky and Hutch agreed.

"And his wife?" Maureen asked.

Starsky and Hutch both looked back at her, unblinking.

"All right," She sighed, "I'll speak to her before we leave."

Dobey was at the station when they arrived, tie loosened and blazer undone.

"I think this getting a house together couldn't have come at a worse time." He said looking from one to the other.

"That has nothin' ta do with this, cap." Starsky said a few decimals away from snapping.

"I'm not implying that it does." Dobey frowned. "Hell, half the single guys and girls on the force share apartments or houses with a roommate, I'm just saying that the timing is bad."

"If people want to talk or make assumptions, that's their problem, Capn'." Hutch shrugged. "We can't put our lives on hold just because a case pops up that might make any decision we make look suspect."

Dobey considered for a moment then nodded. "Alright, I have Starsky's change of address and phone number, when can I expect yours, Hutch?"

"You can make the change now, but it won't be official until my own bedroom is set up." Hutch looked at Starsky. "Sometime this weekend?"

"Huggy said he'd have it all moved in by the end of the day." Starsky nodded.

Dobey made a note on a pad. "So, we aren't thinking there is any kind of link between Farrell and Arnold?"

"It's a little soon ta know what's goin' on." Starsky answered.

"But this--boy pickup gone sour, that's what it looks like, right?"

Nicely put, Hutch thought. "Sexual, certainly," he said, "of some kind. Victim's wallet was still on him, nothing was stolen. But to what degree there was any consent..."

"I thought we were talking about rape?"

"He means, whether or not there was anything between them before it happened..." Starsky tried to explain.

"You show me yours, I'll show you mine, that sort of thing? A little hanky-panky between the stalls."

"Something like that, yes Capn'." Hutch smiled slightly.

"Doesn't really matter, does it? A little flashing in the can isn't that much different than walking into a bar with half your boobs hanging out. Provocations not an issue anymore where rape is concerned."

Hutch was far from believing that was true, at least when it came to a juries opinion. "We're interviewing him now, Capn'. We'll bring you up to speed as soon as we can."

"All right." Dobey nodded briskly. "Try and get to the bottom of all this."

"Bastard asked for it, didn't he." Chuck Bellafontaine said, finally tracked down after one of those rare Friday nights when he failed to get lucky. "No question to it, if you ask me. Went out looking for a little party and got more than he bargained for. Now he wants us to say 'there, there' and hold his fucking hand. Well not me, and that's a fact. While you're over there, Keith, be a pal and get me a coffee?"

Declan Farrell had refused anything to drink, and sat with Hutch and Maureen, on the sofa across the coffee table from him, Starsky sat in an armchair beside him. He looked numb, except that's what he wasn't but only wished he was.

"The man that attacked you," Hutch asked for the third time, "what can you tell us about him?"

Eleven minutes past two.

"His voice, his appearance..."

"I didn't see him."

"You heard his voice. He spoke to you at least once, you told us."

Nervous, Farrell touched the stitches scissoring above his eye, the worst cut and the deepest, fingers going back to it like a tongue unable to stop itself from probing a bad tooth. He felt strange sitting there in borrowed cloths, his own carefully labeled, packaged and shipped off to the lab.

"Semen?" Starsky had asked the doctor.

"Not really. None around the area of penetration. A trace inside his clothing, probably his own."

'His own?'

"Try and concentrate," Hutch said, "on the voice."

As if he could ever forget it, Declan thought. As if there would ever be a night again when he wouldn't hear it. 'This is what you want you bastard. You fucking piece of shit!'

"The voice," Starsky asked softly, "was it young or old?"

"Young." Farrell said so quietly that all three officers had to lean forward to hear him. "At least, I think...Oh, God, I don't know, I don't know."

"Did he have an accent?" Hutch asked.

"No...well maybe a local one. Nothing I can really think of."

"Is there anything else," Maureen asked, "that you can help us with, about the voice?"

They were making him play the voice back, over and over again, in his head. "It was rough."

"Rough?" Starsky asked.

"Sort of rasping."

"As if he had a cold, that kind of sound?" Hutch said.

Farrell leveled his gaze and stared. "As if he was excited." He whispered.

17 minutes to three.

"Declan," Hutch said, "no one's judging you here, you know that, right? Starsky, Maureen and I aren't passing judgement on what you do or whatever you've done. That's not what all this is about."

"Then what is it about?" Farrell asked in a sudden shout. "Why can't I just go home? That's what I want..." his voice trailed away, "that's all I want."

"What this is about," Starsky said, "part of it, is making sure that whoever did this to you won't do it again ta somebody else."

Farrell was leaking tears again; they came and went so frequently now, he scarcely bothered wiping them away.

"You're sure you didn't know him, Declan? The man that did this to you?" Maureen pushed a box of Kleenex over to him.

"I told you, I told you I never even saw him. How could I know if I've seen him before?"

"But you have been there before, at those washrooms and in that park?" Hutch asked.

"Of course I have."

"I mean to meet someone. For the purpose of having sex?"

"No."

"Declan..."

"No! I've told you, I'm not queer, I'm not gay, not any of the things you think I am."

"Declan please..."

He was on his feet now and making for the door, Starsky looking quickly across at Hutch, wanting to know if he should stop him.

"Declan," Hutch said, "I think you have been there before, after closing, around the same time. I think sometimes you were lucky and met someone you liked, sometimes you didn't, gave up and went on home. I think whoever was in the cubicle tonight you thought had gone there for the same reason you did. Now, we don't know what you did, whether or not there was some signal between you, but when you went out of the washrooms, I think you thought he would follow you and he did. And Declan, I don't care about any of that, none of us do. But what happened next, that's what we care about. This person, whoever it was, viciously assaulted you, assaulted you in the most terrible way imaginable. And as Sergeant Madden said, we want to ensure he doesn't stay free to do this again. To someone else. Because you know what it's like, Declan, you must want that, too. So please, help us as much as you can."

Declan hesitated for a few more moments, then opened the door and walked out. Hutch looked over at Starsky and was given a sad smile and a wink. They both knew he wouldn't be back. Maureen looked at Hutch and slowly shook her head, closing her eyes.

Chapter 31

When Tim Aitkens entered the interrogation room he had asked Starsky and Hutch to meet him in, he looked like a man that had been up all night and only managed to snatch a half hour's sleep. There were a couple of smudges on the sleeve of his tan windbreaker, picked up during the search, and his collar was somewhat askew, but other than his skin being a couple of shades lighter than it's usual milk chocolate, he didn't look nearly as bad as he had a right to.

"What can we do for you, Tim?" Hutch asked, dark circles under his eyes standing out in stark contrast to the fair skin.

"What happened last night, the talk is you're not making any connection from it to the Arnold murder."

"That pretty much sums it up." Starsky confirmed, rubbing sleep, that he never got, from his eyes.

Aitkens drew a deep breath. "Look, Sirs, maybe I should have said something before. I saw him a year or so ago, Arnold, at a gay club in North Hollywood."

Starsky's hand fell away from his face, his eyes registering shock and disbelief. For a second, the pulse beating at Hutch's temple seemed to stop. The partners looked at one another and then back to Aitkens.

"What are you saying, Tim?" Hutch asked.

"I'm saying that Roger Arnold was gay."

Not even a few minutes had passed, both Starsky and Hutch felt like they had been sitting there for a small eternity. Silently, their minds reached out to absorb and assimilate what they had just heard.

'A year ago...'

'A bar in Hollywood...'

'He was gay?'

'It fits.'

Cobalt met cyan before Hutch tore his eyes away and said, "This club, were you there on duty?"

The dark brown eyes closed briefly and when they looked at Starsky and Hutch again there was no avoidance, no shame. "No."

Starsky let a gust of air out of his mouth. "You better sit down, Tim."

Aitkens sat, crossing one leg over the other, then uncrossed it, resting his hands just above his knees.

"An' detective Arnold," Starsky said, "there's no way he was on duty either?"

Aitkens shook his head.

"You're sure? Positive?"

"He left with someone." Aitkens said.

Hutch was seeing Roger's wife, her plump little body in ill-fitting black, her voice fierce against the afternoon sun. "You know him, Ken, Dave, better than most."

"You couldn't have been wrong? Misinterpreted the circumstances?"

Aitkens was shaking his head before Starsky finished the question.

"It was a year ago, maybe more." Hutch said, running a hand over his mouth.

"The reason I remember it so well is that someone I know there pointed him out to me. He said that he'd been there before, you know, at the same bar once or twice ."

"You didn't talk ta him?" Starsky asked.

Aitkens smiled for a second. "Not my type."

"But you are gay?" Hutch asked.

"It doesn't mean we lust after everyone you know."

"We know." Hutch said. "What's bothering us is that you didn't tell us about Roger before now."

Aitkens didn't respond right away. "Because I wasn't sure. I mean, I hadn't known his name. And the photograph..." Starsky and Hutch stared at him, waiting for the truth. "No, all right, I thought I recognized him, the connection was made, but then, it seemed to have nothing to do...I couldn't see the relevance to what had happened. Gay or not gay, sexuality didn't seem to be an issue."

"Except for yours." Hutch leaned back, anger in his eyes.

"I'm sorry?"

"Except for yours. Your sexuality."

"Look..."

"No, you look." Hutch leaned forward again, head slightly to one side, finger beginning to point. "The reason you didn't come forward with this information sooner was personal. To do with you. Give up Arnold and you give yourself up. By keeping silent, you were protecting yourself."

The slightly muffled sounds of telephones and shuffled movements could be heard through the door. Someone knocked and after a bark from Starsky retreated and left them alone.

"It was an issue for me, yes." Aitkens finally said.

"'The' issue."

"No, sir. If that was the case, I'd never have come forward now. I'd have kept my silence and prayed it didn't matter, or if it did, it would come out some other way. But as soon as I heard about, you know, last night, what happened to the guy in the park, there was no way I could keep quiet then."

"Even though it means exposing yourself like this?"

Aitkens shook his head. "I'm a cop, just like you."

Just like us, Hutch thought.

"Tim," Starsky said, "we don't give a damn what you do in bed or who you do it with. The only place it affects us is here, when you let it affect you and how ya do your job. And what prevented you from actin' as you should, it wasn't the fact that you're gay, it was because you kept that fact a secret. That's what was wrong."

Aitkens stifled a laugh. "You think I should come out?"

"No, I think you're a good cop, an' who you like ta sleep with shouldn't be a reason to risk losing your career."

"But you still think I should."

Hutch shook his head. "What he means is that you should have come forward as soon as you made the connection, privately like you did now. If you keep on making judgement calls based on protecting yourself and your secret, you're going to screw up on the job."

"You're not going to force me out?" Aitkens eyes widened in disbelief.

"Not if we can help it." Starsky smiled, his lips forming a little bow. "I'm sure, now that we know he was gay, that we can find another reason how we found out ta put in the reports."

"Dobey will have to know," Hutch nodded, "but I'm positive he'll back you as much as he can."

"I'm sorry," Aitkens said, 'I'm finding this a little difficult to take in."

"That we want you to be honest with us?"

"No, that my bosses are willing to cover up for me."

"We aren't covering up for ya, Tim." Starsky disagreed. "We're disappointed that ya didn't trust us when you first found out who Arnold was. How we found out he was gay shouldn't begin the end of another cops career."

"It's still a cover-up."

"That's a matter of opinion." Hutch said. "But we have to know that we can trust you, your judgement. No more hiding what could be crucial information."

"You're going to keep me on the team?"

"You're bright, your instincts are good and you handle people well. You're also a hard worker and care about what you're doin'." Starsky shrugged and looked at Hutch.

Hutch thought for a while longer. "Yes. Okay, why not."

Aitkens looked like a kid who'd just been handed first prize in the biggest competition of his life. Maybe he had been.

"Sweet Jesus, they're everywhere." Dobey ran both hands over his face.

Starsky and Hutch didn't comment.

"What ever happened to normal men with normal families, that's what I'd like to know." Dobey continued to grumble.

"What happened, is that they sometimes turn inta Roger and Margaret Arnold; or they turned inta you." Starsky mumbled under his breath.

"And I thought he was a good kid." Dobey said.

