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"What'll it be?"
"Stoli. On the rocks."
"Coming up."
The bartender was a young fellow, dark hair slicked back into one of those tight little ponytails that wannabe tough guys favored these days, sleek hairless arms and chest bulging under a tight black vest. His smile was professionally cool, but didn't get anywhere near his eyes.
Hutch wasn't surprised. Despite his new jeans and old—make that vintage—leather jacket, Hutch figured he looked like Cinderella before the visit from the fairy godmother. Even this early in the evening, the bar was packed with a wall-to-wall crowd of expensively dressed men, whose shoes and haircuts alone would cost more than Hutch earned in a week. He'd been lucky to get inside; there was already a line forming out on the sidewalk.
Although lucky might not be the word he was looking for. Hutch shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. The entire place screamed "Next! Week's! Cutting! Edge!" and everything—the angular metal furniture, the black mirrors, the smoked glass walls—appeared to have been designed by aliens who didn't see or hear in the human range, and whose joints didn't bend in the normal directions. Not that any of the customers were there looking for home-style comforts.
He had time to smoke nearly half a cigarette before the vodka arrived, and it wasn't worth the wait. It wasn't Stoli to begin with, and it was watered down enough that his thrifty Minnesota soul was outraged. Maybe it would be better to find a bar where he wouldn't be charged an arm and a leg for a glass of flavored water, delivered with a surly attitude and an obviously recycled bar napkin.
He decided it wasn't worth the effort. This place at least had the advantage of being reasonably close to the hotel, in a more or less decent part of town. If there was actually enough liquor in the drinks for him to ever get drunk on, he wasn't likely to get rolled on the way back. The music was the usual modern thumping and wailing; it hurt his ears, but the volume discouraged any attempts at conversation. And even lousy drinks and a cheap pick-up atmosphere were an improvement over sitting on the bed back in his room flicking the remote control and emptying the minibar.
He took another swallow, feeling only a faint echo of the burn he was looking for. It was probably just as well. Tonight of all nights, he couldn't afford to get shitfaced.
Tomorrow, James Marshall Gunther was appearing before the parole board for his first hearing. And Ken Hutchinson would be there, too: showered and shaved, wearing a clean shirt and tie, shoes polished, pants pressed.
And sober.
****
They'd been incredibly naïve, for a pair of experienced street cops.
The day the indictments were handed down, they'd had another celebration in Starsky's hospital bed, this time a private one. Earlier, Hutch had gotten together with Dobey and Huggy to gloat over the paperwork, pages and pages of legal jargon, but with only one sure bottom line.
Huggy had summed it up best.
"That sumbitch ain't seein' daylight before Gabriel blows the horn."
"Don't count your chickens yet," Dobey said in a tone of disapproval, whether of the profanity or the overconfidence, Hutch wasn't quite sure. "Gunther has money, power, and influence, and that adds up to enough lawyers to keep this thing in the courts until we're all collecting Social Security."
"Hey, c'mon, m'man," Huggy protested. "Starsky's gonna live to testify, and Hutch has everythin' tied up with a nice red bow and sittin' on a platter. The man done the crime, and he gone do the time. Big time."
Dobey scowled.
"If there's one 'i' undotted or one 't' uncrossed, you can guarantee his lawyers will find it. Not," he added quickly, "that I'm saying you did less than the best you could, Hutch. And Lord knows the DA and his people have been over everything so often even I can practically recite it all in my sleep. But don't fool yourselves: this isn't a done deal. I hear they're going to subpoena both your IA records any day now."
Hutch shrugged. "That won't get them very far. We were cleared every single time. Unless you put in some conduct reprimands we don't know about?"
The attempt to lighten Dobey's mood didn't succeed.
"The whole point of mud-slinging is that some always sticks, no matter how hard you try to explain it away. If they can convince the jury you're a pair of loose cannons—"
"It'll justify attempted murder?" Hutch couldn't keep the fury out of his voice, and Dobey raised his hands in a soothing gesture.
"You know how the system works, Hutch. All they need is reasonable doubt for the jury. It doesn't matter how they get it."
"Aw, man!" Huggy's sudden exclamation startled them both. "So that's what nobody's been tellin' me!"
"What is it, Hug?"
"The Bear is slippin', my friends." Huggy shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. "I been hearin' rumors that there's some heavy bread out there lookin' for a home, in exchange for confidential information, y'dig, but nobody's come straight to the source yet, so I didn't pay any mind. Figured once they got the word who the real deal was, they'd be makin' their way to my door. But if it's dirt on you they're after—" he glanced up at Hutch "they won't be headin' my way no more." He grinned wryly. "I burned a few bridges comin' down on your side of the fence like I did."
Dobey and Huggy both glanced involuntarily at Hutch's forearm, and then jerked their eyes away. For a moment Hutch felt a burning sensation there as if each of the long-healed needle marks was still fresh and raw.
Then Dobey cleared his throat. "We'll deal with what comes as it comes. And if they do try to use your IA records against you, well, we've got a lot more good reports on our side."
That night, squashed together into Starsky's bed, they'd shared a smuggled split of champagne. Well, strictly speaking, Hutch had had the champagne, and Starsky had had a token two sips. But they were alive, and together, and celebrating. This time, Starsky wasn't hopped up on painkillers, and he could stand being touched and handled, as long as Hutch moved slowly and carefully. There wasn't much reaction—the painkillers may have been reduced, but Starsky was still a pharmacist's wet dream—but it was clear that soon there would be.
When he'd told Starsky about Dobey's concerns, he'd expected his partner to laugh. Instead, Starsky's face took on an expression Hutch had never seen before, a look of mingled fear and anger, and behind it something so hard and unforgiving it rattled Hutch enough that he had to look away.
And that scared him even more. The last time he hadn't been able to look at Starsky had been the day he'd been caught with Kira.
"He's gotta go down, Hutch," Starsky said in a granite voice. His fingers came up to hover just above the bandages around his chest. "He's gotta pay."
