Part Three

CHAPTER NINE

It was their seventh interview of the morning.

The old woman made Hutch think of a canary as she bounced around the room in a bright yellow housedress, her eyes like two shining black jewels; her gaze darted from his face, to Starsky's, and back again. It made Hutch nervous to watch her.

The apartment was unbelievable. From the looks of the place, she'd started collecting furniture and stuff in about 1900 and never thrown a single thing away. Hutch shifted a little on the horsehair sofa; it was almost as uncomfortable as Starsky's couch where he'd slept--fitfully--the night before. He peered at his notes and tried to make some sense of what he'd written. Most of it seemed to have something to do with a cop named Flannagan, whom the old gal had known around 1920 and who had either shot Pretty Boy Floyd or been shot by him or else retired to Arizona to paint pictures of the Indians.

Starsky, meanwhile, took another bite of the oatmeal cookie the woman had insisted on serving them. He wondered idly whence came the myth that all grandmotherly types were good cooks. The cookies were the worst he'd ever eaten, worse even than the ones Hutch and he had concocted one Christmas after over-indulging in some 90-proof eggnog.

In fact, the only thing worse than the cookies was the sticky lemonade she'd poured for them. He took another sip and turned toward Hutch, raising his brows questioningly. But his partner only shrugged and started to close his notebook.

The old lady caught the exchange--Hutch doubted whether she ever missed anything--and she began to backpedal a little from her earlier vows of ignorance. "Now, boys," she said coyly, "I'm not saying that I did see anything on the night this poor officer was killed, mind you that. But if I did and if I should remember it later . . . ."

"Yes, ma'am?" Hutch said politely, watching Starsky reach for what had to be his fifth cookie and begin to eat it. Hutch shuddered inside. Someday, he thought glumly, Starsk's stomach really will fall out and I bet he'll expect me to pick up the pieces.

"Well, if I did see something and I remember it later and call the police station, would you both come back?"

Hutch sighed, envisioning another visit to the claustrophobic apartment and, undoubtedly, more cookies. "Yes, ma'am, we sure would."

Starsky searched for one of his cards, couldn't find any and gestured at Hutch. "Give Miss Corby a card," he said.

"Sure thing, Detective Starsky," Hutch said sourly.

She took the card and studied it carefully. "Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson."

''That's me."

"Gracious, you look so young to have such an important job."

"Uh-huh. Look, ma'am, you can just call the station and ask for that extension, if you remember anything."

A few minutes later they made their escape and headed back to the car. Seven interviews and what did they have to show for it? "Nothing," Hutch said glumly. "All that time, and we end up with absolutely nothing."

"Not exactly nothing," Starsky said as he slid behind the wheel.

"Oh?" Hutch thought quickly back over the interviews, but he couldn't remember a single damned thing of any significance. "What?"

"I've got a deluxe case of indigestion."

Hutch snorted unsympathetically. "I don't doubt it."

Starsky started the car. "God, those were the worst cookies I ever tasted."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Hutch crossed his arms and stared at Starsky, shaking his head hopelessly. "Then tell me something, partner. Why'd you eat five of them?"

A look of total amazement crossed Starsky's face. "I didn't!"

Hutch nodded smugly. "I was counting. Five cookies. And two glasses of that horrible lemonade."

"Yeah, really? Jesus." Starsky shook his head in dismay. "Why'd I do that?"

"Starsky, you'd eat anything put in front of you. As long as you could be absolutely sure that there wasn't any nutritional value in it at all."

Starsky scowled.

"We better head out to Riverview," Hutch said after a moment.

Starsky glanced at his watch. "What time is the service?"

"Eleven forty-five." Hutch took a black armband out of his pocket and pulled it on.

They were going to the funeral for Patrolman Anderson. Not to mourn, although they would, but to see who else turned up. It was just possible that, along with family, friends, and other cops, his murderer might appear. As macabre as it seemed, that sometimes happened.

"I hate funerals," Starsky muttered as he turned into the drive of the cemetery some twenty minutes later.

"Everybody hates funerals, mushbrain."

"But I really hate them."

"Uh-huh. Drop me here," Hutch said. "I'll walk through the crowd and meet you on the other side."

"'kay."

Hutch got out of the car and started across the grass toward the gravesite. He could see a long line of blue uniforms and he tugged self-consciously at the black armband that adorned his jacket. No one seemed to pay him any attention as he strolled slowly through the crowd. A young woman, probably Anderson's wife, stood next to the grave, holding a young boy by one hand. Neither of them was crying. Hutch paused, watching the scene for a moment. His eyes searched the faces of everyone there.

Not seeing anyone that he felt was the killer--how the hell do I know? he thought wearily--he walked again, crossing the lawn and reaching the curb just as the Torino slid up. Hutch got in.

"Anything?" Starsky asked.

Hutch shook his head. "You?"

"Nope."

They watched through the window as the service wound to its conclusion. Starsky flinched and jumped when the gun salute was fired. "I hate that," he said. "Don't you let them do any shooting when they stick me in the ground, okay?"

Hutch was pulling off the mourning band. "That's dumb, Starsk. We're going out in the same blaze of glory, remember? They'll be planting us at the same time."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot." He grimaced. "Jesus, I hope that doesn't mean they fire twice as many shots. What do you think?"

"I think this whole conversation is morbid and we ought to change the subject."

"Right."

"Let's get out of here," Hutch said. "This has been a really rotten morning."

Things didn't get any better as the day went on, unfortunately. Everybody on the force seemed on the one hand to be waiting for something else to happen and on the other to be praying that nothing would.

It was after midnight before Starsky and Hutch quit for the day. Too tired even for dinner, they drove out to Hutch's place in almost total silence. Starsky pulled to a stop in front of the building but didn't bother to turn off the car engine. "See you in the morning," he said, his voice raspy with weariness.

"Eight o'clock," Hutch said, opening the door.

"Eight?"

"Yeah, we have to go talk to Anderson's wife. Try to be on time for a change, huh?" He slid out of the car, then stopped and turned around, bending to look in at Starsky. There was a vaguely bewildered expression in his blue eyes. "Hey, Starsk," he said.

Starsky looked at him blearily. "Huh?"

But Hutch just shook his head. "Nothing. I guess. See you."

"Yeah, see you, hot shot."

Hutch slammed the door shut. "Be careful," he said through the window.

Starsky waved and drove off.

Hutch stood on the sidewalk and watched until the red tail lights could no longer be seen. He tried to dismiss the vague but persistent sense of unease that had nagged at him for days now. It was just weariness, he knew, and the damned lack of progress on the two murders that made him feel this way.

After a moment, he shoved both hands into his pockets and went inside. A good night's sleep was all he needed. Everything would look much better in the morning. Maybe he and Starsk would even break the case tomorrow.

Starsky sometimes thought that he could have made the drive between Hutch's place and home with his eyes closed. Although it was tempting, he didn't test the theory this night.

Tired as his body was, his mind still raced. As he drove, Starsky tried to sort through what they had on the case. No matter how he added it up, though, it came to the same thing: a big fat zero. Somebody was killing cops. Apparently randomly. Apparently. But Starsky had never liked pat theories and he didn't like that one. More often than not, he'd discovered, a pattern could be detected in any criminal activity. He had no doubt that one could be detected here, given time.

Given time and enough dead cops.

He parked the car and got out. It felt good to get home. As he climbed the steps, he started to pull his holster off, trying to decide if he could stay awake long enough to drink a glass of chocolate milk. He pulled some mail from his box and unlocked the door, struggling to keep mail, gun, and holster all balanced.

The door swung open and he stepped in, reaching for the light switch.

He didn't know what hit him first--whether it was the slight movement in the darkness or the heavy, cloying odor of chloroform; but he knew instantly that someone was there, waiting for him in the safety of his own home.

