The following is a work of fan fiction written for enjoyment purposes only. No profit is being made; no money is changing hands. No copyright infringement is intended.

Several original characters are introduced in this story; others, introduced in the first installment of the series, make a return now.

"There's a sound a man makes when he's cornered -- it doesn't matter if he's a perp, a cop or a regular guy. It's very quiet, like a little gasp... At the Academy they told us it's completely involuntary, and I guess maybe it is. It happens in that split second when you have to decide whether to hold on or give up, to fight like hell or roll over and die."
Ken Hutchinson, Sept. 5, 2000
"Profiles In Blue" Interview
Bay City Gazette

Prologue

He'd figured it all wrong, hadn't he?

Twenty years ago, when he was making his bones doing dirty work for high-level bosses like Donovan and Carpinelli, he'd figured that late night meetings in dumps like this would be history once he hit the big leagues. Yet here he was -- the biggest thing going in Bay City drug traffic -- standing knee-deep in crumpled paper and rat poop, waiting for one of his counterparts to show so they could cut a deal.

Robby Levin sighed in frustration and glanced at his watch. It was a high-end piece -- a nice, little gold number with an ultra-thin band and diamond studs where the digits would be. His girlfriend Sheila borrowed one of his credit cards and picked it out herself when his divorce came through six months ago.

Levin grinned at the memory. Sheila might not be as proper and educated as his ex-wife had been, but she had drive and ambition and her own kind of class. On top of all that, she was a great roll in the hay -- which, the way Levin figured it, was all you could reasonably expect of a broad, right?

It almost made him sad to think that Sheila was going to have to take a powder in the next few days. He'd miss her flirtatious strut and her greedy, little laugh but it couldn't be helped. After the deal he was working on came through, he was going to travel in a completely different social circle. In just a few weeks, he'd be hobnobbing with politicians, judges and successful businessmen. He couldn't be seen with someone like Sheila on his arm. He needed someone who'd be comfortable at big dinners or trading those -- what did you call 'em? -- tete-a-tetes with the mayor.

The girl he was seeing on the side, that librarian named Trudy, now she was someone he'd be okay with. She was cute as a button and smart as a whip and just naive enough to believe all that stuff he told her about making his money in the shipping business.

Levin had managed to date Trudy for almost two months without Sheila finding out, but he knew he was pushing his luck. And even he was afraid of what Sheila was capable of doing if she got pissed.

Levin sighed and glanced again at his watch.

Already after eleven. Damn!

He hated it when people were late. He started to pace and scanned the warehouse trying to find Jimmy Sarcone in the dim light. Jimmy had been his bodyguard for the past five years and he was the only guy Levin trusted to protect his back on a night like this. Jimmy was his man, that was for darn sure. He'd stayed put even when the other bosses tried to get him to move to their camps. Nothing could get Jimmy to turn on him: not booze, not money, not drugs. Jimmy was loyal to the core. He was like a puppy -- reliable but dumb.

Unlike his other soldiers, Jimmy didn't even seem to mind driving Sheila around when she had errands to run. He didn't even mind staying at the house with her on Thursday, Saturday and Sunday afternoons while Levin slipped away for liaisons with the librarian.

Levin had lucked out, all right. Jimmy Sarcone was a prince. He'd even made all the arrangements for the meeting Levin was having tonight.

Levin's searching eyes finally found his bodyguard and Levin started to smile. But his lips stiffened halfway up and his ruddy skin paled. Sarcone stared back at him, his brown eyes hard and narrowed. An automatic gun was clutched in his thick mitt of a hand and the weapon was pointed at the center of Levin's chest.

Levin sucked in a breath. He studied Jimmy's eyes and weighed his odds. Then he made his call.

Just like that.

He was at the end of the road; he was done. If Jimmy drew a gun, he was willing to use it. If he was willing to use it, Levin was dead. Levin's muscles tightened then failed him; his bladder emptied in his pants.

He closed his eyes and pointed to the center of his forehead.

For old times sake?

He wanted it quick. He wanted it clean.

Sarcone shook his head. No deals. He had a plan of his own. Sarcone nodded toward another door and Levin stumbled forward blindly. He didn't know this place. He didn't know where he was going.

He stepped into what had once been somebody's office. Now it was one of those hangouts for junkies -- what did you call them? Crash houses? His brain worked feverishly, trying to answer this stupid question, acting like it was the most important thing in the world. Crash houses? his brain asked again. Yes! Yes! That was it. This was a crash house.

The light was even dimmer in here. It took a minute before Levin's eyes adjusted. He could see a bell-bottomed druggie lying on the floor. The guy must have been stoned out of his mind because he wasn't moving at all. A second man crawled on his hands and knees by the door, clutching at his stomach and moaning to beat the band.

Must be one hell of a bad trip.

Sarcone pushed him in the back and Levin shuffled obediently forward. What was gonna' happen now? What was Jimmy going to do? He didn't have long to wonder. Sarcone stepped forward quickly and pressed a damp cloth over his face. A sharp, harsh odor filled his nose and Levin gagged, pitching forward almost instantly.

He was only partially conscious when Sarcone propped him against the wall. He didn't protest when Sarcone pulled off his jacket and unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt. He couldn't even struggle when the tourniquet was tied off and a needle was inserted into his arm.

In fact, it was only as he drifted away, sailing high on his first and last trip, that he saw something that made him mad enough to fight back. It was a watch that sat proudly on Jimmy Sarcone's arm, a watch the bodyguard's girlfriend had given him earlier that day.

It was a high-end piece -- a nice, little gold number with an ultra-thin band and diamond studs where the digits would be.

He gurgled in outrage, but Sarcone didn't seem to hear him.

And suddenly, it didn't matter anymore.

Levin took another sharp breath. It was a quick, little gasp that barely filled his lungs. Then, without another sound, he pitched over sideways.

He was dead before he even hit the floor.

Act One

Run! He was running. Or rather, he was trying to. It was just so damn hard. His lungs burned; his legs were like lead; his stomach felt like it was being peeled apart layer by layer from the inside. And his head -- dear God -- it felt like someone had stuffed a truckload of cotton between his ears. It made it impossible for him to think, to pull his facts together, to reason his way through what was happening to him.

RUN! He was moving on instinct now, yielding to a primal need to find somewhere safe, to stay alive. He lost his footing and fell, sprawling like a child on the grass. Damn it Hutch, get up and run! He climbed to his feet, stumbled into a fence and lurched into a nearby alley.

Maybe there he'd be safe...

FAST FORWARD. Bright. It's too damn bright. Why the hell is it so damn bright? And why the hell is it so damn cold? It's summertime, isn't it? Damn it! DAMN IT! It's summertime, isn't it? Why the hell is it so damn cold? He paced, walking fast, really fast. Walk. Walk. Walk. Fast. Fast. Fast. Back and forth. Back-and-forth. Backandforth. Is it asking too much for somebody to do something about the heat? It's a frigging apartment, isn't it? Why the hell can't somebody do something about the stupid damn heat?

REWIND ONCE. Down. He lay flat on the mattress, crying like a baby, shaken by deep, wracking sobs that threatened to tear him in two. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't cover his face, couldn't even wipe his eyes. No one was with him. No one had stayed. He was terrified... And he was alone.

REWIND MORE. Lost. "Help me! P-p-please h-h-help me!" That was his voice. He heard it, he knew it, but he couldn't feel himself speaking the words. He crawled on the floor and his face scraped against the carpet.

Doesn't matter. Doesn't hurt.

He stretched one arm out. It was his good arm. His drug arm.

He pointed down.

Let them understand. Please God, let them understand...

Hutch snapped awake, eyes wide and frightened. His head flicked nervously from side to side: left then right, then back again. Lights were on everywhere: the end table, the kitchen, the bathroom, the hall. He blinked, trying to get his bearings. Home? Yes. He was at home, in the living room, on the couch. Safe? No. Didn't feel safe. Not yet. Didn't feel safe.

He grew conscious of the noise: the shrill cry of the test pattern signal on the television, the drone of music from the radio in the bedroom, the mechanical click of the clock a few feet away. His vision cleared and he saw the empty coffeepot on the center table and the crumpled candy wrappers on the floor. Tried to stay awake. Should've stayed awake. The coffee, the candy, the radio, the TV: they were supposed to help him stay awake.

Didn't work. Didn't work. He was on his feet, pacing back and forth, one large hand rubbing a sore spot on the back of his neck. He stole a quick glance at the clock. Two-thirty. Is that all? He shivered. Sweater wasn't working. And he was so damn cold. He walked to the phone and lifted the receiver, hesitated, then put it down.

Picked it up again.

And put it down.

What the hell was he doing? What was he supposed to say? Help me Starsk. I'm afraid to go to sleep. I'm afraid to be alone.

Damn it! What the hell was happening to him? This didn't make sense...

He'd had some bad times right after Forrest's men addicted him to smack. Sure he did. But the big stuff -- the hard stuff -- had stayed buried in his subconscious for more than a year. Now it was all coming back. Every time he closed his eyes there it was, playing in his brain like a movie, bright and vivid and much too loud. It was spliced together out of sequence, confusing him, sickening him as it jumped forward and backward in time.

He grabbed the phone.

How the hell was he going to explain this? I did something stupid when I went home for vacation Starsk. Pushed up the sleeves of my sweater, forgot all about the track marks on my arm. Scared my family half to death. Had to explain what happened to Dad, Therese, Jenna and Will...

Maybe he should describe the look on his sister Jenna's face. Four months pregnant with her first child, she'd asked him just a day before to be godfather to her baby. Then she'd seen the marks and Hutch had seen her eyes -- and he'd known in an instant that her trust in him was gone.

Maybe he should repeat the heated conversation about duty, honor and the family's reputation he'd had with his father and his stepmother Therese. Or maybe he should just parrot back his stepbrother Will's parting shot: Good going Kenny. You must have one hell of union to make Bay City keep a junkie on the force.

He'd managed two days of sidelong glances and whispered words before he'd broken and run. He left his parents' house last Thursday and stayed in a dingy, one-star motel for the remaining two days of his vacation -- too humiliated to return to Bay City and too agitated to go back home.

The nightmares had started the first night in the motel, each one a thousand times worse than the one before. By the time he boarded the plane on Sunday, he was willing to do almost anything to avoid falling asleep.

Now, every instinct he had said he should lighten his load, share this with Starsky, let his partner shoulder the burden until he could handle it on his own. But the little voice in his head -- the voice that sounded like Will -- was stronger. What did Will call him? An embarrassment? A joke? What did he say about Starsky? "Either he's naturally stupid or he's just pretending to trust you."

For the third time in as many minutes, Hutch put the phone down.

His stepmother would be pleased. What was it she'd said? "Just don't talk about it anymore, Ken. For God's sake, keep your mouth shut."

And he had. He'd turned down Starsky's offer of a ride from the airport and taken a cab home instead. His plan was to take a hot shower, wash away the stink of what happened in Duluth and go to bed.

He was certain he could put the whole degrading episode behind him after one good night's sleep. That's all he needed. Then he could pull himself together and move on.

Simple, right? It should have been so damn easy, but things didn't work out as he'd planned. Sleep was elusive and, when he did finally doze off, the dreams returned in force.

Funny...

It had been more than two years since he'd been home, and he'd been so looking forward to the trip. He'd wanted some time away from Bay City. He'd wanted distance from the people and memories that hurt him the most: Forrest, Jeannie, Abby and Gillian. Each was a body blow that had almost taken him out.

He'd wanted to go home again. He'd wanted to be safe.

But it hadn't turned out that way, had it? Safety had been an illusion; he'd wound up staying in a cheap motel.

Not so funny after all.

Hutch sighed and walked back to the living room. He leaned over the television and flipped the dial. Test pattern. Test pattern. Test pattern. Talk show: a gray-haired host ogling a movie star with sagging double-D talent.

Hutch turned up the volume and grabbed the coffeepot. A few more cups should keep him awake 'til it was time to go to work.

Then he'd be fine again.

He'd be just fine.

She looked like an angel when she slept. Her thick, blond hair splayed across the pillow like a halo and her naturally red lips curved in a smile.

Jimmy Sarcone stared down at the woman huddled in Levin's massive bed and felt the sting of tears in his eyes. Sheila was so beautiful that just looking at her almost broke his heart.

He loved her so much that he would kill for her.

He loved her so much that he would die for her.

Without a moment's hesitation.

Just like that.

Angels, priests and all the saints. Who would have believed a woman like this could fall in love with him? He certainly hadn't. At first he'd been sure her attention was some kind of set-up but, bit by bit, she'd finally worn him down. She'd seen something more in him than his tough guy persona. She'd shown him what love really was.

Sarcone bent down and kissed Sheila's face gently.

"I'll be back soon, baby," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't you worry. I just gotta' take care of a few things with Levin's men."

He kissed her again, letting his lips brush briefly through her hair. Then, being careful not to wake her, he straightened his massive frame and crept silently from the room.

He'd keep his promise, that was for damn sure. One quick meeting with Raymond Hatcher, Levin's second-in-command, was all that stood between him and hours alone with his baby.

Sarcone glanced at his watch as he eased down the stairs. Last night had passed so quickly. It was already Monday morning -- eight-fifteen a.m. No problem, though. No problem. The way he figured it, he'd be back again by ten.

Sheila Wolinsky lay as still as stone until she heard the front door click closed and Sarcone's car being driven away. Then, with a grunt of sheer revulsion, she swatted at the strands of hair that Sarcone had touched and used the corner of the blanket to wipe the remnants of his kiss from her cheek.

Late! He was late again. Why was he always late? And why was everyone else always on time? Didn't their clocks ever go out? Didn't they ever oversleep? Didn't their partners ever call at the very last minute with a crappy change in plans? Jeez!

Starsky hit the gas and rounded a corner like he was chasing a fire. He took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at his watch. Eight-thirty? It can't be eight-thirty! His watch had to be flat-out wrong. Starsky flicked his wrist irritably then turned his attention to the clock mounted in the Torino's dashboard.

It said eight-thirty too.

Crap!

He thumped the steering wheel in frustration. The last thing he needed this morning was for Hutch to chew him out for being late. Starsky shook his head. Well, not today buddy. Nah uh. Nope. This was absolutely not his fault. Hell, it wasn't even his day to drive!

He could see Hutch from a block away, fists jammed in his pockets like he was freezing to death, pacing like a hyped-up gerbil on an exercise wheel. Crap! Crap! Crap! First day back from a weeklong vacation, and Hutch was already in a snit.

Starsky sighed. Hutch looked mad enough to slug someone... again. And guess who'd gotten the role of human punching bag?

Again!

Jeez!

Starsky stopped in front of the apartment building and unlocked the Torino's passenger door. As soon as Hutch climbed in, Starsky glanced once over his shoulder and pulled back into traffic.

Well, Pop always said the best defense was a good offense.

He started to talk.

"Don't even start on me about being late," Starsky said. "You were supposed to drive today, remember? I'm not even supposed to be here. I was on time 'til you called to say that heap of yours wasn't running and you needed a lift -- on time in spite of being up since two-thirty this morning -- did I mention that when you called? I can't remember but probably not. Forget about it. It doesn't matter. Lemme' tell you what happened though. I'm sleeping great, you know -- all warm and cozy in my little bed -- then, all of the sudden, I wake up for no good reason. Phone's not ringing, nobody's at the door, but I get this feeling like there's something wrong. No matter what I try, I can't get back to sleep. Who knows why? Drove me freakin' nuts..."

He rattled on and Hutch didn't interrupt. All the anxiety he'd built up during the past four days drained away as he listened. He gazed at his partner, conscious of it all at once: He felt warm. He felt safe.

Just like that.

He yawned.

"...And I'll tell you something else, too. Don't even think about pointing the finger at me if Dobey blows his top 'cause we're late again. I'm still in the crapper for putting that naked mannequin in the back seat of his car. You get to take the heat for this one, pal."

Starsky paused. Nothing. He rolled his eyes to the right, sneaking a peek at his partner. Hutch was asleep, sagged like a rag doll in the passenger seat, completely relaxed.

He'd gone through all that for nothing? Well, crap...

"Zebra Three, Zebra Three..."

Starsky shot another glance at Hutch and picked up the mike. "Zebra Three."

"Zebra Three, switch to Tact Two for Captain Dobey."

"Stand by." He dropped the mike in his lap, flipped the switch to go to Tact Two then lifted the mike again. "This is Starsky, Cap'n."

"Starsky," Dobey sounded tired even this early in the morning, "I want you and Hutch to meet me at the Granville Warehouse in the old train yard. The address is one-two-two-one Sherrilyn Main."

"Got it Cap. What's up?"

"A couple of kids playing hooky found some junkies this morning -- one's on his way to the hospital; the other two are dead. I want you and Hutch to start on this ASAP. How long 'til you get here?"

Starsky looked around. "Uh..."

"Are you at the station now?"

Bingo! Gotta' ask means you're already gone.

"You bet. We're in the parking lot, Cap."

"Great. I'll ride out with you. I'm in my office; give me a minute to come down."

Busted again? Starsky's brain froze at the thought. No way. He thumped the steering wheel in disbelief. No friggin' way. Jeez!

Dobey chuckled, his weariness temporarily forgotten. "Take a breath Starsky." He paused long enough for the younger man to comply. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you, I was dealing with cops trying to pull this stuff when you were still in grade school... Now, how long before you get here?"

"Ten or fifteen minutes, tires squealing."

"Don't burn the rubber. The dead guys aren't going anywhere. Dobey out."

Starsky replaced the mike and, one-handed, switched away from Tact Two. He glanced at Hutch.

Well, at least one of us ain't worried.

The blond continued to slumber peacefully, happy and content in his own little world.

Starsky made better time than expected and drove through the entry gate at the old train yard nine minutes later. A bustling transportation center in the Forties, Bay City Cargo Station had fallen on hard times a decade later and never recovered. Now, most shipping in and out of the city was done on the docks or via big rig trucks. The rusting shells of a few freight cars and a half- dozen dilapidated warehouses were all that remained of the Cargo Station today

By the time they were a few hundred feet into the train yard, Starsky spotted Dobey's car, the crime scene truck, the coroner's wagon and three black-and-whites parked in front of a dilapidated warehouse. He could either take the long way around or... he eyed the old train tracks mischievously.

Man, taking those at forty miles an hour would be some kind of fun.

Hutch shifted and the movement caused blond hair to flash in Starsky's peripheral vision. He sighed.

No tracks today.

Of course, the long way around wasn't particularly smooth either since large potholes marred what once had been a paved roadway. Starsky steered with his left hand and stuck his right arm flat against Hutch's chest, bracing the taller man in his seat the way a parent would brace a child.

He kept his arm in place until he parked the Torino beside Dobey's car then shook Hutch by the shoulder.

"We're here."

Hutch swatted the hand away without opening his eyes. "No!" He muttered the word like an oath.

"What? You wanna' stay in the car?"

Hutch didn't answer. Instead, he turned on his side, his back to Starsky, his face to the window. Starsky gave up and rolled his eyes.

Crap.

Turtle crap.

Monday morning pigeon crap.

Turtle crap and pigeon crap.

Starsky patted his pockets, found his notebook and pencil and stepped out of the car. He could have made enough noise to wake the dead -- but he didn't. Not that it mattered. No thanks were coming his direction from Hutch.

The blond detective was out like a light.

"Where's Hutchinson?"

Dobey watched as Starsky picked his way through the debris-littered floor and walked toward the little crowd gathered in a far corner of the room. Sometimes the man moved like a dancer -- a disreputable looking dancer admittedly, clad in tacky blue jeans and rundown sneakers -- but a dancer nonetheless.

"Checking out something in the car Cap. I'll get him if he's not here in a few minutes. Whatcha' got?" He stared down at the two bodies lying on a makeshift mattress of newspapers and rags. One was dressed in blue jeans; the other wore a suit. "Somebody pop 'em?"

"Nah. Could be an OD," Dobey answered. He pointed to a syringe half-covered by the suited man's leg. "Based on the angle of the body, we can assume that guy died while or not long after shooting up."

"Then shouldn't this go to Narco?"

"Under normal circumstances, yeah." Dobey stepped back a few feet and Starsky followed. The uniformed officers and the crime scene photographer stayed put.

When Dobey spoke again, his voice was low. "Take a closer look at the victims Starsky. Recognize the one in the suit?"

Starsky squinted at the stiffening corpse.

"Nah, not from -- Wait a minute!" He rose to his tiptoes and took another look. A series of conflicting emotions danced across his face: disgust, shock and, ultimately, satisfaction.

Sometimes payback felt pretty damn good.

"I see you just recognized Mr. Robert R. Levin," Dobey said. "OD or not, this obviously won't be an ordinary case. As soon as word of this hit gets out, Bay City drug lords are going to start vying for Levin's turf." He patted the portable police radio that bulged from his jacket pocket. "The commissioner's been on the horn about this three times already."

"You sure it's a hit? Maybe Levin had a habit he didn't like to talk about."

Dobey shook his head. "I don't think so. When was the last time you heard of a distributor who actually used his own junk?"

"Never."

"All right then."

"But it still doesn't make sense." Starsky looked around the rattrap of a warehouse. "This place is a dive. It's strictly junior league to do a hit in here. Old-timers like Rodale and Sloan are gonna' be insulted if we try to pin this on them. Hell, even a newcomer like Pike would be pissed off."

"Then be sure to apologize if you question them."

Starsky turned to his boss, eyebrows on the rise. "If?"

"The commissioner hasn't decided how he wants to play this one. Mike McAlpine at District 24 has been leading a drug task force for the past nine months. Even though this is probably a homicide, the chief might toss the case to him."

"Why? McAlpine's got no depth in Homicide."

"True enough, but this case is going to be very high profile and McAlpine loves that kind of stuff. Somebody tipped him off. He's already started lobbying hard."

Politics. Starsky's lip curled in distaste. There wasn't enough money in the world to get him to deal with that stuff.

He flicked his gaze to the other corpse.

"What about that guy? Do we know anything about him?"

"Not yet." Dobey fished a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. "Let's take a look."

Hutch's eyes rolled under his lids. His breathing grew shallow and rapid. He shivered, suddenly cold... And he dreamed.