"Starsk—"
"No matter what it takes." Starsky's hand gripped his arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bite. "He's gotta pay."
"He will, babe," Hutch promised.
****
Naïve.
Hutch swirled his glass and took a sip. Enough ice had melted that he could barely taste the liquor at all.
He snorted a soft laugh. It was amusing, in a weird way, to be over the hill for a place like this.
There had been a time when, by now, somebody would have been in the seat beside him, striking up a conversation, offering to buy the next drink. A little testing of the waters, and then the pitch. He couldn't remember exactly how old he'd been the first time he'd gone from being the guy who got offered money to the guy who got asked for it.
Not that he'd ever taken anyone up, either way. Before Gunther, there had always been Starsky, and after—
He laughed again. Somewhere, a whole bunch of women probably considered it poetic justice. The women who had only been important because he'd competed with Starsky for them, or used them to make Starsky jealous, or used them to hide what he and Starsky were doing together, the women he'd gone through like cheap six-packs, and given as little consideration to. Maybe it was fitting payback that it turned out his heart really did rule his body where it counted.
There wasn't anybody here he'd have considered anyway. So many of them looked just barely this side of legal, and exactly when had shaved chests and cheekbones like axe blades become the ultimate standard of sex appeal anyway? Could any of these kids even appreciate what it felt like to run your hands through soft curly chest hair? Did they understand the beauty that came with quirks and character, rather than washboard abs and buffed shoulders?
"Refill?"
It wasn't really a question. Hutch was taking up valuable drinking space, and not being a good sport about joining the party either. The bartender obviously couldn't wait to see him leave.
He pushed the glass back across the bar.
****
As a witness himself, Hutch couldn't be in the courtroom while Starsky testified. Knowing that didn't stop him from being antsy, needing more than anything to be near Starsky, to offer him the support of his presence, even if he couldn't be seen or heard. He knew it was irrational, and couldn't help it.
Like all witnesses, he'd waited in one of the small antechambers near the courtroom, listening for the sound of the bailiff's summons, pacing back and forth restlessly, drinking cup after cup of stale cooling coffee.
The first sign that something had gone terribly wrong was when Dobey appeared in the doorway. His face was as expressionless as a stone, but Hutch knew him well enough to read the tight-set mouth and pinched eyes. Dobey was furious.
When he caught sight of Hutch, he jerked his head toward the door.
Hutch followed him into the corridor, conscious for the first time of the hubbub from the direction of the courtroom.
"Captain? What's wrong?"
"DA's office." Dobey turned and strode away so quickly that Hutch practically stumbled trying to catch up.
"Captain?"
"Wilkins will tell you." Dobey neither slowed nor looked at him.
"Dammit!" Hutch grabbed Dobey's arm and jerked him to a stop. "What's happened to Starsky?"
For a moment it seemed to Hutch that Dobey might actually slug him in order to break his grip, and that shocked him so much he let go voluntarily, his hand falling numb and helpless down to his side.
"He's all right." Dobey's gaze was fixed on the corridor wall, slightly to the left of Hutch's shoulder.
"Captain?" Hutch didn't move.
Finally, reluctantly, Dobey met his eyes.
"He's not hurt, or sick, or dead. Wilkins will have to tell you the rest. Now move, before those damn reporters remember there's more than one set of stairs in this building."
For the first time, Hutch realized that instead of heading toward the main corridor and the elevators leading to the office floors, Dobey was leading him through the maze of administrative rooms at the back of the courthouse, to what he knew were the stairs usually used only by courthouse staff.
Reporters?
Hutch followed the captain, a sick and desperate feeling of apprehension curling through his stomach. Dobey wasn't enough of a politician to worry too much about reporters, but like all cops he knew when they were useful, and what kind of stroking was needed to keep them on the side of the police department. If the two of them were running from the media, something had to have gone to hell in the courtroom.
Starsky's alive, he kept telling himself. Not sick, not hurt, not dead. Dobey wouldn't lie to me about that.
They made it to the floor housing the DA's office without incident. Dobey checked the hall cautiously as they came out of the stairwell, but the sight of one of the bailiffs stationed at the elevator, and another at the entrance to the office seemed to reassure him. They crossed the hall and, with a quick look around, the bailiff opened the door, and hustled them through the secretary's room, toward the inner office.
"Lucas, what the hell's going on here?" Hutch stopped just outside the door. "Why's everybody acting like the president's been shot?"
He'd known Jerry Lucas casually from years of visits to the courthouse. The bailiff was always friendly and chatty, willing to share legal gossip. To Hutch's shock, he gave a grimace of distaste and without replying, yanked open the door to the DA's office.
"They're here, sir," he snapped, and then headed back for the outer door at close to a trot.
Hutch stared after him.
"Hutchinson, get in here." Dobey tugged on his arm.
DA Wilkins and his top assistant Dan Zuckerman were standing on either side of Wilkins' desk, in the middle of a vehement argument that broke off as Dobey and Hutch entered. The look both of them gave Hutch was a mirror of the one he'd gotten from Jerry Lucas, and suddenly something inside him snapped.
"All right, enough of this horseshit. What's happened down there? Why won't anybody look at me?"
Wilkins tossed a picture down on the desk.
"That's why."
Hutch stepped over and picked it up, and froze, breath caught in his throat. Prickly ice crawled over his skin, and everything in the room seemed to fade to grey except the picture, clear and sharp and completely in focus, holding his eyes like a magnet. The picture had been taken in the alley behind the Pits, sometime in the late afternoon. The shadows were long, and the lighting dim, but neither was enough to hide the subjects of the picture. He and Starsky leaning up against the wall of the alley, locked in a passionate kiss.