Quick as the realization was, however, it was still too late. Something covered his face; the smell became overpowering and he began the long descent to the floor. NO! his mind protested helplessly. His body tried to respond, to struggle, but his arms wouldn't move the way he wanted them to. He flailed wildly, but couldn't get a grasp on whoever was there.

As he fell, one thought came with crystal clarity out of the fog that was enveloping him: ohchristhutchwillbemadwhenidontshowupontime.

The absurdity of that thought struck him at once. Hell, he wasn't going to be late. Be was going to be dead. Getting dead didn't hurt so much, he decided. But there was something that hurt a lot. Something . . . As the floor collided with his knees, he had one final thought: I hope Hutch doesn't find my body. That hurt Starsky. The thought of Hutch's pain.

oh hell oh hell "Hutch?" he whispered just before the floor smashed into his face.

**

CHAPTER TEN

At 7:45 A.M. Hutch dialed Starsky's number. He let the phone ring twelve times as he stood there drinking his breakfast. Figuring that a dozen rings were more than enough to wake even Starsky, he hung up. "Starsk must be on his way over," he said to the African violet. "Who says there are no more miracles?"

He finished the rest of his healthy morning concoction, rinsed the glass carefully, and went to finish dressing. By eight o'clock he was standing down on the sidewalk, waiting to see the red tomato come squealing around the corner. This day already threatened to be the hottest yet.

By 8:25 he was back upstairs. "Nobody could sleep through twelve rings, could they?" he bitched to the violet. "Except maybe David Starsky." As he spoke, he was dialing again. This time he let the phone ring twenty-five times.

He hung up slowly and glanced at the clock. 8:28.

He walked over to the window and looked down into the street. "All right," he said very quietly. "All right. Now Starsky is not at home. So he must be on his way. Probably he stopped for breakfast somewhere. Guess he didn't have any old pizza lying around."

The violet didn't even crack a smile.

Hutch waited fifteen more minutes, during which time he drank two glasses of water and paced the room some twenty times. Hell, he could've walked over and been here by now. He went to the phone again and dialed Starsky's number. This time, he hung up after only one ring, suddenly unable to bear the sound of that other phone not being answered.

He took a deep breath and dialed headquarters. Dobey answered. "Captain, I need emergency transport," he said, skipping the preliminaries.

"What's wrong?"

Hutch bit his lip, not wanting to say. He had an irrational fear that by voicing his suspicion that something had happened to Starsky, the suspicion would thus become fact. But Dobey was waiting. "Starsky hasn't shown up at my place, and he doesn't answer the phone. I need a black-and-white so I can go over there. He might be . . . sick or something."

Dobey was silent for a moment. "I'll have a zone car there in two minutes," he said. "And I'll meet you at Starsky's."

Hutch stalked the sidewalk like a caged animal until the squad car arrived. He jumped into the back seat and gave them Starsky's address. Neither of the uniformed men spoke to him; apparently they knew what was coming down.

Starsky's car was parked in its usual place. Hutch got out of the squad car and walked over to the Torino. It was locked, of course. It was just as it should have been. Except that it was very wrong. He leaned against the car and wiped sweat from his face.

The two patrolmen were watching him. "Do you want us to go up?" one of them asked.

He shook his head. "No. I'm going. You wait here for Captain Dobey."

The entrance hall felt cool. He walked up the steps slowly and deliberately, blocking his mind, not allowing thought. He simply catalogued impressions; he'd been a cop long enough to do that without thinking about it. Nothing seemed amiss. He passed no one on the stairs. A woman opened the door to pick up her morning paper. She nodded at him. He only stared at her. She disappeared back into her apartment.

The door to Starsky's apartment was not closed all the way. He pushed it open slowly. "Starsk?" he said. "Hey, Starsk?"

His voice echoed hollowly in the empty apartment. Hutch had never known how empty a place could feel. Yesterday's mail was scattered on the floor just inside the door. He wandered through each room, still taking mental notes. Bed unslept in. The dishes he and Starsky had used for yesterday's breakfast were still sitting on the cupboard. Coming back into the living room, he noticed the smell. He sniffed a couple of times, following the odor, and found a piece of cotton wadding next to the sofa, as if carelessly tossed there. Not touching it, he leaned forward. Chloroform.

He slumped onto the couch and closed his eyes.

A thought crept in: Starsk is gone.

Instantly, he clamped his mind shut. No thinking. Not yet. It was too dangerous. His hands were clenched. The worst part about it was that he wasn't surprised. He had known. Somehow, since the beginning of this case, he'd known. Even last night, saying good-bye to Starsky, he'd known. Good-bye . . . was it? God . . . he hadn't said enough. He hadn't said anything.

The floor creaked as somebody walked into the apartment. "Hutchinson?" Dobey said tentatively.

"Starsky is gone."

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How simple it was, once the words were out. Hutch straightened and opened his eyes. He gestured toward the mail still lying on the floor. "Whoever it was must have been waiting for him when he came in last night. They used chloroform to knock him out and . . . ." And what? "Then they snatched him." That was as far as he could go right now. Starsk was missing. Missing. A bad word, but not . . . final.

Dobey was making aimless circles in the middle of the room. "Why?" he said tightly. "Why?"

Hutch picked up a pillow from the couch and punched it once viciously. "Why?" He gripped the pillow tightly in both arms. "It's simple. Because somebody is killing cops and Starsky is a cop." That remark brought him a little too close to facing reality and he tightened his hold on the pillow, trying to swallow down a rising nausea. It kept coming.

He jumped up. "'Scuse me," he mumbled, walking quickly toward the bathroom. He slammed the door and leaned against it for nearly five minutes until the sick feeling passed. Then he took a deep breath, splashed cold water on his face, carefully and precisely dried it off, and went back into the other room.

A Crime Lab team had arrived and started its work. Hutch bent down to pick up the mail and glanced through it. A letter from New York. A renewal form for a PLAYBOY subscription. The current issue of MODEL RAILROADING. A lot of ads. Starsk must be on every damned mailing list in the whole country, he thought.

Dobey appeared next to him. "Hutchinson," he said, "we'll find him."

Hutch tossed the mail down onto the couch. "Uh-huh." He took out his wallet and dug one finger into the inside compartment. A key tumbled out into his open palm. "I'm taking Starsky' s car," he said.

"Just where do you think you're going?"

"To find Starsk."

"Wait," Dobey began, "you don't even know where to start looking."

"I'll find him."

He shoved his way down the steps, going past more cops coming up, and detectives already talking to Starsky's neighbors. Hutch knew without asking that nobody had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. Nobody ever did.

As he was unlocking the Torino, one of the men from the gathering crowd came up to him. "Detective Hutchinson?"

"Yeah?"

"Al Krause," he said, flashing a press card. "Is this another dead cop?"

Hutch wanted to smash his fist into the guy's curious face. But he didn't. "A police officer is missing," he said tightly. "That's all."

"Yeah, well, two others were 'missing' already and they both showed up dead. This Starky looks like three, right?"

"Starsky," Hutch said. "David Starsky. Is that such a damned hard name to say?" He slammed the door shut, just missing the reporter's fingers.

He drove two blocks before realizing that he had no idea where he was going. It didn't matter. The important thing was to keep moving. Just keep moving. Pretend that by working hard enough and long enough, he would succeed. He would find Starsky if he wanted to badly enough. It was like making a deal with the cosmic powers. By proving how much he cared, he would earn the right to get his partner back.

Ken Hutchinson was scared. And he was mad. But most of all, he was alone. God, was he alone.

**

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I'm alive.

That in itself was something of a surprise and it took a little getting used to. Starsky had expected to wake up dead. Or whatever. But here he was, indubitably alive--if somewhat cautiously so. Without opening his eyes, he attempted to analyze the situation.