"He is." Hutch said, earning himself an old-fashioned glare.

Dobey fidgeted with papers on his desk. "You really think, Starsky, Hutch, that this radically changes things?"

"What it does, Capn'," Hutch rested his head in one hand, elbow supported by the arm of the chair, "is help make more sense out of things that up until now haven't quite felt right. Arnold's murder as a mugging. If you're looking for a victim, no matter how drunk you are, why pick on someone strongly built and at least six foot? And then there's the degree of force used, it was far more than necessary, even assuming Roger was fighting back. Those blows to the face and head, that wasn't greed, not even ordinary anger, that was rage."

"So queer bashing instead of robbery."

Starsky sighed. "It looks that way, when ya take into account what we now know. If Roger wasn't above meeting strangers in strange places, he'd had enough opportunity. All those times he took the dog out at all hours of the night, a small dog ya can just leave in the car."

"Come on, Starsky, this is nothing more than conjecture." Dobey's voice rumbled.

"We know he went to at least one gay club, socializing, picking up men. Maybe other places, too." Hutch said. The expression on Dobey's face while listening was that of someone who just bit into a peach to find the inside rotted and sour. "But closer to home--if he got the urge, where would he go? Not to one of the bars or clubs close to where he lived, too great a risk. But somewhere more anonymous, in the dark? He just might. Public washrooms have been used for that purpose for years, cap."

"And everywhere else, these days." Dobey scowled.

"Maybe one of his attackers spotted him when he was on the prowl." Starsky added.

"Even if that's true--and I'm not for one minute saying that it is, I don't know what I think of this kite you two are flying--it doesn't prove a link between Arnold and what happened last night. What happened to Roger, thank God, wasn't the same thing at all."

"The anger was," Hutch said, "The rage. What happened to them both was punitive. Sexuality aside, they were both about the same thing, power and pain."

Dobey rose to his feet and half-turned toward the window: the same buildings, same vehicles, same people walking the streets, but underneath, the world had turned upside down. "Once the press gets a hold of this, boys..."

"We know, Cap." Starsky said, quietly.

"His poor wife and family.."

"We know, Capn'." Hutch this time.

"Jesus, Starsky, Hutch! I went to his church once when he was doing the sermon: Roger Arnold was up there behind the pulpit, rambling on about the wages of sin."

And the one about throwing the first stone, Hutch thought, was that also one of his favorites?

After briefing the Captain, they soon found out that some of the boot marks taken from the park were at least a partial match with those lifted, more clearly, from the embankment. It was also within the realm of possibility that the implement used, both to strike Farrell and to violate him, was the same baseball bat that had killed Arnold.

Chapter 32

They sat in the near silence of the cloistered room, curtains once more pulled tightly together, soft patterns in which green and gold leaves softly swayed behind them. From the street, came the intermittent rattle of a drill as workmen dug trenches to lay cable, bringing in a wider world. Margaret Arnold sat small in her favorite easy chair. Susan--no smile for them today--had left the moment they arrived. Starsky and Hutch had waited alone for Margaret to negotiate the stairs, followed by the slow passage--refusing an arm--into what she would always call the lounge.

The drilling stopped abruptly and all they could sense in the room were loss and regret accompanied by the broken reed of her breath. In less than two weeks she had aged ten years.

"Margaret..." Hutch began.

When she spoke it wasn't to either of them, yet she knew they were there, and whenever one of them moved, no matter how little, she paused, her fingers plucking at the thread that had come unraveled from the beading on the chair's arm.

"It was after the boys had left home. Susan, she was still here, but"--Margaret sighed the first of many sighs--"she had this boyfriend and she would find reasons for not coming home. Simple excuses, I knew that's what they were; anything so that she could spend the night with him." Another sigh, pluck, and sigh. "My daughter had discovered sex, as we all do, and it became all that she could think about. They used to come here in the afternoons, when Susan should have been in school. They'd be upstairs with the door locked and then run off, giggling and smirking the minute I came home. No shame. Even with a father like Roger, our Susan knew nothing of shame." She looked up. "I wonder Ken, Dave, if that's such a bad thing?"

Starsky and Hutch glanced at each other in the pause before she went on. "I would sometimes go, then, and stand in her room. Instead of throwing open the window, I would lock it. Keep in the smell. Do you know how it makes you feel? When the children you nursed and carried are old enough to enjoy sex?"

Starsky and Hutch shook their heads.

"No, no, of course not. Neither one of you would. Perhaps you never will. So I'll tell you--it makes you feel old, old and used up. But it does something else, too. It makes part of you, that part of you, come alive again. Visions of them wrapped together--am I shocking you, Dave? Ken?--those young girl's legs that had once belonged to this pathetic body of mine, they had been wrapped around him, that feckless youth, there on that bed."

Hutch looked at the shadows of the leaves, the long tapering slice of light. Starsky looked down at his hands, his fingers entwining and unwinding, thumbs rolling around each other.

"I had a body again, boys, my daughter had given me back my body and what was I going to do with it now? Roger and I, we hadn't had relations in years. Hardly at all since Susan was born. And during all that time I had lain down next to him every night and never once had I minded. But now"--her fingers worked more nervously at the thread.--"I did all the things a woman, even a woman like me, old and fat, is supposed to do. I went to the hair salon, the beauty parlor, I was--what's the word?--made over. I bought new clothes, satin nightdresses and silk underclothes in which I felt and looked like a fraud. I begged him, Ken, David, pleaded with him. I had no dignity. I needed him--needed someone--to make love to me." The thread she was twisting snapped in her hand. "I could see in his eyes that the thought of touching me made him feel sick. He told me he was moving across the hall, into one of the empty rooms. He was having difficulty getting to sleep and he thought if he had his own bed it might be better. For both of us."

She shriveled a little more inside the chair.

"It was then that he started going out. Not so frequently at first, and then more and more often. Swimming every night, or so I thought. Twice, sometimes, on the weekends. He just needs, I thought, to get out of the house, get away from me and what I've been putting him through." She glanced up Hutch, then Starsky and quickly looked away. "You see, I was feeling guilty, thought I'd been unfair. Making too many demands."
She found a new end of thread and worried it with a finger and thumb. "After a while he started going out late at night, too, walking the dog. I did think, it did cross my mind once or twice that he might be having an affair with one of those fine-minded women from the church. And then when you came here asking questions about that woman who called, I thought, yes, yes, it's all right, that's it."

She looked at them, dull eyes sharpened by deceit. "But that wasn't it, was it? That wasn't it at all."

Both men thought that she would cry then, but if there were tears there, they were still to come. The drilling had started up outside again. She had said what she had to say and now it was over. Starsky and Hutch sat across from her, trapped in that closed room, neither man knowing what to say. Starsky chewed the inside of one cheek, Hutch tried not to notice that the underside of his thighs were growing numb.

POLICE MURDER: GAY SEX LINK? The headline screamed. 'Startling revelations revealed exclusively to our reporter today'...There were photographs of Roger Arnold in uniform; one, blurry, of Margaret's startled face as she turned outward from her front door. A family portrait, paid for or stolen, of Declan Farrell with his wife and child. 'Neither Chief of Police, Patrick Holden nor the head of homicide, Captain Harold Dobey would confirm or deny that...'

Sometimes, in Diane's apartment, Cheryl would sit with the baby, Melvin, for so long she would forget everything else. Especially the times they'd been smoking dope. The others, not Cheryl, would always be popping pills as well. Cheryl was content to stick to the joints Carol had taught her to roll--one of the skills Carol's Baptist father had never taught her. The pot they used came from Diane's brother, Jamaican he said, and who was she to argue? Wherever it came from, it was good. Cheryl leaning against the sofa, head against the wall. Little Melvin with his thumb stuck in the corner of his mouth, drooling just a little, eyes closed with Cheryl rocking him.

"Come on! Get a fucking move on!" Cheryl could hear Janice's voice, shouting from across the room. Janice in black leggings, black leather jacket and a bottle of absolute in her hand.

Leslie was standing alongside her, wearing high cut boots and a black miniskirt that stopped halfway up her thighs. Irene was squatting in a corner, searching for something in the black and purple rucksack she always carried, taking everything out and spreading it over the carpet, then stuffing it back. Carol was still pulling up her jeans as she came out of the bathroom.

"Diane!" Janice shouted over the sound of the ghetto blaster on the table, the music faster now. Diane listing, lost in it, she started to shimmy, a dip of her hips and she began to shake with it. The other girls starting to laugh and Diane playing up to them.

"Diane, will you stop that shit? I ain't waitin' too much fuckin' longer!"

Diane just waved her arms around and smiled, and smiled, slow and dreamy, her eyes a little glazed. Carol finally caught hold of her and pressed her wrists down to her sides, telling her to get it together. Diane nodding: Right..right, girl, right."

Carol then went over to where Cheryl was sitting, her mouth moving lazily with the music, the joint dead between her fingers. Melvin dribbling onto her skimpy T-shirt, under the shadow of her childish breast.

"Wake up now, Cheryl. You look after Melvin, all right? Keep your eye on him and feed him when he wakes. Girl, you hear what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, yeah, no problem. Sure."

"She going to be all right? Janice asked, looking over toward Cheryl. The other girls were making their way through the door.

"Her?" Carol said. "Just asked her, she's fine."

Janice laughed. "Looks more like warmed-over shit to me." And she slammed the door closed and followed the others down the hall toward the elevator that probably wouldn't be working.

Virginia had picked up a paper on her way home, only glancing at the front page while she fumbled for her keys at the front door.

"Peter? Hey, Peter, hon! You have to see this."

But Peter wasn't there, not upstairs or down. His mug and the plate he liked to use for his toast, the one with three concentric yellow rings and faint cracks across the center, had been rinsed under the tap and left to dry in the rack.

He hadn't brought anything with him, so it was pointless checking to see if his things were gone.

Virginia put the kettle on to boil, changed her mind and took one of Eric's cans of Bud from the fridge. She opened the back door for the whining dog. There were turds in neat, whitening piles near the gate. Virginia sat down with her paper, beer, and a cigarette and began to read.

Suppertime, Peter would be back by suppertime, she was sure.

Gerry Hovenden liked to work the weights at least an hour each afternoon. Every now and then he'd make a change and try the rowing machine or one of the bikes, he even tried aerobics once, but felt foolish jumping around with all those woman with their headbands and little water bottles, dressed in two-tone leotards that disappeared up the cracks of their asses. No, it was the weights, then the steam room, after that a shower, cold then hot, hot then cold, followed by a brisk toweling down that he preferred.

Some days, like this afternoon, he'd persuade Eric to come along. It didn't cost anything as long as you were signed in by a member. Eric in a torn T-shirt and a borrowed pair of shorts, sweat pouring off him and stinging his eyes. Eric always overdid it, he didn't seem to know when to quit.

"Hey," Gerry said, still bench pressing. "You hear about that guy that got raped in Lexington Park?"

"Looking for it, wasn't he?" Eric said.

"Probably."

"Well, then, fag got what he deserved."

"Yeah." Hovenden agreed. "Most likely." He watched the way the sweat ran down and across the flat of Eric's belly, making the skin glisten, making the downward curve of tiny hairs shine like gold.

The assistant manager of the audio department assured his would-be client that there was no problem at all, once in a while the machines backed up and it wasn't possible to get immediate clearance from the card company. And it wasn't hard to see why, she explained, with an amount that size, close to six hundred dollars for a 26 inch screen, well, company policy dictated and so on.

Wendy Korminiki stood there in an old air force jacket that smelled of stale wine and a dress that swept the floor when she walked, hiding the old tennis shoes that were on her bare feet. Wendy, thinking that if she could just get a decent television into the place she was squatting, that it would make all the difference. Fuck all the time she had spent sitting around with a lot of old alkies on benches, she was going to get a grip on herself, start a new life.

A man came out now, suit and striped shirt, tie neatly knotted, all smiles. "Please accept my apologies for the delay." Smarmy bastard, Wendy thought. "Now, if I can explain how to get to our pick-up area out back. By the time you've collected your car and driven around there, your set will be packed up and ready for you to take."

Car? What fucking car was he talking about? "I thought," Wendy said, "you'd deliver it, right?"