He could even remember when it must have been taken. Starsky had been out of the hospital for two weeks, still worn out and in a lot of pain, but feeling finally as if there were a light somewhere at the end of the tunnel of physical therapy and depositions. After that day's session with the therapist, Starsky had been sore and aching, but jubilant; his recovery was progressing ahead of schedule. When they got out of the car, he was still chattering about how well things were going and how he would be back to normal faster than anybody had hoped for.
Hutch hadn't been able to resist. The place was deserted, and the shaky feelings of relief and love and triumph that kept him alternately wanting to burst into tears and sing at the top of his voice were suddenly too strong to resist. He'd grabbed Starsky and reeled him in.
Carefully he set the picture down on the desk, resisting the urge to wipe his hands on his pants. The looks directed his way now made sense. Seeing it just as a picture in isolation, it was nothing but dirty, cheap porn: two guys humping against an alley wall. Hutch wanted to protest, but didn't know how to word it. The photographer hadn't captured the important things: how carefully he had held Starsky to make sure his injured back didn't press against the wall, how Starsky had whispered his name between kisses, the way both of them had had to blink back tears when the kiss finally ended.
He looked from Wilkins to Zuckerman to Dobey and shook his head. None of them wanted to hear anything like that.
"Where—" his voice was rusty and caught in the back of his throat. He coughed, and tried again. "Where did you get this?"
"Merrick entered it into evidence as defense exhibit J this afternoon. It seems he's had private investigators on both of you since the day Gunther hired him."
"Followed?" Hutch shook his head. "No way. Starsky and I have been cops long enough to spot a tail."
"You two obviously had other things on your minds," Zuckerman said snidely.
"I don't understand." Hutch ran a hand over his face, feeling the beginning of a tremor through his body. "Okay, so it's an embarrassing picture, but how could it be a defense exhibit? It doesn't have anything to do with the case against Gunther."
"The dumb son-of-a-bitch lied." Wilkins's voice was laced with acid. "Not that Merrick didn't sandbag me too," he added, and this time the anger was directed at himself. "Once the defense had subpoenaed your Internal Affairs files, I thought I knew how it would play out. And he started exactly the way I expected him to. How did Starsky know Joe Durniak? What happened when he shot that kid at the store robbery?"
"We were expecting all that, and we knew how to deal with it on redirect." Zuckerman took up the story. "But then Merrick started focusing in on your partnership. Why did he make a deal with Callender? Why did he help you to evade arrest following the murder of the ex-Mrs. Hutchinson? Why did he—"
"For God's sake!" Hutch broke in. "We're partners! We're friends! We've put our lives on the line for each other over and over—that's what partners do! Why did you let him get away with that shit?"
"It was legitimate questioning about your background as detectives, and every thread was supported with the files of the investigations. We couldn't keep it out of the record. But, Christ, that bastard is smart. Every case kept leading back to you. And it didn't take long for the jury to get the picture. When Starsky broke the rules, it was for you. When he went over the line, it was for you.
"And once that point had been thoroughly hammered home, then Merrick asked if you two were lovers.
"He asked three times, and every time Starsky denied everything, swore—under oath!—that there was nothing between you, never had been, never would be, no way, no how, neither of you were like that.
"And then, when Starsky had dug himself in good and deep, Merrick entered this picture into evidence." Zuckerman shrugged. "You can imagine what happened."
In the dead silence that followed, Dobey's murmur was clearly audible. "Before the cock crows, you will deny me three times."
"Dear God." Hutch sank into the chair in front of the desk, cold and dizzy with shock. They had talked about the possibility of someday getting caught, getting outted, but Starsky had always brushed it off, and Hutch had let him. Now he wondered why he'd never pushed it, why he'd always let Starsky persuade him that they were good enough undercover to hide indefinitely.
He shoved the thought back. There was only one important thing here.
"Where's Starsky?"
"Down in lockup."
"Lockup?" Hutch repeated, for a moment unable to grasp the word. "Why?"
Wilkins sighed. "Detective Starsky committed perjury on the witness stand. Judge Mendoza had him arrested for contempt, and had him taken downstairs."
"Are you people crazy?" Hutch found himself on his feet, looming over Wilkins, one hand on the man's collar. "Starsky isn't healed up yet! You put him in with—"
With a snarl, Hutch thrust the DA aside and headed for the door.
"Hutchinson!" Dobey roared.
Hutch stopped, hand on the door.
"We aren't complete idiots here," Zuckerman said icily. "Starsky's in segregation, and he'll stay there as long as he's in custody."
Hutch turned.
"Get him out." He said each word with distinct chill precision, hearing them drop and break like ice cubes against the iron reality of Wilkins's anger.
The DA sighed again.
"He was arrested, Hutchinson. Get that through your head. Arrested. Contempt of court if he's lucky, perjury if he's not. He's staying right where he is until court tomorrow morning. And that's assuming Judge Mendoza is willing to take bail, and doesn't insist he sit out the contempt of court in jail somewhere."
With an impatient gesture, Wilkins turned back to the desk. He picked up the picture and gave it another long look, then glanced up at Hutch.
"Our concern now is: what do we do with you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Merrick didn't ask for a mistrial this afternoon. He's still got that option, of course, but Daniel thinks Gunther is going to shoot for the whole enchilada."
"Acquittal," Zuckerman said heavily. "The whole enchilada."
"Acquit—oh, come on!" Hutch gave an incredulous laugh. "How could he possibly be acquitted, with all the evidence we've got?"
"One of the state's star witnesses was unmasked in open court as a perjurer and a homosexual. If the jury had been polled right then, Gunther would have walked out of court a free man."
"No." Nothing more than a whisper. "I don't believe it."
"Your partner flushed this case down the crapper," Wilkins snapped. "We now have to figure out what, if anything, can be salvaged. If we don't come up with a plan fast, I might as well just throw in the towel if Merrick does ask for a mistrial tomorrow."
"I still say we take Hutchinson off the witness list." Zuckerman was obviously returning to the original argument. At Hutch's inarticulate sound of protest, he hunched his shoulders, and then shrugged. "At least that way the jury won't hear all the sordid details twice."