He was lying on a narrow, exceedingly lumpy cot. His arms and legs were bound with tape of some kind. And, except for his underwear, he was naked. Even his watch, ring, and medallion were gone. Apart from a headache and some very cramped muscles, though, he seemed to be okay.

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"I know you're awake, David, so you might as well open your eyes."

Starsky considered for a moment what the best response to that unexpected comment might be and finally decided to just open his eyes.

"There. That's better, isn't it?" The speaker was a stocky, bespectacled man about his own age. "I've been waiting a very long time for you to wake up." There was a hint of reproval in the voice.

"Yeah?" Starsky said. His cotton-dry mouth made talking difficult. "Could . . . could I have a drink?"

"Sure." The man rummaged in a grocery sack for a moment. "I'm sorry there's no ice, but I have your favorite." Proudly, he held up a can of Dr. Pepper. "See?"

Trying to ignore a faint chill of apprehension that swept through him, Starsky nodded. "Thanks, uh . . . ?"

"My name is Louis," he said, popping the can open. Soda sprayed high in the air. "I can't cut you loose from the tape right now, David, so we'll just have to manage as best we can." He crouched next to the cot and slid one arm beneath Starsky, lifting him. "Don't drink too fast," he admonished.

Ignoring the warning, Starsky gulped the warm soda eagerly. His stomach, already queasy, rebelled, but he fought back the nausea. "Enough," he said and Louis lowered him carefully.

"Are you hungry?"

"No." Starsky's head was beginning to clear now and he was better able to survey the room they were in. There wasn't much to see. It was small and cramped, dominated by a huge old generator. Besides the cot on which he was lying, the only furnishings were a rickety wooden table and two chairs. There was one window, a small one up close to the ceiling. Sunlight streamed in through a large hole in the roof. Louis stood quietly, apparently willing to let Starsky satisfy his curiosity. "What's going on?" Starsky asked finally.

Louis sighed. "That's very . . . complicated, David. Later I'll tell you. Right now, I don't have time to explain it."

"Oh? Why? Are we going somewhere?"

"Just me. I have an important errand to run. But I'll be back."

"Terrific," Starsky muttered. Then: "Did you kill the two cops?" Bluntly. Hoping to throw him off.

"Yes, I did," came the calm reply. "But they don't matter."

Starsky stared at him, simultaneously realizing and accepting the fact that he was in the company of madness. "Don't matter?" he said, still trying to reason with the man. "Louis, two dead men have to matter."

Louis looked at him blankly.

Starsky gave up. "Are you going to kill me, too?"

"I hope not, David." Louis picked up a bundle from the table. "You won't try anything foolish while I'm gone, will you?"

Starsky ignored that, shifting slightly so that he could see better. ''Those are my clothes.''

"Yes." Louis was putting the clothes into a bag. As Starsky watched, he saw his gun, I.D., and cuffs go in as well. Finally, carefully, Louis added his watch, ring, and medallion.

"Why are you taking all my things?"

Louis smiled gently. "It's necessary." He came back to the cot and knelt down. Still smiling, he checked Starsky's bindings. It was a most effective job of taping. Starsky couldn't move his arms to any purpose, or move his legs to walk.

"Why is it necessary?"

Satisfied that his captive was secure, Louis rested back on his heels for a moment. "Oh, David, you ask so many questions. I guess it's because you're a cop."

"I guess."

"But, see, I just don't have the time right now to answer all of your questions. Later, later everything will be clear." He got to his feet. "But I don't want you to lie here worrying while I'm gone. Worrying is counter-productive, you know." The phrase was obviously a quote. "I have to take all of your things, so that when they find the body--"

"What body?"

"That doesn't matter, David. Don't interrupt, please. It's very rude."

"Sorry."

"I'm not angry," Louis said quickly, reassuringly. "You haven't learned the rules yet. It's just a body, that's all." He laughed softly. "After all, they're expecting a body, aren't they? They know you're missing and so they're expecting to find a body. I'll give them one."

"But--"

Louis raised a finger to his lips. "Shh, David, no more now. I have to go." He gave Starsky's shoulder a pat, picked up the paper bag, and was gone.

Alone, Starsky immediately struggled to get free, all the while knowing that it was useless. There was simply no way to get out of the tape. Panting from the exertion, he gave up the struggle and tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

Suddenly, with a peculiar sense of triumph, he recognized the pattern. What was Louis had said? "Just a body." No, not just a body. A body wearing his clothes. A body carrying his wallet and I.D. His gun.

But what was the point?

Anyone who knew him would recognize immediately . . . of course, there were ways of making a corpse difficult to identify, at least until the lab tests could be done. Most of the ways were too gruesome to think about. And if, as Louis had said, they were expecting to find his body--the pattern, the damned pattern--well, the phony corpse could keep them guessing for a little while.

Still, ultimately, what was the point? Because, Starsky felt sure, there was a point. Louis was certainly crazy, but there was a point.

Starsky sighed. So everybody would think he was dead. Everybody. Even Hutch. He caught his breath. Oh god. Hutch would think he was dead. Not for long, maybe, but even an instant with that knowledge was almost too painful to bear. He remembered how he'd felt, thinking that the body in the ravine was Hutch.

And he remembered another time. When the Haymes girl was snatched. He shivered again as he recalled seeing the rifle slugs hit Hutch and send him crashing through the storefront. Afterwards, Starsky could not really remember chasing the car, dismounting from the cycle, firing. "That's for Hutch," he'd muttered as the car exploded in flames. An act of vengeance, pure and simple. A stupid act that might have cost the girl her life. But he didn't think of that at the time. Just of Hutch lying dead in the shattered glass. The worst feeling in the world. The desolation. The emptiness.

Now, this time, Hutch would think he was dead.

Don't go getting blown away without me. Hutch's words.

And I promised. I promised.

The frustration built within him. No longer able to just lie there thinking of the pain his partner was going to feel, Starsky suddenly turned his body slightly and rolled off the cot. He hit the floor with a grunt.

Now what? he thought.

With much groaning and scraping of his skin against the rough wooden floor, he managed to move a few inches. The door was still at least six feet away. He realized that even if he could traverse the distance, there was no way he would able to open the door. All he could do was wait for that nut Louis to come back.

He sighed and rested his face against the floor. Ahh, Hutch . . . I'm sorry. But I'm not dead yet. I'll get back. Please, believe me.

~~!!~

Louis stepped through the curtain of beads that covered the entrance to the Blue Gull Cocktail Lounge. At this hour only a few afternoon drinkers sat at the bar, listening as the jukebox ground out a country song. Several people glanced up as Louis entered, but after a week and a half, he was considered a regular and everyone went back to his own business. Louis walked to the end of the bar and sat next to a young man dressed in cut-off Levis and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. "Hi, Joey," he said.

"Lou."

"How's it going?"

Joey made a thumbs-down gesture. "Shitty. That asshole agent of mine couldn't get me booked into a supermarket opening."

Louis sipped at the beer that the bartender had automatically set in front of him. "That's too bad." The tale of woe was the same one he'd listened to Joey recite everyday since they'd met.

"Yeah, too bad." Joey ran one hand through his tangled dark curls. "If I don't earn some bread pretty soon, it's back to Cleveland and a job in the fucking steel mill."

"Hey, that'd be a shame." Louis drank more beer. "Hey, Joey," he said, as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Would you like to earn twenty-five dollars this afternoon?"

"Is the pope Catholic?" Joey's forehead creased. "It's legal, right?"

Louis smiled. "Oh, sure. And moral and non-fattening."

"What do I have to do?"

"Act. You're an actor, aren't you?"

"That's what I keep telling my agent." Joey sipped beer thoughtfully. "What kind of acting?"