"Certainly, ma'am. That would be Tuesday or Thursday of next week."

Not good. "How about this," she said, "I'll get a cab and take it home that way."

"Okay." Smiling his unctuous smile, he gave her the directions to the pickup area.

By the time it took Wendy to flag down a taxi and get it around back, two uniformed officers were waiting for her outside the double-wide doors.

"Sorry, pal," one of them said to the cabdriver, while his partner was hauling a reluctant Wendy to the marked car, "If you want to collect your fair, you'll need to drop into the station and fill out a voucher."

It was the officer going through Wendy's possessions, in particular the small pile of credit cards she'd been carrying, who had spotted the name and signature of Roger Arnold on one of them.

Lynn Gomeau picked up the call. Within fifteen minutes she and Keith Taylor had Wendy sitting across from them in an interrogation room, tapes identified and rolling, stolen credit cards spread out before them like a hand of solitaire.

"This one, Wendy," Lynn said. "Arnold. Tell us where you got it, and we might go easy on you for the rest."

"How easy?"

"Easier," Taylor said, "than you deserve."

She didn't have to think about it for very long. "Eric. I got it off of Eric."

"Eric Barrett?" Lynn asked, almost unable to believe her luck.

"No. Eric the fucking Red, who d'you think?"

Chapter 33

"This interview," Hutch stated, "time at five twenty-seven."

They had picked Eric up a couple of streets from his home, winnings that he'd collected from the bookies stuffed into his front pockets.

Bellafontaine and Taylor had been in the lead car, Aitkens and Gomeau fifty yards behind. Two squad cars were waiting at the house, a couple of uniformed officers in the alley out back. Virginia Barrett was on the front step, cursing them out to the world.


Eric had slammed his bag into Taylor's chest, Taylor staggering back, winded, against the fence, while Bellafontaine moved in close, hands outstretched. "Come on, pal. You want to try it? Come on." Fingers beckoning for him to go for it. Bellafontaine so clearing wanting it. They were about equal in height, Bellafontaine maybe an inch taller, certainly heavier; Eric probably the fitter of the two, despite Bellafontaine's regular workouts.

"Don't be stupid, kid." Aitkens said from the edge of the curb. "Look around. You won't get anywhere but hurt." A third squad car was coming in fast from the opposite side of the street, siren wailing.

Eric just stood there, not taking his eyes away from Bellafontaine, thinking about it, wanting it, too. Feeling that first rush of adrenaline start to drain out of him, knowing he could have taken him, cocky bastard, that someday he would. He'd have him, sure enough, he was certain of it, but he also knew that that time wasn't now.

The instant Eric lowered his hands down to his sides, Bellafontaine had been on him fast, spinning him around, cuffs at the ready, and propelling him hard toward the side of the nearest car.

"Together, behind your back! Hands together!"

"Fuck you!"

"Now! Do it now!" Bellafontaine bent him over the cars hood while Taylor, recovered and standing alongside, read Eric his rights.

The metal of the cuffs was biting into Eric's wrists, yet somehow he managed to twist the upper half of his body until his face was inches from Bellafontaine's, eyes brittle as ice glaring into his face. "One of these days, I'll fuckin' kill you!" Spittle laced Bellafontaine's mouth and cheek.

"Chuck!" Aitkens moved in fast, seizing Bellafontaine's shoulder seconds before he would have head-butted Eric in the face.

"Let it go, Chuck. Just let it go."

Bellafontaine, with a final glare, stepped away. Aitkens pushed Eric into the back of the car between Taylor and himself and ordered Lynn to drive off. Bellafontaine could follow on his own.

"I hear," The DA appointed lawyer said wearily, "that my client was subjected to physical intimidation during the course of his arrest."

"Your client," Starsky told him, face close enough for the lawyer to smell the fresh peppermint on his breath, "is lucky he isn't bein' charged with assaulting a police officer in the course of his duty. Maybe you should chew on that for a while."

Starsky and Hutch would handle the questioning in room A, although the rooms were all the same. The same scratched table scorched with cigarette burns, the same stale smoke that lingered in the corners and the stickiness of the floor that tugged at the soles of your shoes. The faint crackle of thin cellophane as it slipped reluctantly from around the air of cassettes: the words, always the same or very similar. "This interview..."

Just over an hour after they began, the lawyer leaned forward as asked for a break. "My client..."

"Not now." Starsky snapped.

"My client..."

"Not yet." Hutch's voice was also showing irritation, both of them were growing weary of Eric's persistent stonewalling. "Where did you get the card?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. What card?"

"Detective Arnold's credit card. Wendy Korminiki says she bought it from you in the back room of a bar called Rumors." Hutch pressed.

"Well, she's wrong. Either that or she's lying."

"Why would she lie?" Hutch asked.

"Bag. It's what she does."

"Pardon?"

"Look at her, the state she's in all the time. She's a hose-bag, pissed out of her mind all the time. She wouldn't know the truth if it crawled out of her ass."

"Not at all like you, right, Eric?" Starsky took over from Hutch, and leaned toward Eric, almost smiling, a definite twinkle in his eye."I mean, you're such an expert when it comes ta tellin' the truth."

Eric looked back at him defiantly, wondering where they were going now.

"Two Friday nights ago, for instance, you and your buddy Gerry. All cozy and snug at home with your mother and her man, watching movies and kickin' the family dog."

"What about it?"

"Pack of lies."

Sneering, Eric turned his face away.

"From start ta finish, Eric." Starsky grinned. "Nothin' but one lie stacked on top of the other."

"Bullshit."

"Exactly." Starsky sat back, triumphant.

"Where you were, Eric," Hutch said forcefully, "that Friday, was out drinking with Gerry Hovenden and some of his dubious friends. Bar hopping and adding a little extra excitement, a few fists flying from time to time until you all ended up by the canal. That's where you came upon detective Arnold, out walking his dog. Loaded to the gills, the pack of you stole his wallet, cash, credit cards, 'this' credit card," Hutch pounded the card with his finger, "and left him for dead. That's where you were on that Friday night and Saturday morning."

Unblinking, Eric stared Hutch square in the eye. "Bullshit." He quietly said.

"For someone that strikes me as havin' above average intelligence," Starsky said, "your answers lean towards the idiotic."

"Then why not stop all this crap and let me go? I don't know nothing about any credit card, nothing about no cop getting beaten up on the canal, nothing about any of it."

"My client..."

"All right." Hutch rose quickly to his feet. "Twenty minutes. No more."

"Surely he's entitled to a meal?"

"Half an hour."

"This interview," Starsky said, "suspended at six thirty-nine."

"Do you think he's lying?" Dobey was pacing the short length of his office behind his desk, the pressure from above and below along with the local, and now national press, beginning to show it's wear.

"Positive." Hutch said. "But we're not sure about what."

"Christ, Hutch, don't play games. What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Starsky and Hutch were also standing, aware that they had both been sitting for too long, and would probably be doing so again.

"We put it to him straight up, cap, Arnold, Hovenden, everything. He didn't so much as blink. I know he's cool, one of those types that can hold it all in until it explodes." Starsky came to his partner's defense. "But a dead cop? He has ta know we're not going to mess around."

"Then why is he lying?"

"We don't know, Captain." Hutch let out with an exasperated breath.

"This credit card business, have we got enough to charge him?"

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other and then doubtfully back at their superior.

"We could stand the woman up in court with a sworn statement, her word against his." Starsky shrugged.

"But with Korminiki's record no one would believe a word she says, and Eric knows it." Hutch added.

"He'll worm his way around it then."

"He'll try, and probably get off. But we'd like to hang on to him for as long as we can, Cap. If he wasn't there when Arnold was killed, then he probably knows somebody that was." Hutch said.

"You think he's covering for someone else?" Dobey sat in his chair, hands gripping the sides.

"Could be." Starsky said.

"This friend of his...Hovenden?"

They both nodded.

"Get him in here. If we can't budge one, then let's see if we can shake up the other."

Hutch was shaking his head. "What we'd rather do, as long as you agree, is make sure Hovenden knows we're holding Eric. Let him stew for a while. He might start to wonder exactly what his buddy has told us. If we play it right, maybe we can persuade him it's a lot more than it is."

"No chance of him running?"

"Doubt it, Cap." Starsky grinned. "He'd have ta know that would draw attention to him faster than anything else, but we can always keep an eye on 'im, just in case."

"Play it your way then, boys. You've got twenty-four hours tops. I can't justify holding him any longer than that." Dobey dismissed them with a grunt.

They both nodded and moved toward the door. Now that he had some food inside him, Eric might be feeling more amicable, they'd give it another shot.

"Has she got something against you, Eric, Wendy Korminiki? Something personal, maybe?"

Eric glanced at Hutch and shook his head.

"Your family, then?" Starsky asked. "Her and Virginia have an argument of some sort?"

"My mom wouldn't fart on her, never mind giver her the time of day."

"What is it, then? Some kind of a death wish?" Hutch again.

"How do you mean?"

Hutch straightened his back, hands flat near the table's edge. "I mean, why you? When she gets picked up and she has to give a name, and it's not the truth, wouldn't she have to be stupid to point at you? I mean, of all the names she could have chosen. What did she think you were going to do the next time you ran into her? Slip her a five? And thank her for thinking of you when she was talking to the law." Hutch shook his head in disbelief. "No, Eric, the only way she'd give you up is if it was true."

A smile was now wavering at the corners of Eric's eyes. They've got nothing on me, he thought, nothing really, I can just enjoy this and relax.

"Detective Hutchinson," he said, as polite as could be.

"Yes?"

"Prove it."

They tried.

When the lawyer asked for another meal break for his client and the chance for a rest, Starsky and Hutch happily agreed. Lynn Gomeau had called in by then, she and Keith Taylor had spoken to Hovenden and told him the police were holding Eric; it looked as if Hovenden, nervous, was about to make some kind of move. All right, Starsky had told them, stick close, observe. Anything urgent, you can reach us at home.

When they finally let Eric go with a warning that they would be speaking to him again, chance brought Eric and Bellafontaine onto the stairs at the same time. Eric walking down with Aitkens as escort, Bellafontaine on his way up to the squad room.

"Remember," Eric said softly as they passed, "Me and you, sometime soon."

"You got it." Bellafontaine said. "In your dreams."

Chapter 34

It was late enough for the streetlights to be showing clear against the purpling dark of the city sky. Khan and Taylor were in the squad room chatting about the relative merits of the city's Asian restaurants when Starsky and Hutch strode in, nodded in their direction and didn't stop until they were at their desks.

"The Blue Dragon," Kahn said, reaching for the folder on his desk. "For my money, that's the best."

Instinctively, he straightened his tie and pushed a hand through his hair before approaching and lightly rapping on the top of Hutch's desk.

"You told me to run a check on Jordon, sir."

"And?"

"It wasn't easy getting a hold of some of this. I'm afraid it's only sketchy in places, and there are still one or two things I need to double-check. I..."

"Kahn."

"Yes, sir?"

"Just get on with it." All of the waltzing around with Eric Barrett had done little to improve Hutch's patience.

Kahn looked at Starsky and was relieved to receive an encouraging smile and a nod to go on.

"Well..." Kahn flipped open his folder. "Before being appointed to his current position Jordan worked in Salt Lake City and then San Francisco. Regular social work to begin with, but pretty soon he moved into group care.

Hutch head snapped up to look at his partner and then up at Kahn. "Salt Lake," He said, "that's where it was all over the press about kids being tied to their beds and locked in isolation?"

Starsky tensed and leaned forward, his eyes also riveted on Kahn.

"Yes, sir. Excessive physical restraint. Pindown, that's what it was called. Sure enough, one of the homes Jordon worked in was involved. I've got a copy here of the inquiry report. But compared to some of the other staff, Jordon comes out of it pretty clean. The worst that was said about him was that he must have known these practices were being carried out and he did nothing to try and prevent them or to inform his superiors. But, as hard as I looked, there was no suggestion of any direct involvement."

"Not too long after that he moved to 'Frisco with a promotion. And this might be more interesting. It seems that while he was placed in charge of a home for difficult children, there were complaints of sexual abuse..."

"By Jordon?" Starsky asked, his eyes narrowed.

"No, sir. One of the members of the staff."