Run! He was on the ground, in the alley. A man in a blue uniform knelt beside him.

RUN! He was trying to, but his legs wouldn't move. The man put a hand on his shoulder and pressed his back against a wall. He could feel cool, hard cement against his ribs. His mouth dropped open and he panted, struggling not to pass out, trying like hell just to breathe...

FAST FORWARD. He tried not to listen but he couldn't block out the noise: music, laughter, talking. Smells, filtered somehow, reached his nose: food, coffee, cigarettes. He sensed movement, knew he was going up. He felt something hard under his stomach. A shoulder? He was being carried on somebody's shoulder.

Something heavy covered his body and his face. It blotted out the light. A blanket! He was wrapped in a blanket. No one could see him, but he couldn't see out either. He started to panic, felt fear tighten his belly. He wanted to cry out, but the sound -- barely a whimper -- died in his throat. Some part of his brain shut it down.

Why?

The answer blew in like a gentle breeze. His mind made a mantra of words he'd heard a few minutes before.

"It's okay; I'm right here with you. Don't move... Don't make a sound."

REWIND. No one had to show him a clock. No! No one had to show him a clock. His body knew it was time. For a while he'd been floating, happy. Now everything hurt. His skin was on fire. His teeth were on fire. The fingers on his right hand burned where he'd peeled back the nails, exposing the quick. They told him to sit, but he couldn't stay down. They told him to stay quiet, but he wanted to yell. He felt his mind racing. Memories flooded his brain. He fumbled with his left hand, scratching his arm. He could wait. He'd show them. He could wait.

"Shit man, look at this."

Someone crouched beside him. When did this guy come in? Didn't see him. Didn't hear.

The man pushed his hand away and stretched out his arm. A line of bright red furrows marred his biceps. When did that happen? It hurt now that he saw the scratches, now that he saw the blood.

The man pulled out a needle. All of the sudden the scratches didn't matter. Nothing else mattered.

He felt the needle enter his arm... And he smiled.

Hutch jerked awake, feeling desperate, feeling lost. Where was he? He heard someone panting. Me? Yes, it's me. It's okay. It's just me. It took him a minute to realize he was in the car. Starsky's car. There was no sign of Starsky; black-and-whites were all around. There were other cars too: Dobey's car, coroner's wagon, crime scene truck.

Don't panic. Don't panic.

Where the hell was he?

The crime scene photographer had finished her work and it was now safe to move the bodies but Dobey's old-school training wouldn't give him a break. He knelt beside the unidentified corpse and slid one plastic-gloved hand under the torso. Starsky watched admiringly. From where he stood, he couldn't even see the body move.

"Find anything Cap?"

"Yeah. Think so."

Ping. Starsky's internal radar gave him a nudge. He glanced around the warehouse, looking for Hutch.

"If we're lucky it'll be some form of ID." Dobey drew out his hand and stood. A little wad of cards and papers sat in his palm.

Ping! Starsky looked around a second time. What the hell was going on?

"Grocery store receipt, movie stub, coupla' bucks in cash, registration card for a drug treatment center..." Dobey glanced at the dead man and shook his head. "Driver's license! Here we go." He held the license at arm's length and compared the image on the card to the dead man. "Brian Alan Ricks. Looks like a match."

PING! This time Starsky's radar went off like a cymbal, almost knocking him from his feet. Okay. Gotta' go.

"Back in a minute Cap."

"Where the hell are you going?"

Starsky hollered over his shoulder. "No point in you 'n me doing all the work. I'm gonna' grab Hutch."

Where was everybody?

Hutch used his palm to wipe the grime off a warehouse window and peered inside.

Nothing!

If he weren't so tired, this would almost be funny. Starsky would say it was like one of those old Twilight Zone episodes: Cops drive to a scene and, one-by-one, everybody disappears. In the mood he was in though, one of Starsky's "This reminds me of..." stories would drive him right up the wall.

Of course if Starsky were beside him, he wouldn't have a damned volcano erupting in his gut either. Hutch thought it over and decided, all things being equal, he'd trade the silence for Starsky and one of his stories in a New York minute.

"Hey!"

Hutch was halfway to the next warehouse when the call and a whistle spun him around. Starsky stood across the street, a puzzled expression on his face. He waved. Hutch nodded and trotted over, trying hard to keep his relief from showing, trying hard not to move too fast.

"What were you doing over there?" Starsky asked.

"Thought that's where you were."

"Nah uh," Starsky said. "We parked across the street because this side is full of -- Watch it!" He grabbed Hutch by the jacket, barely keeping the blond on his feet when he stepped in a pothole the size of a melon.

Starsky shook his head and cuffed Hutch on the shoulder good-naturedly. "How'd you miss that crater? A week with your family really did you in, boy."

"You don't know the half of it."

Just don't talk about it anymore, Ken. Keep your mouth shut.

Hutch shook his head and straightened. Once upright, he looked around curiously. "Whatcha' got?"

"Kids found what they thought were some pretty sick smack addicts in the warehouse this morning. One's at the hospital; the other two didn't make it." He nudged Hutch in the ribs. "Get this. Robby Levin is one of the dead guys."

Hutch stopped in his tracks, eyebrows on the rise.

"Seriously?"

"Damn straight. The other dead guy's white, I'm guessing somewhere between nineteen and twenty-four; name's Brian Alan Ricks."

"Somebody pop 'em?"

"Nope. Levin was found lying near a needle; Ricks was a little to the side. Looks like an unintentional OD or a reaction to bad smack, but Dobey's not buyin' it. He's pretty sure Levin was a hit."

"What about the other guys?"

"They might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time or they might have been part of the set-up. Who knows?"

"Must have been amateur night then. Pulling a hit way out here is strictly junior league."

Starsky smiled, amused by how much of what he'd said earlier was now being parroted word- for-word by Hutch.

"What?" Hutch asked.

"Nothing. I just said the same thing to Dobey a few minutes ago, that's all."

"Umm." Hutch trailed Starsky inside, taking in as much of the scene as he could without making a big show. He noticed Dobey turn off a portable police radio and shove it in his pocket as they walked up.

"That was the commissioner again," Dobey said. "The other user, a guy named Carnegie, is out of danger. He's been moved to an open ward at BC General. Turns out the smack that almost killed him was laced with strychnine. The only reason he's alive is that he injected into the muscle and the needle must have slipped while he was shooting up. He didn't get enough in his system to take him out." He angled his head toward Hutch. "Starsky brief you on what's going on?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, these are the latest developments: The commissioner wants this thing shut down before a war breaks out. He wants Levin's murder solved before his people have time to retaliate and he wants the territory issues smoothed out before the other heavy hitters -- Rodale, Sloan and Pike -- start angling for position. Homicide and Narco investigations will be handled together, and he wants results within a week."

Starsky shoved his hands in his back pockets. "So this goes to McAlpine?"

"Right." Dobey noticed Hutch's puzzled look and backtracked for his benefit. "McAlpine's been leading the city's task force on drugs. Since he's the resident expert on Rodale, Pike and Sloan, the commissioner wants him to conduct the investigation into Levin's murder."

"Why?" Hutch asked. "He's got no depth in Homicide."

Starsky grinned. "That's what I said." He tilted his head toward Dobey. "He said McAlpine pushed for the case because it's high profile."

"Meaning?"

"Politics."

Hutch's expression turned sour. "Oh."

Dobey held up a hand, stopping the banter. "For the record, the commissioner agrees with you about McAlpine's inexperience with homicides -- so he reassigned the two of you to District 24. You'll work for McAlpine until the case is solved. That way he can leverage your expertise."

Starsky groaned. "That sucks."

"I assume that's meant as a compliment to my leadership abilities Starsky, not just a bunch of attitude because McAlpine makes his detectives wear a suit and tie."

"Uh... yeah." Starsky cleared his throat. "Absolutely."

"Umm hmm... Look, your first briefing with McAlpine is at three-thirty. My guess is he'll expect you to be unprepared, and he'll call you on it. He'll chew on you for a while then he'll be fine."

"Sounds like hazing," Hutch muttered.

Starsky shook his head. "Sounds like hell."

"That's how McAlpine operates," Dobey said. "He's alpha dog and every now and then he likes to mark his turf... Of course, just because that's his game plan doesn't mean you have to play along. Call before you head down and I'll brief you on the drug task force's progress to date."

He tore a page from his notebook and handed it to Hutch.

"Here's a list of every address Ricks had on him: apartment, gym, parents, even a drug treatment facility called City House. Try to hit a few of them before you report in."

"What about Levin's operation?" Hutch asked. "Shouldn't we start off with his second-in- command?" He turned to Starsky. "What's the guy's name, Starsk? Harry? Harris? Hunter?"

"Hatcher."

"Yeah, that's it." He turned back to Dobey expectantly. "Who knows, Cap? Maybe this was an inside job."

"Maybe, but don't stick your noses into Levin's operation just yet. That's one area of the investigation that McAlpine's going to want to direct personally."

"Yeah well, guess we can't blame him for that." Hutch turned away then, on impulse, turned back. "Captain, didn't you work for McAlpine once?"

"For about two-and-a-half minutes, fifteen years ago. We were on the same SWAT team. He made a bid for squad leader just before I transferred out."

"You were a sharpshooter, right?" Hutch asked.

"Had one hell of a record too," Starsky said. "From what I hear, a lot of guys on your squad were disappointed you didn't push for the top job."

"Yeah well, that was 1961 and the Civil Rights movement hadn't caught up to Bay City PD. I didn't think I could count on those guys to back me if McAlpine pushed the issue." Dobey shook his head. "Ancient history..."

"Didn't mean to bring up a bad memory, Cap."

Dobey forced a tight smile. "Don't call me 'Cap' Hutchinson. I'm outta' that role, remember? McAlpine's your boss now." He raised his eyebrows. Get it?

Hutch ignored the message. Instead, he threw a quick glance at his partner then turned a level gaze back on Dobey. "I don't think so, Captain. That's not the way it works."

"At least not with us," Starsky finished. "We may report to McAlpine, but that don't make him our captain. Nobody's our captain 'til we say he is." He arched his eyebrows. Do you get it?

Dobey's smile loosened. He forced his voice down, purposefully sounding gruff. "Yeah well, you guys just remember that McAlpine's a tough SOB. Don't even think about trying that crap you pull at Metro 'cause I won't be around to bail you out."

Starsky touched his forehead in a mock salute. "Yes sir!" He waggled his eyebrows a second time. "Thanks for the warning... Cap."

Dobey snorted derisively and watched them go. He hadn't put too much emphasis on the words when he'd said them, but he hoped to hell Starsky and Hutch listened -- for once -- to what he had to say. They were used to going their own way at Metro. They were used to being trusted. Working under McAlpine was going to be an entirely different ballgame.

His next thought popped in unbidden and he snorted again, embarrassed. These two were competent cops and grown men. He was going to have to stop thinking about them as "his boys."

Still...

The thought surfaced again, and this time he wished they were still here so he could say it out loud.

You two watch your backs -- and finish this case fast so you can come home.

One ring...

Two rings...

Three rings...

Four...

Angels, priests and all the saints. Just waiting for Sheila to pick up the phone made him antsy. Where are you, baby? It's only ten o'clock. Why aren't you home?

"Hello?"

The sweet, breathy sound of her voice calmed him instantly. Sarcone wiped a sweaty palm on his pants and spoke into the receiver, purposefully keeping his own voice low.

"Hi baby."

"Jimmy? Where are you? Why are you whispering? I can barely hear you."

"I gotta' keep my voice low. I'm using a phone at Hatcher's."

"Hatcher's? On my gosh Jimmy, what if he hears you?"

"He won't, baby. He's dealing with a problem in the other room." He smiled. "But it's good of you to worry about me. I like that."

"I always worry about you, Jimmy. You know that."

"I know. I know." He sighed heavily. "Listen Sheila, I wanted to be home early but it looks like this meeting with Hatcher's gonna' take awhile. We heard on the police scanner that the cops found Levin, but the detectives haven't come by yet. Hatcher's so jumpy he's about to go through the roof."

"Who..." Sheila's voice quivered and broke. "Who does he think did it? He doesn't suspect you, does he Jimmy?"

"Nah. He pitched a fit 'cause I said I wasn't with Levin at the meeting last night, but he bought that story we cooked up about Levin working on some kind of secret deal. Right now, he's thinking Levin's partner-to-be double-crossed him. We're in the clear, baby."

Sheila sighed quietly. "That's wonderful. I still can't believe you figured this whole thing out, Jimmy." Her voice broke again. "I still can't believe you risked everything for me."

"For us," Sarcone corrected. "Remember, as soon as this thing blows over, we're outta' here. We'll take off for Colorado, get married right away, have ourselves a whole flock of kids. It's going to be great Sheila."

He could hear her breath coming sharp and fast through the receiver. She always got like that -- tongue-tied and breathless -- whenever he talked about marriage.

Who would've believed he'd ever be so lucky?

"Listen Sheila, I hear Hatcher calling for me. I'd better go."

"What's he planning Jimmy?"

"He wants to make a deal," Sarcone said. "He don't care with who as long as it keeps him alive." He laughed sarcastically. "He oughta' know to be careful. You get in bed with the devil, you're gonna' get burned."

"That's a good one Jimmy."

"Yeah..." Sarcone's voice softened suddenly. "Hey baby?"

"Yes Jimmy?"

"Look in your sweater drawer. I left something for you."

"For me?"

He heard her pull a drawer open and fumble through the contents. It took a second but finally he heard what he'd been waiting for -- the same sharp, fast inhalation he heard whenever he mentioned marriage.

"Plane tickets," Sheila gasped. "You bought us plane tickets to Colorado, Jimmy."

"Umm hmm. And look at the names, baby."

"They say... They say 'Mr. and Mrs. James Sarcone.' I don't know what to say Jimmy."

"You don't have to say nothin', Sheila. You don't have to worry about nothin'. I'll take care of everything. I'll do the thinkin' for both of us."

"That's great, Jimmy." That funny, little hitch in her voice made it difficult for her to continue, but she managed somehow. "That's just great."

Sarcone said his good-byes and stood with his hand on the receiver for a moment.

He'd worked hard on planning that surprise for Sheila and things had gone even better than he'd expected. He'd worried that she might be angry that he'd taken the initiative and bought plane tickets in their married names without talking to her first. But, as it turned out, that wasn't a problem.

Sheila was fine with it. She appreciated the effort.

She didn't even have to say thank you.

Hearing the words didn't matter. Not really.

He could just tell.

Damn him. DAMN him!

Sheila stared at the tickets and wished with all her might that she could send them and Jimmy Sarcone straight to hell. Who gave him the right to make decisions for her? Who died and made him the boss?

She ripped the tickets in two then in quarters then in eighths.

Shit!

Just the thought of spending the rest of her life with Jimmy Sarcone with his big, beefy hands and his thick, meaty neck made her want to throw herself in front of the toilet and hurl. If this deal weren't so close to being finished -- and if she weren't set to come into a boatload of money as soon as it was over -- she would walk away right now. Right frigging now!

Damn it!

DAMN IT!

She tossed the remnants of the tickets into the trash and spat after them.

Right frigging now!

"Pick you up at your place in two hours." Starsky glanced at his watch. "Ten after twelve, okay?"

Hutch rubbed the back of his neck and nodded reluctantly. He'd managed to grab a couple more minutes of undisturbed sleep while Starsky drove and he was finally starting to get his legs under him, finally starting to get a handle on what was going on his head.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do now was to get out of this car.

But he couldn't argue with the facts.

Splitting up to check out Dobey's leads was a good idea -- particularly since his apartment was walking distance from Bay City General. He could interview Ricks' friend then go home and change into McAlpine's required suit and tie while Starsky checked out the drug rehab center then went to his place and did the same. It made perfect sense and it was the smart thing to do, but he would still gladly shell out a week's pay to stay right where he was.

"Hutch?"

Hutch rubbed the back of his neck again. He felt like one of those wind-up toys in a five-and- dime store, the kind that would twirl around crazily for a few minutes then collapse without warning when the spring wound down. He'd been rolling around like that since the disaster in Minnesota -- lost, without direction, and spiraling out of control -- but being around Starsky had given him a chance to catch his breath. With Starsky taking the lead, he'd been able to relax for a while, let his guard down, even grab a few minutes of sleep free from dreams. Once they separated though, anxiety coursed through his body like a drug.

"Hutch?" Starsky waited a few seconds for an answer then, when nothing came, thumped the steering wheel impatiently. "Hutch!"

"What?"

"Get a move on; we're holding up traffic here." He put a hand on Hutch's shoulder and shoved. "Out! The light's changing."

"Yeah..." Hutch eased out of the seat and reached down to shut the passenger door. He pushed twice, as hard as he could, but couldn't get the door to close.

"Hey?" The edge that had been in Starsky's voice a moment before was gone, replaced now by a note of concern. "Hold up a sec; what's going on? You okay?"

Just don't talk about it anymore, Ken.

"Hutch?"

"I'm fine. Just tired I guess." He forced a smile. "Jet lag."

Starsky snorted. "Maybe next time you'll take my advice and come back to work on a Thursday or Friday like the rest of us mortals. It makes re-entry a hell of a lot easier."

"Yeah... Catch you in a bit." Hutch pushed at the door again and this time Starsky leaned across the seat, grabbed the handle and pulled. The door slammed shut and, seconds later, Starsky drove away.

Almost immediately, Hutch felt his stomach churn. Alone. It was ridiculous but damn it, all of the sudden he felt so alone. He took a step and stumbled as his family's voices filled his head.

Dad: Don't stand there and tell me you kicked it! Don't tell me that! I've read about this, Ken. You can't turn addiction off like a light!

I'm sorry. Hutch squeezed his eyes shut. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Jenna: Paul wanted his brother to be the baby's godfather but stupid me, I said no. I said it had to be you... You're making me look like a fool, Kenny. What am I supposed to do?

Therese: It doesn't matter that people in Bay City were involved. That's not important... As long as we don't say anything, no one here has to find out. If we're careful, no one here will ever know.

The pain in his neck came back, stabbing through his muscles like a spear.

Will: We all know the words, Kenny: junkie, addict, user, hype. Why don't you just come out and say it? That's what you are: a hype.

Damn it! DAMN IT! GO AWAY!

Hutch felt like he was being torn in two. It had been four days since he'd fled his parents' house. Four days since he'd had more than a half-hour of undisturbed sleep at a time. Four days since he'd eaten anything other than candy bars or had anything to drink other than coffee or high-caffeine soda... Four days of listening to words of disappointment and failure reverberate through his head

Half of him wanted to take a cab to Starsky's and ask for help as soon as his partner got home... The other half wanted to prove that everything he'd said to his family was true: He wouldn't be tempted by heroin again. He could make it on his own.

He had a feeling that the answer to his dilemma was surprisingly simple, but that just made him feel worse. If it was so damn simple, why couldn't he figure it out?

Hutch shook his head in frustration. Everything was pressing down on him and he couldn't get a bead on it. He didn't know what to do.

He shivered and a car horn blared. Take a breath, Hutch. Then he blinked and tried to get his bearings. Still on the street corner? He looked around. Yep, still right here. Hutch glanced at his watch. It was already ten-thirty. Great. Just great. He'd been playing statue on the street corner for twenty minutes.

He turned on his heel and walked toward the hospital, trying to remember the name of the guy he was here to meet. Carson? Cannon? Starsky must've said it five or six times on the way over. His mind shifted into overdrive. What was he, stupid? Some kind of mental joke?

It had only been twenty minutes!

Why couldn't he remember the guy's name?

"I wish I could be of more help, Detective Starsky."

Doctor Patrick Metter flashed an apologetic smile and opened yet another door to yet another hallway in what seemed like an endless series of hallways at the City House drug rehab center. They were headed to Metter's basement office but Starsky felt as though he was being taken through a maze.

He could hear a church bell tolling out the half-hour and the muted clanging had an eerie funeral-like knell. It made the skin on the back of his neck tingle and it took a good, long minute to shake the feeling off.

He cleared his throat. "You're sure the name Brian Alan Ricks doesn't sound familiar? He had a referral card and a City House brochure in his pocket."

Metter chuckled. "Are you kidding?"

He opened a final door, motioned Starsky into a cramped, paper-filled office then squeezed around him to sit behind a rickety, metal desk.

"This stack here..." Metter pointed to a pile of manila folders about twelve inches high. "These are open applications. We get about thirty per week from Bay City residents and another fifty or so from individuals and agencies in other parts of the state. And that stack over there..." He pointed to another pile twice as high. "Those are case files from people who are either in the residency program now or are in follow-up care. I'll be honest with you, Detective Starsky. We're so overloaded right now, we wouldn't remember somebody who just asked for information if he had his name tattooed on his cheek."

Starsky smiled. "Gotcha'." He dropped into a chair and shifted until he found a comfortable position. "Under the circumstances, I almost hate to ask this... but what about Joseph Carnegie? Does that name sound familiar?"

"Carnegie?" Metter pursed his lips. He hesitated, and the pause was just a second too long. "Umm, no. That name doesn't strike a cord either."

Starsky's eyes narrowed. "You sure?"

"Well, I-I'm more familiar with the patients in the residency program, and I'm sure he's not enrolled there. Maybe... maybe he's in the follow-up program. That area's managed by the associate director, Nate Foster." He noticed Starsky's look of interest. "Nate's not available currently, otherwise I'd ask him to step in and talk with you."

"When do you expect him to be... available?"

"First thing tomorrow, probably." Metter blinked rapidly and wiped a shaky hand across reddening eyes. "Sorry. My allergies are giving me hell today. I should have taken my doctor's advice and stayed in bed." He sniffed. "Anyway, Nate's attending a conference off-site. You'll be quite impressed with him Detective, believe me. He's made incredible progress with some of the hard-core pushers, which is a pretty tall order since, in addition to being addicts themselves, they're making a lot of money selling drugs. Getting them to admit they have a problem then change their behavior is no easy task."

"But Foster's done it?"

"With amazing success. He runs special meetings two nights a week for these guys and I'll tell you, attendance at his sessions is always one hundred percent."