Louis shrugged. "I got this friend I want to play a joke on. You gotta play like you're my brother . . . Eddie. My brother Eddie. Just for an hour."

"An hour? And I'll get twenty-five dollars?"

"Sure."

Joey was obviously tempted. Just as obviously, the deal struck him as a little too good to be true. "But what do I have to do?"

"Oh, I'll explain all that to you on the way. Do you want the job or not?"

For just one more moment, Joey hesitated. Then he nodded. "Okay, Lou, sure."

"Great." Louis reached down and picked up the brown sack that sat at his feet. "There're some clothes in here. Go into the john and change."

"I gotta change clothes?" Joey sounded skeptical again.

"Look, for twenty-five bucks, I don't think it's asking too much for you to change clothes, huh? Don't actors wear costumes?"

Joey took the sack, slid off the stool, and headed toward the bathroom. Louis finished his beer, paid the bar tab for both of them, and went over to the door to wait. The sack he'd given Joey held only David's clothes; the gun and other things were still in the car. He stood patiently by the entrance.

A few minutes later, Joey emerged. Now he was wearing faded blue jeans, a too-much washed red T-shirt, bright red socks, and beat-up Adidas. He was scowling as he walked over to Louis. "This crap is worse than my own stuff," he muttered.

Louis took the sack that now held Joey's clothes. "How's the fit?"

"Almost perfect. The jeans are a little tight, but it's okay."

"Good."

They left the bar and got into the VW. Louis headed toward the warehouse district. He had already scouted the area thoroughly and knew exactly where he was going. Joey seemed a little nervous, perching on the seat as if he might take flight at any moment. He didn't ask any more questions during the twenty-minute drive.

Louis finally pulled to a stop behind an abandoned nut and bolt factory. Joey looked around skeptically. "What are we doing here?"

"Well, this is where it's going to happen," Louis said kindly.

"Where what's going to happen?" Joey' s hand was edging toward the door handle.

Louis pulled his gun out. "I have to kill you, Joey."

The young man's face went white. "Hey, man, you crazy? Put that fucking gun away. What are you, anyway? Some kind of nut? I got no money, if that's what you want."

"I don't want your money, Joey. Close your eyes."

"No, I won't." But he did. As the gun came closer, he screwed his eyes closed tight, like a child trying to shut out a scary sight. "Ohchristdontplease . . . please . . . no . . . please, Lou, don't." Crying, he scrabbled for the door handle. "Please . . . "

Louis grabbed him by one arm, holding him with a vise-like grip. People didn't realize how strong Louis was. It amused him that they usually thought he was a weakling, because he wore glasses and didn't go around showing off. "Don't be scared, Joey," he murmured tenderly. He felt very close to Joey at that moment. It had been the same with the others. The people he killed were not his enemies. They were his friends. More than friends, even. They were almost like . . . lovers. There was a spiritual bond uniting them. All of the people he killed belonged to him and they would always belong to him. No one else could ever possess them as he did. For a moment, he pulled Joey so close that he could smell the lime-scented aftershave he wore. "Ahh, Joey," he said.

The shot reverberated within the car and Louis cringed a little. The body that had been Joey slumped back against the door. Louis carefully put the gun away. He reached behind the seat and brought out the rest of David's things. He slipped the watch onto Joey's wrist and the ring onto his finger. Pulling him forward a little, he dropped the chained medallion around his neck.

He got out of the car and, walking around to the passenger side, opened the door carefully. Joey fell into his arms. Louis pulled him out and rested him gently on the ground. The cuffs were next. Everything had to be just so.

When he had the body just the way it needed to be, Louis reached into the car again and pulled out a length of steel pipe. For a moment, he hesitated. This part he didn't like. But he recognized that it had to be done. That was a sign of mental health, he had been told, learning to recognize the inevitable. "Forgive me, Joey," he whispered. "But it's necessary." Joey understood.

The first blow of the pipe into Joey's face made a sickening noise, crunchy and squishy at the same time, and Louis almost quit right then. But he forced himself to raise the pipe and swing it again, sending it crashing into flesh and bone. It got easier. When the task was finally finished, Louis wrapped the bloody pipe in some newspaper and put it back in the car. He took out the gun, still in its holster, David's wallet, and I. D., and put them carefully beside the body.

He stopped for a moment to survey the scene. Looked fine. Everything was fine. If he didn't know better, he'd swear that was David's body lying there. Now he had only to wait.

But he didn't want to go back out to the park yet. Not yet. He felt peculiarly excited by what had happened. This had been even better than the other times. This had been the best of all.

He slid behind the wheel. Hot blood coursed through him and he felt as if he had to find some release for the raging emotions or he would explode. He pressed back against the seat, panting, sweating, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

If he closed his eyes, he could see Joey's face just before the shot was fired. A face transfigured by fear. The scent of lime mingling with the stench of terror. The image seemed so real that he almost wanted to reach out and clasp Joey to him again. Then the face grew hazy. Changed. It became Kenny. Or David. He couldn't tell.

Louis finally drove out of the parking lot, leaving behind the body, taking with him the excitement, the memory of the exquisitely painful pleasure. There was a theatre he knew about that showed movies all day and all night. It would be cool in there and he could sit and remember.

**

CHAPTER TWELVE

There came a time when he couldn't think of anyplace else to go or anyone else to talk to. He couldn't think of one more damned thing to do. So he went back to the office and slumped at his desk. Just sat, staring everywhere but at the next desk. Occasionally, he checked his watch. It had been just over twelve hours since he'd walked into Starsky' s empty apartment and he knew not one iota more than he'd known then.

Someone dropped a file on his desk. The name typed neatly on the front was STARSKY, DAVID MICHAEL. Hutch looked up. "Thanks, Minnie," he said heavily.

"Any word?" the policewoman asked.

Hutch shook his head.

"Don't worry," she said with an attempt at cheerfulness. "Starsky will be fine."

He toyed with the file folder. "You think so?"

"Sure." She looked as if she had more to say, but then she only patted Hutch's shoulder and left.

Hutch opened the folder and began to read. There was a complete description of Starsky's apartment. Copies of the interviews with all the neighbors. As Hutch had known would be the case, no one had seen or heard anything. The general feeling seemed to be that since Starsky was a cop, they were accustomed to his coming and going at strange hours and had learned to ignore the attendant sounds.

He skipped quickly over the bio sheet; he knew the facts of Starsky's life as well as he knew his own. The photo attached to the bio wasn't very good; it looked more like the mugshot on a wanted sheet than anything else. Still, he stared at it for a long time.

He became aware, finally, that Dobey was standing next to his desk. "Yeah, Cap?" he said, still looking at the photo.

"Have you eaten today, Hutchinson?"

He thought. "I had breakfast." He carefully replaced all the papers in the folder and closed it.

"You better get out of here for a while. Go have a couple of beers and some food and then try to get some sleep. Tomorrow . . . ."

"Yeah? What about tomorrow? Everything will look better in the morning, right?" His voice was bitter; then he felt guilty for taking it out on Dobey. He got to his feet. "All right, Cap. I'm going over to the Pits. Huggy was going to check out some names for me. Some people who don't like cops."

"Maybe he's come up with something," Dobey said hopefully.

Hutch shrugged. "No, I don't think so. He just wanted to do something. For Starsk."

Dobey only nodded.

Hutch put the file into the drawer and left the office. He knew that people were watching him as he walked out of the station. What do they expect me to do? he wondered. Am I supposed to react? Or not react? He didn't know what they wanted of him, so he did nothing. Just straightened his back and kept his face expressionless. Let them think whatever they wanted. It didn't matter if some of them thought he was an emotionless bastard who didn't care that his partner was missing and the rest figured him to be hovering on the edge of a screaming fit. Didn't matter.