"Anything proven?" Hutch let out a breath and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

Kahn sighed and shook his head. "Again, it's not really clear. The man concerned claimed that a small group of the boys had a grudge against him and made up the whole story to get at him. The medical evidence, is, well, hazy at best. There was some talk of prosecution, but by then the man had resigned and in the end no charges were laid."

Hutch looked at Starsky and sat forward. "What did Jordon have to say about all of this?"

Kahn smiled. "Pretty much what you'd expect. The alleged incidents, which in any case were unsubstantiated. Since he was in charge there was a more open regime, staff and boys were encouraged to air their grievances publicly." Kahn paused to read from his notes. " 'I give my word that no child under my care need ever have anything to fear.' Interview in the San Francisco Chronicle, 1974."

Hutch rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Maybe he should have tried telling that to Stevie Barrett."

Kahn closed the folder, reversed it, and set it on the desk.

"All right, let's have another go at Matthews. See if he's any more willin' to talk." Starsky said, watching his lover carefully.

"Sirs? I wonder..."

"What?" Starsky asked a little abruptly when Hutch lowered his hands and he saw the stark circles under the crystal blue eyes.

"Well, it's just...I think if I went back to him too soon, pushed him again, he might clam up again. It may even be enough to push him over the edge."

"You think we should leave him alone." Hutch said, smiling softly at Starsky after seeing the worry in the dark eyes.

"No. Just give him some more time. Even if it's only a day or two more. I think there's a good chance he might come to us."

"To you."

"Yes."

Starsky and Hutch silently consulted, thinking that not so long ago they had made a similar request to Dobey, asking a superior officer to trust their judgement.

"All right, forty-eight hours. Meantime plug the holes in this report. Let's make sure if we need ta use it, it's watertight." Starsky answered for the both of them.

Gerry Hovenden had found out that Eric had been taken in for questioning, but not that he had been released. After several hours of sitting around worrying himself half-sick, he decided to find Frank Miller and get some advice. Frank Miller was the kind of man many people turned to when they were in a jam.

Frank was in his usual hang-out, watching a game of pool and not rushing his third beer, when Gerry Hovenden came in wearing his leather jacket and chaps, helmet in his hand.

"What the fuck's the matter with you?" Miller asked.

"It's Eric." Hovenden said, short of breath and almost knocking an empty glass off the table when he sat down.

"What about him?"

"The cops got him. Picked him up this afternoon."

"What the fuck for?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I haven't had a chance to talk to him yet."

"Then calm down. It's probably nothing at all. You know what the cops are like. Eric's done time, right? They'll haul him in just for the hell of it then."

"I know, but--"

Frank Miller's hand clamped around Hovenden's thigh, squeezing the muscle behind the knee. "Your buddy, Eric, won't talk. And if he does, what can he say without dumping himself into the bucket of shit?"

Hovenden blinked, catching his breath, trying not to notice the pain in his leg, Miller's thumb grinding away against the bone.

"Trust him, don't you?"

"Yeah, yes, of course."

Miller released his grip and playfully tapped Hovenden on the arm a couple of times with his fist. "Then you've got nothing to worry about then." He lifted his mug. "I'd get you one, only they gave last call a little while ago. Besides, I wouldn't want you drinking and driving and coming off that bike of yours. Loss to the human race, Gerry, you taking a tumble and winding up real hurt, or worse."

The cats were angry when Starsky and Hutch walked through the front door. Again, their supper was late and to make matters worse they had grown tired of exploring their new home and were anxious to see what the new world outside had to offer.

Starsky and Hutch stood facing each other, talking quietly while Hutch shut the door and Starsky slid the bolt home. Turning at the same time they both froze.

Milton, Ditzy and Stupe were sitting in order, forming a furry barrier across the hall. Milton and Ditzy had matching accusatory gazes fastened on Hutch, while Stupe was watching Starsky with angry indignation flashing in his eyes.

"The kids don't look very happy." Hutch said under his breath.

"Nope, they sure don't." Starsky answered just as quietly.

"We better feed them before we do anything else."

"Ya think?"

They both started to laugh.

"I'll feed them and see what I can rustle up for us, if..."

"Yeah, I know." Hutch smiled and cupped Starsky's face in both hands and kissed him long and softly. "I'll go clean the litter box." He chuckled as he pulled away.

Hutch slowly climbed up the basement stairs and stepped out the back door to drop the bag of waste into the garbage can. Wrinkling his nose in disgust he undid his shirt on the way to the way to the main bathroom.

Starsky, though beyond being tired, was bustling around the kitchen, his whistling as off-key as the slurping and purring coming from the corner of the room.

If recorded, the sounds would probably not sell a single copy, but as Hutch emerged from his brief shower he smiled, thinking he had never before heard such a beautiful melody. The sweet music of a happy home.

He didn't know why, but he took a couple of steps further down the hall and stopped suddenly, pausing for a moment, before entering the spare bedroom.

Starsky had heated up a couple of cans of stew while setting the table. He picked out the wilted leaves of lettuce from a leftover salad and had just popped in more toast when he realized that he and Stupe were the only ones left in the kitchen.

"Where is everyone, Tubs?"

Stupe, who had been watching Starsky's every move, tilted his head as if pondering the question.

Starsky buttered the last of the toast and set the plate on the table, then brought the pot over and filled the two bowls. Setting the pot in the sink and filling it with hot water, he scooped the cat up into his arms.

"Hutch?" He called softly after opening the basement door. It was pitch black after the first three steps down and with a shudder he quickly shut the door. It wasn't until coming to their bedroom that he began to grow apprehensive, seeing that both the bedroom and Master bath were empty. Stupe could sense his agitation and pressed his head under Starsky's chin with a little mew.

Starsky relaxed as the smell of steam and fresh soap coming from the main washroom hit him. Taking a few more steps he looked into the second bedroom.

"Beautiful." He whispered, adoration lighting his eyes, he swallowed thickly as the love he felt threatened to engulf and swallow him whole.

Hutch lay sprawled on the brass bed, naked except for the towel hanging loosely from his hips and barely concealing his genitals. Ditzy and Milt were also fast asleep, one curled up on either side, tucked in between Hutch's arms and his chest.

The rest of the world forgotten, Starsky continued to look on in awe, a dreamy look on his face until, Stupe, tired of the lack of attention brought up a paw and swatted the side of his chin at the same time the phone began to ring.

Surprised, Starsky dropped the cat and ran towards the living room hoping to catch the phone before it woke Hutch.

The sudden thud Stupe made when he landed on the floor and the incensed hiss that followed, startled Hutch awake. Sitting up he shook his head and slid his way around Milton so he could get off the bed. Ditzy and Milt just looked at him before they both stretched out and closed their eyes again.

"Starsky."

"Sir?"

Tim Aitkens' voice was as instantly recognizable to him as was every other member of their team. "What is it, Tim?"

"Sir, I think you and Detective Hutchinson should come in."


Chapter 35

The man sitting in the interrogation room looked to be in his early to mid-forties. His hair was medium-brown, quite thick, and in need of a trim. Bits of gray were beginning to accent his temples at the same time a few, less attractive, strands sprouted form his ears. He wore navy-blue and gray pinstripe slacks and a white shirt, open at the throat, topped off with a beige cardigan. The lenses of his rimless glasses were smudged enough to notice though not enough to seem to bother him.

"This is Mr. Robert Goch." Aitkens said as Starsky and Hutch came through the door.

Starsky nodded and offered his hand, noting the slight tremor and patches of sweat when the greeting was met. "Please, don't get up."

Hutch smiled softly and also nodded as he took a chair and sat directly across from Goch.

"Why don't you tell the detectives," Aitkens said, leaning up against the wall behind Starsky and Hutch, "just what you told me?" And then, "Don't worry, it'll be okay."

"Ever since I read the story in the newspaper," Goch started slowly, hesitantly making eye contact with Starsky and Hutch, "about the man that was attacked, I've been thinking about coming to see you. You see, I couldn't be sure, positive that it was the right thing to do."

"If you've got information for us, Mr. Goch, anything at all that might help us with what happened..." Hutch began.

"No. No, you see..." He cast a nervous glance toward Aitkens, who nodded encouragingly. "It isn't about that, at least not directly."

"Go on." Starsky said, bringing his hands up to rest on the table.

"Several months ago, four to be exact, four months and seven days, I was attacked by a man on the path alongside the park, the same park." Goch removed his glasses from hi face and rested his head forward at an angle into the palm of his hand. "I was...I was knocked to the ground and almost throttled from behind. I was threatened with what would happen to me if I screamed...and then I was ...I was raped, officers, that's what happened. Four months, a little more than four months ago."

It was quiet in the room for a few moments, no sound except the breathing of the four men above the barely audible hum of the overhead fan.

"This incident," Hutch said, "you didn't report it at the time?"

Goch shook his head.

"Not to your doctor, hospital..."

"No."

"Did you tell anyone at all?" Starsky asked.

"No, I didn't."

"It's okay." Aitkens said reassuringly.

"I feel as if I'm being accused of something."

"No," Tim said, glancing at the backs of Starsky and Hutch's heads.

"No, Mr. Goch," Hutch said, "I assure you, that's not the case at all."

"Because if I hadn't thought this was important, I would never have come forward at all."

Starsky nodded. "We understand that. And the reason you came to us now is that you think there might be a connection between the two attacks...?"

"Well, yes."

"You think there's a chance that they might have been carried out by the same man?" Starsky added.

"Yes, of course. I mean, it has to be a possibility after all, doesn't it?"

"There's something I have to ask you, Mr. Goch," Hutch said, leaning slightly forward, hands loosely joined. "When you were near the park that night, had you gone there with the possibility in mind that you might meet someone, for sexual reasons?"

"Look, I'm sorry..." Goch was on his feet and turned toward the door, Aitkens moving quickly to intercept him.

"Mr. Goch," Starsky said. "Mr. Goch, please sit back down."

Goch took a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his face and cleared his nose, before turning back to face Hutch. "I'm sorry." He resumed his seat. "And yes, your assumption, as to my reasons for being there that night, are correct."

"And this wasn't the first or only time you had been there under similar circumstances?" Hutch continued.

A slow shake of the head.

"Are you married, Mr. Goch?" Starsky asked.

He glanced toward the third finger of his left hand, the indentation gone now but the skin where the ring had been was still a touch paler than the rest. "Not anymore."

"You work where?" Starsky rubbed his chin.

"I work for an investment company, pensions and loans."

"And this side of your life, no one else knows about it?" Hutch asked softly.

"That's correct." He answered avoiding both sets of eyes.

"The person who attacked you," Starsky asked, "Can you describe him at all?"

Goch shook his head.

"Nothin' at all?"

The silence was long. "He was strong," Goch finally said. "Very strong. I thought--of course, there is no way to be sure--but I thought he might have been under the influence of drugs."

"Because?" Hutch asked after a quick glance at his partner.

"His strength. It just seemed so unnatural, and his anger. I think--I thought--he wanted to kill me, that that's what he really wanted to do. And instead he...he...he tried to inflict on me all the pain he could."

Goch's glasses fell from his hand and he began to cry. Fingers meshed across his face, he cried harder. After a few moments, Aitkens went over and stood close beside him, resting a hand across his shoulders. Only when Goch had begun to recover himself did Aitkens move back to his place against the wall. Starsky had left, bringing a glass of water back with him and Goch sipped at it, then gulped, choked a little. After thanking him he wiped at his glasses with his damp handkerchief, and put them back on, only to take them off again almost immediately.

"There's one more thing," Hutch said quietly, "I wonder if we can ask you, about what happened."

Goch nodded. "Go ahead."

"Penetration, when it took place..."

"A bottle," Goch said, eyes clenched shut, remembering. "He used a bottle and then smashed it on the sidewalk when he was through."

Barely able to sleep, Starsky and Hutch were up early and drove the short distance to the park where the second search was now in progress. They were present when one of the men, triumphantly, uncovered one section of a bottle, a piece broken away from near its mouth and now wedged full of something dark, excrement or earth or both. Inside a curved oval of glass there were, long dried, streaks of what was almost certainly blood.