Starsky's eyebrows rose. "That is impressive. Turning those guys around definitely makes my job easier"

"Always glad to help the boys in blue."

Starsky leaned back in the chair and studied Metter carefully. The man was about his age and of similar height and weight, but the resemblance ended there. Metter's thinning black hair was combed straight back and thick tortoiseshell glasses obscured dark gray eyes. Little tufts of hair sprouted from his fingers and he wore his long-sleeved plaid shirt buttoned at the wrist in spite of the heat. Something about the man's red, blinking eyes and twitchy hands caused Starsky's internal alarms to go off though. He had a feeling that there was something Metter was trying to hide.

But whatever it was, he'd bet good money he wasn't going to find out today.

Starsky smiled and kept his voice casual. "How large is this facility, Dr. Metter?"

"We can treat ninety-six patients in-house and one-hundred-and-ten in the follow-up program when we're operating at full capacity. This place may not look like much, but it's one of the largest treatment facilities in the state."

"I gathered that." Starsky flicked his gaze to the narrow hallway then turned his attention back to Metter. "This wasn't always a treatment center..."

"Oh no, it was an armory during the Second World War. The City Council gave us the deed to the complex in Sixty-eight. Once City House was awarded the property, we dedicated the best floors for treatment and housed the administrative offices, break rooms and sleeping quarters for the doctors who staff the residency program in the basement."

"Sub-basement is more like it." Starsky grimaced. "What is this, five levels below ground?"

"Two; it just feels like five." Metter flashed a grin that took years off his face. "Just between you and me, this place can get creepy as hell. The power went off last month and some us were stuck down here. No windows, no light, a few more mice than I'd like to admit..." He shivered. "It's not an experience I'd like to repeat, let me tell you."

Just the thought of it caused Starsky's claustrophobia to activate. He shifted uncomfortably and pushed himself out of the chair. "I couldn't agree more." He stuck an arm out and shook hands with Metter. "Thanks for your time, Doc. Do me a favor and have Foster check his patient list when he comes in."

"No problem. Sorry I couldn't have been more help, Detective."

"You did fine... Let Foster know I'll probably call him tomorrow, will ya'?"

"Certainly." Metter rose from his chair and walked Starsky to the door. "Want an escort or do think you can find your way out of here on your own?"

Starsky peered into the hallway hesitantly. Odds were he could find his way back but, truth be known, basements gave him the willies. He turned back to Metter.

"Why don't you keep my company? On the way back up, you can tell me how you got involved with the program."

Metter grinned in response. "It's a long and boring story Sergeant."

Starsky smiled but the expression didn't reach his eyes. "It's two long flights up and you got no elevators. Don't worry about it, Doc. I've got the time."

"Find it yet?"

"No sir."

The admissions clerk at Bay City General tried to speed things up, but the man towering over her was making her nervous. If she didn't know better she would have guessed he was a patient, not a cop.

He stared at her impatiently, badge wallet splayed open, fingers drumming on the countertop, blond hair damp and plastered across his forehead. His leather jacket was zipped up to the collar in spite of the heat and his eyes flicked rapidly from side to side. They took in every person and every item in the hospital's administration room with quick, quiet efficiency. They made her feel like he was casing the place.

She glanced at the clock -- eleven o'clock. The detective had been at her desk for only a few minutes, but it felt as though he'd been standing over her for an hour. She flipped through the admittance book a little faster.

"It began with a 'C'."

"That's what I'm checking sir."

She used her fingernail to trace down the list on the last page and stopped midway through.

"Found it! Joseph Carnegie: admitted a little after eight this morning. He's in Ward B on the sixth floor."

"Thank you." He started away.

"Sir? Detective Hutchinson?" Her voice stopped him in his tracks.

He turned and gave her a look of exasperation. What?!

She held out his badge. "You forgot this."

Hutch stalked back and grabbed the leather case. "Thanks." A look of doubt crossed his face and he hesitated. "Carnegie, right? Fifth floor."

"Sixth floor."

"Sixth floor. Right." He nodded curtly, double-checked the counter to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything else then, for the second time, walked away.

The clerk watched him leave and her eyes narrowed as she studied him.

She'd seen people like him before.

Cop or not, he was close to the edge.

Metter leaned back in his chair and stared down at his hands. They trembled like he was suffering a chill.

Oh God... He lowered his head to his desk wearily. He'd come so close to blowing things, come so close to putting Nate in jeopardy. The cop had looked at him strangely too -- like he didn't believe what he was hearing about Carnegie and Ricks or the allergies.

Metter shuddered. He'd been so scared...

He wrapped his arms around his chest and moaned. How had things gone so wrong so fast? Everything he'd told Starsky about his background had been true: How he'd been an idealistic college graduate who wanted to help people but lacked the patience for medical school. How he'd watched his best friend die horribly from a drug overdose. How he'd decided to devote his life to helping other people avoid the same fate.

Every word had been gospel... but the crux of the story was the part he left out.

There was a soft knock on his door and Metter straightened. Without a word, he unbuttoned his right cuff and rolled up the sleeve.

The door opened and an average looking man with sand-colored hair walked inside. The man smiled slightly -- a soft, nondescript smile that showed no teeth -- and withdrew a needle from his pocket.

Metter made a fist and said a silent prayer of thanks that the vein in this arm was still good. He let his eyes drift closed as his associate, Nate Foster, tied a tourniquet around his arm and slipped the needle into his vein.

So good. So good. It took only a few seconds for Metter's anxieties to drift away.

Nate had been a blessing. He'd understood perfectly when, during his interview, Metter acknowledged being drug-dependent during the Sixties. And he'd been invaluable when, during a scuffle with a new patient several months later, Metter was stabbed with the man's hidden hypodermic and injected with heroin. That experience not only shattered his confidence... it reactivated the cravings he'd kept under control for so many years.

Metter's pride wouldn't let him seek help from his staff and, within days he was using heroin again.

The other doctors were oblivious, but Nate saw what was happening.

And he found a way to help.

He promised to find a program out of state that would accept Metter and he promised to make the arrangements as soon as the time was right. But, in the meantime, Nate bought the drugs himself... injected Metter himself... and kept the director in place as a figurehead while he essentially ran the entire program on his own.

Metter sighed as the warm drug surged through his veins. He'd get his strength back in a moment and then he'd tell Nate all about his conversation with Detective Starsky. There was no need to worry about it now. Nate would know what to do.

Metter sighed again. He was so lucky to have Nate. The man was more friend than associate. Hell, that didn't even begin to explain it. He was more like a brother than a friend.

Stupid suit!

Stupid tie!

Stupid damn leather shoes!

Starsky grimaced as he tucked the flaps of chambray shirt into his pants. He hated wearing suits under the best of circumstances, but he particularly hated wearing suits to work.

He balanced on one foot like a flamingo and pulled up an errant sock with one hand while he kept the telephone receiver plastered to his ear with the other. Once the sock was taken care of, he grabbed his jacket. He'd just slipped it on when Dobey's voice crashed through the receiver like a tidal wave.

"Starsky!"

Starsky winced and moved the phone an inch or two away from his ear. "Yeah, Cap. Just checking in to get briefed on McAlpine's task force."

"Gimme' a minute."

Starsky heard papers shuffling and heard a muffled curse as something crashed to the floor. He shook his head in amusement. He had no difficulty imagining the stack of files crowding the captain's in-box, the daily reports littering his guest chair or the two-inch pile of messages sitting by his phone. The man's filing system was a disaster.

"Want me to call back later?"

"No, I don't want to you to call back later..." Dobey's voice turned into a low growl then rose with a little exclamation of pride.

"Found it! Okay, here we go. McAlpine was authorized to form a drug task force nine months ago. He got the go-ahead right after the governor's Commission on Crime released a report that showed drug use in Bay City was growing faster than anywhere else in the state. No one denies that McAlpine got the nod because he and the commissioner go way back, but now he's under pressure to deliver."

"How's he doing?"

"Not bad; not great. He's developed extensive profiles on the four men who have a lock on drug traffic in BC: Sammy Rodale, Vincent Sloan, Aldus Pike and Robby Levin. He says he's been able to put enough pressure on Pike to get him to start pulling back from the drug trade."

"So that means he figures either Rodale or Sloan is behind what happened to Levin."

"Apparently so. According to McAlpine, the pressure they've put on Pike killed his taste for the drug business. The task force can't even find enough dealers on his streets to keep arrest levels up. The way McAlpine sees it, Pike's no longer a player."

Starsky grimaced. That didn't fit at all with what he and Hutch believed coming into this case, but now wasn't the time to argue. He held his tongue and listened as Dobey outlined the steps the task force had taken to stem the flow of illegal drugs into Bay City. Even he had to admit that the list was impressive.

There was only one problem.

"If Pike's out of the drug business, how come so much dope's still available on the street?" Starsky asked.

"What?"

"Smack's still available to anyone who wants it. Hutch and I aren't in Narco but we would've heard if the supply chain got cut. Half of our snitches would be climbing the walls and asking us to pull strings so they could get a hit. So far though, that's not happening. Arrests in Pike's territory may have dropped but the dealers are still dealing, the pushers are still pushing and the users are still getting their fix."

"So in spite of all McAlpine's work, you're saying you don't believe Pike's out of the drug business?"

"Well..." Starsky realized he didn't have enough facts yet to handle a cross-examination and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "I'm not saying that exactly. I'm just saying that maybe McAlpine's call is premature. Maybe Pike just went underground to get the task force off his back. That would explain why so much junk is still on the streets."

Dobey sighed. "Take my advice Starsky. Don't stick your nose in McAlpine's task force investigation. As long as this doesn't have anything to with Levin..."

"But that's just it. Maybe it does. If Pike's still in the game, I'll bet my last dollar he's involved in this somehow."

"Listen Starsky..."

Starsky glanced at his watch and swore. "Sorry Cap, gotta' go."

"Why?"

"I'm supposed to pick Hutch up in ten minutes. We've got a bunch more leads to check out before we meet McAlpine. I gotta' get outta' here if I want to be on time."

"You? On time?" Dobey snorted. "Let me circle this date on my calendar."

Ha ha ha. Starsky rolled his eyes.

Everyone was a comedian today.

Well, crap...

"...and then, I'm telling you man, he just keeled over. He fell down dead right in front of me, man. Right in front of me." Joe Carnegie stared at Hutch or, if not directly at Hutch, at least somewhere in his general vicinity. It was hard to tell exactly where he was looking since his watery, dilated eyes never stopped moving.

"It was awful man. I tried to get the hell outta' there but I only made it to the door. Shit was tearing apart my brain, man. It was worse than going cold turkey." He wrung his hands. "I kicked it once. Did I tell you that? Don't ever wanna' go through that again. Don't ever wanna' go through that... Did-did I tell you Bri just keeled over? Like, right in front of me man. Right in front..."

"Yeah, you told me -- about a dozen times." Hutch stood up and started to pace. Everything about this jerky, twitchy hype was driving him nuts. If he heard the word 'man' again, there was a damn good chance he'd pull his gun. "You said you never met Robby Levin before?"

"No -- I mean, right. I never met him."

"And you didn't notice him come into the warehouse? He was an older guy. He was wearing a suit."

Carnegie didn't even hesitate. "No."

"You're sure?"

"Positive, man. I'm positive. That shit was tearing apart my brain, man. Didn't I tell you that? The room was spinning and everything was going round and round. I could taste the colors and feel the clouds just like always, but it wasn't a happy trip, man. My head was killing me and my stomach hurt. I thought I was gonna' die, man. I didn't see anybody come in." His eyes rolled and, in his mind, he was back in the warehouse. "I should've known something was happening when Brian fell down but I didn't think, man. I didn't think..." He paused and gulped air. "Did I tell you Brian just keeled over, man? I mean, right in front of me, man. Right in front of me."

Hutch sighed and stole a glance at the clock on the wall. Eleven forty-five. He didn't have time for this anymore. He was already late. He rubbed the sore spot on the back of his neck.

"Listen Joe, here's what you told me; here's what I know. You and your best friend Brian scored some smack about ten-thirty last night and you headed back to the warehouse to shoot up."

"A lot of folks use that place, man."

"Right. Brian liked the rush so he injected into a vein. You like it slow, so you pushed it in the thigh. Next thing you know, Brian's on the ground..."

"He just keeled over, man. Right in..."

"Brian's on the ground," Hutch repeated. He trampled over Carnegie's words, forcing him to pay attention. "And you're starting to feel the pain."

"Right. Right. And then I must've passed out, man because the next thing I remember, I'm in here." He patted the bed. "Right here."

Hutch sighed again. "So where'd you score?"

"What?"

"Where'd you get the smack? Where'd you score?"

Carnegie blinked and twitched and grabbed the edge of his blanket in shaking hands. "I-I didn't buy, man. Brian did"

Liar! Hutch didn't buy the answer for a second but he didn't push. The way he figured it, Carnegie was either covering for someone or was afraid of someone. It didn't matter though. Unless he had an arrest warrant to use for leverage, he couldn't force Carnegie to tell the truth. So, he pretended to accept the answer.

"Where'd Brian score?"

"I don't know. He said it was somebody new, not his usual dealer. Anyway, I wasn't with him in the afternoon... I had a meeting, man."

"What kind of meeting?"

Carnegie hung his head. "Drug treatment meeting. I'm in a program at City House man, but I kinda' fell off the wagon. Bri was thinking about applying for detox, that's why he had the referral card."

Hutch reached back and pressed his knuckles into the sore spot on his neck. He knew there was a connection between Carnegie, Ricks and Levin but the pieces just didn't fit.

Maybe whoever hit Levin decided to use a needle instead of a gun when he saw the two users on the floor.

Maybe Ricks was involved in the hit and paid for it with his life.

Maybe Ricks was the intended victim all along.

Too many possibilities. They were making his head spin.

"You all right, man?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just fine."

Hutch glanced again at the clock. Twelve noon. He had to get the hell out of here. He didn't remember exactly what time he was supposed to meet Starsky, but he knew it was soon. He pulled a card out of his pocket and tossed it on Carnegie's bed.

"If you remember anything else, call me. I'll be working in a different office for a while but whoever answers can give you the new number."

Carnegie nodded slowly. "Sure, man. Sure." He raised his head slowly and tears streamed from his eyes. "I can't get it out of my head, man. Bri just keeled over. Right in front of me man, right in front..." He raised a shaky arm and swept it over the bed. "I was afraid to even touch him, man. I didn't know what to do."

Carnegie's eyes glazed and he began to relive an experience that didn't include Hutch.

"Right in front of me," he whispered. "That's how he died, man. Right in front of me."

Nate Foster stood beside the director's desk and pushed Metter back in his chair. The director's head lolled and his watery gaze wandered lazily around the room. The poor slob was so out of it, he had no idea where he was or what he was doing. Foster almost felt sorry for him. He almost felt a pang of guilt for organizing the incident that got Metter hooked again... almost felt a bit of remorse for ripping control of City House from Metter's hands... almost felt a qualm or two for turning the award-winning rehabilitation center into the city's most efficient drug distribution center. But hey, those feelings never lasted for long. All it took was a minute or two, and he'd be over them.

He'd think about the money he was making... and he'd feel better.

He'd think about the woman who'd helped him come up with this plan... and he'd feel great.

It was amazing how much he loved her. It was almost like she had him under some kind of spell. It wasn't just the sex either. And it wasn't just her looks. It was her spirit that really got to him. She was generous to a fault.

A lot of women could help him come up with a plan to siphon money from City House. A few might even be able to help him figure out how to work a deal with a big-time distributor so dealers and pushers could buy their stash at City House -- the one place Bay City cops would never look. But only one woman in a million would share the risk with him. Only one would put her neck on the line and use her connections to make the deal.

And that one in a million lady was his.

Heaven and earth how he loved her.

In just a few more days they'd be out of here. They'd be married and on their way to another state. He'd had plans to buy her a ring. Something she could be proud of... just as proud as he was of the gift she'd given him.

It was a gift that stole his breath whenever he looked at it.

It was a one-of-a-kind, just-because-I-love-you gift. It was a watch she'd had to work for months to afford. It was a high-end piece -- a nice, little gold number with an ultra-thin band and diamond studs where the digits would be.

And it was extra-special because he knew that when she'd bought it she was thinking only of him.

"All I'm saying is, what the hell difference does it make what we wear as long as we do our job?"

Starsky jerked his tie moodily and shoved his fists into his pockets. He shot a sour, sidelong glance at Hutch but the blond, loping along beside him as he stalked down District 24's main hallway, didn't respond.

"Hey! Dick Tracy! You with me over there?"

"What?"

Starsky sighed. "Last time I let you go on vacation, pal. Your butt's draggin'."

Hutch met his glance for a half-second then, almost guiltily, looked away. It was true. He was dragging. Truth be told, it was taking everything he had just to keep up with Starsky as his partner marched down the hall. His body ached like he'd gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali. He was hungry, he was thirsty and his stomach was a wreck. He felt like crap and probably looked even worse... but he'd been doing his best to hide it.

It hurt to have Starsky point out that he'd failed.

Under normal circumstances he'd counterpunch with a sharp retort, but these weren't normal circumstances, and he couldn't deny the obvious. He shrugged and pasted on a weak smile.

"Sorry."

Starsky looked at him sharply, surprise etched clearly in his eyes. "Hey..." He slowed his pace and stuck out an arm, causing Hutch to slow down as well.

"Seriously man, you doing all right?"

Starsky's voice had gentled and his eyes were full of concern. He made Hutch feel as though it were safe to answer. He made Hutch want to respond. But, before Hutch could utter a word, Will's voice barreled into his brain.

He's just pretending to trust you... You're an embarrassment, Kenny. You're a joke.

Hutch flinched, reacting both to the words and to the pain that stabbed without warning at the back of his neck.

"Hutch?" Starsky planted his feet and stopped. The arm that had slowed Hutch's pace earlier turned to stone, halting the blond detective in his tracks.

You're a joke.

"Jet lag, remember?" Hutch bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "And maybe the start of the flu."

Just don't talk about it anymore, Ken. Keep your mouth shut.

Hutch squeezed his eyes closed. "I must've picked something up on the plane."

Starsky stared at him like a first-year biology student inspecting a bug. "You sure?"

"Best guess." Hutch tried another smile and angled his head toward the task force squad room. "Let's get in there. The sooner we get this thing started, the sooner we can go home."

He waited for Starsky's arm to drop then started down the hallway slowly. Starsky fell into place beside him but made no effort to pick up the pace. He shot a sidelong glance at Hutch then shrugged slightly, as though dismissing the incident... but he edged a little closer to his partner, easing in until their shoulders almost touched.

Something was going on. Starsky could sense it. He just didn't know what it was.

"The way McAlpine sees it, Sloan and Rodale are the only two who'd gain anything by taking Levin out," Starsky said. "Dobey figures McAlpine's going to throw everything he's got at nailing one of them."

"But what about--"

Hutch broke off suddenly. He knew they'd talked about McAlpine's strategy earlier but he couldn't remember what was said. Had he asked about Pike then? He shook his head to clear the cobwebs but Starsky didn't seem to notice.

"You're still thinking it could be Pike," Starsky said. "Me too. I mean, everything we know about the guy says he's primed to move further into the drug trade, not pull away. It's hard as hell to believe he's not mixed up in this thing, but McAlpine's convinced he's backing off. Stats back him up, too. McAlpine's team has been spearheading raids in Pike's territory since the task force was formed. Dobey says they had a lot of arrests early on but drug busts have gone down almost twelve percent in the last five months."

"Okay, so maybe we do put Pike on the back burner. What's the deal with Rodale and Sloan?"

Starsky grimaced. "I'm gonna' get a complex from you not listening to me, Hutch. We talked about those guys all the way over here. They cut their teeth in other areas, remember? Rodale started with gambling and Sloan started out working the girls. According to McAlpine though, they're looking to smack to be their bread-and-butter."

"That doesn't explain why they'd go after Levin."

"Levin was holding some mighty rich turf -- particularly the area around the docks. The guy was sitting pretty 'til he got whacked."

"Oh."

"Forgot about that, huh?"

"Guess so, yeah."

"Yeah..." Starsky shook his head. "Your mind's like a sieve today, Hutch. I hope you remember this the next time you start thinking you're the brains of this operation."

"If I don't, I'm sure you'll remind me."

"Damn straight."

They walked in silence for a few seconds and when Hutch spoke again, his voice was deceptively casual. "Hey... Got any plans tonight?"

"Had a date with Terry. Canceled it after we got assigned to McAlpine."

"Why?"

"He's looking for a big bang outta' this case so who knows how he's gonna' run it. We could be looking at some pretty long hours here, and I don't want Terry hanging around somewhere waiting for me if I'm not gonna' show. I made that mistake once before." He grinned. "She can be pretty tough when she gets mad."

"Umm..."

"What about you?"

"Plans?"

"Yeah."

Hutch shook his head. "Nothing."

Starsky snorted. "Yet another exciting night for Bay City's top cops."

"Yeah..." Hutch flicked a quick, sideways glance at his partner then locked his gaze on the squad room door. "Listen, do me a favor then, will ya'?"

"What?"

"If Terry's not coming over, let me crash on the couch." Hutch shrugged slightly, feigning nonchalance. "I'm beat, and your place is closer. I don't want to deal with a long ride home."

Starsky looked at him in surprise. You gotta' ask? He opened his mouth to reply but something in Hutch's stiff posture caused him to bite back his words. He twitched his shoulders, mimicking Hutch's shrug.

"No problem."

"Thanks." Hutch kept his own voice light though he almost sagged in relief. He knew he could get himself together again if he just had one good night -- that's why he had so much riding on Starsky's response. He didn't have the words to explain it, but he knew instinctively that a night on Starsky's couch meant at least six long hours of uninterrupted sleep.

And that's all he needed.

After tonight, everything would get back to normal.

After tonight, everything would be okay.