"If I don't testify, you can't use any of my evidence. Everything I did after Starsky's shooting won't even get on the record."
"We may be able to proceed in the matters of Lionel Rigger and Frank May with other testimony," Zuckerman continued as if he hadn't heard. "It'll be harder, but at least the witnesses aren't tainted."
Hutch could feel himself flushing, and wasn't sure if it was from anger or embarrassment.
"I have to testify," he insisted.
"Hutch is right." Dobey's voice was so hard everyone in the room looked at him in surprise. "He's on record as one of your witnesses. If you don't call him, Merrick will subpoena him as a hostile witness, and it will all get hashed through again, even worse. Your only chance now is to get our side of the story in first."
"Merrick will rip you to shreds on cross, Hutchinson." Wilkins's voice held no trace of sympathy. "Starsky fell apart. Will you hold up any better?"
The memory of Starsky's face that night in the hospital when he'd voiced Dobey's doubts of a conviction, gave Hutch the feeling he was standing on a bridge on fire at both ends, too late to run, cut off from any hope of safety. But there was only one answer he could make.
"I'll do whatever I have to."
****
"You holding up there?"
The soft voice took a few seconds to penetrate, and Hutch jerked sharply, slopping some of his drink across the bar. As he fumbled for the napkin, a hand came into his view with a couple more, helping to wipe up the spilled ice and liquid.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. You just looked kind of . . . lost."
Hutch looked sideways. He hadn't thought the voice was Starsky's, despite the distinctive accent; he'd be in his grave before he'd mistake the slightest nuance of his partner's speech for anyone else's. But there was enough resemblance to make him turn to look at the man beside him.
Not Starsky. Not Nick either. But the kid could have passed for one of the numerous younger Starsky cousins he'd met, either in New York or in California, back when Starsky had dragged him along to every family barbeque and holiday gathering. The hair was lighter—milk chocolate instead of dark—and so were the eyes, but the shape of the face and the tilt of the smile, those were close enough that, if Hutch had been so inclined, he could have let himself be fooled.
"No problem," he said. "Just thinking."
The kid planted his elbows on the bar, as if he was planning on settling in for a while.
"Didn't look like happy thoughts," he commented, without any particular emphasis. Ball's in your court, his attitude seemed to say. Take it or leave it.
Hutch closed his eyes. Could he let himself be fooled?
"Sometimes, all it takes is to tell somebody else. Usually turns out things aren't quite as bad as they seem."
Resigned, Hutch opened his eyes. The illusion was gone. Starsky would never have said that, wouldn't have needed to. Starsky didn't always know when to shut up, but he never spouted platitudes.
"Look," he turned slightly to look at the kid, trying to keep his voice polite. "There's nothing to tell. I'm just having a quiet—"
Hutch hadn't been a cop in fifteen years, but there were some street instincts you never lost. He caught the flicker of motion at the edge of his vision, and his hand shot out, without any conscious thought on his part. When he turned his head, he saw that he was gripping the bartender's wrist. His open hand hovered just above Hutch's glass.
Was there a faint hint of cloudiness in the liquid left in the glass? A few bubbles at the surface that hadn't been there before? He couldn't tell. And when he actually thought about it, it seemed ridiculous. He was about the last person in here who looked like he had enough money to be worth drugging, and he certainly was too old for any kind of crazy sex games, with or without his consent.
"You spilled your drink," the bartender said through clenched teeth, trying unsuccessfully to pull his arm away. "You want a refill?"
"No, thanks. I'm through here." Hutch let go of the bartender's arm, and slid down from the stool.
"We could always talk some place else." There was hint of desperation in the Brooklyn voice, and he turned back, eyebrows raised. The kid's eyes were flickering between Hutch, the glass and the bartender, and suddenly the cop instinct was back in full voice, every nerve and muscle alert, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. For one instant, he could feel the weight of the Magnum under his arm, practically smell the vibe in the air that was all about danger and set up and take downs.
Then the kid looked back at him with anxious and knowing eyes, and Hutch relaxed. He was a middle aged lawyer with a receding hairline and a little tummy bulge, and the kid was a fading hustler, seeing every day bring him closer to the time when his looks wouldn't pay the rent. No melodrama, no big conspiracy. Just two guys showing their ages.
He tried to make his voice gentle. "I'm not in the mood for any company tonight."
"I could make it worth your while."
"You're not my type, kid. Just . . . back off, okay?"
The knowing face twisted with anger. "At your age, baldy, your type is anybody you can get to take your money."
He pushed away from the bar and headed into the crowd, pausing after two steps to turn and give Hutch a blatantly obscene gesture before he was lost in the mass of people.
The bar tender gave him the first honest smile he'd seen that night, tinged with malice and a satisfied contempt.
"I'd say you burned your bridges in here," he said with a smirk.
Hutch stared at him for a moment and then roared with laughter.
****
It nearly killed him not to be able to talk to Starsky.
With the decision made that he was going to testify, the rules still applied: no contact between witnesses. Wilkins, Zuckerman and Dobey, each in their own way, had warned him he'd be due for the dog pound shuffle if he even tried to go down to the lockup. The best he was able to do was get Dobey to agree to appear in court in the morning and post bond for Starsky.
Assuming, as they reminded him again, that Mendoza was actually in the mood to let Starsky walk.
He didn't sleep at all that night. He sat up in the greenhouse, switching between beer, coffee, herbal tea and soda, trying to straighten out the muddle in his head, trying to figure out what had happened to turn his life into a dog's breakfast in the space of five minutes.
Was Zuckerman right? Had Merrick's investigators gotten the drop on them because he'd let his guard down too much? And if that was true, what else had he missed? How could they salvage the trial, and get Gunther the justice he deserved? The idea that Gunther could walk, because of one carelessly exuberant expression of love, made his stomach clench.