"He used a bottle and then smashed it on the sidewalk when he was through." Starsky quoted aloud what Goch had described to them mere hours before.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it." Hutch said.

"Huh?" Starsky looked at his partner, a puzzled expression on his face. "Wonder what, Hutch?"

Hutch tore his eyes away from the hub of activity and met his lover's gaze. "Who did the person that could perform such an act hate the most, his victim or himself? I wonder which one of them is suffering more."

Starsky shook his head. "I may be a little impartial, babe, but I'm findin' it hard ta chalk up any sympathy for the monster that did this." He reached out and pressed his hand against his partner's back. "We're gonna have ta clean up this park, babe."

Hutch smiled softly and nodded. "Yeah. It sure looks that way."

When they got to the precinct, they bypassed the squad room and went straight to the operations room. Keith Taylor and Tim Aitkens were sitting side by side with Lynn Gomeau standing close behind them.
The latest list from Trevor Ulman and the SLIU had been blown up and
pinned on the wall between the original map of the search area and the photos of Roger Arnold. Listed were names of those given citations for violent behavior during recent gay-rights rallies in the city. Four were charged with public mischief in '73, charges dropped before making it to court; six officially warned, three arrested in '74, charges dropped; four more warned, two charged in '75, again the charges were dropped.

"We really got behind these in a big way, didn't we?" Aitkens said, sarcasm soft but clear in his voice.

"Evidence," Taylor said, "not prejudice. If you were to look at the numbers for the extreme lefties trying to break up the right-wing meetings, I'd bet that the numbers match."

Unconvinced, Aitkens gave Taylor a wry smile.

"Notice anything interesting here," Lynn said, using a pointer she lightly touched the yellow tip at three separate places. "Miller, Frank. Three years out of three, a perfect score."

Starsky and Hutch had slipped into the room, unnoticed, Hutch's voice startling them all when he said, "Miller, that's who Hovenden went to see."

"Yes, yesterday." Lynn said.

The door opened again and a sleepy looking Phillip Kahn walked in, followed by Chuck Bellafontaine, who had managed to unearth a slice of cold pizza and was biting into it with gusto.

"Okay." Starsky spoke up. "All the names on the list will be cross-matched with the ones we got from the start of this investigation. We'll work on the assumption that what happened to Farrell and Goch weren't isolated cases. It took months for Goch to come forward and there are probably others that never will."

"And we still think," Taylor said, "that these incidents and Arnold's murder are all linked?"

"All of the victims, so far, are gay." Lynn answered.

Hutch nodded. "That's what we feel. So what we're going to do is move in fast and follow up on those that we know. Barrett, Hovenden and Miller--that's the chain, and Hovenden, he might turn out to be the weak link that we need. Lynn, you're going to ride with me and Starsky, we'll try and catch Hovenden before he tries to flee. Keith, take Chuck and Tim, try and see what this Frank Miller has to say for himself; we still don't have a satisfactory alibi for him at the time Arnold was killed. Phillip? You'll be the liaison between both teams." He looked around the room. "Any questions or comments?"

"Only," Aitkens said, "in case it was someone in here, I'd like to thank whoever put the condoms and Vaseline in my locker. One small point of sex education, though--small but important--Vaseline with condoms isn't really safe, it has a bad effect on the rubber. KY jelly"--he winked at Bellafontaine--"now that's the way to go."

Keith Taylor laughed uncertainly; Lynn shook her head in dismay.

"This isn't the time," Starsky said with a scowl, "but any repeat of incidents like that an' I'll make it my business to find out who was responsible and have them out of here too fast for their feet ta touch the ground."

Expressionless, Bellafontaine dumped what was left of the pizza into the nearest garbage can.

Chapter 36

It was still a few minutes shy of 7 AM when Taylor glanced down at his watch. The street was quiet, here and there among the lines of dilapidated houses, the odd one had been spruced up with a lick of bright paint and louvered shutters, some even had new doors with brass knockers that shone. Not here, though. He read the sign telling callers to go around to the back.

"Alright, guys, let's keep it quiet. There's no point in waking him up until we have to."

There was a sour-sweet smell seeping across the backyard like a blocked drain. Bellafontaine, ever hopeful, eased his hand against the rear door and to his surprise it creaked open. Eyebrow raised he silently questioned Taylor and with an answering nod pushed the door all the way open and took a step inside. A tap was dripping against the clutter of dishes that threatened to overflow from the sink. They could hear clearly now the harsh and arrhythmic sound of snoring coming from the adjoining room.

With the curtains pulled tightly together, Miller had fallen asleep on the couch where he lay, a flotilla of empty cans adrift on the stained carpet and the smell of stale tobacco flat and thick in air. Miller's T-shirt had worked its way loose from his jeans and was wrinkled up across the hump of his belly. He was on his back, one foot touching the floor, one arm thrown back, his face to one side close against the cushion, mouth wide open.

Satisfied that they hadn't disturbed him, Taylor pointed to the stairs and then back out to the yard and the shed that looked as if it was more inclined to collapse than shelter anything. After all, Miller hadn't voiced any objections to them looking around.

Late for the early shift, Gerry Hovenden's father was just leaving the house when Starsky, Hutch and Lynn arrived. "Inside," he said brusquely, scarcely slowing down to examine their badges, "he should be out of the bathroom by now if you're lucky."

"What the fuck's this?" Hovenden said when he emerged into the postage stamp of a hallway, hair wet and a forest green shirt hanging over his sagging boxer shorts.

"Detective Starsky, Hutchinson, and I think you already know Detective Gomeau." Starsky flashed and then pocketed his shield.

"I don't know what you think you're doing here, but you can all fuck right off now." Hovenden blustered.

"Why don't you pop upstairs for a minute and put on some more clothes." Hutch said politely. "By the time you come back down, I'm sure we can have the coffee on."

Taylor had been standing in the kitchen, idly leafing through Miller's well-thumbed copy of 'Above All, Courage', and wondering what possessed someone to go off and join the SAS, when Bellafontaine beckoned him outside. There in the corner of the shed, soles thick with mud, stood a pair of Caterpillar work boots, size eleven.

"Doing a little gardening." Taylor observed drolly.

"Looks like it." Bellafontaine said.

Aitkens appeared in the doorway behind them. "I think he's starting to wake up."

Taylor grinned. "Well then, let's give him a hand."

The Queen cassette was still in the stereo. Aitkens turned the volume to high and pressed play. Miller, startled, tried to push himself up, overbalanced and rolled off the couch and onto the floor.

"Morning Frank." Taylor mouthed, waving the warrant in front of Miller's incredulous face. "This is your wake-up call."

Hovenden had pulled on a pair of jeans and worn sneakers, unlaced, on his feet. Hutch had made instant coffee in mugs that Lynn had carefully rinsed under the hot tap.

"Must be a problem gettin' them ta fit." Starsky said innocently, nodding toward Hovenden's feet.

Hovenden sat awkwardly and said nothing.

"Elevens, are they?" Hutch asked.

"What?"

"Size? Elevens or twelves?" Starsky cocked an amused eyebrow.

"What fucking difference does it make?"

"We're just making conversation." Hutch set a mug down in front of Hovenden.

"Elevens, for fuck's sake! They're elevens, happy now?"

Hutch smiled. Starsky grinned and took a sip of his coffee.

"You know," Lynn said, "we've been talking to your friend Eric."

"What of it?"

"He had some pretty interesting things to tell us."

"Oh, yeah? About me, I guess?"

Lynn looked at him, her head angled to one side. "Now, what do you think he could have had to say about you?"

"Fuck all."

Lynn nodded. "Just about that credit card."

"What credit card are you talking about?"

"Oh, the one he sold to Wendy Kormaniki."

"Who?"

"Wendy Kormaniki," Hutch said. "She was the one that told us she bought it from Eric."

"What fucking credit card are you talking about?"

"Detective Arnold's." Starsky said putting his mug down.

"You know," Lynn said. "the police officer who was murdered."

"The night," Hutch added, "you seem to be confused about where you were."

Hovenden pushed himself clumsily back in his chair. "What night's that?"

Starsky said, half smiling, "You see what we mean?"

"No, look." Hovenden wasn't looking at any of them, preferring instead to look at the floor. "That night, I told you, right? I was home."

"Is this a different story, Hovenden?" Hutch asked. "Because if it is..."

"Eric's, I was at Eric's house. That's what I meant."

"By home?" Starsky asked.

"Yes."

"Ya weren't here?"

Hovenden looked around. "This shithole?"

"Eric. He's like what? Your brother?" Hutch asked, leaning close to him.

"Yeah. I suppose, yeah."

"Thicker than blood?" Hutch shook his head. "He hasn't been very brotherly, then, Gerry. Some of the things I hear he was saying yesterday weren't very nice."

"You're lying."

"Dropping you the way he did, I'd rather share a bottle of soda than blood." Starsky said with a grin.

"You're lying!" Hovenden's face was almost white with strain.

"What would you say if we told you," Lynn asked, "that he claimed he got Detective Arnold's credit card from you?"

Hovenden scrambled to his feet, knocking over his chair, his face thrust forward. "I'd say you were a lying bitch!"

Hutch clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "That's no way to speak to a lady."

"Fuck you!"

Starsky stood up. "Had all you want of this coffee, Gerry? Or d'you want ta finish it before we leave for the station?"

"Turn off," Frank Miller shouted, "that fucking noise!"

"Worried about the neighbors, Frank?" Taylor said. "That's nice. World could do with a few more like you."

"Queen, though." Aitkens said, flicking open the drive and removing the cassette, "Always did like them. Pink Floyd, must have been four or five years ago, they played here, did you see them, Frank? My ears were ringing for days."

Miller turned to stare at him: what the fuck was all this about?

"But then again, that's the way you like them, isn't it? In the ears? In fact, I think we may have found a tape of yours from a while back that had quite a bit of Queen on it. Good, too."

"I don't suppose," Miller said, zipping up his jeans, "there's any way you bunch of comedians'd crawl back out the way you slithered in?"

"Of course, Frankie," Bellafontaine agreed, "Just as soon as you're ready."

Miller snorted and scratched at his left armpit. "Oh, yeah? What is it now?"

"Someone's been putting themselves out amongst our friends in the gay community," Taylor said. "Looking at your record, it seems you've done quite a bit of that yourself in your time."

"Fags? Yeah, why not? It's what they fucking deserve."

"You don't need a coat." Aitkens said, leading the way. "But if I were you, I'd lock this back door. You never know who might come waltzing in."

Given the seriousness of the crimes and the fact that a police officer had been killed, the evidence, circumstantial at best, had been enough to argue the necessity of search warrants. They had a twenty-four hour window in which to either charge Miller and Hovenden or let them go.

The first thing the search team did was to bag and label the boots in the shed. There was a car ready and waiting to whisk them off for analysis. The house itself, though, proved to be a disappointment. There were back issues of 'The Order' and a few other bits of right-wing paraphernalia, but nothing to get worked up about. In a tatty address book they found a few phone numbers that would ring bells with Ulman and the SLIU, but again, there were no major surprises. The collection of porn devoted to women with abnormally large breasts was well-thumbed, but compared to some of the stuff that was routinely confiscated, this was very small potatoes indeed. And they turned up no likely weapons, nothing at all resembling a baseball bat.

Once you got beyond the main downstairs rooms, the house Gerry Hovenden shared with his father was indeed a shithole of the first degree. Hovenden senior was a classic hoarder and the only prerequisite for being an object saved seemed to be that whatever it was, it was covered in dirt. There was a layer of grease along the banister and on all the shelves and surfaces. Engine parts, old clothes, yellowing newspapers, fuse wire, cycle blocks, bottles of oil gone rancid, copies of paperback Westerns with the pages bent back, rusty tools. And in the midst of all this, the glove--the one that Gerry had hurled there, back among the recesses of an upstairs back room, thrown haphazardly among the cobwebs and musty boxes, the rat droppings and silverfish--the leather motorcycle glove that matched the one found on the embankment near Roger Arnold's body. It's identical opposite. It's partner. It's twin.

Chapter 37

Peter Matthews's mother sat at her kitchen table, picking crumbs from around a piece of lemon cake and lifting them absentmindedly to her mouth. "Be gentle with him, won't you? He's never meant anyone any harm."