When they reached the squad room, Starsky opened the door and stepped back, allowing Hutch to precede him inside. Once in, both men made a long, slow visual sweep of the squad room. It was about the same size as their squad room at Metro but the atmosphere was completely different. Although it was full of cops, it was impossible to tell who partnered with whom. No desks were pushed together, no two heads bent over files, no one swapped notes or exchanged a cup of coffee. It seemed as though the task force detectives worked without looking at each other, much less speaking. No one even noticed the two new guys who stood just inside the door.

"Oh, I'm just gonna' love it here," Starsky muttered. "The people are all so warm and friendly."

He angled his head toward closed door and an embossed sign that read, Michael E. McAlpine, Captain. "Whatta' ya' say, Dorothy? Think the wizard's in?"

"Only one way to find out."

Hutch led the way and knocked. The voice that answered from the other side of the door was deep and polished.

"Come."

Hutch opened the door and stepped back, letting Starsky enter first. He made it only a couple of steps before he had to pull up short to avoid walking into Starsky's back. His partner stood frozen, and a quick look around explained why. The body language of the three men already in the room presented a clear and unmistakable threat.

McAlpine -- a tall, lean, grim-faced man with thick brown hair --glowered at them from behind his desk. Every aspect of the captain's demeanor made it clear that they weren't welcome in his precinct, on his task force, or on this case.

Standing to McAlpine's right were two plain-clothed detectives, both of whom Starsky and Hutch recognized.

The first, Bernie Colvin, responded to the Metro detectives with a curt nod. His gaze flicked from Hutch to Starsky then back to Hutch again. It lingered there, scrutinizing the blond from head to toe. Small wonder, Hutch realized. Thirteen months ago, when Bernie was a uniformed cop at Metro, he'd been the first to find Hutch after he escaped from Forrest's men. That image of Hutch -- flat on his back and high as a kite -- was probably burned into his mind.

Hutch accepted the appraisal without protest and nodded, hoping Colvin could read the message in his eyes.

I'm okay.

If the message was received, it didn't have much of an impact. Colvin's gaze flicked away but the expression in his eyes never softened.

Neither Starsky nor Gil Lee, the man standing beside Colvin, seemed to notice. Their gazes were locked on each other so firmly that it was possible neither remembered anyone else was in the room. Starsky's face had molded into an expression of wariness. The look on Lee's face was one of pure hate.

Lee grimaced as memories flooded his head. He remembered watching his best friend die because a nutcase named George Prudholm targeted Starsky for revenge. He remembered Starsky's dismay when Lee rejected the blood money Starsky wanted to contribute to his friend's memorial fund. He remembered Hutch's angry protests in subsequent months whenever he got in Starsky's face and pushed for a fight. And he remembered Dobey's look of resolve when he'd called Lee into his office and offered two choices: transfer out or resign.

It turned his stomach to even think about it.

It had all been so unfair. It was just another case of people treating him badly and reading him wrong. He'd argued the point as much as he could, but Dobey wouldn't listen... And Lee transferred to District 24.

He left Metro where he was on the fast track for a detective's badge and descended into hell. He got his gold shield at the Twenty-fourth, sure -- but he was stuck with an old fart for a partner, a micro-manager for a boss and no hope of moving further up the ladder. The way he figured it, his life was in the sewer and Starsky and his blond battleship of a partner were responsible. Lee's fists tightened reflexively and Starsky tensed.

Hutch moved quickly, stepping around and slightly in front of his partner, effectively separating the two men. He shot a look of disgust at Lee then, without breaking stride, extended a hand to McAlpine.

"Captain McAlpine, I'm Ken Hutchinson; this is my partner Dave Starsky. We were assigned to work with you on the Levin case."

McAlpine had accepted Hutch's hand reluctantly. Now, he made a point of wiping his palm on his pants.

"Correction Sergeant," he said coldly. "You weren't assigned to work with anybody. You were ordered here, and you work for me. Is that clear?"

Hutch stiffened, his back becoming ramrod straight.

"Hutchinson?"

Hutch's voice was hard. "Perfectly."

"Good." McAlpine turned to Starsky and seemed a little taken aback when he neither spoke nor moved forward to offer his hand.

"Cat got your tongue, Starsky?"

Starsky had gone as stiff as Hutch at McAlpine's first words. Now he fixed icy blue eyes on the captain and didn't move. The two men stared at each other until McAlpine, with a snort of distaste, looked away and leaned back in his chair.

"Given what I remember of Dobey, I can only imagine the environment the two of you are accustomed to," McAlpine said. "Let me be the first to tell you that things operate differently in D-24. I set the strategy; you implement it. If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. If I don't, keep your mouth zipped."

He flipped open a thick file.

"Dobey probably didn't think far enough ahead to have you two check out any leads..."

"Actually, he did," Starsky interrupted. His voice was quiet and formal -- every syllable of every word was perfectly enunciated -- a sure sign that he was pissed. "Captain Dobey gave us very clear direction. Hutch and I spent the last seven hours following up leads."

McAlpine leaned back further and clasped his hands. "Oh really?"

"Really." Starsky's voice was as cold as his eyes. "We interviewed Joseph Carnegie, the sole survivor from the warehouse incident, and Patrick Metter, the director of City House drug treatment center, before noon. We discovered that City House has a link to at least two of the victims. Carnegie is enrolled in the center's follow-up program and Ricks -- the second victim -- was considering in-house treatment. In addition, the treatment center itself is located right in the middle of Aldus Pike's territory. That means there's a straight line connection between the center, the victims and at least one person with a reason for wanting Levin dead."

McAlpine lips thinned. "The task force took Pike out of commission months ago. He had nothing to do with the hit."

"Maybe, but Hutch and I still think we should check him out." Starsky folded his arms, remembering Dobey's counsel. "Nothing against your task force, but the DA has a better chance of getting a conviction if we can prove we investigated all potential suspects."

Can't argue with that, can you? Starsky shoved his hands in his pockets and continued.

"Between noon and three, Hutch and I interviewed Carnegie and Ricks' parents, obtained written permission to search the victims' apartments, coordinated with the desk sergeant here to have the apartments sealed, and had R&I run a search on both Carnegie and Ricks and pull their jackets. We also got a preliminary report from the medical examiner that says there were no sign of struggle on either Levin or Ricks but that there were some unidentified pressure marks across Levin's face. Her best guess is that someone held an arm or a hand or a rag over his mouth and nose. We won't get a toxicology report back for a couple of weeks so we won't know for sure if he was taking pills. However, the ME did confirm that Levin didn't have any other needle marks on his body -- no old track marks and, with one obvious exception, no new puncture wounds. That means we can rule out the scenario that Levin was on the needle and went to the warehouse to shoot up with pals."

McAlpine snorted. "Like we'd even bother giving that theory some thought." He spoke very slowly, drawing out each word for Starsky and Hutch's benefit. "Get this. Levin wasn't a user. We know that for a fact. He was trying to make a move to either Rodale's or Sloan's territory or they were trying to move into his. One of them took him out and the set-up with the hypo was a message to Levin's troops."

Hutch raised his eyebrows. "A message saying what?"

McAlpine shrugged. "We're moving in, maybe. Or, stay off our turf. We don't know -- we won't know until you figure out whether it was Rodale or Sloan who did the hit."

"That's workable," Starsky acknowledged. "But we think it would be a good idea to get to Levin's girlfriend, Sheila Wolinsky, as soon as we can and see where she points the finger," Starsky said.

"The bottom line is, even though the focus is on Rodale and Sloan, a lot of signs still point to Pike," Hutch said. "The word on the street is that he's still dealing. He's just operating from a location you haven't found yet."

McAlpine leaned back a little farther and unclasped his hands. He let his gaze linger for several long minutes on a framed photo of a smiling blond-haired woman holding hands with a towheaded boy of about seven. When he turned his attention back to Hutch, his smile was glacial.

"Did you miss what I told your partner a few minutes ago, Detective Hutchinson?"

"No, I..."

"Pike's out of it. Get that through your head. The arrest records don't lie. They clearly show that Pike is pulling back from drugs because he can't stand the heat. That means the only people with something to gain are Rodale and Sloan."

He locked his gaze on Hutch.

"So the real bottom line Detective, is that you brought back zip. The City House link is a red herring and the interview with the director was a bust. I don't want you to spend another minute on that angle. No more interviews. No additional follow-up. You wasted seven hours already; so just forget about it."

He paused long enough to let his sneer widen.

"My objective, going forward, is this: I want this case wrapped in a week and I want to do it with either Sloan or Rodale behind bars. The four of you are going to drive Levin's homicide investigation and I expect you to pull double shifts until it's solved. Starsky and Hutchinson, the commissioner seems to think you have some special kind of expertise -- though I haven't seen any evidence of that so far. In any event, I'm splitting you up to maximize whatever it is you're going to contribute. Starsky, you'll work with Colvin. Hutchinson, you're paired with Lee."

"Wait a minute!" Starsky started forward angrily, voice on the rise. "You can't do that. Hutch and I were sent over as a team."

"You're saying you're incapable of working separately?"

"No I'm not saying that!" Starsky sucked in a breath and struggled to get himself under control. Until now, this case and this captain and the screwy rules of this precinct had just been irritants, but this was the last straw. "What I'm saying is that we're more effective -- we're more efficient -- when we're working together. Nothing against Bernie, but he and I would have to learn the ropes of being a team; Hutch and I have the shorthand down pat."

He shot a quick glance at Hutch, waiting for him to wade in, and noticed that blond detective seemed stunned. So Starsky barreled on, picking up the slack.

"You want us to work double shifts? Fine! Great! We'll work double shifts. But if you want us to wrap this thing up fast, don't mess with something that's not broken."

McAlpine didn't even pretend to consider it.

"Not interested. Starsky, Colvin: I want you to focus on Rodale. You can talk with Levin's girlfriend if you need to, but all I'm interested in learning from her is whether or not Levin had any dealings with Rodale or Sloan."

"What angle do you want us to take with Rodale, Captain?" Colvin asked.

McAlpine nodded, approving both the question and the subordinate manner in which it was asked.

"Until last year, his whole operation focused on gambling," McAlpine said. "The one thing we haven't been able to crack is who's bankrolling him. I want you to find that out. Maybe whoever's feeding him the money ordered the hit on Levin. I want written updates every day and a complete report -- including a full list of every informant you talk with -- on my desk by noon on Thursday. Colvin, you know the drill. Teach it to your partner."

Colvin nodded. "Yes sir."

"Hutchinson, Lee: There're two angles I want you to cover. First, check with Levin's second- in-command, a guy named Hatcher. See if he can point the finger at either Rodale or Sloan. If he can't, follow up on Sloan anyway. Supposedly he's got a couple of judges and some cops on the eastside in his pocket. If he's responsible for Levin, my guess is he thinks they'll cover for him if he takes a fall. I want to know who they are. Get me a list then see if Sloan's responsible for the hit. You're on the same timeline as Starsky and Colvin."

Lee response was sharp. "Yes Captain."

McAlpine fixed his cold stare on Starsky and Hutch. "And before you two even think about calling Dobey and whining about this setup, let me tell you what the commissioner already said. This is my case to run and my team to manage. Keeping you together or splitting you up is my call. Dobey tries to tamper with what I'm doing, it'll cost him his job... Think about that before you pull him in."

He gaze dropped back to the picture on his desk.

"Dismissed."

Ninety minutes later, Hutch leaned against a sleek, green LTD, the antithesis to his own battered car, and wondered how, at only five o'clock, it had already gotten so cold. He looked to his left where Starsky and Colvin stood about fifty feet away. Colvin was methodically outlining rules for operating in D-24 while Starsky took copious notes.

Hutch and Lee had yet to exchange a single word.

Starsky felt the look, stopped his mad scribbling and shot a quick glance at Hutch. He held up a finger -- Gimme' a minute. -- then turned back to Colvin. He didn't stop writing until Lee, coming back from the men's room, exited the elevator and started toward his car. Their eyes locked and Starsky didn't turn away. Instead, he slipped his pencil into his pocket and walked directly toward Hutch.

His partner met him halfway.

"Things here operate pretty much like at Metro," Starsky said without preamble. "Obviously codes are the same, and processes for working with Dispatch, R&I and Evidence are pretty similar too. Lee tell you any of this?"

"Nope."

"Back-up's the only thing that's different. You want a special unit, go to Tact Two. Bernie and I have been cleared to stay Zebra Three. I already called Carrie in Dispatch and asked her to pull strings to get calls between Valley Five -- you guys -- and us expedited." He tore a handful of pages from his notebook. "Here's everything Bernie said about working with back-up, doing reports, following procedures... you name it."

Hutch took the pages and squinted down at the text.

"What?" Starsky looked offended. "Can't read my writing?"

"Nah, it's fine." Hutch rubbed his neck with his free hand. "Gotta' stiff neck is all. Thanks for this."

"Sure... Hey--!" He grabbed Hutch's arm as the blond turned away. "Watch your back with Lee, okay? Don't push this thing between him and me."

"Trust me, I'm not up to challenging anybody tonight." Hutch flicked a quick glance at Lee. "But tomorrow... I gotta' tell you, I'm not much in the mood for his brand of crap Starsk."

"Yeah well, maybe he just needs a little more time to work stuff out. Whenever I see him, I think how I'd react if the situation were reversed." Starsky shrugged. "If that had been you Prudholm laid out on the street, I don't think I'd be winning any popularity contests either."

Hutch snorted.

"Besides," Starsky added, "up until now, I've been handling it okay."

"You think?" Hutch's tone was sarcastic.

"Well..." Starsky shrugged. "Maybe I coulda' done better but from where I'm sittin', it don't matter. Prudholm's old news. As far as I'm concerned, Lee and I are a blank slate."

"Remind me of that the next time he gets in your face. He's playing on your guilt, you know. He pushes because he knows you'll take it."

Starsky glanced around Hutch and studied Lee carefully. "Then that's his mistake," he said quietly. "Someone oughta' tell him." The soft blue irises grew dark. "I'll push back if it gets important enough... I'll push back pretty damn hard."

The meaning behind his words was clear. He'd never responded to the challenge when Lee came after him, but it would be an entirely different story if he went after Hutch.

"Thanks pal, but if that's a warning, I ain't sharin' it." Hutch squared his shoulders wearily. "You and Colvin nail an interview with Levin's girl?"

"Yeah." Starsky glanced at his watch. "We're supposed to be at her apartment in thirty minutes."

"Umm."

"What about you and Lee?"

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Who the hell knows." He sighed. "Meet me back here at ten-thirty?"

"Yep."

"I'm holding you to that offer to crash on the couch, Starsk."

"No problem with me." Starsky grinned impishly and angled his head toward Lee. "But you know how jealous some folks are. Better clear it with your new partner first."

Act Two

"If I knew anything about who killed Robby, I'd tell you." Raymond Hatcher stared at Hutch and Lee with a slightly unsteady gaze. Sitting behind Robby Levin's oversized desk and surrounded by a messy stack of files, he looked more like a nervous accountant than the newly crowned leader of a drug cartel.

But looks could be deceiving.

Hatcher had gotten to his position by climbing over the dead bodies of three of his former associates -- literally -- and the four burly men hulking by the doorway made it clear that ordering the deaths of a couple of noisy policemen wouldn't give him a moment's pause. Still, it was obvious that Levin's murder had shaken the little man and neither Hutch nor Lee doubted that he was telling the truth when he said he would help them identify Levin's killers.

"You don't have any idea who Levin was trying to start a deal with?" Hutch asked.

Hatcher shrugged. "Not a clue. Hell, until Robby wound up in that warehouse with an armload of smack, I didn't even know he was looking for any more action." He shook his head in frustration. "Robby always did have more balls than brains. He probably tried to set up a deal, told too much up-front about our operation and his partner-to-be got greedy. He took Robby out and used that set-up -- the smack, that rundown warehouse, those dead junkies -- to send a message to me."

"Which is?" Hutch pressed.

"Back the hell off," Hatcher said simply. "Back off or you'll wind up like your boss." He shook his head again. "War makes strange bedfellows, doesn't it? Who would've thought I'd ever wind up helping the police?"

Hutch shot a quick glance at Lee. The other detective had been moody and insulting on the drive over, refusing even to tell Hutch where they were going until the blond had angrily threatened to yank the key from the ignition. Throughout the interview though, he'd been surprisingly contained, revealing none of the bullying bravado that earned him such a notorious reputation on the street.

He was dangerous, Hutch realized. But he wasn't stupid. He'd sized up the situation the moment they'd walked in the door. The browbeating tactics that worked on the streets with the addicts and the hookers and derelicts would have gotten him killed in here so he'd purposefully hung back, letting Hutch take the lead.

If Starsky were here, they would have alternated asking questions. They wouldn't have played good and bad cop but, by sharing the questioning, they would have presented the appearance that the police knew more than they actually did.

But that wasn't the game plan tonight.

This time, Hutch was out here alone.

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck and wondered how Hatcher could stand to live in a place that was this damn cold. The temperature in this house couldn't be more than fifty degrees.

He fought the urge to shiver and, instead, picked up the questioning where he'd left off.

"You know who the big drug distributors are Mr. Hatcher." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Rodale. Sloan. Pike. Who do you think Levin was trying to strike a deal with?"

Hatcher shrugged. "If I knew that cop, I'd already be on his door. I'd make a deal with him too if that would keep the lid from blowing off this thing."

"No ideas?"

"None. I've already put out inquiries of my own. Anything comes in, I'll let you know. In the meantime though..."

"What?"

"Some of the independents might know what's going down."

"Independents?"

"Junkie-pushers. You know, smalltime dealers who're users themselves. They don't usually get connected with a distributor like Robby. Too many rules, too much oversight. That sort of thing."

Hutch nodded. "You have any names?"

"One -- a guy named Armando. When he's not high as a kite, he's pretty tapped into what's going on."

"Thanks."

"You'll have to get rough to get anything out of him though. Don't sweat it. He's used to that kind of thing."

Hutch felt his stomach turn. "Yeah."

"And one other thing," Hatcher said. "This guy Armando, he's a roach -- just like all the hypes. Shine a light on him and he heads underground. You'll need a connection to find him."

Hatcher shook his head.

"Funny, isn't it?"

"What?"

"People like you think distributors are trash because we peddle the junk, then circumstances force you to deal with hypes like Armando. All the sudden, you have to face the truth."

"Which is?"

"We're not really the bottom-feeders." He smirked joylessly. "That distinction belongs to the hypes."

"...so naturally I was worried when Robby went out without Jimmy. I stayed up half the night waiting for him. I was frantic when he didn't come home, but I never thought... I never for a minute imagined..."

Sheila Wolinsky dabbed at her eyes with a tissue then crumpled the thin paper in her hands when it came away dry. "I had no way of knowing that something bad had happened, that Robby was d-d-dead..."

Starsky squeezed his eyelids shut and sighed. He felt like he'd been trapped in a room with this woman forever, and she was really beginning to grate on his nerves.

He rocked back on his heels and wished, for about the thousandth time that night, that he was investigating this case with Hutch. Usually he loved sleuthing through complex cases, trying to find the truth while leads came at him from every angle. But half of the joy came from the unspoken battle of wits he and Hutch would wage throughout particularly tough investigations. Who would find the next clue? Who would be first to identify the perp? Who would corner the guy first to make the bust?

They always shared information and they never kept score, but the informal competition kept them sharp -- each at the top of his game individually yet still capable of merging in an instant to form a phenomenally effective team. And he missed that. He missed the companionship. He missed the teamwork. He missed having someone he trusted watch his back.

He just flat-out missed Hutch.

Starsky raked a hand through his hair and turned to Colvin, trying to get a read on his temporary partner's state of mind. No luck, though. Whatever was going on between those ears was private. Colvin's face was a mask, devoid of expression and impossible to read.

Well, crap... This whole thing -- McAlpine, Colvin, Levin and Lee -- was really starting to piss him off.

Starsky set his jaw and directed his attention back to Sheila Wolinsky. Enough of the fake waterworks. Enough of the butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth routine. Just plain enough!

"Look Miss Wolinsky, let's cut to the chase here, okay?" he asked. "Somebody killed your boyfriend. Detective Colvin and I think it had something to do with his drug operation." He held up a finger warningly when the woman started to protest. "Please. Let's not pretend you didn't know Robby Levin was selling. You don't have the tears sweetheart, and we don't have the time. All we want to know is who Levin was meeting with. There're three possibilities: Rodale, Pike or Sloan."

Colvin started forward. "We're only interested in Rodale or Sloan."

Whatever! Starsky mentally threw up his hands, but the expression on his face never changed -- and his voice remained low and even.

"Detective Colvin is absolutely right. We're only interested in Rodale or Sloan. So, you tell us Miss Wolinsky, who was he meeting with?"

The woman's mouth opened and closed like it belonged to a fish. "I-I-I..."

Starsky leaned in closer. "Rodale or Sloan?"

"I think..." She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "I think I heard him say something about a Mr. Rodale."

Bingo!

"But I don't know what he was planning or anything," the woman continued quickly. "I just heard him say the name. But -- I don't even know if I should mention this -- but I think one of Robby's men may have worked for him."

"Worked for who?" Colvin asked. "Rodale?"

"Yes. I think one of Robby's men may have worked for Mr. Rodale. I heard him a couple of times on the phone. He asked to speak with Mr. Rodale."

"Who was it?"

The woman didn't answer and, for the first time, Colvin pressed hard. "Who!"

"His bodyguard." Sheila Wolinsky breathed the answer out in a little puff of air. "The man I heard asking to speak with Mr. Rodale was Robby's bodyguard, Jimmy Sarcone."

"Hey Hu--"

That's all he'd gotten out before Hutch had pushed by him, edging past as though they'd never met. Now, in dimly lit take-out area of the Laura Linda Grille, Huggy sat several tables away, nursing hurt feelings and watching Hutch and another detective stumble through an interview with a two-bit snitch.

Actually, to be fair, the stumbles were coming from the second guy. Hutch watched the interaction with barely concealed distaste, his chair purposefully pushed about a foot away from the table where his new partner and the snitch were engaged in angry conversation.

At least the snitch was someone Huggy recognized. He was a low-level hood named Geffen who made his living delivering payoffs to high-level hoods. The guy had the personality of an alley rat under the best of circumstances and a chat with the cops wasn't a situation that allowed his few admirable qualities to shine. Geffen's head swiveled from one detective to the other defensively and his lips curled back in disgust, revealing two rows of sharp, snow-white teeth.