After a couple of hours of increasingly distracted efforts to figure out some way to get the case back on track, to put the focus back where it belonged, on Gunther and his crimes, he finally had nothing left to divert him from the truth. What was really worrying him was why Starsky had lied. His partner had testified in court often enough to recognize a leading question, to know that when something came out of left field and seemed to be unrelated to what was important, you had to hunker down and try to read the signs before you stuck your neck out. So why had he lied?
He recalled again the night in Starsky's hospital bed after the indictments, and the look on Starsky's face at the idea Gunther might walk. Did his partner want Gunther taken down so badly he'd sacrifice their—
Hutch's mind stopped swirling. Everything seemed to slow down and concentrate on one simple point.
Their what?
Just what did he mean to Starsky in the larger scheme of his life? Partner, yes, best friend, yes, those went without saying after all these years. But was there really more, as he had always assumed? Or was Starsky simply marking time, taking what he could get until another Terry came along? Had his insistence on concealment been for their protection, or a signal that Hutch had chosen to close his eyes to?
In the end, Hutch told the truth.
If there had been any way to lie, he would have, and to hell with oaths and perjury, and his immortal soul, come to that. If there had been anything he could have said that would have made it easier for Starsky he would have.
But Starsky had burned those bridges for them both, and there was nothing left but the truth.
The courtroom door was divided into twelve squares, each carved with a different figure in the heavy dark wood. Hutch focused his eyes on the second one from the top on the right—a bird of some kind, though too abstract to identify clearly—and answered exactly what he was asked.
Sergeant, could you explain for us the circumstances surrounding the shooting of Detective Phillip Corman?
Sergeant, how do you explain your failure to find any viable suspects in the murder of Joe Durniak?
And when the inevitable questions came, he answered those too. Yes, he and Sergeant Starsky were lovers. Yes, they had been for some time. No, it was an exclusive relationship.
After a while, his eyes started to burn from looking into the middle distance for so long without a break, so he started switching back and forth from the left panel to the right at every third question. He never once glanced at either the defense table, or the man questioning him.
The only relief was that Mendoza was an old-fashioned and by-the-book judge. He upheld, without hesitation, any objections Wilkins made to the more prurient questions Merrick tried to sneak in. Not that it was always helpful: the thoughts that some of the questions obviously put into the minds of the jurors were all too clearly evident by the startled, shocked, or disgusted looks they kept giving him. He was pretty sure that juror number five was expecting him to jump up at any minute and start jerking off right there on the witness stand.
When he was finally allowed to step down, he could barely move. Every muscle felt locked in place, and it was impossible to refocus his eyes. He stumbled coming out of the box, and only managed to save himself from a fall with a grab at the railing. He didn't need to see the see the jury's faces to know what they thought of that. The walk down the aisle seemed endless, the door retreating with every step he took. He felt as if he was swimming through a sea of disapproval, swept under by currents of anger and denial, without a bridge or a ford anywhere in sight to ground him.
Dobey was waiting outside the door. It only needed one look at his face to know that Starsky was gone.
****
"Captain Dobey." Hutch rose to his feet and extended his hand as the older man entered the waiting room. "Sorry, Chief Dobey. And belated congratulations."
Dobey shook his hand vigorously. "Good to see you too, Hutch. And how about making it Harold, seeing as I'm not your boss these days."
"Not sure I could ever get used to that," Hutch said with a grin. "Chief suits you."
He was glad to be able to say that truthfully. Dobey had lost some weight in the intervening years, and the well-cut blue suit he wore was a far cry from some of the fashion disasters Hutch remembered. Years and responsibilities might have turned his hair grey, but he carried them all with dignity.
"Not looking too shabby yourself. Shouldn't have gone back to smoking, though." Dobey was staring pointedly at his right hand.
"The most boring stakeout known to man can be a three-ring circus compared to a wild night down at the law library," Hutch said ruefully. "Started up again just to have something to keep me awake, and, well, here I am, back to a pack a day."
Dobey shook his head with mock severity. "Still knew exactly which car was yours. The Honda Civic with the primer spots, am I right?"
Hutch chuckled. "The Southern California Legal Advocacy Center is a non-profit organization. It takes the 'non-profit' part pretty seriously, especially when it comes to salaries for the paralegal staff." At Dobey's frown, he added quickly, "Not that I'm complaining. I've got enough to get by, and you know I've never bothered to spend money on cars."
"You people do good work. I've been following that case you're handling right now in the papers. Those two Mexican boys. Think you'll win?"
"We'll win at the state level, no question. Once it gets to the Supreme Court—" Hutch made a juggling motion with his hands "—it could go either way. Civil rights law isn't high on anybody's agenda in Washington these days."
"Damn shame. When I think of what men like Elmo Jackson and Isaac Douglas went through to get to where we are today, it seems like we've forgotten everything we should have learned from them."
"That reminds me, how's the family?" Hutch knew it was an awkward screeching turn to a different subject, but he wasn't sure he could take it if Dobey began reminiscing about those old cases.
The diversion worked. Dobey pulled out his wallet.
"There's Cal and his wife." He handed over a picture of a tall smiling young man, already beginning to show a hint of double chin, his arm around a slender woman who seemed to be part Native American. "They own two stores up in Sacramento, sell fancy clothes and sports gear, the real expensive kind. And there's Rosey."
The picture this time was of a gorgeous young woman with a head full of beaded braids, laughing into the camera, clutching an armload of books.
"Going to finish her degree in criminology come spring." Dobey's voice dropped, filled with a mixture of pride and something else Hutch couldn't quite recognize.
"She's beautiful," Hutch said with true admiration. "You must be proud."
"She wants to be a cop, Hutch." Dobey looked up at him with a twisted smile. "What do I tell her? God knows, things were bad enough in our day, but back then, there was at least some kind of a line almost nobody would cross. But now? The city's swimming in crack, and drive-by shootings, and every twelve-year-old punk that gets hauled up by his teacher is carrying a Saturday night special. Or a damn Uzi. And I'm supposed to let my little girl put on a badge and go out into that?"