But when he walked into the Pits a few minutes later, his carefully constructed facade of control almost shattered. It had been a mistake to come here; this place was too much identified with Starsk. It made the hurt even worse, the absence of companionship even more real. He wondered, fearfully, if it would always be this way. If Starsky was gone forever, would he ever get over the sense of loss? Or would he spend the rest of his life looking around for somebody who wasn't there?

He walked straight to the back and slumped into a booth. Huggy came over, put a beer in front of him, and sat down. "Well?"

Hutch took a long swallow of the beer before answering. "Nothing."

"Me, neither," the black man said glumly. "Nobody knows nothing." He studied Hutch shrewdly. "How you hanging, man?"

"Ahh." Hutch spread his hands helplessly.

"You're doing fine." Huggy's usually lively face was solemn. "If it was the other way around--"

"Christ, I wish it was," Hutch broke in.

Huggy shook his head. "No, man, don't lay that trip on Starsk. If it was you snatched . . . the man would go bananas. He'd be tearing the city apart." He smiled faintly. "Starsky ain't got your cool, buddy."

"Maybe he has the right idea."

''Wouldn't help."

"Nothing helps."

Huggy stood. "Let me make one of Huggerino' s Special Burgers."

"I'm not hungry."

"Don't recall asking if you was." He walked away.

Hutch took another swallow of beer. That didn't help either. He wondered how much beer it would take to blur the sharp edges of his pain. More than he could drink, probably. He'd pass out before he stopped hurting. And when he came to, nothing would have changed.

He almost wished he could react like Starsk. Tear the goddamned place apart. Yell. Smash somebody's face in. But he couldn't. All he could do was sit here and drink beer and . . . and nothing. Except hurt. They were just different that way. Probably that was why they made such a good team. Balance. They balanced each other. It had always been that way. He had foolishly convinced himself that it always would be that way.

Above the noise of the bar, he couldn't hear the phone ring. However, he did see Huggy move to answer it and then look quickly in his direction. He was on his feet and across the room before Huggy could summon him.

Huggy held out the receiver. "Your captain," he said.

Hutch took the phone. "Yeah?" he said quietly. He stared down the length of the bar, watching a pick-up in progress, watching all the other people in the world go about their lives. He watched, but he didn't really see any of it.

"Ken?" Dobey's voice came reluctantly over the wire.

"Uh-huh."

"Corner of DeWitt and Franklin."

Hutch nodded.

"Hutchinson?"

"Yeah, I heard you. Corner of DeWitt and Franklin. What about it?"

"A body. That's all I have now."

"Okay."

"Hutchinson? You all right?"

"Fine. Sure, sure. I'll meet you there." He hung up slowly and looked at Huggy. "They have a body."

"Is it--?" Huggy didn't finish the question.

Hutch shrugged. "Don't know."

He left the Pits and climbed back into Starsky's car. Although the temperature was still almost eighty, Hutch couldn't seem to stop shivering. He drove with care, observing all of the traffic laws. After all, it wasn't his car, and he didn't want to take a chance on scratching or denting anything. Starsky would never forgive him.

He could see the flashing lights of the zone cars before he reached the corner of DeWitt and Franklin. Parking behind one of the black-and whites, he turned the car off and sat there for a moment. Just sat there. The sense of panic hit him suddenly. He fumbled for the door handle, shoved it open, and nearly fell flat in his headlong plunge out of the car and across the grass.

The crowd parted to let him through. He reached the parking lot behind the factory and started across the asphalt surface. Suddenly Dobey appeared in front of him. The heavyset black man caught Hutch by one arm. "Ken," he said quietly, "don't go over there."

Hutch stopped short and stared at Dobey. He didn't--couldn't--speak, but the anguished plea was clear in his eyes.

Dobey sighed, nodding. "It's Dave."

"No. . . ." Hutch said vaguely. He promised me . . . the itinerary . . . the damned itinerary . . . he promised . . . .

"Yes, Ken. It's Dave. I'm . . . I'm so very sorry." Dobey looked as if he might cry at any moment.

"No. It can't be him," Hutch mumbled, trying to pull his arm free. Dobey's grip, however, was unrelenting. "I have to see him," Hutch said.

"Ken, this is worse than the others."

"Worse?" Hutch laughed a little. "What's worse than dead?"

Dobey swallowed hard, trying to forget what he had just seen and knowing that it would come back to haunt him as long as he lived. "His face, Ken . . . his face is . . . smashed in . . . a brutal beating."

Hutch shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense. It's not the M.O." He gave an abrupt, violent jerk and broke free of Dobey. "That's not the goddamned M.O.!" he yelled.

Before the other man could respond, Hutch was gone, pushing by the Crime Lab team and several uniformed officers gathered there. The body lay on the parking lot, just under the glare of a streetlight. Hutch stopped, frozen.

He inventoried. Blue tennis shoes with white stripes. Red socks. Faded jeans. Washed-out red T-shirt. He felt his legs go and he fell to his knees next to the body. "Oh god," he whispered. "Starsk . . . " Hands cuffed. Gun, wallet, and I.D. all stacked neatly. The M.O. He picked up the I.D. and flipped it open. Starsky. ohstarsk

His eyes went automatically from the I.D. photo to Starsky's face.

Except that there was no face.

There was only a bloody pulp where the face should have been. Ravaged features were topped by a mass of blood-soaked curls.

Hutch had to get away. Half-crawling, half-running, he crossed the parking lot to the cover of the bushes. Crouching there, he gave in to the waves of nausea. Again and again his stomach heaved. After an eternity, he sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.

Click on illo to see larger version

Dobey stood nearby. "Ken?" he asked quietly. "Are you okay?"

Hutch was shivering again; he wrapped both arms around his legs and rocked hack and forth, trying to get warm. "Yes, sir," he said dully. "I'm okay."

Dobey reached to help him up. "Come on, let's go." He wanted Hutch away before they started to remove the body.

"No," Hutch said. "Not yet." He was on his feet, still shaky, moving toward the body again.

"Ken," Dobey protested, "don't do this to yourself."

Hutch didn't answer. He knelt on the ground, staring at the body. Starting at the shoes, he studied the dead man again. He put one hand on the right shoe for a moment. Touched one leg thoughtfully. Noticed the watch. Lifted the hand and looked at the ring. This time he didn't look away when he reached the shattered face. He stared intensely at it, not allowing himself to react. The truth dawned on him slowly. He lifted the hand again, held it between both of his, studied the fingers, replaced it gently. At last, he nodded to himself.

It was nearly five minutes before he gathered up Starsky' s things and got slowly to his feet. He gave the body a long last look and then turned away.

Dobey was waiting; he gestured to the men there to take the body away. "Ready, Ken?"

Hutch seemed to notice him for the first time. He tightened his grip on Starsky's things. It was a moment before he spoke, but when he did, his voice was calm. "Cap, that isn't Starsk."

Dobey, trying to urge him away, only half-heard. "What?"

Hutch was allowing Dobey to lead him across the parking lot. "Captain Dobey," he said firmly, "that is not David Starsky."

Now Dobey heard. "Ken, please. Don't. I know how you feel. Hell, I don't want to believe it, either, but--"

Hutch could feel himself growing angry. His voice turned sharp. "Damnit, man, I know Dave Starsky as well as I know myself and that's not him."

"Hutchinson, the I.D . . . the clothes . . . Ken, I know you don't want to face it, but . . . Dave is dead." Dobey stopped in front of Hutch and gripped him firmly by both arms, meeting his gaze. "Ken, Dave is dead. I know how much that hurts you."

"Do you?" Hutch asked with real curiosity.

"I cared about him, too."

"Yes, I know." Hutch sighed and shook his head. He pulled away from Dobey and plodded toward the Torino. As he went past the group of reporters gathered there, a flashbulb exploded in his face. Behind him he could hear Dobey answering questions. He reached the car and opened the door. Someone in the crowd asked how to spell Starsky's name. Hutch spun around. "That's not Starsky!" he yelled.