"I got nothing to say to you, Lee," he snapped, waving a stubby finger under the second detective's nose. "All I know about Armando is that he used to hang out at the Bartlett Hotel. Other than that, I don't know where he goes. Whatta' ya' want me to do, make stuff up?"

"You expect me to buy that?"

"I don't care what you do with it!" Geffen extended his arm and jammed his finger into Lee's chest. "Stick it where the sun don't shine for all I care."

Lee struck back like a snake. He grabbed Geffen's finger and bent it back until the knuckle turned white. "I said I don't buy it. Remember Geffen, I have the gun. You give me a hard time and it just might go off... Don't forget what happened to your pal Woody."

Geffen stiffened. "Don't threaten me cop."

Lee smirked. "Who's making a threat? I have the badge."

He pushed the finger back farther and there was a little pop. Geffen howled in agony as a ligament in his hand tore free.

"Hey!" Hutch leaned forward and placed his hand over Geffen's, pulling the injured man's finger out of Lee's grasp. "Enough Lee."

"I'm not finished."

"Yes you are!" Hutch flicked his eyes at Geffen and the hood got the message. He shoved his hand under his armpit and scuttled away fast.

"What the hell did you do that for? He was right on the edge."

"Yeah? Well, so were you." Hutch stood and shoved his fists deep in the pockets of his suit jacket. "I'm not going down on a brutality charge because you don't know when to back off. You were out of line Lee."

"What? You mean to tell me you and Starsky never leaned hard on a snitch."

"Sure we did... but we didn't disable him in the process." Hutch started toward the door. "I'm leaving. You coming or what?"

Lee jumped up. "I have the keys Hutchinson!"

"I can take a freaking cab Lee -- but I'm thinking you may want to be there when I write my report!"

The two men glared at each other and, for a moment, Huggy thought they might actually come to blows. Lee apparently thought the better of it though. He grabbed a set of keys from the table and, with an oath, pushed past Hutch and headed toward the door.

For some reason, he paused by Huggy's table. He glared down at Huggy, studying the seated man with a dangerous, almost feral gaze.

"You got something to say?" Lee snapped.

Yeah well, truth be told, he did.

Huggy glared up at Lee, ready to give the man a piece of his mind but froze when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Hutch move. The blond was getting into position, getting ready to back him up, but he was moving in slow motion, like every action caused him pain. His brow was furrowed and his face was tense. He looked nothing like the brash, young centurion who patrolled the streets with Starsky. In this place, on this night, he almost looked old.

And, in that instant, everything became clear.

Hutch wouldn't have a chance if he and Lee went at it one-on-one, but that wasn't stopping him. He wasn't going to let Huggy take a fall.

Suddenly, Hutch's earlier behavior made perfect sense. Hutch wasn't ignoring him, Huggy realized. Hutch was acting as a barrier, trying to keep him away from Lee.

Huggy studied Lee for a second then turned to look at Hutch. His friend watched him closely, willing to deliver on whatever he was asked to do.

"I asked if you had something to say?" Lee demanded.

It was Huggy's call...

And he made it.

Just like that.

He shook his head and lifted his arms slowly, placing his palms flat on the table. Submissive. Passive. It wrenched his gut to act like this; it made him feel like less than a man. But it was an indignity he could swallow to protect his friend.

"Figured you wouldn't," Lee growled. "Your kind never does."

He spun on his heel and stalked to the door.

Behind him, Hutch sighed. He managed a slight smile for Huggy and shivered -- a deep, wracking tremor that might have driven a smaller man to his knees. Then, with a second sigh, he turned, followed Lee through the door... and was gone.

"Listen Bernie, let's just deal with this before it gets outta' hand, okay?"

Starsky perched on the edge of Colvin's desk and placed the cup of water he'd been holding on his thigh. He met Colvin's eyes levelly, neither openly confronting him nor looking away.

"You're pissed because I asked about Pike..."

"It was against the captain's orders, Starsky."

"No, technically it wasn't." Starsky took a sip, stared into the water for a second, then drank again. "McAlpine told us he wanted the focus to be on Sloan and Rodale. He never said we couldn't ask an exploratory question about Pike."

"You know what he meant."

"I know what he said."

"You're splitting hairs, Starsky."

"Maybe, but it was worth a shot." He sighed. "Look Bernie, two years ago Hutch and I lost a case because the defense attorney convinced the jury that we didn't explore all possible leads. We had the perp dead to rights so we didn't check out other potential suspects. We were right -- the guy we arrested was guilty. But we were wrong -- because we didn't put the nails in his coffin and hammer it shut... That's all I'm trying to do here."

"Yeah? Well maybe that's the way you play it at Metro Starsky, but that's not the way we do things here. Captain McAlpine's not like Dobey. He's not going to roll over just 'cause you say 'Boo'."

"Hey look--!"

"No, you look!" Colvin slapped his palm on the desk for emphasis. "I'm on equal ground with you now Starsky. You don't outrank me. You can't order me around."

"What?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"No, I don't..." Starsky broke off then pulled back and shook his head. "Hutch? Are you talking about--? Is this about Hutch?"

"Yeah, it's about Hutch. I still get a bad taste in my mouth when I think about finding him in that alley. You shoved the decision not to report what happened down my throat. It wasn't the right thing to do, and you know it. There were procedures to follow, notifications to be made..."

"I know that! Don't you think I know that?"

Starsky hopped off the desk and started pacing. If others had been in the office he might have grabbed Colvin by the collar and hauled him out of the room. But they were alone now; everyone else had gone home. And this wasn't an issue to be settled with angry words and flying fists. It was the ghost of a problem he'd created long ago -- one that deserved to be put to rest.

He sucked in a breath -- a tiny, little shot of air -- and turned back.

"I never hung you out to dry, Bernie. As soon as I got Hutch settled, I called Dobey and reported in. I took responsibility for keeping Hutch out of your report, just like I said I would and Dobey handled the details. He notified Medical; he informed IA; he even contacted the commissioner personally and worked out the procedure for Hutch coming back. The only time we bucked the system -- and I mean the only time Bernie -- was when we kept what happened out of the general reports."

Colvin's eyes narrowed. "Are you conning me?"

"No." Starsky sighed wearily and sank back down on Colvin's desk. "Hutch is my partner Bernie, and he's the best friend I have, but if he were using I'd turn him in myself. Otherwise, sooner or later, he'd get himself killed. I'd rather have him hate me for getting him kicked off the force than let that happen... He's clean, Bernie. You can trust me on that."

"He didn't look clean a couple of hours ago. He looked pretty damn shaky to me."

"It's his first day back from vacation," Starsky countered. "He's got jet lag and he's coming down with the flu. He feels lousy and looks worse."

Colvin didn't waver.

"Listen Starsky, if Hutch were working on his own, that would be one thing. But he's working with Lee and Lee's my regular partner. I gotta' look out for him. Put yourself in my shoes. If Lee were your partner, what would you do?"

Starsky didn't bat an eye. "Shoot myself and put an end to my pain."

Colvin couldn't help himself. He laughed.

"To be honest, sometimes I feel that way myself," Colvin said. "He's a tough guy to get to know." He broke off as the squad door opened and Hutch and Lee walked inside. Both men looked like they'd been through the wringer, though Hutch looked worse by far.

Lee ignored Starsky and Colvin completely. He sank into his chair without a word, shoved some paper into his typewriter and began pounding out his report.

Hutch managed a nod, though it was aimed more at Starsky than Colvin. He dropped into his chair then lowered his head and started to rub the back of his neck. Starsky watched for a moment then picked up his cup and strolled over. When he spoke, his voice was casual.

"Get anything?"

"Nothing but a headache." Hutch glanced up. "Something in that cup?"

"Water. Want it?"

"Yeah."

Alone at his desk, Colvin watched as Hutch took a long, slow drink. Aware of the scrutiny, Starsky leaned down and spoke to Hutch quietly. Whatever he said didn't go over well; the blond detective shook his head and handed the cup back to Starsky. He grabbed two sheets of paper, sandwiched a piece of carbon in-between and tried to roll the wad into the typewriter.

It jammed three-quarters of the way in.

"Damn it!"

Hutch ripped the paper out, pulled together a fresh set and tried to cram that into the carriage.

It jammed faster than the first.

"SHIT!"

Starsky spoke again. One word. Colvin heard it this time.

"C'mon..."

He dropped a hand on Hutch's shoulder and pushed -- not hard, just enough to move Hutch away from the desk -- but the meaning was clear, and Hutch didn't fight it. Instead, he rose and sat on the corner of his desk while Starsky took the chair and rolled a set of paper and carbons into the machine. As soon as Starsky was settled, Hutch began to talk, his voice low and hitched as he searched for words. He spoke for about five minutes then stumbled to a stop.

"More?"

Hutch shook his head. He leaned back and squeezed his eyelids shut while, at his desk, Starsky methodically hammered out his report.

"Say you love me, Sheila. Just say you love me."

Nate Foster paced the floor of his office nervously, the telephone receiver pressed hard against his ear. If things had gone according to plan, he and Sheila would be long gone by now. She would have been able to clean out two or three of Levin's bank accounts, he would have collected the forty grand he'd siphoned from City House's clandestine drug trade, and the police would have put the squeeze on Rodale and Sarcone. But thanks to that nitwit bodyguard -- that idiot, that jerk -- everything they'd worked for was in jeopardy.

He squeezed the receiver tighter. C'mon baby. Say you love me.

"I love you, Nate. You know I do." Sheila's breathy voice wrapped around him like a hug. "Don't worry so much, sweetheart. We just had a little setback. I trust you to make it okay."

Foster shook his head sharply. "It's more than a little setback, Sheila. Sarcone blew it by not making sure both of those junkies were dead. Carnegie can make me! I'm the one who told him about the warehouse, remember? I'm the one who said it was a good place to go after a score. If he puts two and two together..."

"He won't." Sheila's voice lost its softness and became hard and clipped. "He's not thinking clearly. He's just a hype."

"That doesn't make him stupid, Sheila. Give him awhile; he'll figure things out."

"Then take care of him while you still have time! Sarcone left a mess, Nate. You have to clean it up." She sighed heavily. "I'm depending on you, Nate. If Carnegie goes to the cops, you might go to jail, but if Sarcone finds out about us... if he puts two and two together, I'm as good as dead." She paused, and when she spoke again, a tiny quiver pockmarked her voice. "You understand that, don't you Nate? If he finds out, I'm dead."

Foster's head drooped. It was true. He knew it. They'd been playing a dangerous game and, so far, Sheila had taken most of the risk. She'd strung Sarcone along and made him think she loved him, made him want to get Levin out of the way so they could be together. Until now, the bodyguard had only shown her his gentle side, but if he ever learned of her role in the trap they'd set for him -- the one that would eventually point the finger for Levin's murder directly at him -- there would be hell to pay.

I'm as good as dead.

He couldn't let that happen.

He wouldn't let that happen.

If he had to kill Carnegie with his own hands to prevent him from hurting Sheila, that's exactly what he would do.

"I'll take care of it, Sheila," he whispered. "You can trust me. I'll handle Carnegie. I won't let anything happen to you."

"I know that, Nate." Sheila's voice was soft again, as throaty and mewling as a cat's. "I knew it all the time."

She hesitated, and Nate glanced quickly at his clock. Ten fifty-five. Time to go.

"Nate..."

"I know, Sheila."

"I have to go, honey. Sarcone always calls me around this time."

"I know."

"I love you Nate."

He could hear the little hiccup in her voice that she always got when they said good night. She could be rough sometimes; she could be hard and demanding. But that little sound took the edge off. It reminded both of them that she was, after all, still a woman. It reminded them that she was, under all that toughness, fragile and soft.

He sighed.

"I love you too, Sheila."

"We'll talk tomorrow, honey."

"Tomorrow."

He could almost see the happiness in her eyes. He could definitely hear the affection in her voice.

"I love you, Natey. Good night."

Partners.

So that's what it's like.

Colvin watched as Starsky pulled the report from the typewriter and handed it to Hutch. The blond read it over once and nodded. He looked down at Starsky, a faint smile creasing his face. No big deal, no show. Just one word.

"Thanks."

"Sure." Starsky shrugged. "I'm beat. I gotta' go home. Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

Starsky turned back to Colvin. "Hey Bernie, we're outta' here. See you tomorrow, okay?"

"Tomorrow Starsk."

Hutch waved once over his shoulder, watched apathetically as Starsky dropped a copy of the report in McAlpine's in-box, then trailed his partner to the door.

They almost made it.

Out of habit, both men turned when Colvin's phone rang.

"Detectives' Division, Colvin speaking." Colvin's face tightened as he listened. "Yes sir." His gaze flicked to Starsky. "Yes sir... I'll tell him sir." He lowered the phone.

"What?" Starsky's voice was hard.

"That was Captain McAlpine. He's on his way back to the precinct. He wants to talk with you about the interview with Sheila Wolinsky, Starsk."

"Is he nuts? It's almost eleven o'clock."

"That's how he wants it."

"Everything he needs to know is in my report."

"Maybe, but he'll still be here in thirty minutes. He wants you to wait."

Hutch sank back into his chair. "Shit."

Starsky plopped down in an adjacent chair. "Damn straight." He peered up at Colvin. "Look Bernie, if you don't have to be here for this, there's no reason for you to stick around." He angled his head toward Hutch. "The same goes for him. Drop Hutch off at home, will ya'?"

Hutch shook his head. "Nope. I'll stay."

"What for? You wanna' watch me get my chops busted 'cause I didn't dot some 'i' or cross some 't' somewhere in this screwy process? Trust me, sooner or later you'll get your turn."

"He's right." Colvin grabbed his keys and walked toward Hutch with a grin. "Cap's probably already thinking up something for you, Hutch."

Hutch sighed. He was so wiped out right now that he thought he might actually fall out of his chair. Maybe that was a good thing though. If he had to go back to his apartment, pure exhaustion would prevent him from having any dreams.

He rolled tired eyes at Starsky. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

Hutch sighed again. "Yeah... okay." He looked up at Colvin. "I put some stuff in the locker room when we first checked in. I'll meet you down in the garage, all right? Three minutes?"

"Sounds good."

Hutch hauled himself to his feet and started toward the door. Halfway there he stopped and turned back to Starsky, a look of pure befuddlement on his face.

"What the hell's my locker combination?"

Starsky laughed and pushed himself out of his chair. "Remember this the next time you even think about going on vacation." He draped an arm around Hutch's shoulders and steered him toward the door. "You suck at re-entry, pal."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..."

Colvin watched them go, then turned back to Lee. The smile that played on his lips faded when he saw Lee's expression. Hate. Pure hate. The look in his partner's eyes shook Colvin to the core. Lee was tough to deal with, that was a fact, but he'd never seen this side of the man before. He wasn't just being difficult; he was cold, hard and lethal.

It made him wonder if something had happened out in the field. Maybe there was more going on with Hutch than Starsky had mentioned. It made him wonder if Starsky was playing him for a sucker to protect his partner... again.

Damn it!

He respected Starsky as a cop, but there was no way in hell that he was going to let that happen. Not again.

Besides, there might even be a way for him to turn this to his advantage. He and Lee had never really gotten along before. Maybe he could change that. Maybe by giving Lee a little insight into Hutch's behavior -- by showing his partner that he was watching his back -- things would start to turn around.

Colvin took a deep breath and walked toward Lee. Once there, he leaned on his partner's desk companionably.

"Tough night?"

Lee stared at him like he'd sprouted a second head but didn't speak. Colvin took another breath and tried again.

"Look Gil, I know it's not easy being partnered with Hutch..."

Lee snorted -- a harsh, sharp sound devoid of humor -- and Colvin realized Lee's dislike of Hutch was deeper than he'd imagined.

He had to play this carefully. He had to tell Lee about Hutch's past but do so in a way that didn't aggravate an already tense situation.

"I guess I'm not surprised that he's tough to work with," Colvin said. He let his voice drop until it became almost conspiratorial. "After what happened last year, I didn't think he'd even make it back."

Lee looked up. "Happened?"

"Listen buddy, Starsky would put my butt in a sling if he knew I was talking to you about this."

Lee let a ghost of a smile flicker on his lips. "I won't repeat a thing Col -- uh, Bernie."

"I need your word, Gil."

"You got it... Look, I know things haven't been the smoothest between you and me, and Lord knows it's not been easy with Hutchinson. If you can shed some light on how to work things out, I'd appreciate it. And, as far as keeping my trap shut, you can trust me. I promise."

Trust. That was the bottom line, wasn't it?

Colvin took the plunge.

"Last year some creep named Ben Forrest yanked Hutch off the street and got him hooked on smack. He got away; crashed in an alley. I was the first cop on the scene, the first one to find him. Starsky got there a few minutes later."

Lee's eyebrows arched. "Smack?"

"Yeah. Guess it was pretty bad too. Both of them -- Starsky and Hutch -- dropped out of sight for a couple days. When they surfaced, it was just for a little while -- long enough to get Forrest off the street. After that, they went under again. Didn't come back on duty for about three weeks, but when they did Hutch seemed okay -- a little shaky maybe -- but okay. Every indication is that he's stayed clean... Starsky asked me to keep what happened out of my report and Dobey backed him up. I just found out tonight that the Cap squared things with IA and the commissioner and kept the story from leaking to other cops or to the press."

"Smack..." Lee's voice was thoughtful. "So Hutchinson's a hype?"

"Was." In spite of his earlier assurances, Lee's attitude still made Colvin nervous. "Look Gil, you're not going to say anything about this are you? I only told you because I thought it might make it easier to understand Hutch."

"Oh it made it easier all right."

"But you aren't going to say anything? I mean, I'm trusting you on this. We're partners right?"

Lee smirked. "Yeah, sure we are Colvin. Sure we are." He leveled hard eyes at Colvin. "You positive Hutchinson's clean? He seemed pretty out of it a minute ago."

"I was worried about the same thing and I pressed Starsky pretty hard. I told him I wouldn't put my partner at risk if Hutch was back on the stick." He paused, waiting for acknowledgement of his effort or an expression of thanks.

Neither came.

Colvin's shoulders sagged slightly. "Starsky says Hutch has a bad case of jet lag and he's coming down with the flu. I know firsthand that the flu can really take it out of you. When I had it, I couldn't think straight for a week."

Lee's mouth twisted into a genuine smile.

Things were looking up.

He remembered struggling through a narcotics course at the Academy and being forced to learn the myriad of ways former addicts could be drawn back into drug use. It had surprised him that virtually anything -- stress, anxiety, watching others engage, even seeing a movie with realistic drug use -- could send the most stalwart convert back into the habit. Combine the flu with a little bit of stress -- and Lee knew working for McAlpine had to put Hutchinson under stress -- and the big, blond cop was ripe for a trip back to Hype-Land.

All he had to do was give him a nudge.

"Who's that pretty girl in that mirror there? Who could that pretty girl be? Such a pretty face, such a pretty smile, such a pretty me!"

Sheila Wolinsky let the old Broadway musical fade into a gentle hum. She could never remember all the words, but it didn't matter. She always remembered the most important part.

She stretched out her legs and wriggled both sets of toes in ecstasy. Passion rose, the new shade she'd just applied, was gorgeous. It really brought out the underlying pink tone of her skin.

She noticed the tiniest hint of a brush stroke on a baby toe and frowned in annoyance. It must have happened while she was talking with Nate. Damn! She hated imperfection. It was going to be a pain in the butt but she was going to have to strip the lacquer off and apply the polish again.

The phone rang and she yanked up the receiver angrily.

"What?!"

"Sheila?" Sarcone's filtered voice was confused. "Are you all right, baby? What's going on?"

Sheila swabbed at her toe feverishly. She had to be careful. If she used too much polish remover the next coat would certainly run. She added a scared, little tremble to her voice and used a Q-Tip to erase the final vestiges of polish from her toe.

"Oh Jimmy! I'm so glad it's you. At first I thought it was... I thought..."

"What happened, Sheila? Is something wrong?"

"It's Nate, Jimmy. The man I told you about... the one who arranged for those addicts to be in the warehouse last night so it would look like Rodale was sending a message." She waggled her foot until the nail polish remover dried. "He just called me and... and..."

"What did he want?"

"He threatened me, Jimmy. He said he wants more money. If he doesn't get it, he's going to the cops."

"I'll kill him. That double-crossing son-of-a-bitch..."

"Don't touch him yet, Jimmy." Sheila leaned over and applied the new coat of polish in smooth, steady strokes. "He's worried about that junkie who didn't die last night. Let him take care of that guy first."

"When is he going to do it?" Sarcone's voice was hard and dangerous.

"I don't know. He didn't tell me. But I'm sure it's going to be soon."

"And after that..."

"After that, whatever you want to do will be fine, Jimmy."

Sheila stretched out her leg and examined her re-lacquered baby toe. The polish job had been perfect. No bumps. No lines. No ridges.

She sighed contentedly.

"Whatever you want to do will be fine."

By the time Starsky left the captain's office just after midnight, his head felt like it had been invaded by a band of evil, little elves determined to resurface the inside of his skull.

With sledgehammers.

While they sang bar songs.

Badly.

His head hurt so much that he would have agreed to a frontal lobotomy just to get rid of the pain.

If this had been a meeting with his captain, he and Dobey would have faced off and yelled at each other for a while to blow off steam then settled down to work the case. But this was McAlpine, not Dobey, and none of the normal rules applied. He'd let McAlpine rip into him for about twenty minutes, listening without comment while the captain chastised everything from his investigative style to his shoes. He'd even remained silent when McAlpine started to tear into Dobey and Hutch. And that was what had given him the headache. He'd wanted to grab McAlpine's head and slam it into the man's oversized desk, but he hadn't said a word. He hadn't moved.

An instinct stronger than his temper kept him in check.

It was a warning instinct, a survival instinct. It was the same instinct that flared unexpectedly the moment he'd set foot in Vietnam. Then, the instinct forced him to approach every new person and every new situation with suspicion. Now, it was sending out the same unyielding demand.