Matthews was upstairs in a bedroom that had hardly changed in the last fifteen years. Scouting certificates hung on the wall, beside a black and white photo of him in his uniform, the date on the top read 1961. On his nightstand stood another picture of him as a boy, beaming, with a newborn calf wrapped in his skinny arms.

"How was the rest of your visit with your Aunt?" Kahn asked from the doorway. "Are you feeling any better?"

With tears at the corners of his eyes, Matthews turned away.

"I'm glad you called," Kahn said gently. "I think it was the right thing to do." He paused and then added, "You'll feel better after you get it all off your chest."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. It'll be all right."

"I can't tell you everything. I don't know...Oh, God!"

"It's okay." Kahn put his hand on the base of Matthews's neck and let it rest there. "Just tell me what you can."

After a few minutes, Matthews reached into his pocket for a tissue and Kahn moved his hand, sat on the bed, and waited. He thought Matthews might break down again and cry, but instead he simply sat there on the side of the bed, telling his story, the one he had told so many times inside his head while walking along the cliffs and watching the waves break back onto the shore.

He described how this particular group of youths, the older ones, had got up from the games room early on the night that Stevie died, and swaggered toward the door. How the biggest of them, at least as big as Matthews himself, if not bigger, had sauntered back over to Peter and fixed him with a grin and told him to stay where he was, keep watching whatever he was watching on the television--unless he wanted to go up and watch them.

And then they had gone up to Stevie's room, all six of them, and locked the door from the inside. And he didn't know what to do. He'd been frightened, scared of them, the way they would swagger around the place and smoke and swear and often use drugs they managed to smuggle in from somewhere, and they would mock him, calling him names and make threats. He knew it was too late to stand up to them, far too late, and when the screams from Stevie's room were so loud they could be heard, even downstairs, all he had done was go over to the TV and turn up the sound.

"You didn't tell anyone?" Kahn said after a moment.

"No, not at first. Not at the time."

"But later?"

Matthews eyes were tightly closed. "I told Mr. Jordon."

Something akin to pleasure lurched deep in Kahn's throat. "You told him what you just told me?"

Matthews nodded.

"Peter?"

"Yes, yes."

"And what did Mr. Jordon say?"

Matthews opened his eyes. "He said there was no reason to mention it to anyone else, especially at the inquiry. He said it would only muddy the waters. He said that it wasn't relevant anyway."

"What about the other staff members? Theresa Beck? You didn't say anything to her?"

Matthews pressed the tips of his fingers against his temples so hard that when he finally withdrew them, there were pale ovals etched in his skin. "She wasn't there. Not all night. Not until I phoned her and told her she had better come in."

"She was ill, sick, what?"

Matthews shook his head. "She was working at another job."

Kahn got to his feet and went across to the window. On the roof next door a workman was sitting, a brightly colored scarf tied around his head, drinking from a thermos and reading a newspaper.

"These youths," he said, uncapping his pen. "What are their names?"
And Matthews told him, each one he spit out like a nail.

Starsky and Hutch decided to take Hovenden first. The glove that was found at his house, the one that matched the one discovered at the murder scene? Yes, Hovenden agreed, it was his, but so what? He'd chucked it out months ago, before Christmas probably, after he lost the other on a ride on his bike. Late November, he thought it was. Whatever they had found near the canal there was no connection, nothing at all to do with him.

They didn't tell him that Forensics was even now checking to see if there were any matching fibers from both gloves that could reduce the odds of anyone else wearing the one found at the murder scene. That could wait until a confirmation came through, for now they were happy to leave him rattled.

"All right, Gerry," Hutch said, "play it that way if you want. We'll go have a talk with your buddy Frank Miller and see if he can throw a little more light on things."

Hovenden laughed nervously. "Frank'd not so much as lift his leg on one of you guys if you were on fire."

"Okay, Gerry." Starsky said pleasantly, getting to his feet. "Have it your way, for now."

"Cocky sonofabitch." Starsky muttered once they were out in the corridor.

"Bravado, Starsk, nothing more." Hutch said lightly squeezing his partner's arm. "Underneath it all, I think he's one very unhappy camper."

"You think he thinks his pal is about ta leave him ta sink or swim on his own?" Starsky asked.

Outside the second interrogation room, Hutch grinned. "Let's see if he's right."

Frank Miller claimed only vague memories of that Friday night and that he had spent the majority of it drinking. Going from bar to bar, a beer with one guy here, a few more with some friends there. Dinner on the way home, what? Don't remember. Come to think of it he didn't think he went home at all. Stayed that night with his brother-in-law, sharing the floor with a pair of Rottweilers his sister was hoping to breed. As long as they didn't do it, you know, while he was in the room with them. Why don't they send someone out there and find out for themselves?

Starsky and Hutch were not pleased, another alibi depending upon a close family member that was more likely to commit perjury before seeing one of their own end up in prison.

"In the meantime," Starsky said, "why don't you try tellin' us about these?" And with a little bit of a flourish, he produced the Caterpillar boots.

"What about them?"

"Well, for a start, do you recognize them?"

Miller shrugged. "There must be hundreds of pairs like that, thousands."

"Are you sayin' they're not yours?"

"What I'm saying is that I don't know." Miller's tone was saucy and laced with contempt. "They could be mine, and then again, they may not be."

"Maybe you'd like ta try one on" Starsky suggested.

"What is this? Fuckin' Cinderella? 'Cause if it is, we got the ugly sisters well cast, I can tell you that."

"These boots were found in your shed." Hutch said. "This morning."

"Really? That's amazing, I searched for the damned things everywhere."

"Lost," Starsky mused, "and then were found."

Hutch sneaked a sideways look at his partner. For a man who claimed his deepest religious experience came when he heard Petula Clark singing one of the songs from 'Jesus Christ, Superstar', biblical references were unexpected, to say the least.

Starsky wasn't through. "Interestin' what was found on them, too. This style of boot, all those deep cracks and crevices in the sole, you'd be amazed what gets stuck in them." He paused, Miller was watching him carefully now. "Or maybe not."

Miller slouched back in his chair, one eyebrow raised. "So tell me." He said.

Starsky flipped the cover of his notebook back. "Mud, for a start..."

"Yeah? Surprise, fuckin' surprise." Miller said, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Consistent with that found on the section of the embankment where Detective Arnold was killed." Starsky went on, "Not only that, we found blood, small traces of it across the tongue of the left boot, the same blood type as Arnold."

Blood was now in short supply in Miller's face.

"There's something else we found," Hutch said, leaning in, "a cassette tape with a lot of music by one of your favorite bands. And that's not all, it seems whoever's tape it was had used it to make a recording at a rally last fall. It shouldn't be too difficult to check if you were there."

Miller sat there for several minutes, arms resting on his knees, staring at the floor. Then he looked up, chewing on his lower lip. "Got a cigarette?" He asked. "I need a smoke."

His lawyer tapped him on the arm. "You're under no obligation to talk about this now, not without discussing it with me first."

"What you can do," Miller said as politely as was possible for him, "is fuck right off. And poke me in the arm again and I'll break every finger in your fuckin' hand. Understood? I know my rights better'n you."

His lawyer understood.

Hutch got up when there was a knock on the door and stepped out into the hall. The expression on Taylor's face told him the news faster than words.

"Fuck!" Hutch said, not a word he used often, or lightly. It was almost certain that the surplus blood found on Arnold's body had come from neither Hovenden nor Miller.

He was on his way back into the interview room when Kahn appeared at the end of the corridor, smiling broadly: not all news was bad. After listening he briefed Keith Taylor and sent him in to replace Starsky. He wanted them to confront Jordon together.

Chapter 38

The suit was different, double-breasted with wide lapels, dark with a narrow pinstripe running through, but the amount of dandruff that had fallen from Jordon's graying hair was the same. The veins etched into his nose stood out more prominently, the corners of his eyes were watery, clouded in yellow.

He began by offering Hutch his hand, and when it was refused, sat back behind his desk and folded his arms across his chest.

"Detectives Starsky, Kahn and myself have just come from the police station," Hutch said, each word spoken with special care, "where one of your staff, Peter Matthews, has made a statement about the events leading up to the death of Stephen Barrett on these premises."

Jordon flinched and covered his mouth with the opened fingers of one hand.

Hutch nodded toward Kahn, who took an envelope containing several sheets of paper from his inside pocket. "We would like you to read that statement now."

Jordon hesitated before reaching out and taking the papers from Kahn's hand, avoiding looking any of the officers in the eye.

"Read it," Starsky said, "all of it, and carefully, before you make any kinda response."

Jordon's eyes stalled at the end of the first paragraph and then started again. At the end of the second paragraph he glanced sideways toward the wall and the photographs where his career was plastered. By the time he had reached the end and had pushed the sheets across his desk, there were tears in his eyes.

"What Matthews says is basically correct?" Hutch asked.

Jordon nodded.

"He told you those youths had been in Stephen Barrett's room the night he died?"

"Yes."

"And that it's his belief that the bullying had been of a sexual nature?" Hutch could feel his anger rising with each question asked.

"There is no proof..."

"But that was what he said?"

"Yes."

"And you did nothing."

Jordon glanced from Kahn to Starsky before looking back at Hutch and shaking his head.

"You told Matthews to do nothing, say nothing?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind telling us why that was?"

After a pause, Jordon said, "It would only disturb the smooth running of the home. I didn't see what good would be served by mentioning anything about it."

"And why was that?" Starsky asked.

Jordon looked at him directly. "By the time I heard, Stephen Barrett was already dead."

Starsky sprung to his feet and retrieved the statement from the desk. "Copies of this have been sent to the Director of Social Services and ta every member involved with the original inquiry. A copy has also been faxed to the DA's office. Detective Kahn will question the kids named in the report as soon as you've arranged for a parent or legal guardian to be present. Is that clear?"

Jordon nodded, head once again bowed and Starsky and Hutch, after a quick glance at Kahn, left the pair of them in the room. Now that it was done, they couldn't wait to shed themselves of the sad, corrupt smell of that room, that man, that institution.

One night on the thin mattress in his cell had been enough to bring Frank Miller to his senses. Talking his way out of the blood on his boots and the voices on the tape wouldn't be easy, and for what reason? To save the hides of a pair of queers--he was sure they were, no matter how much they denied it--who just weren't worth saving. Commit perjury for the likes of them? Screw that!

So Miller began banging on the inside of his cell door a little after seven and by nine he was sitting back in the interrogation room with Aitkens and Taylor and a cassette recorder. According to him, his brother-in-law, Ian Nash, had words with a few blacks that had come into the bar he frequented and had asked Frank to get a few of his friends together and come up and help sort them out. Teach them to pay a little respect. Frank had talked Gerry Hovenden, who in turn, had enlisted Eric. But Eric never showed up, not then. And it was Ian who brought along the baseball bat.

Then they had messed up the bar.

Frank couldn't remember whose idea it was to walk on down to the river, but that's where they went, crossing the bridge and going to another bar before making their way back after closing. They were all pretty pissed by now and noisy, pushing one another around for the fun of it, because there wasn't anyone else around to push. Ian and himself had wandered off in front, heading for Ian's house a few blocks away. It was somewhere around then that the others must've met up with Eric, who was already having an argument with some guy. The one that turned out to be the cop.

Anyway, there was so much shouting that Frank hadn't been able to hear everything, except he remembered that Eric had accused the man of being queer--which was a bit rich, Frank thought, coming from him--and trying to grab hold of Eric's balls in the mens room. Next thing you knew, they were all over him, shouting "Fucking fag!" and other similar things, and kicking the shit out of him.

Frank and Ian had stood back on the path watching. Frank wouldn't have minded joining in himself, he admitted, but the way they were swarming around the poor guy there really wasn't room for one more.

And then Eric had broken away and came at a run for Ian's bat. He went back in there and smashed the man's face like he wanted to take his head clean off. In the end, Gerry had pulled him away. Tried to give Ian back his baseball bat, but Ian said no way.

"I went over and looked at him." Frank said. "He was a mess." He shrugged. "That must have been when I got his blood on my boots."

"And at no time while this was going on," Aitkens asked, "did you raise a fist in anger or deliver any kind of a blow?"