Hutch took a deep breath. He had hoped that he could get through this day without dredging up old memories. Hoped that he could somehow carve out his testimony and hand it over without disturbing any of the scar tissue behind which he'd locked so much of his life. But Dobey was looking down at Rosey's picture with an expression that said he was already seeing her laid out before an honor guard. He owed his old commander at least some kind of a lifeline.
"If the good ones won't do the job, then the bad ones will. I remember Luke Huntley telling me that once. After Corman."
"And how much do we lose when we lose the good ones?" Dobey said with uncharacteristic bitterness. "Dammit, Hutch, I won't even be able to help find her a decent—" He clamped his mouth shut, and almost snatched the picture back.
"It's okay, Captain. You can say the word. Everybody needs a good partner." He could feel a wobbling smile touch his face for a moment.
"Too bad you didn't have one."
"Captain—"
Dobey raised his hand. "Hear me out, Hutch. I'll say this once, and then we'll drop it. What happened to you and Starsky was bad. The way everybody—me included—handled it, was worse. But Starsky . . . Starsky should have known better."
"All he ever wanted was to be a cop. And Gunther had already taken away so much. I guess he felt he had to protect anything he had a hope of saving."
"And that didn't include you?" Dobey shook his head. "Don't make excuses."
Hutch had never been prone to vertigo, but for a moment he felt violently dizzy, as if he swaying in the middle of a rope bridge across a bottomless canyon.
****
He'd waited by himself for the verdict. He could have been on an island. Or in a castle, with a good wide moat. Despite the crowd in the courtroom, the row where he sat was half empty, with nobody moving closer than three seats away. He had contemplated wearing a bell around his neck and a sign that said 'unclean', but decided the judge might not appreciate that kind of humor.
A few people, Linda Baylor and Jimmy Babcock among them, had given him a sympathetic glance, but even that had been surreptitious; apparently he was far enough beyond the pale that any open sign of support was out of the question.
Starsky sat as far away from him as was possible. He had looked around once as he entered the courtroom, and then deliberately moved to the opposite side of the room and taken a seat on the outer aisle. His family formed a buffer between him and the rest of the world. Hutch recognized Nick and Rose and a couple of cousins. Starsky's mother clung to his arm.
Except for Nick, who had shot him a couple of triumphant glares, none of the family had looked at Hutch either.
Invisible man on an invisible island, he thought.
For his part, he couldn't take his eyes off Starsky. He kept staring at his back, as if by the force of will alone he could make him turn, and look, really look, really see him. He knew it was superstitious nonsense, but he kept thinking that if Starsky would just look at him that somehow all the weeks of separation, the unanswered phone calls, the avoidance and denial, everything could be explained. If they could only see each other's eyes, their connection would return, the bridge across the ocean of loss could be rebuilt.
He was so focused on watching Starsky that the jury foreman's words were nothing but a dull buzz in his ears. Occasionally, the odd word would penetrate his concentration, and he'd shake his head, trying to pay attention. Nothing registered.
Then a couple of words penetrated the daze.
"Count number three . . . conspiracy . . . murder . . . Lionel Rigger . . . guilty."
He heard a sudden gasp and a sob, and from the corner of his eye saw Mardean Rigger's face waver between laughter and tears.
One for the good guys, he thought. At least Lionel can rest easier now.
Then his focus snapped back to Starsky, and everything else was background noise.
Through the buzzing, he half-grasped another sentence.
"Count . . . attempted . . . David Starsky . . . not guilty."
The sound of Starsky's name grabbed his attention, but the collective grumble from the courtroom drowned out any sense he could have made of it, and then the jury foreman was speaking again, barely audible over the noise.
" . . . conspiracy . . . bodily harm . . . not guilty.'
This time it wasn't a gasp, but a low roar, like a hungry animal dragged away from food. The gavel was pounding, and someone was calling for order, but the noise didn't still until the threat was made to clear the courtroom.
It was only when everything was quiet again that Hutch realized that the one sound remaining was Starsky's mother sobbing softly into her hands.
What had he missed?
And then the crowd was on its feet, and Hutch was surrounded by noise and confusion and bodies pushing their way along the aisle. Even his little island of isolation was occasionally invaded by people getting an unceremonious shove from behind.
He struggled to his feet. His height gave him enough advantage to see over the crowd, to where the Starsky family was forming a protective phalanx and slowly working their way toward the door, keeping the onlookers and reporters at bay. Nick shoved a guy with a camera hard enough to topple him backwards, opening up a space despite the density of the crowd behind him, and suddenly there was a clear path from Hutch to Starsky.
He lunged forward and grabbed Starsky's arm.
Starsky turned, his face twisted in a snarl, and tried to jerk his arm away. When recognition dawned in his eyes, the almost insane expression of outrage and disappointment didn't fade. If anything, it intensified, and he yanked even harder against Hutch's hold.
"Leggo, Hutchinson." His voice was savage, his eyes as flat and cold as they were in the interrogation room.
"Starsky, come on, we have to talk."
"Talk? You didn't get enough spilling your guts on the stand? You want to talk some more?"
"Starsk—"
"He's gonna walk, you bastard. You couldn't keep your mouth shut, and he's gonna walk!" Starsky jerked again, this time hard enough to break Hutch's hold.
"Walk?" Hutch shook his head. "But . . . I heard. Guilty. I heard it."
"Not for me." Starsky's eyes went so bleak it could have been the announcement of a death sentence. His hand came up to hover over his chest, making a rubbing motion in the air. "He doesn't pay for me."
Hutch kept shaking his head.
"Not guilty. Not for me." Starsky stepped in close, close enough for Hutch to smell the rage that seemed to be pouring off him like the sweat soaking his collar. His voice dropped to a hiss. "Your fault, you bastard. Couldn't keep your hands to yourself, couldn't keep your mouth shut. And he gets nothing for me!"
"Starsk."