He didn't like this.

He didn't understand this.

And he had absolutely no idea was this instinct was resurfacing so long after he'd returned from the war.

Starsky shook his head, trying to shake of the feeling of frustration that was growing in his gut.

Nuts. This whole thing was nuts. It was late. He was tired. And he was letting this case drive him nuts.

Time to go home.

He grabbed his jacket and started out. Like before, he almost made it. A ringing phone stopped him in his tracks. He glanced back. It was his phone. The instinct flared again and he snatched up the receiver.

"Starsky!"

"Hey man, don't bite my head off."

"Huggy?"

"Yeah. What gives? You got a bad-ass attitude bro'."

Starsky blinked and slammed the lid on the cold and ugly feeling churning in his stomach. "Sorry."

"Forget about it... Listen, I heard about you and Hutch being assigned to McAlpine's district. Thought I oughta' track you down. Word on the street is that you're working on the Levin case and that you're focusing on Rodale and Sloan."

"Yeah."

"What's going on with you guys? I saw Hutch beating the bushes with another cop tonight -- some wild man I haven't seen before."

"McAlpine split us up. I'm working with a guy named Colvin to check out Rodale. Hutch and a cop named Lee are working Sloan."

"I probably should pass this on to your partner then, but I know a guy who knows a guy who's got an in with Sloan. According to him, Sloan didn't have anything to do with Levin's murder."

"You believe him?"

"As far as I know, he's got no reason to lie. He says that Sloan is lying low because some of the judges he had in his pocket weren't re-elected last month. Supposedly, he's trying to keep things quiet until members of the judicial system becomes favorably inclined, if you know what I mean."

Starsky frowned. "If that's true, the last thing Sloan would want is for Levin to get killed. It's better for him if Levin's folks get busted. That way, he can test the water and see if any of the new judges are open to a bribe."

"You got it."

Starsky reached across his desk, grabbed the Levin case file and flipped it open. "We talked with Levin's girlfriend tonight. She pointed the finger at Rodale and at someone working for him inside Levin's camp." He raked a hand through his hair wearily. "You think this friend of your friend would talk on the record, Hug? McAlpine has this thing about wanting access to all our informants."

"Maybe. I'll make some calls, check it out."

"Thanks."

"It would have to be tonight though. The dude's on a bus for Cleveland at five a.m."

Starsky sighed. Great. Just great. This day was never going to end.

"Thanks -- and Huggy?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep your prints off this one, will ya'?"

"Sure."

"I mean it. It's important Hug. I don't want McAlpine to have any connection to you." He hesitated. "I can't explain it... I just have a feeling about this."

Starsky expected to hear a snort of derision on the other end of the line. Like Hutch, Huggy didn't always put a lot of stock in Starsky's "feelings". This time though, the Bear wasn't in the mood to mock.

"You got it. Listen, I'll call back as soon as I have anything, Starsk. I got both your numbers from the desk sergeant. You want me to call back on Hutch's line?"

Starsky's mind raced. Technically, Sloan was Hutch's angle. Hutch and Lee needed to follow this up, not him. Starsky's eyes rolled, taking in both Lee's shipshape desk and the disorganized mess Hutch left behind. Any other day he would've gotten Hutch on the phone and let him figure out what to do about this. Any other day.

Today, Hutch was dead on his feet.

"Nah," Starsky growled. "Call here. I'll take it."

This time, Huggy did snort. "Hutch has a vacation hangover, huh?" He laughed. "Later, Starsk."

"Later." Starsky hung up and sank wearily into his chair. He was in hell, all right. And he was sitting there all by himself.

He'd give Hutch another day or two to get it together, then the blond detective was going to pay for all this. Starsky figured popping for dinner -- and a good one too -- would do for starters. On top of that, once Hutch's car was fixed, he didn't plan on driving for a week.

In spite of himself Starsky grinned, remembering the weeks of servitude he'd had to pony up after returning exhausted from his last vacation. Hutch had covered for him for a while, then started calling in markers. Vegetarian lunches, workouts at the gym, jogging every morning at five. Jeez!

Starsky's grin widened. Oh yeah. Payback was going to be fun. Right now, Hutch was probably snuggled under the covers sleeping like a baby. Wait until he was feeling better, though.

Payback was going to be pretty damn fun.

Run! He tried to get his legs under him, tried to pull himself to his feet, but nothing happened. Nothing moved.

RUN! Every instinct he had screamed at him to keep going, to crawl if he had to, to do what was necessary to get away. He tried to get up... and one hand dropped limply to the ground.

He'd gone as far as he could.

It was over.

He was done.

He felt his shoulders sag. He didn't even try to move when a car plowed toward him and screeched to a stop.

The air shifted as another man dropped down beside him. He tried to lock on the man's face but his vision had deteriorated too much. Even so, his body reacted; his body knew who this was.

He fell forward. Strong hands grabbed him... and, for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.

FAST FORWARD. He was lying on a bed, knees hunched to his chest, shaking so hard that his teeth chattered like castanets. He managed to turn his head, and a face drifted into view: dark hair, olive skin, blue eyes blinking much too fast. He tried to speak, but his trembling mouth couldn't yet form words. Instead, his stomach churned and he vomited. A stream of liquid -- thin and rancid -- poured out. It drenched his face and drained to his chest, splashing the legs that supported his shoulders and the hand that cradled his head.

Dad... The memory came without warning. His father always hated it when he got sick. Once, as a boy, he'd vomited in the new car during a drive to the family cabin and his father hadn't spoken to him for a week. He'd been six or seven at the time, and he'd wanted to die.

His stomach lurched a second time and he retched. He felt the legs that braced his shoulders shift. Embarrassed, he tried to turn away.

"It's okay." Gentle hands held him still. "Don't worry about it. It's okay."

The legs shifted once more as something was reached for and grabbed. A warm towel covered his face, wiping him clean. He saw a flash of white as the towel was lifted and moved across his chest.

A few seconds later his head was tilted back and a glass of warm water was held to his lips. He opened them obediently and a little bit of liquid was poured into his mouth.

"Don't swallow. Let it sit for a sec."

He felt someone stroke his hair. "That's good... Let it go now. The towel's right here."

His head was moved to a different angle and gravity took over; the water flowed out. He heard the towel being tossed away then felt another, clean and warm, wipe his lips. Fingers touched his jaw and opened his mouth. An edge of the new towel brushed along his teeth and his gums -- fast, efficient... incredibly kind.

"Once more."

His head lolled and caught in the crook of the other man's arm. A bit more water was poured in his mouth. He blinked and forced himself to stare up. A face floated above him.

"Hey... Shoulda' known you'd want to double-check my work."

The features were clear now and he remembered the name: Starsky. Starsky meant home. Starsky meant safe.

"Let it out." His head was tilted to the side and the towel was pressed against his mouth as the water dribbled out. Then his head was rolled back to its resting-place on Starsky's arm.

"How'd I do? Not so bad, huh?" The hard lines around Starsky's mouth softened into a lopsided grin.

Not so bad.

He tried to return the smile and managed to twist his lips just a little. The face above him brightened like the sun. He tried to relax, but a chill caught him unprepared. He moaned and kicked out, convulsing in agony as the chill was followed by a cramp that seized his stomach and tied it in knots. His muscles went rigid...

...and then everything fell limp.

For a moment, he thought the worst was over, that he'd survived a final march through hell -- but what came next was even worse.

Oh God!

His eyes widened as the reality of what he'd done hit him. Not this! Please, not this!

He tried to crawl away, tried to hide, tried to deny the seeping dampness that spread across his hips.

Please, please, please. Anything but this.

He heard a moan, long and sad and agonal. It seemed to come from far away, but he knew instinctively that it had come from him.

Anything but this...

"No big deal." Starsky began to rub his arms. "I'll take care of it Hutch. No big deal."

He moaned again... He didn't want to fight anymore.

He couldn't bear to fight anymore.

He was broken.

Forrest had won.

Hutch sucked in a breath -- a tiny, little gasp of defeat -- and tried to give up.

"Trust me now. It's okay." Starsky's voice was soft and reassuring. "Close your eyes. It's okay."

Hutch reached out, and Starsky's hand wrapped protectively around his.

It's okay?

He closed his eyes. Starsky's free hand continued to rub his arm soothingly. In time, Hutch's breathing slowed to match its rhythm and the crushing pain in his belly began to ease.

He'd believe it from Starsky.

It's okay.

He was almost asleep when Starsky shifted and eased away. A pillow was placed under his head and he sagged back. A second later he felt one leg lifted and propped against something solid. Fingers tugged at the laces of his shoe. The shoe came off and his leg was lowered. The process was repeated on his other leg and then Starsky was gone, padding away silently to the bathroom. He heard water run. Heard more towels tugged off the rack. Heard Starsky unzip a bag, pull something out and zip the bag closed. Then the sounds faded.

He heard a door open and close.

Then he heard nothing more.

He managed one word, one name. "Starsk?"

He waited.

There was no response.

Hutch began to tremble, shaking from fear this time, not from cold. He'd always been so afraid of being left behind, of being alone. He'd spent a lifetime trying to overcome his fright, trying to bury his apprehension by being perfect: the bravest, the smartest and the best at everything he attempted. But something had always happened; he'd never quite measured up. He was good at a lot, sure. But he'd never been perfect.

And it had never been enough.

It wasn't enough to make his mother take him with her when she left his dad. It wasn't enough to make his stepbrother love him... or to make his father ever choose him over Will. It wasn't enough to make the women he'd loved care enough to stay.

It wasn't enough to make anyone stay.

Damn it. Damn it! He shouldn't be surprised it ended like this. Will always said that everyone would leave him, that he was the kind of person who'd wind up alone.

So why did it still hurt so much?

"Starsky?"

You promised it would be okay.

His voice was fading. "Starsk?"

He listened, but there was no answer to his call. Will had been right all along. Starsky was gone; everyone was gone. It hit him like a body blow.

He felt his heart breaking... And he cried.

REWIND. He sat on a bed, his back braced on the headboard. He knew his eyes must be wild, desperate. He turned his head quickly from side to side. The room danced before him in brilliant flashes of light. What time was it? What time?

He clutched his arm. His nerves were on fire. He could hear his eyelids snapping open and closed.

What time?

Someone walked toward him. He stuck out his arm. Here it is. Here! Here!

A man pushed up his sleeve then used a worn strip of rubber to make a tourniquet.

Faster! Faster! Why was everything so damn slow?

"You wanna help?" The voice was harsh, gruff.

Yes! He grabbed the needle and stabbed at his arm.

"Like this." A large hand dropped over his and steadied the needle enough to reach his vein. It pierced the skin. He didn't even flinch.

The hand pulled his thumb back and placed it over the plunger. "Do it to yourself this time cop."

Anything! Anything! Yeah! Sure! Yeah!

He pushed the plunger down and warmth spread through his body like the incoming tide. He blinked. The bright lights dimmed.

It was okay now. Everything was okay now.

He smiled and relaxed. It didn't even matter that the needle still dangled from his arm.

Hutch bolted from the chair like he'd been fired from a canon. Once on his feet he staggered forward then back. Where was he? He blinked. Living room? Yes. Still in the living room.

He tried to take a breath... and smelled it. Heroin. Melting in a spoon. He looked around and saw it. Touched his stomach and felt it. Licked his lips and tasted it, hot and sticky against his tongue. The craving was so strong it buckled his legs, driving him to his knees.

Help. He needed help. Right now, damn it. Right now!

He crawled across the floor like a child, grabbed the phone by the cord and pulled it down. Dialing Starsky's number was automatic. He didn't have to remember a thing, thank God.

Be home. Please be home.

The phone rang four, then six, then eight times unanswered.

Please be home.

Once more -- and a click. The answering machine Starsky's mother insisted he get finally picked up.

"Hi, this is Dave. I can't come to the phone right now..."

Hutch slammed the phone down. Don't have time. Can't wait. His arm started to itch; soon it would ache.

He struggled to his feet, staggered to the bathroom and flung open the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste. Deodorant. Aftershave. Mouthwash! Mouthwash had worked once before. He grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the cap and chugged a mouthful down. The bitter liquid hit his stomach like an iceberg slamming into the Titanic. A second after he swallowed he was back on his knees.

He clutched the rim of the toilet and vomited, all thoughts of heroin pushed from his mind.

Seven twenty-eight...

Seven twenty-nine...

Seven thirty!

Foster snatched up the telephone receiver and hastily punched a number into the phone. He'd been awake since his conversation last night with Sheila, and he felt like he'd been waiting forever to make this call. He didn't even pretend to be polite. As soon as the hospital operator's voice came on the line, he started talking over her.

"Joseph Carnegie's room please."

The woman on the other end of the line gave an exasperated sigh. "Mr. Carnegie doesn't have a private room sir. I'll connect you with the floor nurse and she can ask him to come to the phone."

"Thank you."

He waited impatiently, drumming his fingers against a bureau drawer until another woman's voice came on the line.

"Sixth floor. Nurse Malone speaking."

"Yes. Could you ask Mr. Carnegie to come to the phone please?" Foster forced a note of desperation into his voice. "I have some news about Mr. Carnegie's mother that just can't wait."

The nurse grunted in compliance and, from the sound of it, simply tossed the receiver on a counter. Foster waited -- for a good three minutes this time -- before the phone was lifted again. He heard the soft, willowy inhalations of someone who'd been dangerously ill and then Carnegie's voice filled the line.

"Hel-hello?"

"Joe?" Foster almost gushed with relief. "It's Nate, buddy. I had to tell the nurse that I was a member of the family to get you on the phone so play along, get it?"

"Yeah... Uh, yeah sure... Dad."

"Listen pal, I was really shaken up to hear what went down with you and your friend the other night. Nothing like that's ever happened before. That guy who sold you, he's always been real clean -- and he waters his stuff down a lot too. That's why I recommended him. Since all you needed was a little hit to tide you over a rough spell, I figured he could help you out. I figured he'd be reliable... That's what I promised you, buddy. Remember?"

"Yeah. Yeah man, I remember."

"Well, I was mighty upset to hear what happened, Joey. Mighty upset. I called the guy and gave him twenty kinds of hell. He feels real bad about it too, Joey. He wants to make things right."

"That's okay. Tell him, that's okay."

"No can do." Foster put force behind his words. "I told him he owes you and he's willing to pay. You get out of the hospital later today, don't you pal?"

"Uh, yeah. Around eleven I think."

"Then take a cab back to the warehouse. I'll be there to meet you around noon. I have thirty thousand dollars for you, buddy. You can use it however you want. You can take it wherever you go. It belongs to you, Joey. I only wish... I only wish I could do something this good for your pal."

Carnegie sniffed. "Me too, man. Did I tell you he died right in front of me? Right in front of me, man?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sure you did Joey." Foster rolled his eyes. Had he? Hadn't he? He couldn't remember. And it wasn't like he gave a damn anyway, so what the hell? "I feel real bad about that too," he soothed. "I feel real bad that your friend died. Remember though, I'm doing what I can to come through for you. So, where are we meeting later?"

"At the warehouse."

"What time?"

"Around noon."

"Good boy, Joey. Good boy, pal. I'll see you soon."

Foster hung up quickly and wiped the sweat from his hands. This had been easier than expected, actually. He hadn't thought Carnegie would be so quick to swallow the goods, but it was just like Sheila said. Carnegie wasn't thinking clearly. He was nothing but an addict, a user, a junkie, a hype.

Foster snorted.

Maybe killing the man wouldn't be so bad after all. He could do it quickly. Maybe he wouldn't even have to cause much pain.

And if he did, well so be it.

After all, it wasn't like he was doing something to someone worthwhile. It was just like Sheila said. Nothing to worry about. No one would care if this guy took a tumble.

After all, Joe Carnegie was just a hype.

"Gooood morning, Bay City. It's eight a.m. and seventy-three sunny degrees. Traffic's at a standstill on the I-5. Who would've expected that on a Tuesday morning, hmm?"

Hutch could hear the traffic report blaring from the radio down the hall. The perky, little announcer with her perky, little voice was starting to grate on his nerves. He kicked the bathroom door closed with his foot and leaned over the basin, splashing his face with cool water.

He turned his head slowly from side to side and grimaced as a sharp pain stabbed his neck. It hurt like hell, but it was no one's fault but his. This is what he got for spending the last eight hours hunched by his toilet, clutching a bottle of mouthwash to his chest like a drunk.

He hadn't moved until seven-thirty and had only pushed himself up then to answer the phone. It had been Starsky, calling to ask if he were feeling better, calling to ask if he wanted a ride to work. It had been a stupid reaction, but the sound of his friend's voice had almost made Hutch break. If it hadn't been for his promise to Therese, he would have folded right then.

He'd wanted to. He'd wanted to desperately.

He'd wanted to tell Starsky to call both of them in sick and come over right away. He'd wanted Starsky to pull his big brother act -- the one he only used when Hutch was really in trouble. He'd wanted Starsky to make him feel secure again so he could simply go to sleep.

But he'd made a promise, hadn't he? He'd told Therese that he would keep his mouth shut about his forced addiction.

And he did -- though it almost broke his heart to do so.

He'd stumbled through the conversation somehow and convinced Starsky that, while he wasn't in top shape yet, he could get to work on his own. Starsky had said something else then, something he couldn't remember anymore, something about Sloan -- and then he'd said goodbye and hung up. And that had been half an hour ago. Now it was time to go back to work.

Hutch gripped the edge of the basin and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He barely recognized the haggard-looking man who gazed back.

Why was this happening to him? He couldn't figure it out.

Had he been such a terrible person? He must have been to deserve this much pain.

You're an embarrassment, Kenny. You're a joke. Will's voice played repeatedly in his mind. You're an embarrassment, Kenny. You're a joke...

Somehow Will guessed this would happen. Somehow he had known.

Hutch tried to douse his face with water a second time but, as soon as he let go of the basin, he swayed.

Keep it together Hutch. You're okay.

He tried to superimpose his voice over Will's, but it didn't work. Will's voice had always been stronger.

You're an embarrassment, Kenny. You're a joke.

Hutch slapped the sink in frustration. Why couldn't he think his way out of this? What the hell was going on?

You're an embarrassment, Kenny.

He hit the sink again... but it didn't help.

You're a joke.

He was right on the edge now. He knew it. Right on the edge.

You're an embarrassment, Kenny!

Hutch lowered his head in resignation.

You're a joke!

The hell with what Hutch said. He should have just gone with his instinct and stopped by Venice Place to pick him up.

Starsky stared at Colvin, every feature on his face communicating rapt attention as the older detective outlined a strategy for approaching Rodale. In truth however, his mind was somewhere else. In spite of what he'd said to the older detective last night, he knew something was going on with Hutch. He could feel it.

He just didn't know what it was.

He sensed a pause in Colvin's recitation and brought himself back to the present. The other man was staring at him expectantly.

Starsky shook his head and smiled in embarrassment. "Sorry Bernie. My mind wandered for a minute. I was thinking about Sheila Wolinsky."

The lie came out smoothly. There was no way he was going to raise concern about Hutch. Besides, this was a good opening to talk about a theory he'd been nursing off and on since late last night.

"What about Wolinsky?"

"I was thinking about what she said about the bodyguard -- that guy Sarcone. She said that she overheard him asking to speak to Rodale, remember?"

"Sure. She rolled over on that pretty fast."

"Yeah, she did. And that got me thinking. If a guy's double-dealing like Sarcone may have been, why would he call Rodale from Levin's place? I mean, why would he put himself at risk that way? Why not wait until he was at home or somewhere alone to place the call?"

"Maybe it was something urgent. Maybe he had scheduled times to report in. Who knows? It's not really important, Starsky."

"Maybe not, but go with me for a minute here. Let's say Sarcone is working for Rodale on the inside. If so, he'd have to be careful, right? One screw-up and he'd be dead. If he were being that careful, the only person he'd let get close to him -- close enough to hear him call in -- would be someone who already knew what was going on."

"Oh, so now you're saying Wolinsky's in this too? First Pike, now Wolinsky? You've got a major conspiracy theory going here, Starsky." Colvin laughed. "Why don't you just say that the mayor and the commissioner and Captain McAlpine are involved in this too?" He laughed harder. "And don't forget about the governor. He might have been in town the other night. Maybe we should talk with him while we're out."

Starsky rolled his eyes. "C'mon..."

"And then there's the task force." Colvin snorted cheerfully. "Wanna' bet some of those guys don't have alibis for Sunday night?"

Starsky sighed. Just because there were holes in his theory didn't mean Colvin had to shoot it to the ground. Jeez. He hated this.

Starsky glanced at his watch. Twenty after nine. He couldn't stick around much longer without making it look like he was purposefully waiting for Hutch to come in.

He forced a smile and angled his head toward the open folder on Colvin's desk.

"Let's get back to the plan for the day, Bernie. First we talk to Sarcone then we find Rodale, right? You got any idea how to approach Rodale?"

"Yeah." Colvin wiped the back of his hand across his watering eyes. "C'mon. I'll explain it to you in the car."

Colvin led the way to the door and Starsky trailed behind him listlessly. From all indications, Tuesday was going to be just as lousy as Monday.

There was only one word for the way his luck was going.

Crap.

By the time he made it to the squad room at nine forty-five, Starsky and Colvin were already gone, and Hutch stood in the doorway for a moment, feeling lost.

He'd taken a cab from Venice Place to District 24 and made one of the toughest decisions of his life during the twenty-minute ride. He was going to turn his back on the promise he'd made to Therese. The hell with the Hutchinson code of silence, the hell with the stiff upper lip. He couldn't do this on his own anymore. He'd made his decision. He'd made a plan. But Starsky wasn't here, and now his plan was bust.

Hutch's eyes locked on Starsky's desk as though he could bring his partner back by sheer force of will.

It didn't work.

Hutch sank into his chair and rubbed the sore spot on the back of his neck. It was as though the forces of nature were conspiring against him, as though they wanted him to go down.

Jesus. The word came into his mind unbidden. It wasn't a blasphemy. It was a prayer.

"Hutchinson."

Hutch looked up and saw Lee staring down at him curiously, a thick case file held loosely in his hand.