The scene fell silent as everyone turned to look at him. "That is not David Starsky," he said again, quietly this time. Another flash went off. He could see Dobey coming toward him.

Hutch got into the car and slammed the door. No more talking right now. He needed to think. The engine turned over with a roar and the car squealed away.

Alone, he relaxed a little, taking several deep breaths.

"That's not Starsk," he whispered.

But why? Who would dress a body in Starsky's clothes and leave all of Starsky' s things there? Hutch didn't know. All he knew for sure was that the body lying back there was not that of his partner.

Which proved nothing, not even that Starsky was still alive.

He decided to go check out Starsky's apartment again. Something might have been overlooked, something that no one else would find significant, but that he would notice. After all, he knew Starsky better than anyone else did. He knew Starsky.

Or maybe it was just that he wanted to be at Starsky's place. Like driving the Torino. Being in the car made him feel a little less alone; almost like Starsky was right there with him.

Or maybe, he thought, I'm just crazy. Maybe that really was Starsk back there. Maybe.

He decided that if reality was Starsky being dead and insanity meant thinking he was still alive, all things considered, he'd just as soon be crazy.

And that, he concluded, sounded just like something Starsky would say.

**

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      The night was endless.

He didn't even hurt anymore because his whole body was numb. Sometimes he managed to sleep a little, but then he would have some crazy dream that woke him again. Once he even thought that his father was in the room with him. "Pa?" he said, "Pa, help me, please . . . ." But his father only vanished.

Hutch was there, too, talking to him, saying things that Starsky could just about hear. "Hutch? Help me . . . ." He tried to reach out and get a grip on Hutch, but his bound hands closed on empty space.

It was morning before Louis came back. Starsky heard the door being unlocked and he rolled over to watch Louis come in; his captor held a newspaper and several paper bags. He stood on the threshold, staring down at Starsky, a strange expression crossing his face. "Are you all right, David?" he asked finally, moving to set everything on the table.

"Just terrific," Starsky muttered.

"Why are you on the floor?"

Starsky glared up at him, wanting to let all the anger he was feeling burst out, but unable to overcome the sick tiredness that filled him. "Why am I . . . on the floor? 'Cause it's better for my back, you bastard."

Louis' mouth tightened. "Don't talk to me like that, David."

"Sorry."

"I didn't mean to stay away so long, but I fell asleep in the movie."

"Dull picture?"

"Look, I brought your breakfast. I hope you like Egg McMuffins?"

"My favorite." Starsky tried to move. "Louis, I gotta take a leak."

"Oh." Louis seemed to view the necessity with distaste. "Oh, yes, all right." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the gun. "All right, but please behave, David. I wouldn't like to shoot you."

"I wouldn't like to get shot," Starsky replied.

Louis bent down and cut the surgical tape with a razor-sharp scalpel that Starsky hadn't even seen until that moment. Starsky managed to sit up, rubbing his wrists and then his ankles. "The bathroom is through that door," Louis said. "There's no window."

Starsky accepted that news glumly and got to his feet slowly.

Louis tossed a paper sack at him and Starsky managed to catch it. "There's some clothes. Put them on."

Starsky held the sack tentatively. "Are they mine?"

"No, but they'll fit. When you come out, I have a surprise to show you in the paper."

"I can hardly wait," Starsky mumbled, walking stiff-legged from the room.

He lingered in the bathroom as long as he dared, even though the place was filthy and the smell sickened him. But he couldn't think of anything to do except continue to humor Louis and wait for a chance to make a break. The clothes fit, as Louis had promised, and Starsky finally left the bathroom wearing cut-off Levis and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt.

Louis was waiting patiently, holding a length of chain in his hand, the other end of which was attached to the huge generator. He tossed the free end to Starsky. "Put this around your ankle," he ordered.

Starsky held the padlock reluctantly. "Ahh, Louis . . . ."

"I don't like to say things twice, David."

Starsky sighed and bent to snap the lock closed around his ankle. "Not that link, David," Louis said sharply. "Tighter."

Starsky closed the lock firmly. "Satisfied?"

"Yes, thank you. Sit down now and we'll have breakfast." Louis opened the bag and pulled out several paper-wrapped items and two paper cups of coffee. "I hope black is all right?"

"Fine, thank you," Starsky said with exaggerated politeness. The gun was next to Louis' hand, just out of Starsky's reach. The scalpel was nowhere in sight, but Starsky felt sure that it was close by. They ate in silence for a moment and then Louis reached for the newspaper. "You got your picture on the front page," he said.

The photo showed a body sprawled on the ground with several unidentifiable police officers standing around. Starsky glanced at the picture briefly and recognized his clothes. Slowly, he set the food down onto the table, suddenly sick. "These . . . these are his clothes, aren't they?"

"Joey didn't need them anymore," Louis said calmly. Carefully, precisely, he read the headline aloud: "THIRD COP KILLED."

"Except he wasn't a cop, right?"

Louis smiled faintly. "No. Joey was an actor. Let me read this now. It says: 'Local Detective David Starsky is the apparent third victim of an unknown assailant who has killed two other officers in the past week.'" Louis paused and took a sip of coffee. "There are more pictures on page five, it says." He turned quickly to the fifth page. "There."

Starsky looked at it. The picture was the same one that had been in the paper the previous week, showing Hutch and him leaving the hearing for Barney Fields. "They caught my bad angle," he said.

Louis' fingers tightened on the edge of the paper. "They put Kenny's picture in, too."

"Kenny?" Starsky looked to the bottom of the page. "You mean Hutch?" he asked, seeing his partner's face looking back at him.

"Yeah."

"You know Hutch?"

Louis nodded sharply. "Kenny. His name is Kenny."

Starsky stared at Louis for a moment, then looked at the picture again. Hutch was gazing directly into the camera, but his face looked strange . . . sort of vague. He was carrying a gun and wallet clutched against his chest. Starsky had a sudden, flashing memory of the two dead cops, with their guns and wallets neatly beside them. He looked at Hutch's face again. "Oh, god," he said softly.

Louis apparently read something that angered him; the paper rattled. "Damn. He knows. He knows."

"What?" Starsky said, finally tearing his gaze from Hutch's face.

Louis shoved the paper closer and Starsky bent to read. "Detective Starsky's long-time partner, Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson, claimed that the body was not that of Starsky, who vanished without a trace after going off-duty Tuesday night. Police spokesmen maintained, however, that the body was almost certainly that of the missing officer. A positive identification could not be made immediately because of the brutal beating inflicted on the face of the victim." Starsky finished reading and closed his eyes briefly. Hutch knew. Hutch knew he wasn't dead.

"Damn," Louis said again. "I don't understand. How did he know?"

"Hutch is my partner," Starsky said. "He knows me. A phony corpse might fool everybody else, but not Hutch. Not my partner."

Louis stared at him. For an instant, no more, the madness was clearly visible in his eyes. Then the mask of blandness returned. "Kenny is going to suffer," he said, the quiet manner not quite able to conceal the bitterness in his voice. "He has to pay for what he did. You can see that, David, can't you? Kenny is evil and he has to pay. The wages of sin is death. God wants me to punish him."

"Hutch is my friend," Starsky said.

Louis' face was stony. He carefully picked up the gun. "Kenny is already dead," he murmured. "He only has to suffer a little more first." He walked to the door and spoke without turning. "Kenny used to be my friend," he said. "Before you ever knew him. He was mine first." He left, slamming the door.

Starsky just sat there, looking at the picture of Hutch in the paper. God, he looked terrible. No sleep, probably, no food. Hope he's remembering to take his damned vitamins. Starsky grimaced. That was kind of funny. Here he was, in the clutches of a homicidal maniac, liable to have his head shot off any moment, worrying about whether or not Kenneth Hutchinson was taking his damned vitamins. "Well, I'd still hate like hell to get blown away and not have you at your peak," he murmured.