He wasn't sure what else he was going to say, mind spinning emptily around a helpless cry of "But." Before he had a chance to articulate any of the answers and objections, Starsky stiff-armed him back and pushed past, leaving him face to face with Mrs. Starsky.
Quietly and deliberately, she spat at his feet.
That was when the camera flash went off right in his eyes, dazzling him. By the time the black spots and flaring brightness faded away, Starsky's family had vanished around the corner, and the pack of journalists and rubberneckers with them.
When he saw the picture the next day in the Chronicle, he almost didn't recognize himself. The face ravaged with pain and anger and disbelieving grief was the face of a man drowning, going under for the last time with no sign of rescue in sight.
This was what he would have looked like if Starsky had died.
****
Hutch was supposed to appear before the parole board at ten o'clock. By quarter to eleven, he was beginning to think that the same people responsible for the bar stools at last night's club must have had a hand in designing the waiting room chairs. His back sent up a message that there would be some painful reminders of this morning later on. His nerves burned for nicotine.
He and Dobey had run out of things to say once the older man had put his family pictures away. The past was a closed country now for both of them, and in the present, like it or not, their professions put them on different sides of the line. Dobey had brought a newspaper, and, after politely offering Hutch a section, buried his head in the latest business reports. Hutch tried to relax and rehearse his testimony for the hearing. Usually he could slip into a meditative state easily no matter where he was, but this morning all that kept coming into his mind was Starsky.
Starsky his partner.
Starsky his friend.
Starsky his lover.
He'd been away from Starsky for almost twice as long as they had been together, and yet, in many ways, those years with Starsky were the only part of his life that felt real. He couldn't remember what he'd had for breakfast the day before, but he could still recall meals shared with Starsky—breakfast burritos in the Torino after an all night stakeout, beer and burgers at Huggy's, sandwiches together in bed—as if the taste were still in his mouth. Other women and men all blurred together in his mind, but his sense memories of Starsky's skin and hair under his fingers were as clear as if he had come from their bed that morning.
When the door finally opened, he knew it was Starsky without having to look up. Fear of what he would see kept him motionless for a long moment. Finally he forced himself to raise his head. Cowardice had never been a useful option in any part of his life.
He looks good, was his first thought.
Starsky looked healthy, solid, not showing his age nearly as much as either Hutch or Dobey. There was a threading of grey in his hair, some crow's feet around the eyes, but his color was good, and he seemed to still be in top physical shape.
But then Hutch focused in on the details.
An expensive suit, good shoes, nice hair—for a moment Hutch could almost have imagined himself back in last night's bar. The suit was quality, but just a bit too flashy. The ring and watch and bracelet were all real, no question of that, but again, a little too much for good taste.
Just what the thriving conman is wearing these days, was his instinctive reaction. Starsky looked like a very successful grifter.
For the first time, Hutch noticed how very strong the resemblance was between Starsky and Nick.
"Dobey. Hutchinson."
While he'd been staring, Starsky had come over and was now holding out his hand to his former captain. Dobey gave him an uncertain look, and then rose awkwardly to exchange a perfunctory handshake. The one quick glance the older man shot at Hutch made it clear he wasn't imagining things. Dobey, too, was troubled by what he was seeing.
"You've already appeared?" Dobey asked.
"Yeah, I said my piece. For all it matters. They're taking a break before the next witness. That's you, right?" He jerked his head in Hutch's direction, but didn't quite look at him. Nor did he offer a handshake, as he had to Dobey.
Hutch nodded, unable to form any words at all.
There was a long awkward silence, then Dobey cleared his throat in obvious discomfort.
"You're looking . . . prosperous." Dobey's hesitation over the word wasn't lost on Hutch.
"Private security." Starsky grinned and rubbed his hands together. "The wave of the future. I'm tellin' you, I can't hire on guys fast enough to keep up with the demand."
"I wouldn't have thought there'd be that much money in bodyguarding," Dobey said dubiously.
"Don't do much of that anymore, except for the really big names. Can't give you details," Starsky closed one eye in an exaggerated wink, "but you'd pop a gut if you knew who was on my client list."
Hutch noted that Starsky had quite deliberately moved so that he couldn't make eye contact with him. He was grateful for that; he wasn't sure how he'd deal with this caricature of his old make-an-easy-buck buddy if he had to look him in the eye. Pieces of his heart that he had thought already broken off years ago were cracking once more, the pain of loss as fresh and real as the day he'd stood over Starsky's body beside the Torino.
"No," Starsky went on with a complacent smirk, "the real money's in business protection, dealing with the enviro-nuts and the employees with sticky fingers. And in community security, making sure the good citizens know the riff-raff's being kept out of the neighborhood."
Dobey stiffened. "Once upon a time we were all part of the 'riff-raff'," he growled.
"Hey, life goes on, things change." Starsky went on as if he hadn't noticed the offense. "Gotta move with the times, or get left behind. Right, Hutchinson?" For the first time he looked at Hutch, his eyes darting over and then glancing away again. Hidden, shadowed, conman's eyes.
"Yeah. Move." Hutch forced the words out, heard them drop into the space between the present and his memories of the past like shell casings on pavement.
Starsky turned back to Dobey.
"Hear you made chief a few years ago. Y'know, if you ever want to get out of the rat race, I could probably find a spot for you. Man with your background, you could start pretty close to the top."
"Thanks for the offer, but I don't think Edith would forgive me if I bowed out now, just when I've finally got enough seniority to be really useful." Dobey's half-hearted attempt at humor fell through the uneasy atmosphere like a concrete balloon.
"Well, keep me in mind. Offer's always open." Starsky glanced once more at Hutch. "How about you?"
Hutch made himself meet Starsky's eyes. There was something in them that made him cautious. "Not my speed these days. I work for a non-profit legal clinic."
"Still got the white knight complex, huh?" Starsky made a tsk-tsk sound. "You'd think you'd've learned the rules by now."