"Me?" Frank Miller said. "Not one. You got my solemn word." And he grinned.

Hovenden denied all of it, every word. The results of the tests on the fibers from the glove had still not come in. "Let him chew on it awhile." Aitkens said.

"This Ian Nash," Taylor called from across the room, one hand over the mouth piece of the phone, "he's got some priors. Do you want me to bring him in and see if his story adds up?"

"Yes, and take Lynn here with you, okay? And stay sharp, both of you."

They were leaving when Starsky and Hutch returned, sudden and looking depressed. Aitkens waited for the coffee to finish dripping before filling them in on all the details.

"Good." Starsky said, both of them suddenly looking refreshed. "Let's get over to the Barrett place, and see if we can get our hands on Eric. Chuck, you may as well come along for the ride, too."

When Virginia opened the door to Hutch's knock that, she was still wearing what she had slept in, though it was now mid-afternoon. One look at Starsky and Hutch and she turned back into the house. The curtains in the front room were closed and the television was on. Virginia had one cigarette in her hand and another, smoldering, in an ashtray beside stale looking toast.

"Virginia?" Hutch said. "What happened? Are you all right?"

She looked at him as if she didn't quite hear what he said.

"Virginia, it's about Eric. Is he here?"

A slow shake of the head.

"We've got a warrant to search the house."

"What do I care?"

With a questioning look from Starsky, Hutch nodded and Starsky and Aitkens moved quickly toward the stairs. He waited until Virginia had flopped down onto the couch and then he turned down the sound on the TV; outside, in the backyard, the dog was barking frantically to be fed.

"Should I let him in?" Hutch asked.

Virginia didn't seem to care about that either.

He motioned for Bellafontaine to stay with Virginia while he went to the kitchen and scooped a cupful of dry food out of a bag in the corner and filled the dish. He unlocked the back door, being careful to keep to one side when the dog tore in. He could hear Starsky and Aitkens moving around upstairs. Back in the front room, he sat across from Virginia and waited for her to focus on him.

"It's serious this time, Virginia. That alibi you gave him, him and his friend, it doesn't stand up." Her eyes flickered as if still only half understanding what he was saying. "Where is he, Virginia. Where is Eric now?"

Footsteps on the stairs were followed by a slow shake of Starsky's head, his expression telling Hutch they found nothing.

"When Eric isn't hangin around with Gerry, are there any other friends he sees?" Hutch asked.

Virginia didn't answer.

"Girlfriends?"

"Laura Johnson," Virginia said scornfully. "Slut."

"Do you know where she lives?"

Virginia didn't have a clue, and couldn't have cared less, but she thought she might work in the food court at the mall.

"Make sure the house is watched, front and back." Starsky told Aitkens and Bellafontaine when they were back outside. "An' keep in touch with the station. And stay sharp. Think about what he might have done, he's young and he's strong and probably won't come in easy."

"Just give me the chance." Bellafontaine muttered, once Starsky and Hutch were gone. "Eric Barrett, one on one, he'll come in pretty easily."

Once in the food court, steering their way between the shoppers and the strollers, Starsky and Hutch realized that they had both seen Laura Johnson before; she had served them coffee before and now did so again, strong espressos in waxed paper cups. They identified themselves and asked Laura if she wouldn't mind answering a few questions then they carried the coffees to a nearby table and sat down. Laura, pretty in her pink uniform, was no more than seventeen.

Self-conscious, she lit a cigarette and wafted the smoke away from her face with her free hand.

"I don't know," she said in answer to Starsky's question. 'I haven't seen Eric for a week or more now."

"Laura, you do understand this is important?" Starsky asked.

The tip of her tongue pressed for a moment against the underside of her upper lip. "I'm not a liar, you know."

"I'm sure you're not."

"I haven't seen him. Besides, he wouldn't come around looking for me, if that's what you're thinking."

Near them, a man in a shabby overcoat, once someone's finest, but a long time ago, was coughing repeatedly into the back of his hand, rough and raw. It was enough to make Hutch's throat sore. "Why do you say that?"

"He just wouldn't, that's why." There was irritation, mixed with amusement, in her eyes. "For one thing, my old man can't stand him and won't let him in the house. For another, I broke off with him. Almost a month ago now."

"Why'd ya chuck him, Laura?" Starsky asked.

Laura tilted her head back and released a thin plume of smoke. Her nails were painted, Hutch noticed, with some kind of polish that glittered. "We went out. Going to the movies, that's what I thought, but no, he didn't want to do that, so we went and got a couple of shakes from Dairy Queen and I don't know where after that. Anyway, not long after that he called a cab from a pay phone and I think, oh, right, his mom must be out, back to his place, the usual thing as if that's all he has on his mind. Men you know? Though in Eric's case, you had to sometimes wonder why he bothered. Anyway, I get in the cab and he tells me he's not coming, promised to meet one of his friends. He gave the driver five bucks and told him to take me home. I told him if that was how he felt, then maybe he should spend all his time with his precious buddies and stop wasting it on me." She looked at Starsky and Hutch and gave a little shrug. "That was that."

"How did he react?" Hutch said. "When you told him that?"

Laura glanced back over toward the counter where she worked. "He didn't care," she said. "I don't think he ever did."

The coughing had been joined by a small child's shrill wailing and Hutch could feel his head beginning to pound.

"Look," Starsky said, lowering his voice, "I don't want ta pry, but you said, well you implied, that sex with Eric wasn't so great."

Laura grabbed her pack of cigarettes and fidgeted in her chair. "Why are you asking me about that for?"

"Laura, we're sorry, we know it's personal, but believe me, we're asking for a good reason." Hutch said.

She took a long drag on her cigarette and momentarily closed her eyes. "It was like, you know, he always wanted it, just never...well, not never, but...everything was always okay when we, when he...Look, I can't believe I'm sitting here telling you this. But sometimes, well, let's put it this way, what he was in such a hurry to start, he couldn't always finish. How's that?" She stubbed out her cigarette and hurried to her feet, glancing back again at the unattended counter. "Now I've got to go before I get fired, all right?"

"Of course." Starsky said, leaning back. "And Laura, thanks."

"Well that was a little enlightening." Hutch said.

Starsky gave him a quick smile and a wink then drained his cup. Starsky radioed the station when they were back in the car; so far there was no sign of Eric, but fibers found inside the leather glove from the murder scene matched perfectly with the ones found in the glove from Hovenden's house. It wasn't much, but it was enough to allow them to charge him with murder.

Chapter 39

Bellafontaine pulled up behind the unmarked car just short of six o'clock that evening. The adrenaline was pumping again and everyone involved was afraid to go home incase they might miss something important.

"The daughter," Taylor told him when he got out and walked up to the other car. "Cheryl? She came in about an hour ago, left ten, fifteen minutes later. Aside from that it's been pretty dead."

"Oh yeah?" He said, again leaning over to speak to Taylor. "How'd it go with Frankie Miller's in-law?"

"He clammed up at first," Taylor said, "but that was expected. Once he started talking though, everything he said pretty much tied into Miller's version of events. Right down to standing there while the others beat Arnold senseless. I asked him if he had been tempted to step in and try and stop it, but he said no. It wasn't any of his business. The only thing he seemed to be sorry about, callous bastard, was that Eric had used his baseball bat to clobber him with."

"Anything else happen?" Bellafontaine said as he opened the passenger side door and slid into the seat.

Taylor shook his head. "Mrs. Barrett left. Some lady friend of hers came around and they went off together. Had a small bag with her, I asked and she said she was going to her friend's house for the night. I made a note of the address just in case."

"You don't think she could have been sneaking out some clean clothes for her boy?"

Taylor laughed. "Not unless he's into dresses and frilly panties."

"Never can tell these days. Speaking of which, where's our Timmy?"

Taylor pointed toward the house. "Watching the back door."

"Who better?" Bellafontaine asked more to himself than out loud.

Taylor gave him a dirty look, but left it at that. He knew better than to get into an argument with Chuck over moral issues, besides, no one knew for sure if Tim was actually gay or not.

After forty minutes of sporadic conversation, Bellafontaine lit a cigarette and said, "Why don't you go home, Keith? Keep your wife company, there's no reason for us all to be here."

"No, it's okay."

But when Bellafontaine asked him again, twenty minutes later, he agreed. He was getting out of the car when Aitkens appeared out of the alley entrance and walked toward them.

"Seen anything?" Taylor asked hopefully.

Tim shook his head. "Only the back of the house with all the lights out. Upstairs curtains are shut. The only sound back there is from that dog of theirs, he let's loose every now and then to get let out."

"Chuck," Taylor said, "If you really want to hang around, why don't you go out back for a while? Then Tim can take my place here for a change. I'll go home for a little while, okay?"

Bellafontaine didn't like the idea of doing Tim Aitkens any kind of a favor, but he agreed nevertheless. At least around the back of the house he could pace up and down if he wanted to, the idea was better than getting a numb butt in the car.

He was just approaching the house from the furthest end of the entry when he saw something move in the yard. A shadow, low against the fence.

Bellafontaine waited until his breathing had steadied and then moved on slowly, careful to lift his feet and not kick any stray stone or stumble. By the time he got to the gate, he realized it was the dog.

The air punched out of him with a relieved sigh. Only the damn dog. And then, instantaneously, his palms began to sweat. The dog. The dog was supposed to be inside, Aitkens had said so. And for it now to be out, someone had to have gone in.

He lifted the latch on the gate and eased it open. Half a dozen steps later he was at the door. Listening carefully and heard nothing, then tried the door, surprised to find that it wasn't locked. At the doorway leading off from the kitchen he paused and listened again, hearing nothing except the thudding of his heart. Sweat was in his hair and now beginning to run down the back of his neck. Holding his breath he stepped quickly into the living room and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Not seeing anything unusual he turned toward the stairs.

Only once, when he hesitated midway up the stairs, did he ask himself the question he would ask himself a thousand times later: Why hadn't he called Aitkens to back him up before going in?

At the top of the stairs he saw that a few doors were partially open. Bellafontaine's mouth was dry and he ran his tongue over his lips. He started to count to three, inside his head, and on two, he turned the knob and pushed the fourth door open as fast as he could, and flicked on the light.

It was a girl's room, posters on the wall and stuffed animals on the bed. The small closet was crammed with clothes, some on hangers but most of them not.

Maybe, Bellafontaine thought, Aitkens was wrong and that the dog was in the backyard the entire time, barking to be let in.

He could see the shape of a double bed through the doorway to the next room, the covers rumpled and turned down. Virginia Barrett's room, he guessed. Shoes were scattered on the floor along with piles of clothing, a bra was hanging from the mirror over the dresser. He stepped over a discarded pair of jeans and a sandal and that was when some sense alerted him. He swung his head around toward a sound he felt rather than heard and turned smack into the full curve of a baseball bat, swung with all the force of a young man, fit and in his prime, striving to hit the ball clean out of the park. The crack as Bellafontaine's cheekbone fractured was sharp and clear and as he catapulted back across the room, before he lost all hearing in that ear, he heard Eric say, "This what you're looking for?"

Bellafontaine bounced off the wall and Eric swung the bat again, bringing it down onto the top of his shoulder, breaking the collarbone.

"Didn't I tell you it would be me and you?"

Without Eric having to do anything more, one of Bellafontaine's legs buckled under him and he fell sprawling to the floor, crying out as his injured arm hit the base of the bed.

Eric grabbed him by his other arm and the collar of his coat and lifted him up, throwing him down again onto the tangle of sheets.

Bellafontaine wanted to shout, but somehow he couldn't remember how. Eric, with one knee on the bed beside him, reached under him, feeling for his belt. Oh, Christ!

"Didn't I say I'd have you?"

A wrench and Bellafontaine's legs kicked upward as his slacks were yanked down to his knees, his boxer shorts quickly following. He struggled to fight back, using his elbows, arms the back of his head, anything, but when he did the pain that seared through him caused him to cry out. Eric slid one arm around Bellafontaine's neck and began to squeeze it back, his other hand feeling between the legs, fingers beginning to push against the clenched sphincter, all the time repeating words Bellafontaine could barely hear.

"Slut. Whore. This is it, this is what you want, you know it is."