He gave a frustrated tug to the chain. Nothing happened. So what did I expect? To move that generator and drag it behind me right out the door? He smiled wryly and gulped down the rest of the cold coffee.

Sighing, he walked back to the cot and sat down. For the moment, there seemed to be nothing he could do except wait. Wait and hope for a chance to make a break. One hand idly fumbled with the lock around his ankle. Already, the skin was starting to look raw and red. The situation was far from hopeless, he reasoned. Hutch knew he was alive and Starsky knew that Hutch would be looking for him. Together they could handle this Louis creep. Hutch would find him. Many people underestimated his partner. They thought that because he had his own style, a quiet, methodical way of handling things, he lacked . . . determination, or something. That mistake in judging Hutch sometimes made a lot of trouble for people.

Starsky leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He just had to keep thinking like that. No matter how bad things got. They had been in dicier spots than this. He just had to believe that Hutch would come through. It was a matter of keeping faith.

"All right, Hutch," he said aloud. "I'm ready to be rescued anytime now. I ain't proud. You can come charging in here on your white horse anytime." He sighed. "Come on, buddy."

~~~

Louis smoked three cigarettes, one right after the other, as he stalked the park. He was furious. Counting to ten didn't help. Deep breathing didn't help. The whole idea had somehow gone awry. Kenny had known that the dead body wasn't David. The point of it all had failed.

Well, he would just have to come up with something else. After all, the odds were still with him. He still had the upper hand. He had David. That made him the boss, not Kenny. He stared up into the cloudless blue sky. It was so damned hot. Didn't it ever rain in Los Angeles? He wished there would be a good, soaking, cleansing rain.

Finally, he went into the MAZES OF FUN and lost himself in the twisting hallways. That seemed to help ease the tension. He needed time alone to think and plan again. He lit another cigarette and began to consider his next move.

**

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Hey!"

Hutch woke himself up yelling. The sudden jerk into consciousness left him groggy and disoriented and it took him several minutes to remember where he was. The dream still seemed so vivid that he stayed huddled where he was for a few minutes, trying to remember reality.

His body felt twisted and uncomfortable. The last thing he could recall was stretching out on the sofa with the newest copy of MODEL RAILROADING. "Damn this couch," he muttered. "Why the hell don't you get something comfortable, Starsk?" His words echoed bitterly in the empty room.

Sighing, he finally got to his feet and did a couple of quick toe-touches; his joints cracked in protest. "Ouch." He went into the kitchen and, bowing to the inevitable, popped open a can of Dr. Pepper. Drinking it, he wandered into the spare room where Starsky had set up his model trains.

It was an elaborate arrangement. Starsky had spent many hours and a ridiculous number of dollars getting everything just the way he wanted it. Hutch wondered where he got the patience. Absently, he touched the "on" lever and the train began to move slowly around the circular track. Pulling the cars was the gleaming locomotive he'd given Starsky last Christmas.

Hutch watched the train begin to gather speed as it went past the built-to-scale Hershey chocolate factory. He pressed the yellow button that controlled the train whistle and its haunting sound filled the room. It blew twice before Hutch viciously jerked the train to a stop. "Damn," he said.

He turned around to leave the room and saw Dobey standing in the doorway. "You know," he said hoarsely, "I never realized before how goddamned lonely a train whistle sounds. And Starsk listens to that all the time. I don't see how he stands it."

Dobey turned and led the way from the room. "Maybe he stands it because he never really feels alone," he said carefully.

Hutch thought about that for a moment. "Yeah," he said, "maybe."

"I've been trying to reach you."

"I spent the night here." He looked at Dobey sharply. "What?"

"You were right."

Hutch rubbed his eyes. "It wasn't Starsk," he said flatly.

"No. We don't know yet who the guy was. But it's not Starsky."

"Yeah." Hutch sat down on the couch, stretching his legs out on the coffee table. "So what the hell does it all mean?"

"I thought maybe you'd be able to tell me."

Hutch looked surprised. "Me?"

Dobey perched uneasily in a too-small chair. "Think about everything that's happened, Hutchinson."

"I have. Several hundred times. I think about it when I'm sleeping."

Dobey shook his head. "No, man, you haven't. Not clearly. At least, not since Starsky disappeared. Forget that Starsky is your partner for a minute. Think through everything that's happened, including the body we found last night."

Hutch took a swallow of soda. He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. Maybe Dobey was right. Maybe he'd gotten too damned close to the investigation. "Okay," he said slowly, using Dobey as a sounding board the way he usually used Starsky. "First: McGowan disappears and is later found shot. Apparently a random victim. Second: Anderson disappears and is later found shot. Apparently a second random victim. Third: Starsky disappears. Fourth: A body is found that we are supposed to think is Starsk." He fell silent for a moment. Then, as a new thought dawned on him, he opened his eyes. "That wasn't random," he said softly. "And if that wasn't, maybe none of it was."

Dobey nodded. "Exactly. Someone wanted us to find that body and think it was Starsky. Because we were expecting to find Starsky's body. We had been conditioned that way. And the plan worked. Except for you."

"Except for me." Hutch sighed. "Great. But what does all that prove? We're not any closer to finding either the killer or Starsky than we were before."

"Maybe." Dobey got up from the chair and began to pace. "We can come to a couple of possible conclusions. One, that Starsky was the object of all this. That everything that happened was made to happen so that Starsky could be snatched and presumed dead."

Hutch considered that. "But what' s the point?"

"Does there have to be a point? Starsky has a lot of enemies."

"Yeah, I guess. But so do I. Most cops do."

"Most good cops," Dobey amended. "Okay. Let's look at the second possible conclusion."

"Which is?"

"Who cares about one more dead cop?" Dobey asked suddenly.

Hutch was startled. "What?"

"Face it, Hutchinson. To most of the world, that's all it would be. Just one more dead cop. Who would care if Starsky was dead?"

"A lot of people!" Hutch said, stung.

"Oh, sure, Ken, I know. His family would care. His friends. The people he works with. Me and my family. We love him, too." Dobey spun around and stared at Hutch, his gaze piercing. "But who would care the most? Who would come stare at that body all dressed up in Starsky's clothes and hurt the most?"

There was a long silence. Hutch's face was white beneath the morning whiskers. "I would," he said softly. "I would."

Dobey looked away, feeling somehow indecent watching the naked anguish that Hutch was suffering. "Yes, Ken," he said after a moment. "You would."

Hutch upended the soda can and drained it. Then he got up from the couch and went into the kitchen to throw the can away. He didn't speak until he was back in the living room. "My god, do you realize what you're saying, Cap?" He walked over to the window and stared out; already heat rose in waves from the sidewalk. "That makes me the center of it all. That means that three people have died and god only knows what's happened to Starsk all because of me." He felt sick to his stomach.

"I think we have to consider that possibility."

"It's a rotten possibility," Hutch said fiercely. "I hate it."

Dobey didn't answer.

"All right," Hutch said finally. "Then I guess we have . . . I have to start all over again, don't I?"

"Yes."

Hutch sighed. "Yeah." He picked up his gun and holster. "This guy's gotta be crazy, right? To go around killing innocent people just to get back at me?" He was pulling on his holster as he spoke. "The question is, what's he gonna do next? His bluff is over."

Dobey pulled a copy of the morning paper from his jacket pocket. "If he read this, he already knows it didn't work."

Hutch skimmed the story and saw his own words of denial quoted. "Damn. Me and my big mouth."

"There's no telling how this might affect him. To think that his whole plan, all the other killings, went for nothing, because you weren't fooled . . . ."

Hutch was staring at the picture of Starsky and himself. "Yeah," he murmured absently. "He might go over the edge altogether and do the job for real this time."

Dobey nodded and stuffed the paper back into his pocket.

"The first thing to do," Hutch said, slamming the door of the apartment and starting down the steps, "is to find out who the dead guy is. That might give us a trail to the killer."

"All right, get to it. Keep in touch," Dobey ordered.

Hutch's only reply was a back-handed wave as he walked quickly toward the Torino.