"I pulled Armando's jacket," Lee said. "Remember? He's the guy Geffen ratted on last night."

"I remember."

"He's not just a dealer. He's also a hype. Maybe you know him."

"No."

"Thought your paths might have crossed."

Something in Lee's tone caused Hutch's skin to prickle in warning. He steeled his voice as much as he could.

"I said no."

"Whatever you say... Anyway, this guy's got a real good sense of what's going on in this town. I'm sure he can give us a bead on Sloan. I say we go check him out."

Sloan? Hutch searched his brain. Starsky said something about Sloan when they talked this morning. What was it?

"...get up to speed."

Hutch shook his head to clear the fog. "What?"

"I said, read the file and get up to speed. We'll head out as soon as you're through."

"Where?"

"Armando hangs out in a crash house near the garment district. It's an old hotel called the Bartlett. You've probably been there."

For the second time, something in Lee's tone caused Hutch's warning bells to go off. He shook his head slowly.

"No."

Lee shrugged. "Umm." He didn't sound convinced, but he didn't sound like he cared either.

Lee tossed the folder on Hutch's desk and watched through narrowed eyes as Hutch fingered through it slowly. If Hutch really had the flu, it was putting him through the wringer. The blond detective's hands shook like he had palsy and his eyes were heavy-lidded and red.

The image made Lee smile, but he managed to smooth his features when Hutch turned and stared up at him.

"This last report says Armando planned on getting clean. What makes you think he's still at the Bartlett?"

"Geffen pointed us there last night. Besides, Armando's just a hype."

"According to this, he was entering a program."

"Didn't stick."

"You know that for sure?"

"I know hypes. I've worked with enough of 'em in this stinking job. Once a user, always a user. You ought to know that."

Hutch stiffened. "You driving at something Lee?"

"I'm not saying anything you don't already know."

Too soon. Too soon.

The words that passed through his mind helped calm him and Lee forced himself to take the edge out of his voice. "You've been a detective longer than me, Hutchinson. You've seen the same thing."

"I've also seen people turn their lives around if they want it badly enough."

Lee snorted and leaned forward, dropping one large palm flat on Hutch's desk. The move wasn't companionable; it was predatory. It was also a test: alpha male to alpha male.

Hutch ignored it.

And Lee knew he was safe to go on.

"If you want to believe a hype can turn things around, you go right on with your daydreams, Hutchinson. Personally, I prefer to live in the real world. A user is a user until the day he dies... You want to see for yourself? Let's bet fifty that Armando's right where I said he'd be -- stoned out of his mind at the Bartlett Hotel." He sized Hutch up and smirked. "Think you can handle checking it out?"

Hutch sighed. Any other day he'd have Lee face down on his desk for acting like this. Any other day.

Today he couldn't even muster the energy to take the bait.

"Yeah, sure. Gimme' a minute." He grabbed a piece of paper and walked to Starsky's desk.

Even from where Lee stood, he could make out the words Hutch left in a shaky scrawl on the page: Call me. H.

Lee smiled again.

Didn't matter.

He trailed Hutch from the squad room, waited until Hutch started toward the elevator then snapped his fingers in the air in a broad, overstated way.

"Shit!"

Hutch stared at him curiously and Lee shrugged. "Forgot my notes. Hold the elevator for me."

He turned and jogged back into the squad room. Once inside, he scooped a small reporter's notebook from his desk and the shakily written note from Starsky's. He shoved the notebook in his pocket then crumpled Hutch's note into a ball. He tossed it toward the trash but missed. The paper fell in a shriveled, little heap under Starsky's desk.

Screw it. Didn't matter anyway.

Lee turned with a grin and walked out of the squad room.

No matter how you looked at it, he was in the power seat.

No way around it. This time, Hutchinson was going down.

"I'm working for Mr. Hatcher now. He told me to be cooperative and tell you everything I know." Jimmy Sarcone sank into the folds of his overstuffed brown couch and studied Starsky and Colvin through narrowed eyes. "So cops, where do you want me to start?"

"How about with Sunday night?" Starsky suggested. "What time did Levin take off?"

"He left about nine. He said he had a meeting -- some top priority gig that just came up. He told me to wait for him at the house so that's what I did. I was there with Miss Wolinsky for the whole evening."

"He do that often?" Colvin asked. "Skip out and leave you behind, I mean."

"Only when he was getting ready to close a deal. He liked to keep all the details to himself until everything was final, you know?"

"And he was about to close a deal?" Colvin leaned forward. "With whom?"

Sarcone heaved his massive shoulders up into a shrug. "Dunno. He didn't say."

"You never overheard him talking?"

"Nope."

"Never got any indication that he might have been cooking something up with Rodale or Sloan?"

"Nope."

"That's kinda' funny," Starsky said. "'Cause we heard that you were getting pretty tight with Rodale. We heard..."

Sarcone pushed himself up and, moving faster than either detective could imagine, closed the distance between Starsky and himself in a matter of seconds.

"What are you talking about, cop? I don't know nothing about Levin and Rodale."

No Mr. Levin this time. No Mr. Rodale. Starsky eyed the man shrewdly.

"That's not what we heard, Jimmy," he said. "We heard that you -- you, Jimmy -- were getting tight with Rodale. We figured you might be Rodale's man on the inside."

"That's bullshit!"

"That's what we heard."

"From who? Who's been lying on me like that?"

Heat radiated off the man like it was coming from a furnace. He was a killer, Starsky realized, as hard and cold as they come. Starsky shrugged and hoped the gesture communicated a lot more confidence than he felt.

"Can't say."

Sarcone's fists tightened spasmodically. "Don't be shittin' me, cop."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Starsky took a deep breath and decided to play a bluff. "But, if I were you, I wouldn't waste time getting in a lather about what the cops know, Jimmy. I'd worry more about the partner who's supposed to be watching my back."

He had Sarcone's interest now, and he played it.

"I'd worry more about whoever knows you put the hit on Levin... because that's the person who's telling us to watch Jimmy Sarcone."

Damn it!

Sarcone slammed his fist against the little dining room table and watched the wood shatter into splinters.

Where the hell was she? Where the fu

His anguished thoughts broke off in an instant as the buzz on the other end of phone line ended suddenly in a click.

"Hello?"

"Sheila! Damn it Sheila, where were you?" He came at her like a freight train. "The cops just left here. They were asking a lot of questions about Rodale." His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. "What did you say to them Sheila? What the hell did you say?"

"Nothing Jimmy."

"Are you settin' me up?"

"No Jimmy, I wouldn't do that. I swear." She hiccuped softly. "I love you Jimmy. You know I love you."

"What I know is that the cops think I'm working for Rodale!"

"Oh my God." She gasped sharply. "Oh my God!"

"What?"

Damn it! DAMN IT! He didn't have time for this shit! Sarcone paced across the room and slammed his fist into a wall. Blood splattered against the plaster but Sarcone didn't notice. He was thinking too fast to feel anything right now. He was thinking too fast to care.

"It-it must be Nate, Jimmy. He must have gotten to the cops. He knows I love you. He knows I won't leave..."

"That double-dealing shit!" Sarcone's rage exploded and he slammed his fist into the wall again. His mind dimly registered the fact that a bone somewhere in his hand had broken, but it didn't matter. He liked the pain. "You get on the phone with him Sheila. You play it nice and cool, you get it? You tell him that he needs to take care of Carnegie today then you call me as soon as it's done. You understand?"

"I understand Jimmy." She sniffed audibly. "Wha-what are you going to do?"

"Burn his ass, what do you think? Nobody gets away with double-crossing me. Nobody!"

"I understand Jimmy. I understand." She hiccuped again. It was the prelude to a sob. "I tried to keep him under control Jimmy, but he's so much bigger than me. He always wants to have things just his way... He scares me Jimmy. He's evil. He's not like you."

Something in her voice got to him then. Something about her tugged at his heart.

"Jeez Sheila..." He sighed heavily. "I didn't mean to scare you none."

"It's okay."

He could hear the tiniest of sobs on the other end of the line.

"Nah. Nah it's not okay. It was wrong, baby. I didn't mean to frighten you... I wouldn't hurt you Sheila. You know that don't you?'

"Yes Jimmy." She answered him like an obedient child.

"I mean it, baby. No matter what happened, I wouldn't hurt you."

She sniffed shakily. "I believe you, Jimmy."

"Okay baby, okay." He patted the phone with his bloody hand, wishing with all his heart that he was caressing her instead. "I gotta' go now Sheila. I'll call you soon. Bye-bye baby."

"Bye Jimmy." The phone line crackled, giving her voice a harder edge that it should normally have. "Good-bye."

The death of blue eye shadow had been grossly overstated.

Sheila Wolinsky lowered her lids to half-mast and studied the results of her make-up application critically. There was just the faintest hint of color on her lids, just enough to bring out the little blue accents in her eyes.

Just perfect.

Just right.

She sighed contently. She'd managed to get both eyes done while talking with Sarcone and hadn't even gotten a fleck on her lashes.

Angels, priests and all the saints.

Damn, she was good.

Lee smiled, watching as Hutch wiped his palm across his damp forehead and crested yet another set of stairs in the old Bartlett Hotel. The exertion of climbing eight flights of stairs combined with the putrid stench of the crash house had gotten to him, and the blond detective wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. He clutched a portable police radio with the desperate grip of the condemned.

Waiting for a call that was never going to come.

Lee's smile broadened. This was almost too easy.

They topped the last set of stairs and stepped through a splintered doorway onto the eighth floor. It was like stepping into hell.

The windows were either boarded up or papered over, and the few slivers of light that made it through the cracks made the hallway look weird and surreal. Gaping holes dotted the walls and chunks of Linoleum littered the floor. Piles of rotting trash, human waste and things Lee didn't even want to guess at produced a fetid, sickening smell.

The people who lived there didn't seem to mind though. Portable radios blared and the few users who could walk stumbled drunkenly from room to room. Their hair was matted and their bodies stank. Some were clothed, others nude. It didn't matter. No one noticed. No one cared.

It hit Hutch like a blow to the stomach, and he stopped in his tracks. Too much was coming at him. It was happening too fast. He wasn't sure of where he was anymore; he didn't know where he was going. His hands opened spasmodically, and the police radio fell to the ground.

He took a step backwards, uncertain and lost. His father's words barreled like a bullet into his head.

"People don't kick drug habits, Ken. They stay with you for life... Why do you think I didn't want you to become a cop? I knew something like this could happen. Now you're in the thick of it, and let me tell you, you can't handle it. It's too damn hard."

Hutch swung his head from left to right, looking, needing... He took a hesitant step forward. "Starsk?"

He heard a voice behind him -- not Starsky, but Lee.

"Careful where you're going, Hutchinson. You don't want to trip."

Something flashed in his peripheral vision then hit him behind the ear. He went down hard.

The funny, little slivers of light twinkled brightly for a moment then, like the wail of music from the portable radios, faded and went out.

Sammy Rodale was an old-style gangster, the type who only turned to bullets and bombs when he could get what he wanted by the sheer force of his personality. He had a reputation for being stubborn, fastidious and meticulous almost to the point of being anal, but he hid that side of his nature as soon as Colvin and Starsky were shown into the room. On this day, for this meeting, he was the model of good-humored civility.

"How ya' doin'?" he bellowed. He walked forward and pumped both detectives' hands genially. "Glad you could come over. Take a load off. Have a seat."

The two cops glanced at each then obeyed slowly. No matter how they tried to hide it, they weren't in-sync. Rodale could tell that in an instant. Cop partners were either joined at the hip or all thumbs, that's what he always said. This pair was definitely out of sorts.

He smiled benevolently and decided to take the lead, figuring that, if he didn't, the meeting with these two cops would take forever.

"So you wanna' talk about Robby Levin," he said. "If you wanna' know who offed him, I can't tell you for sure, but I can give you a clue."

The curly-haired detective looked interested. "Who?"

"Sloan or Pike."

"Not Pike." The older detective shook his head decisively. "He's not a player. We've got him boxed in."

Rodale shrugged. "Whatever. The point is, somebody offed Robby because they want to move in on his drug trade. Robby built it into a thing of beauty these past few years, and he was always looking to expand. My guess is, somebody got itchy feet and decided to take over. Maybe Robby got an offer, maybe he didn't. Who knows? The point is, whoever took him out wanted that territory and wanted it bad. Wait around a couple of months. They guy who did it will show his hand."

The younger detective -- Starsky -- raised his brows. "Assuming we wait that long, how do we know you won't be the one to show your hand?"

Rodale laughed. "You got my word on it, that's why! Besides, I've got too much going on to take over Robby's turf." He squinted at the two cops. "Is this off the record?"

The older cop -- Colvin -- nodded.

"Then let me be blunt. I don't like drugs. Never did. Never will. You can make a shitload of cash, sure but you also have to deal with all the managerial issues. You know how hard it is to set goals for a bunch of dealers and hypes? It's impossible. They don't come to meetings. They don't follow through. They pay absolutely no attention to detail. Trying to work with them was turning my hair gray in places a man's hair ain't supposed to go gray."

He laughed again.

"The bottom line is fellas, I don't like dealing dope. I make enough running the ponies and managing the bookies. Robby was handling the pushers in my territory since last year. You don't believe me, check it out."

The two cops exchanged glances but didn't seem to connect. Rodale shook his head slowly.

"It's okay to speak fellas. I'm not going to tell anyone what you said."

"You sound like you were on pretty good terms with Levin," Starsky said. "How about giving us a better idea on how the hit went down."

Rodale shrugged. "If I could, I would. I'll tell you one thing though. Something like this can't happen without a lot of planning and a lot of help. You want to know who's pulling the strings? Take a look in your own backyard. Judges, prosecutors, cops -- all of you had a reason to want Robby put away. My gut tells me one of your own was probably involved."

Colvin's lips thinned. "Any other ideas?"

"Yeah." Rodale smiled. "I always have ideas. But you won't like the next one either. My guess is that whoever took out Robby isn't a fan of loose ends. That guy you pulled out of the warehouse Monday morning, that creep who survived, he's a loose end."

"You saying there's a hit on him?" Starsky asked.

"I'm saying that if I were running this takeover, he'd have already been hit. You guys do what you gotta' do but my advice is to get this guy's statement on the record because there's no way he's going to live to see Sunday."

His smile grew hard.

"Sooner or later, whoever's behind this will take him out."

There had to be one around here somewhere!

Lee held a handkerchief to his face and stalked from one dilapidated room to another. A hundred damn hypes in this place and no one has a--

He broke off, staring at the young woman in a peasant dress who lay sprawled on her back on the floor. Her jaws were lax and a thin trail of fluid dribbled from her mouth. Her open eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. She wasn't dead, just pretty damn stoned. Lee could tell because, every now and then, her limbs would twitch as though she were running.

His lips curled, first in disgust then in satisfaction. Lying by the woman's side was a neat, little drug kit: hypo, tourniquet and a couple of tiny plastic bags of smack, all sitting atop a tiny leather pouch. Bingo! Just what he was looking for.

Lee squatted down, scooped up her treasures and shoved them in his pocket. Before he left the room though, he turned back and took another long look at the woman.

Not bad actually. Maybe there'd even be time for a bit of fun when the important stuff was over.

Hutch was still out cold when Lee got back to the hallway. He dropped the woman's drug supplies in the pouch and put the package in Hutch's shirt pocket -- right over his heart. Lee smiled.

Nice bit of irony there.

He slipped his hands under Hutch's arms and tugged.

Damn! Pulling Hutchinson was like hauling a truckload of bricks. Lee glanced over his shoulder and groaned. The nearest room was about twenty feet away. Dragging Hutchinson that far was going to be a major pain. Still, anything this side of a bone fracture was worth it to get him back on smack.

Lee tightened his grip and pulled.

"Zebra Three, requesting a patch-through to Captain McAlpine."

"Roger. Stand-by Zebra Three."

It usually took Dobey less than a minute to respond to a patch-through from one of his teams. Less than a minute. But that wasn't the case today. Fortunately, the Torino was parked on a shopping center lot so Starsky had no distractions as the second hand circled his watch six times before McAlpine came on the line.

The captain's voice sounded flat and uninspired when he spoke.

"McAlpine."

"Starsky and Colvin," Starsky answered. "We're calling to request a protective custody order drafted for Joseph Carnegie. He's the user pulled from the Levin's murder site on Monday."

McAlpine didn't respond.

Starsky waited for two minutes, glanced at Colvin then continued. "We have a report from a credible source that Carnegie's life is in danger and that he may be a material witness to the case."

McAlpine took a deep breath. "I don't think so."

Colvin grabbed the microphone from Starsky and pressed the issue. "Captain, the source is Sammy Rodale. The reasons he gave for somebody wanting Carnegie dead made a lot of sense, sir."

"He's pulling your leg, Colvin."

Starsky motioned for the mike and Colvin handed it over wordlessly.

"Whether he's pulling our legs or not, we're going to look like a couple of asses if Carnegie gets himself killed," Starsky snapped. "If he saw something..."

"I thought you questioned him. You or Hutchinson. Which one was it?"

"Hutch questioned him, but..."

"Did he say Carnegie saw something?"

"No, at least nothing he could remember on Monday. But that doesn't mean his mind's not a whole lot clearer now. If something did come back, I think..."

"That's your first mistake," McAlpine said. "How often do I have to say this? You're not out there to come up with bright ideas, and I'm not going to waste valuable manpower protecting a hype."

"Wait a minute--"

"No! You wait. You're not being paid to think Starsky. You're being paid to follow strategy, my strategy. So, for once in your life, shut the hell up and just follow orders! Just follow orders, Starsky! McAlpine out."

Under normal circumstances, Colvin would have respected his partner's privacy enough to look away after a tongue-lashing like McAlpine just dished out. But some instinct, some primordial sense of warning, caused him to shoot a quick, furtive glance at Starsky.

The younger detective was silent. His jaw clenched and he flushed scarlet then blanched almost white. But his eyes were what captured Colvin's attention. The irises had grown so dark they looked almost black.

And when Starsky stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind him, Colvin didn't follow.

Because, if the truth were told, Starsky scared him at that moment. And when he stalked away from the car, Colvin actually felt relief.

Hutch stirred, coming around slowly. His head hurt like a son-of-a-bitch and he didn't know why. His nose crinkled and his stomach churned. Something somewhere smelled awful. He was lying on his side, he could tell that. He could feel paper and plaster and cement under his shoulder and beneath his head.

Where was he?

He pushed himself up, settling on his haunches with his back against the wall. Almost immediately his stomach twisted in knots. The smell -- whatever it was -- was stronger now than when he was lying down.

Take it easy; take it easy. Just stay cool.

He blinked, trying to get accustomed to the dim light -- and froze. For a moment, a whole sixty seconds, he didn't breathe. When he started again, the breaths came in quick, frantic gasps.

People lay beside him, around him, on their sides and on their backs. Some moved lazily, limbs twitching. Others were still. A small group was huddled in a corner, talking in short, animated bursts. Their words tumbled over each other, producing sentences that were garbled and made no sense.

It was like he was dreaming. But he wasn't, was he? No. He swung his head from left to right. He wasn't dreaming. He'd wound back among the junkies, just like Will said he would.

How had this happened?

He was walking, right? Yes. He remembered walking. Then something hit him. Then he fell. Right? That's what happened, right?

Then why was he still here? Where the devil was Lee?

He heard someone panting -- struggling, straining, gasping for air. Me? Is that me? Why couldn't he pull his thoughts together? Why couldn't he think?

He kicked out, pressing harder against the wall. Protect your back. Protect your back! He was trying to. But God in heaven, it hurt so much to breathe.

He looked around again, searching, desperate. Where...? His heart started pounding. Starsky isn't here now. Remember that? Remember?

He pushed away from the wall and started to crawl on his hands and knees, scouring the floor for the portable police radio. He felt something solid and slammed his hand down hard, hoping to grab the radio and run. Instead, his right palm smashed into a pile of broken glass. Sharp fragments tore through his flesh and lodged there, and Hutch howled in pain. He jumped back, clutching the injured hand to his chest... and felt the package in his pocket. His fingers traced the outline of the hypo and he yanked his hand away, disgusted.

He knew what that was! He must've pinched a drug kit from somebody before he passed out.

Oh God!

Nobody hit him!

You're an embarrassment, Kenny.

Whatever happened, he'd done it to himself -- just like at Forrest's, when he'd pushed the plunger of smack into his arm.

Will and his father had been right all the time.

You're a joke.

Walk it off. Walk it off. Why was it taking so long for him to get over this? Why was this so damn hard?

Starsky jammed his fists into the pocket of his jacket and rolled his shoulders. He trudged down the narrow walkway between two buildings. For the moment, his frustration blinded him to the confined area and the tight fit.

He shouldn't have let McAlpine get to him. No. Not like that. But he couldn't help it. And now, he couldn't get those words out of his head.

Shut the hell up and just follow orders.

Damn it. Damn it! He hadn't thought about 'Nam in months and now, thanks to a few careless words from a pain-in-the-ass superior, he was headed right back there all over again.

Unconsciously, he hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, mimicking the gait of an extremely cautious foot soldier. Then, without warning, his pace slowed almost to a stop. Just follow orders. That's what his platoon leader had said before he sent them down into the tunnel. Shut the hell up and do what I say.

Starsky tried to take another step, but his feet felt like they were stuck in mud. He looked down. They were stuck in mud.

Starsky shook his head. Now wait a minute! Wait a minute. This can't be happening. This can't be true. He looked around in confusion. Suddenly there was mud on the sides of the buildings... and the buildings were closing in.

What the hell?

"Hey!"

Starsky blinked. He recognized that voice. It belonged to his old friend Macario Rodriquez. He hadn't seen Mac since...

Starsky felt panic seize his stomach and tie it in knots. Shit! He knew where this was going, and it was bad.

Can't let it happen. Won't let it happen!

He needed to get out. And he needed something solid, damn it! He needed his hands on something solid. Starsky tried to touch the side of the building, but his arm wouldn't move. Starsky blinked.

Hang on. Hang on.

He'd gotten through this the last time, right? Right?

But the last time it had happened, he'd been with Hutch.