"Oh, I know the rules." Hutch was surprised at how easily the words came. "I just don't play the game any more."
Starsky's eyes suddenly looked like those of a man trapped in deep water, simultaneously yelling for help and splashing frantically away from the rope being thrown to him.
****
When the disciplinary hearing notice came, Hutch didn't even bother to reply. He dropped his badge and gun off at the station, along with his letter of resignation, at a time when he was sure Dobey wouldn't be there. The thought of watching his captain trying to overcome his discomfort in Hutch's presence long enough to pretend to try to talk him out of the decision was more than he could stand.
Starsky hired a lawyer and fought it all the way.
The second and third letters from IA that showed up in his mailbox Hutch threw away without even opening. He didn't bother to open the mail or answer the phone or read the newspaper anymore. A part of him knew he had to do something, make plans, try to find some way to get on with his life, if for no other reason than that his savings wouldn't cover more than another two months of rent. But somehow it was easier to just coast from day to day, fiddling with his plants, noodling on the guitar, reading books he'd always meant to get around to, but never quite found the time for.
He'd drowned. No reason not to let the body drift.
The part of him that knew there was something wrong with him kept trying to push him to do something—read the want ads, try to call Starsky again, anything—but with some trial and error he discovered that vodka could push back harder.
The morning Simonetti showed up at the door, he hadn't been drinking; seeing the IA lieutenant on the landing got the pushy part of him trying to sit up and take notice. The look on Simonetti's face as he opened the door made him wish he'd followed his first instinct and ignored the knocking. He was suddenly aware that he couldn't remember when he'd last shaved or combed his hair, and the ragged sweat pants that were all he wore were overdue for the laundry.
"Jesus, you're a mess, Hutchinson." Simonetti sounded honestly shocked, as if he had thought having your life torn up by the roots and shaken out like bindweed headed for the compost should be something you got over with a good night's sleep and a couple of aspirin.
"That's not news. You could have saved yourself a trip." Hutch leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms to hide the way his hands alternately trembled and clenched into fists.
Simonetti shook his head. "Official business. Since it doesn't look like you're answering your mail, I'm here to deliver this in person." He held out a long white envelope. "You're formally under summons to testify at Starsky's disciplinary hearing."
Despite his claim of official business, Simonetti wore, not his usual three-piece suit, but a BCPD sweatshirt and jeans. He looked as uneasy as a man going undercover in a role he wasn't prepared for. If Hutch hadn't had previous experience with the man, he would have put it down to reluctance to do a dirty job. As it was, he could only assume that Simonetti was worried about contamination simply by working the case.
"In case you haven't noticed, I don't work for the department any more. You don't have jurisdiction over civilians." Hutch tried to close the door, but Simonetti slammed his hand against the panel and held it open.
"You got something better to do than back up your partner?"
"Kiss my ass," Hutch said, and tried again to shove the door shut.
"And take Starsky's sloppy seconds?"
Just as his fist met Simonetti's jaw, Hutch realized he was making a mistake. Simonetti wasn't gloating or sneering; he was just as miserably uncomfortable as Hutch was, and trying to make a joke to somehow ease the moment. Being Simonetti, of course, it was a totally inappropriate joke, and came out the wrong way, but it wasn't what it had sounded like.
By then, Simonetti was propped up on one elbow on the floor, wiping the blood from his mouth, and what maybe could have been the first pylon of some kind of a bridge was crumbling into ash and bring swept away by the current.
Two days later, Simonetti, jaw swollen, but speaking very clearly and precisely, read Hutch's testimony from the trial into the record at Starsky's hearing, word for word.
****
In the end, the parole hearing was an anticlimax. Neither the parole board nor Gunther's lawyers had a single question about his relationship with Starsky. There were a couple of questions about police procedure, about evidence collection, but basically, everybody was going through the motions. Gunther himself sat there like a malignant spider, the once dapper and commanding figure now a wizened shadow who blinked and flinched and seemed ready to fawn over anyone who looked at him sharply.
Only once did he glance up with unguarded eyes, as Hutch returned to his seat and was between Gunther and the members of the parole board. The flat black ice of his glare sent a shiver down Hutch's spine and the image of Gollum from the Lord of the Rings came unbidden into his mind. Suddenly what had looked like paranoia in the bar the night before seemed a perfectly reasonable reaction to a threat that would haunt some part of his life as long as he lived.
He wanted to turn and yell at the board members: "Look at him! He hasn't changed, he can't change. Whatever he did to get his money and power warped him for good. God help us if he ever gets out."
But nobody else saw it, and even in the one blink of his eyes, Gunther turned back into slumped old man, hopelessly dependent on the goodwill of those who held power over him. That instant of ferocious rage was gone as if it had never existed.
And then the whole thing was all over.
He stood outside, blinking in the sunshine, not sure where to go or what to do. Nothing had been announced, but Hutch had no doubt what the verdict would be. Grimly, he thought of the years upon years when he would be making this trip back again and again, saying the same words to different boards, in front of different lawyers, until either he or James Gunther were finally dead.
He bought a soda, and sat in his car for a while, sipping and looking out the window, not seeing, not thinking, just waiting and watching the traffic. His mind felt like leaves, fallen and drifting along on the surface of a stream, swirling and bobbing, unable to focus anywhere, unable to either resist the current or direct its motion.
Eventually, the afternoon shadows lengthened down enough that he began to feel uncomfortably cool. He realized his car was the only one left in the parking lot. With a sigh, he cranked up the Civic, and headed for the freeway.
Hutch was halfway back to Fresno before he realized he had been looking in the rearview mirror every minute for over a hundred miles. For one second he allowed the fantasy he had tucked away at the back of his mind to surface. Starsky roaring along the freeway to catch up to him, lights flashing, horn blaring, pulling him over. The two of them embracing each other right there at the side of the road in front of honking traffic and cars full of curious eyes.
Then he turned his eyes forward and deliberately didn't look in the mirror again until he reached home.