Eric pulled at the front of his own jeans, freeing himself and then knelt above Bellafontaine, one arm still so tight around his neck that Bellafontaine was close to fainting, wishing he could, praying that he would. Rocking his body back he tried to throw Eric off. The pain was sudden and sharp as a knife when Eric pushed into him.

The sound of the door slamming downstairs must have registered seconds after it happened. Eric pulled away grabbed his jeans, trying and failing to cover himself and at the same time reach for the baseball bat that was jammed between the mattress and the foot of the bed before Tim Aitkens burst through the door.

Aitkens dove at Eric, the top of his skull striking Eric's breastbone as the bat flew from Eric's hands and he fell backward against the wall beneath the window. Aitkens punched him once, twice, then slammed the point of his elbow hard into the center of Eric's face, before seizing his arm and turning him, one knee driving down into the small of his back. Aitkens had the cuffs in his hand now, one end quickly fastened on Eric's wrist and the other locked around the pipe from the radiator.

"You have the right to remain silent." Aitkens began. "You do not have to say anything..." but stopping, he wanted Eric to turn his head and look at him, look at him so that Aitkens could hit him again, so that he would have a reason to.

Aitkens got up and left him cuffed to the heater. He went to where Bellafontaine lay sobbing on the bed, crying in embarrassment and pain, and covered him carefully with one of the sheets, as carefully as he had ever done anything in his life.

Chapter 40

So far Bellafontaine had refused to talk about what had happened, not to the doctor who had examined him, not to Maureen Madden, Starsky, Hutch, anyone. Eric's statements had so far been patchy at best, but what did seem certain was that he had encountered Roger Arnold the day before the murder, and that something had happened between them, something sexual, but exactly what and how mutually consensual, it was hard to tell. When Arnold ran into Eric again the following night, presumably by accident, Eric reacted with anger and encouraged his friends to attack and beat him to a pulp.

Along with Gerry Hovenden, Eric had been charged with murder and on his own he had also been charged with two cases of assault causing bodily harm; they were holding back on the charges of sexual assault and rape.

During the time that Starsky and Hutch were preoccupied with Eric, Kahn had also been busy. The youths who had terrorized Stephen Barrett had given conflicting accounts of what had happened leading up to Stephen's death. It was unclear how far their threatening sexual byplay had gone, but what was clear almost beyond dispute was they if they had not forced Stephen to take part in oral or anal sex there and then, they had made it known that the next time he wouldn't be given any choice.

And when he checked again with Theresa Beck's neighbors, several claimed to have seen her leaving the house in a nurse's uniform, usually in the evenings and arriving back home early, between six and seven. Not all the time but often enough to be regular. Kahn checked all the hospitals and nursing agencies in town and he was waiting for her when her car arrived back from the airport. When she swung into the driveway of the house, of which she was still three mortgage payments behind, he walked across and offered to help her with her bags.

Weighted down by debt, and unable to sell the house, its current market price was well below what she had paid for it, she had taken on a second job at Memorial Hospital. The pay was better and if her shifts clashed, Peter Matthews covered for her, signing her in and out. On the night that Stephen Barrett hung himself, she had been at the hospital.

"I don't feel any real guilt." She told Kahn. "I mean, whatever he did, he would have done it whether I'd been there or not, wouldn't he?"

At the station, Starsky and Hutch went out of their way to compliment Kahn on the way he had handled his end of the investigation and assured him they would pass that on to Captain Dobey. Kahn tried to disguise his pleasure, without quite succeeding.

By then the story of what had happened to Bellafontaine, rumor and counter rumor, had ricocheted around the precinct and Starsky and Hutch had been chipping away at Eric's stonewalling for the better part of fourteen hours.

Off duty, Tim Aitkens had driven out to visit Bellafontaine at the hospital and Bellafontaine had turned his back and closed his eyes, staying like that even after Aitkens left.

On the second morning, when Starsky and Hutch entered the interrogation room, Eric, as the result of a long discussion with his lawyer, began to tell them about what had happened to him when he was taken into care as a young boy. He told them about the director of the first children's home he'd been in, the man that had given Eric some cigarettes if he let him slip his hand inside his shorts, and a crisp new five dollar bill if he would let him pull them down.

Starsky and Hutch were facing each other in the solid bed of their master bedroom, lightly stroking each other's skin.

"I went to see Virginia Barrett this afternoon, while you went to see Huggy." Hutch said.

"And?" Starsky reached up and cupped his lover's face.

"She had a friend with her and she'd been drinking a lot, both of which were probably just as good." Hutch sighed. "What else can she do?" He touched Starsky's shoulder lightly with the back of his hand. "It seems that Stevie's dad--the one that showed up out of the blue--he's gone again without a goodbye. She doesn't know what hit her and probably never will." He kissed Starsky's fingers when he brought them close to his face. "First Stephen and now Eric. How can she ever hope to understand?"

"Do you, Hutch?" Starsky asked softly. "Do you understand?"

"Only that there's nothing people won't do to one another, if the circumstances are right."

"Or wrong." Starsky said. "If the circumstances are wrong?"

"Yes." Hutch reached his arm around behind him, hand open across the curve of his back, and Starsky eased himself toward him, nose almost touching nose. "Yeah. I guess that's what I mean."

After a while Starsky said, "If they're right, if things are right, do you think that what we do to one another can be good?"

"Yes." Hutch said, kissing him. "I do think that. I think that it can be very, very good."

Starsky leaned into the kiss, pushing Hutch over and onto his back. He brought up his knee and forced the long legs apart before leaving the hungry mouth and working his way down the throat and across and over the smooth chest. "I'm gonna make it real good." He said, looking up briefly, his voice tight with emotion. "Roll over, babe."

Hutch began to twist around, stopping for just a few seconds to wonder how Starsky managed to have a tube of lubricant in his hand, before completely rolling over.

Starsky reached up and grabbed a pillow, with a pat on the firm backside, Hutch lifted his hips enough to have the pillow placed under him. Starsky pushed a cheek aside, nearly gasping when he saw the puckered entrance, his cock twitched happily and began to leak. Leaning forward he pushed the other cheek away with the side of his face and used his tongue to probe and taste. A thrill coursed through him when his tongue slipped in with little resistance.

"God! That feels good." Hutch groaned into the bedding.

Starsky came back up just long enough to pop the lid off the bottle and pour a good dose into his palm, quickly coating himself so he wouldn't have to worry about it later. He replaced the cap and gently began to circle the tight opening with a well greased finger. His own erection had subsided with the intensity of his concentration, lessening his want long enough for him to be able to take his time. "I'm gonna slip a finger inside now, Hutch. Is that alright?"

"Don't tell me what you're going to do, just do it, Starsk." Hutch took a few deep breaths feeling himself tense as soon as his partner spoke.

Starsky nodded and spent a few more minutes only circling until he felt his lover go lax once more. Slipping his index finger in and up to the second knuckle he was again impressed that, so far, there was no attempt to expel him. It took less than fifteen minutes for him to have three fingers working inside when he felt the rim finally clamp down. "Easy, babe. Breathe deep an' stay calm."

Hutch had been totally engrossed with the delightful sensations tingling through him. He moaned softly pushing his hips upwards to aid his partner. It was then that his mind began to drift as he contemplated the difference he would feel when the slender fingers were replaced by the huge cock he was being prepared to accept. With the sound of his lover's soothing voice and his own resolve that this was something he not only wanted but dreamed about, he was able to relax again.

Starsky felt the pressure ease up again and moved up and quickly aligned himself before removing his hand and stroking himself back up to full size. He entered slowly but with a steadiness he didn't feel. Hutch had begun to take deep breaths again, but managed to remain calm. Buried all the way, Starsky placed his forehead between his partner's shoulder blades. "Oh God, Hutch! You have no idea how terrific this is." Lifting his head he reached up and gripped both shoulders. "'M gonna start moving now."

"Good." Hutch managed to squeak. Electricity coursed through him when, for the first time, he felt his lover stroke his prostate. He bit back a cry as the sensation was repeated over and over, his own cock almost unbearably hard as it tried to find relief between the mattress and the pillow.

Sweat began to bead and run down Starsky's face and chest as he fought the urge to pump vigorously. Keeping his thrusts slow and easy until the blissful yelp told him that he found the right angle and he began to increase the length and speed of his thrusts. Still not allowing himself to lose complete control, he leaned completely over, his chest meeting the equally sweat slicked back, the two of them rubbing together adding to the sweet sensations running through them.

A few seconds before it happened, Starsky knew he wasn't going to last much longer. Hutch had slammed his face into the sheets and was still quivering from his own orgasm, his anus clamping around Starsky's shaft sending him flying away with the wave of euphoria that washed over him as he shot his essence into his love.

After a few minutes, Starsky slowly pushed himself up and away. "You okay, Hutch?"

"Come here." Hutch rolled to his side, pulling the pillow out from under himself. "That was the most incredible sex I've ever had."

"It wasn't too shabby from this end either." Starsky grinned. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, better than fine." Hutch beamed back. "I'll probably be a little sore for a couple of days, but that's a pretty small price to pay."

"Well, we've christened the house, so that must mean that we are officially moved in." Starsky crawled up to lay beside his partner.

"What do you think of navy blue with white trim?" Hutch was still grinning.

"Huh?"

"The house. I don't want to live in a pink house any longer than I have to." Hutch said, wrapping his arms around Starsky and squeezing tightly.

"How about white with navy blue trim?" Starsky chucked.

"Everyone has a white house, Starsk."

"Fine. Blue it is, then."

Before Peter had left he had written a letter to Cheryl and put it on the pillow in her room. He had left nothing, not a message or a word for Virginia. With tears so strong she had not been able to see clearly, Virginia had ripped the letter into shreds, unreadable except for the odd word. 'Love' and 'home'. Virginia had scooped up the fragments and carried them down to the kitchen sink where she burned them.

Cheryl had come home when she'd heard about Eric, but she didn't stay long. With her mother bawling and wanting to grab hold of her all the time, she couldn't cope with it. Besides, Nicole was there for her and she was her best friend after all. She would look after her and make sure she was all right.

Back at Diane's, Carol had gotten a hold of some acid. Ten bucks for a small strip, and Cheryl was just in time for her share, the others were already well on their way, the baby crawling between them, diaper filled, with no one paying him any attention until he started to cry. Diane pushed him toward Cheryl and told her to take him to the bathroom and clean him up and Cheryl giggled and did as she was told.

"And get a fuckin' move on," Carol called. "We're already late as it is."

They were meeting Janice near the bowling alley. Janice was on speed or something else when they got there, she had to be, she was manic about something the way she was screaming. Cheryl watched as she pushed her way past some guy, not much older than her but wearing some kind of uniform like he worked there. Wasting his breath he told Janice that she had to leave. Janice laughed in his face and then felt between his legs to see what he'd do.

The guy threatened to call the police and Janice pointed at Cheryl and told him that her brother had killed a fucking cop, so he had better watch out. But she left anyway, sure that he'd run into the office probably pissing his pants.

Then they came upon an old man. Cheryl saw him first, weaving across the street toward them, drunk out of his mind, and up to Janice, a big smile all over his face.

And this drunken old bastard, who must have been forty or fifty years old, pulls up his shirt and starts rubbing his chest against Janice. "Come on, sweetheart, you an' me." He slurred.

Janice pulled out a screwdriver she had hidden in her jacket, broken halfway down the blade and sharpened to a sort of point, and she stuck it in the drunk's distended belly, right above the buckle of his belt. He fell to his knees with this thing sticking out of him, almost to the hilt, and Janice laughed and pointed, the rest of the girls, most of them anyway, had already started running.

Diane stood there, potato chips falling between her finger, watching Carol trying to pull Cheryl away. "Come on, for Christ's sake, girl! Are you nuts? We have to get out of here!"

Cheryl stared at the blood beginning to swell up around the man's white stomach, fascinated. And Janice, out of her head beside him, was laughing hysterically.

"Come on, girl! Move it!"

She ran then, leaving Janice to face the music alone, the first sounds of a police car could be heard approaching from just a few streets away. Carol still had a grip on her arm when she turned, stumbled, and looked back. Awesome, she thought. Awe-fucking-some!

End