 ~~~

The morgue fit his mood perfectly.

Even the tiled lobby, adorned with plants that looked more fake than real, while not necessarily a gloomy place, was distinctly uninviting. He perched in an orange plastic chair and waited to be summoned. After several minutes, a young woman clad in a spotless white jacket opened the door and smiled at him. Despite the air of antiseptic officialdom that hung over the place, her smile was genuine. "Good morning," she said as if she meant it. "This way, please."

Her trim figure leading the way, he followed her down the stairs to where death waited.

Death, even in these antiseptic, cool, tiled surroundings, smelled. It is an unmistakable odor, even if one has never smelled it before. Hutch had, too many times. But he never got used to it; something deep inside, maybe a primal instinct for self-preservation, made him want to turn and run the other way as fast as he could.

He didn't run, of course.

They went into the body-storage room. The stainless steel rectangle was refrigerated, kept at a constant 38^o. There were over a hundred little square doors, each with its own number. The doors resembled the lockers one would see at an airport or bus terminal. Except that in this case, behind each door, there was a sliding slab and on some of the slabs rested a naked body.

The woman walked to the door numbered 56 and pulled it open. "Here he is," she said cheerfully.

Hutch stared at the body. Unclothed, with that terribly unrecognizable face, the shell of a once-living being seemed painfully vulnerable. The thought struck him that he might just as easily have been standing there looking at Starsky. He still might be, before this damned case was over. If it was ever over. It was beginning to feel like a nightmare that he wouldn't ever wake up from. He cleared his throat. "What can you tell me?"

She consulted her clipboard. "As a matter of fact, the I.D. came down just a few minutes ago.

"Who?"

"Taylor, Joseph William. Age: 28. Address: 1824 Grenway. The whole M.E.'s report is on its way downtown now."

Hutch jotted the name and address down in his notebook. "Thanks."

She shoved the slab away again and closed the door. "All part of the job."

They started back upstairs. "You like this job?" Hutch asked curiously. "Being around dead people all the time?"

"Why not? You like your job, being around bad people all the time?"

"Usually." He shoved the notebook into his pocket. "Sometimes, like now, I hate it."

Her face was serene. "See, by the time I get these people, there's no more good or bad. There's only a body. Whatever that person was in life, now he or she is . . . finished. The journey is over. I don't have to judge, like you do."

He nodded and left her standing in the lobby, still looking cheerful.

~~~

The apartment building at 1824 Grenway had seen better days. It was in a lower-middle-class neighborhood, populated by unpublished novelists, undiscovered artists, and uncast actors. Everybody did something else to fill the time and pay the bills until that one big break came along.

According to the landlady, Joseph Taylor worked off and on as a waiter. At the time of his death, he was in an off period and two months behind on his rent. "But I didn't wanta throw the kid out on the street, you know?" she said.

"That was charitable of you," Hutch said, trying to stay out of reach of both the whiskey fumes that filled the hallway every time the frowsy blonde opened her mouth, and her hands, which she seemed inclined to place on various portions of his anatomy as she spoke. Presumably to make a point more effectively.

"Yeah, charitable, that's me. Old Marlane Huff, easiest touch on the block. Just ask anybody," she said, attempting to massage his left bicep. "See, I usta be in the business. Even made a movie once with Tom Mix."

"Oh, really?" Hutch sidestepped a grab at his thigh. At least, he hoped it was a grab for his thigh. "So what about Joe Taylor?"

"A nice boy, real nice. Never minded coming in to spend some time with a lonely widow." It was fascinating the way her hands kept moving, seemingly independent of her conversation.

"Well, when he wasn't here keeping you company, where did Joe hang out?"

She smiled and squeezed his hand intimately. "Down at the Blue Gull. Joey spent a lot of time in the Blue Gull."

"Well, uh, thanks for your cooperation," he said.

"Anytime, blondie. Hey, by the way, you wouldn't be looking to move, would you? I mean, I've got an empty apartment now."

"I think the rent is too high," Hutch said.

"We could make an arrangement."

"No, thanks." He started to turn around and go down the stairs, thought of her predilection, and reconsidered, backing away instead. "Uh, thank you."

He smiled to himself as he got back into the car. Boy, it really took all kinds. Wait till I tell Starsk about . . . . He bit his lower lip so hard that the taste of blood filled his mouth. It was such an ordinary thought. So ordinary and it hurt so damned much.

~~~

The bartender in the Blue Gull stopped drying glasses when Hutch   flashed his badge. "You know a guy named Joe Taylor?"

"Sure, Joey comes around a lot. Nearly every day."

"Was he in yesterday?"

The man wiped the counter with a none-too-clean towel. "Yesterday? Uh, yeah. I think so . . .sure, he was in for a little while."

Hutch, watching himself in the mirror behind the bar, realized for the first time that day what he looked like. Unshaven. Clothes that looked like they'd been slept in. Which they had. And a funny look in his eyes. Even he wasn't sure what the look meant. It was part fear, part anger, and a large dose of pure desperation. He blinked. "Was he alone?"

"This is a friendly bar. Everybody talks to everybody."

"So who was Joey talking to yesterday?"

The bartender was quiet. After a moment, Hutch took a five dollar bill from his pocket and slid it across the bar. "Maybe this will refresh your memory," he said quietly. The man reached for the money. Hutch grabbed two of his fingers and carefully bent them backwards. "I'm in no mood for games," he said, still speaking softly. "My partner has been snatched and if I find out later that you've been holding out on me, I will personally come back here and take you apart piece by piece. Comprende?"

The man was turning pale. "Yeah, yeah," he gasped, "but for christ's sake, lemme go. You're busting my frigging fingers."

Hutch released him. Sometimes, he thought, Starsky's methods worked quite nicely. "So? Who was Joe talking to?"

"Ahh, some new guy," the barman said, rubbing his hand. "Been coming around the last week or so. He'd come in every day, sit nursing one beer, and rap with Joey for awhile."

"This guy have a name?"

"Lou."

"Lou?"

"That's all I know. Except that Joey left with him yesterday. Never done that before. In fact, it was kinda strange."

"What was?"

"Well, Joey went into the head, changed into some clothes this Lou gave him, and then they left."

Hutch felt a small flame of hope kindled within. "What kind of clothes?"

"Just clothes. How should I know? I was busy."

"Think about it," Hutch said mildly.

The man backed away a little, his hands kept out of Hutch's reach. "All I remember is a red T-shirt."

"Very good. How'd they leave?"

"In Lou's car. A VW. Green."

"Know the license?"

"Why the hell should I?"

Hutch got up from the barstool. "What about Lou? Got a description?"

"Early thirties. Stocky. Horn-rimmed glasses. Longish hair."

All of which meant nothing to Hutch. "I'm going to send the police artist over," he said. "You tell him what you can."

"Yes, sir."

Hutch left the cool dimness of the bar and walked back out into the burning afternoon. So. He had a name. A description. A car. God, this more than they'd had all along. This was a lot. He and Starsk had tracked down people with a lot less information.

Only one thing worried him. If the theory that Dobey and he were now operating under was true, shouldn't this guy Lou sound familiar? The name and description meant nothing at all to him. Still, at least he didn't feel like he was chasing a ghost anymore.

"Hang in there, Starsk," he muttered. "Just hang in there a little longer, buddy."

 **

Part Four

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