Starsky wanted to yell, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go... And then he was back in the tunnel again, back in 'Nam again, reliving that hell again.

Just like that.

"Hey! Dave, you with me pal?"

"Hey."

"This place is freakin' nuts, ain't it?" Mac asked. He was from the New York barrio and had bonded instantly with Dave. The New York Duo, they called themselves. The NYD. No matter what, they were going to get out of this mess alive. They were nobody's heroes. They were nobody's fools.

He nudged Dave again. "Right? It's freakin' nuts."

"Yeah." Dave's voice was low. He reached out and touched the mud walls. "People really live in here?"

"Hide out mostly. They come down here after they set the booby traps. You find a tunnel like this, you know there're traps nearby," Mac said.

"You been in one of these before?"

"Yeah, sure. On my first tour. Our platoon tracked about ten guys to a tunnel. Some of us went down and flushed 'em out."

"And everybody was okay? You all came out alive?"

"I'm here, ain't I?" Mac grinned. "You scared Dave?"

"Hell yeah!"

Mac, walking about two paces behind him, patted his back. "Yeah, me too" He gripped hard on Dave's shoulder, forcing him to stop then squeezed in front of his pal. "I'll take the lead for a bit."

He took a couple of quick steps, putting distance between Dave and himself.

"You sure?"

"No biggie. We're the NYD ain't--?"

He took another step, one that Dave would have taken had he still been in the lead -- and was gone.

Just like that.

The explosion threw Dave and half the men behind him back about ten feet. It tore Macario Rodriquez in two.

The walls of the little tunnel started to crumble and the men behind Dave scrambled to their feet and tried to claw their way out. They used their hands, the butts of their rifles, the muzzles, anything they could find. Mac lay on what remained of his belly, his dark eyes searching for his pal.

"Dave? You okay Dave?"

Dave crawled forward on his hands and knees. He should have felt around for another trap. He knew that. He knew that. He just didn't remember. He just didn't care. He reached Mac and pulled the man onto his lap.

"Mac?"

"You okay Dave?"

"I'm okay."

"I think I'm hurt, Dave. I can't feel my legs."

Dave looked down, reached down, tried to pull Mac's legs into view... but they were gone. He looked around for a medic. What were you supposed to do when somebody's legs got blown off? He didn't know. He clamped both hands to Mac's waist, to what used to be Mac's waist, and tried to stop the bleeding.

"Shit Mac!"

"Is it bad?"

"N-no, but shit! Just shit!"

The men behind them broke through the ground and clambered over each other like rats to get out of the tunnel. The fragile hole began to crumble under the pressure.

Dave felt dirt fall in his hair, in his ears, in his eyes. "We gotta' get out of here. We gotta' go."

He looked down. Mac stared up at him trustingly.

"C'mon. C'mon." He didn't want to hurt his buddy but he didn't know where to grab. He settled for shoving both of his arms under Mac's and lifting. Mac's head lolled back. Unconscious. Thank God.

Dave staggered back to what remained of the hole.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Hey! Get us out! Help us out!" He arched his back and hoisted the limp sack of flesh and blood and bone that was Macario above his head. "Take him! Take him!"

Somebody heard him. Somebody grabbed Mac's hands. He was next. Thank God. Thank God. He was next.

Mac had just cleared the hole when he heard the scream. A new guy fresh from the States had been the one to haul Mac up. He screamed when he realized Mac's legs were gone. He screamed when he realized Mac was dead. He let go and Mac's corpse fell back in the hole. He landed face up, his liquid brown eyes still staring at Dave trustingly.

Dave stumbled back and the walls of the tunnel crumbled even more. The hole was closing. Seconds later, the hole was gone. And the walls were falling down on themselves, caving in. Dave staggered back again and fell to his knees.

It was dark now. And the air was heavy. It was getting hard to breathe.

Dying? Was he dying? No. No! He couldn't go out like this. Not this way. Not like this.

Dave started to claw at the wall that had been a ceiling and would soon be his grave. He yelled, then cursed, then cried, then screamed... screamed as loud as he could. His arms pumped like pistons, his hands dug like they were part of a machine.

He could hear men above him. Somebody must have gotten a little shovel. Somebody must have started to dig. He heard the voices.

First, "Give it up man."

Then, "He's already dead."

Were those words coming from above him or were they coming from his head?

Didn't know. Didn't matter. Didn't care. He was going to get out of here, damn it. He was going to get out!

Dave sucked in a breath, but it was only a tiny, little gasp. But it didn't matter. He screamed as loud as he could.

And a horn blared, breaking the silence, snapping him back to reality. Bringing him home.

He could raise his arm again.

Starsky slapped his hand on the building wall and pushed himself out of the walkway. He saw Colvin as soon as he emerged. The older detective stared at him like he'd just returned from the moon, but he held the radio microphone out and pointed down. Somebody was on the line.

Starsky shook his head, driving memories of 'Nam and Macario and the platoon leader from hell from his mind. He jogged back to car and grabbed the mike.

"Starsky."

"Starsky? It's Dobey." The Metro chief paused. "Everything okay out there?"

"Yeah...Yeah Cap, sure."

Dobey sighed. "Well, I've got some bad news for you then. I sent a crew back to that warehouse where we found Levin. I wanted to make sure we'd bagged all the evidence." He sighed again. "They found your man Carnegie. Somebody got to him."

Starsky stiffened. "Another OD?"

"No, whoever did it didn't take a chance this time. Carnegie died from two shots to the head."

"One order of protective custody!" Starsky slammed his fist down hard on McAlpine's desk. "That's all I asked. Now Carnegie's dead and any leads he might have given us died with him."

McAlpine shrugged. "Just because the man died in a drug deal..."

"We don't know it was a drug deal! We didn't have anybody with him so we don't know a damn thing!"

"Don't raise your voice to me Sergeant!"

He wanted to do more than raise his voice. He wanted to raise his fist, damn it. But, just like before, that strange little instinct held him back.

Don't push him now, it said. Stay quiet. Stay calm.

Starsky glanced at his watch. Already four o'clock. He and Colvin had spent hours at the warehouse, going over the murder scene. The crime scene investigators made plaster casts of tire tracks that could prove promising but, in the end, Dobey was the one to find the only other clue -- the tattered edge of a plane ticket to Colorado registered to someone who's last name ended in "e."

Because McAlpine had said Carnegie wasn't material to Levin's murder, Dobey claimed jurisdiction on the case. Before Colvin and Starsky left the warehouse, he was already on the phone with the major airlines.

"...need to do is regain your focus on this case," McAlpine was saying.

Starsky blinked. "What?"

"I said you need to regain your focus on this case. We know for a fact the order to kill Levin came from either Rodale or Sloan. You want to get back to Metro so badly? Bring one of them in. Solve the case."

"Fine."

Starsky turned on his heel and walked out. He didn't stop in the squad room. Instead, he continued right on through the door. He walked down the hall to the stairwell and down the stairs until he reached the garage.

Protocol said he should let Colvin know what he was up too but right now, he really didn't care. Something wasn't right here and working with Colvin felt just the same to him as working alone. He'd gone as far as he intended to go like this.

Starsky opened the Torino and activated the mike. The hell with McAlpine's orders. There was absolutely no way he was going any farther without his partner. He was going to bring in Hutch.

"Valley Five Mobile stand by for Zebra Three."

Lee jerked away from the woman on the floor guiltily. Good thing he'd thought to bring the police radio. He activated the connection.

"Valley Five Mobile, go ahead."

There was a burst of static then Starsky's voice filled the room. "Lee? This is Starsky. Let me talk to Hutch."

"Starsky?" Lee zipped his pants hastily and trotted into the hall. Just his luck to get caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "What? What do you want?"

"What's your location?"

"What?"

He stuck his head into the nearest room. That's where he'd dumped Hutchinson, wasn't it? Wasn't it? He scanned the dead-eyed faces quickly. A couple of blondes but no sign of Hutchinson. Maybe he'd put him in that other room across the hall.

"Lee?" Another burst of static leapt from the radio. "Where are you? What's your location?"

Next room. No Hutchinson. Where the hell was he?

"Lee!"

"We're at the Bartlett." Lee answered without thinking and cursed himself.

Shouldn't have answered. Shouldn't have told.

"Where?" Starsky barked.

"Th-the Bartlett. The old Bartlett Hotel. We're following a lead on Sloan."

"Sloan?" Starsky sounded confused then angry. "I told Hutch..."

"Told Hutch what?" Lee tried to direct the conversation in another direction, but he didn't stop looking. He couldn't stop looking. It was his butt on the line now. He had to find Hutch.

"It doesn't matter," Starsky barked. "Screw Sloan. He didn't do it. Let me talk to Hutch."

Two more rooms. No sign of Hutchinson anywhere. Shit! Shit! What the hell was going on?

"Damn it, Lee!"

"What-what..." Lee struggled to get the conversation back on track. He was distracted, sure. But he could do this. He wasn't just stronger than Starsky and stronger than Hutchinson; he was smarter than them too.

C'mon boy, he told himself. Just stay focused. Just stay calm. "What do you mean, he didn't do it? Captain McAlpine said..."

"I don't have time to go over this with you," Starsky snapped. "Let me talk to Hutch!"

His tone hardened and the edge caught Lee by surprise. There was anger in his voice and he wasn't backing down. There was an implied threat in his words that couldn't be ignored.

And suddenly, he realized what was going on. It was a trick. That's what it was. A damn frigging trick.

Hutchinson must have already gotten out of here. He'd probably already made it back to Starsky. The two of them were probably hunched over a telephone, trying to trap him, trying to make him admit he'd done something wrong.

Well, he wasn't going to do it. No sir. He wasn't going to let them make him look bad. Not this time. Not again. After all, it wasn't his fault Hutchinson was a user. It wasn't his fault Hutchinson was a hype. He was doing the department a favor by turning Hutchinson out.

Hell, when this whole thing was finally over, Hutchinson should be first in line to shake his hand. He should get down on his knees to thank him for making him face the truth.

Lee's lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

Face the truth. That's what the counselors always told him, wasn't it? Admit what you did Gil. Face the truth.

That's what they said all through high school. And after the mix-up with that female cadet at the Academy. And after that shooting a few years ago when he thought that woman had a gun.

Face the truth.

Dobey told him that also, when things between he and Hutchinson and Starsky were at their worst. And then he'd waited, perched on the edge of his desk like a statue, acting like he really expected Lee to admit that he was wrong.

He hadn't of course. No sir! He had nothing to admit. But Dobey hadn't been satisfied and he'd handed down the ultimatum: transfer out or resign.

Well, nothing like that was going to happen here. Starsky and Hutchinson were on his turf now. He controlled the game.

There was another burst of static and then a loud, angry curse. Lee ignored it. He poked his head in the last room and studied the occupants carefully. Eight women, two men. No Hutchinson. Just as he'd expected.

Too bad Starsky. Too bad Hutch. I'm on to your game.

"Lee! Damn it! What the hell is going on?"

"Like you don't know." Lee snorted. "I'm tired of being jerked around by you and Hutchinson, Starsky. Whatever you're up to, it's not going to fly. Hutchinson broke a half-dozen rules by leaving me here without backup..."

"Leaving? What the hell are you talking about?" Starsky's voice dropped and slowed. "Put Hutch on the radio Lee."

Lee blinked.

Starsky didn't sound like he was lying. He didn't sound like he was pulling a bluff. Lee shook his head slowly.

Maybe Hutchinson really wasn't at the station.

Maybe his original plan was successfully under way.

He grinned. Hutchinson must have taken the bait just like he'd been set up to do. Then he'd slunk away somewhere, just like a hype.

"Lee?"

"Hutchinson took off," Lee said. He could barely keep himself from laughing. "He said something about meeting with a guy you use at Metro. I was pissed because I thought he had the meeting then hightailed it back to the station to talk with you."

Starsky's voice was cautious. "Just a guy? Not a snitch? You sure?"

Lee rolled his eyes in frustration. Like there was any difference. "Yeah," he said. "Just a guy. After that, we split up to check out the Bartlett. Next thing I know, Hutchinson is gone."

He could hear Starsky's breathing quicken. The stupid jerk believed him. He could almost see Starsky thinking, trying like hell to figure this out.

"That's all I can tell you Starsky," Lee said. He pressed his thumb over the disconnect switch. "Valley Five out."

It had taken three hours to track Huggy down -- three frigging hours -- and it was after seven o'clock when Starsky finally got his friend on the line.

"Sorry for the inconvenience Starsk," Huggy explained. "I was down at the contractor's office. Had to pull a work permit for my new place."

"Contractor's office? You were there all day?"

"Yeah."

"So you ain't seen Hutch?"

"Hutch? Haven't seen him since last night when that new partner of his was giving him the run-around." He chuckled. "Assuming Hutch is feeling better, I'd hate to be in that other guy's shoes today."

"Did he call you? Or did you talk to him? Leave a message for him, maybe?"

"No on all three counts." The humor went out of Huggy's voice. "Why?"

"Nothing. Something. I don't know." Starsky raked a hand through his hair. "Can't reach him, is all. He went to the Bartlett with Lee a few hours ago. Lee said Hutch left to meet somebody we worked with at Metro."

"So you figured it was me?"

"Hoped it was."

"You worried?"

"Yeah...No..." Starsky raked his hand through his hair again. "McAlpine's having a meeting in fifteen minutes. I can cover for Hutch I think -- bluff my way through. But I need to know where he is Hug. We need to sync up. Can you keep an eye out for me? Do what you can -- discreetly -- to track him down?"

"Sure. I'll take care of it, Starsk."

"Thanks."

"Sure -- and, hey!"

"What?"

"Don't sweat this. You know how Hutch operates. He probably got a whiff of something hot and followed the trail. He probably just lost track of time nailing it down."

"Yeah..." Starsky tried to put his heart into the word, but he knew he didn't sound convinced. Lee said he and Hutch were at the Bartlett to follow a lead on Sloan, but he'd told Hutch earlier this morning that Sloan was a dead end. He'd told Hutch to drop it.

Starsky sighed and raked a hand through his hair again.

Where the hell was Hutch?

It had been a long walk home, and he was tired. Now it was time to take it easy, time to rest.

The little clock in the living room chimed the hour. Six... seven... eight o'clock. It had gotten late so fast.

He locked the door and trudged into the bedroom. Without even thinking about it, he sat on the edge of his bed, pushed up the sleeve of his shirt and tied off the vein.

Who said he wouldn't remember how to do this? Who said he would forget? All the elements came back to him quickly. It was just like riding a bike.

He slid the needle in and felt the old familiar warmth course through his body. It took only a minute and then Will and his father's voices fell silent. All of his anxieties drifted away.

Just like that.

He pulled off the tourniquet, dropped the needle back in its pouch and switched off the light.

A gentle melody danced through his brain. It was a simple, pretty, little tune, and it came to him like magic. He'd forgotten how much he loved to write music. It had been so damn long since he'd even tried.

He lay on his back and closed his eyes.

The first song ended and another filled his head. He was composing them without even thinking. They were coming to him on their own, smooth and easy, flowing as freely as a mountain stream.

Why had he even tried to fight this?

He smiled drowsily.

He was in heaven.

This was home.

Act Three

"You're sure you don't need it any longer?" Patrick Metter, director of the City House drug rehabilitation facility, smiled and bounced the keys to his '69 Buick in the palm of his hand. "You can keep it overnight if you need to Nate. I can get a ride home with one of the staff."

Nate Foster shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm fine." He grinned cheerfully. "As it turned out, that errand I had to run didn't take as long as I thought." He clapped Metter on the back. "The car really helped though -- it made it a heck of a lot easier to get across town."

"So you found that guy you needed to meet?"

"Yep. He was waiting just where I told him to be." Foster's smile widened. "The whole thing was over in just a few seconds. Nice. Clean." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that."

"The whole thing?"

"The meeting, I mean." Foster stiffened and quelled his enthusiasm, sucking it in like a vacuum pulling in lint. "As it turned out, there wasn't a lot to say." The edges of his lips twitched and he grinned again in spite of himself. "Thanks again for the car, Pat. You always come through in a pinch."

You always come through. Metter's eyes filled at the thought. If anybody deserved thanks for perpetually coming through, it was Nate. Nate was his buddy; Nate was his pal. Nate stuck by him when everyone else -- even his own family -- would have turned away.

Metter bounced the keys in his palm again. He'd found the Buick in a junkyard and refurbished it by hand. He'd spent a month's salary on new upholstery and then paid a mint for high-performance tires with the extra wide treads. He loved his car. But he'd give it to Nate in a minute if he asked for it.

He'd turn it over without a second thought.

"Sure you don't need it?"

Foster shook his head cheerfully. "Nope." He reached for the phone as Metter turned to leave the room. "It's been such a good day, I feel like walking. I'm going to head out myself, as soon as I call my girl."

Well, damn.

Sheila Wolinsky stared at the tuna fish salad dejectedly. No matter how she stirred and mixed, the white clumps of arsenic stood out like safety buoys in the sea. No way would Sarcone miss seeing them.

She sighed. Maybe if she added a few onions...

The key was to get just enough arsenic in Sarcone to kill him shortly after he murdered Foster. But how much would that be? A teaspoon? A tablespoon? A cup-and-a-half?

Figuring this out was so darn hard.

It wasn't like she could just pull out a recipe from Better Homes & Gardens or something. And she needed this to be perfect. She wanted Sarcone to be strong enough to take care of Foster but then she wanted him dead. She wanted the arsenic to take him out before he could even think about coming back home.

For once, she was grateful when the phone rang. Talking with someone, even if it were stupid-ass Foster or stupid-ass Sarcone, would give her brain a rest and make it easier for her to think.

She wiped her gloved hands on a dishtowel and lifted the receiver slowly. She decided to use her sexy greeting, the one that worked equally well on both Foster and Sarcone.

"Umm, hello?"

"Sheila? Honey? It's Nate." Foster sounded breathless, a little out of control. "I did it honey. I took care of Carnegie." He started speaking faster and faster, until his words began to blend. "It was easy, honey. Just like you said. He walked in and he started looking around. I didn't say anything. I just hid behind the crates. He was so stupid, he didn't even see me. It was just like you said. I got right up behind him. He didn't even know I was there. I shot him twice, right in the head. He didn't know what hit him. It was easy honey. Easy. Just like you said."

Sheila sighed. Foster was such a dweeb. One little murder and he acted like he was king of the world. He expected her to fawn over him and praise him and get all mushy in the knees just for taking Carnegie out. Angels, priests and all the saints! She would be so damn glad when all of this was through.

She sighed again and forced an excited edge into her voice.

"Oh Natey, I'm so proud of you! I knew you could do it! I knew you could!" She paused. "Did you drive Metter's car to the warehouse? That fancy one with the really big tires?"

"I sure did!"

"And you put that piece of ticket stub near the body?"

"Yep. I made sure it wasn't too obvious, but the cops are bound to find it."

"Oh Nate, you did it." She burrowed through her cabinets, looking for something that would hide the clumps of poison in her salad. "You really did it. Now we can be together, just like we planned."

Olives!

The idea came to her in a flash of inspiration. She unscrewed a bottle of sliced green olives and dropped a handful into the casserole dish. With the addition of the new ingredient, the chunks of arsenic finally melted and disappeared.

"...get married and move to Texas," Foster was saying. "We can head out as soon as the cops arrest Sarcone."

Sheila rolled her eyes. Foster was really beginning to bug her. She glanced at her watch.

Nine o'clock. Thank goodness!

She'd only had to string him along for a few more hours, then she could give the go-ahead to Sarcone.

"Yes honey," she said sweetly. "I can't wait to go to Texas." She stirred the tuna salad a little bit harder. "We'll leave and we'll be together, as soon as the detectives arrest Sarcone."

Oh God. Oh God! What had he done?

Hutch snapped awake and lurched upward, a puppet jerked by invisible strings. Where was he? How had he gotten here?

What had he done?

His entire body was shaking, convulsing in tiny, involuntary spasms as though he had palsy. His eyelids popped open and he peered into the darkness, searching and afraid. Something brushed his forehead and he swatted at it desperately -- once, twice, then again and again and again and again until he finally connected with something solid. His fingers touched hair soaked and matted by sweat.

A pretty, little tune appeared without warning and danced feverishly through his brain... And then he remembered.

Shit! Oh shit!

The songs had come to him like magic. Yes! Yes! He remembered that. They'd come to him continuously, one after the other, like lovers in the night.

But that had been a dream, hadn't it? He'd just been dreaming about the Bartlett and the users and the music and the drugs. Right? Wasn't that right? He'd just been dreaming about the drugs.

He fumbled on the nightstand, searching for the light -- and his fingers touched the edge of a needle encased in a little leather pouch. He jerked his hand back like the pouch was on fire.

No!

He shook his head, mouthing the word repeatedly.

No! No! No! No! No! It couldn't be true...

He'd taken the pouch. Yeah, sure. Okay. He'd accept that. He didn't remember doing it, but he'd accept that he did. He'd taken the pouch.

And, he'd wanted a hit since -- when was that? Yesterday? Was it just yesterday?

Okay. Okay. So he'd wanted a hit since yesterday. But that didn't mean he'd shot up again, did it? Just because he'd taken the pouch?

No sir. No sir. He shook his head.

It didn't mean he'd shot up.

He'd only injected himself once, just once since this whole damn mess started -- and that had been with Forrest. He couldn't help himself then. That's what he'd told Dad, Therese, Jenna and Will.

And it was true, damn it. It was true! He couldn't help himself then.

It happened when he was hooked, before he got clean. He'd made that mistake one time, just one time. And he'd never done it again. For thirteen whole months he'd never done it again.

So why the hell did he do it tonight?

Oh God. Oh God...

You're an embarrassment, Kenny. It was Will's voice, coming back angry and strong. Will expected this. He wouldn't be surprised.

And Dad...

His father had choked back tears when Hutch told him what had happened, but he'd shaken his head decidedly when Hutch promised he'd stay clean.

Hutch had pleaded with him, "Trust me, Dad. For once, please trust me."

And that's when his father had said what he really thought, said it for the second time, said loud and clear and sharp so Hutch would always remember.

You can't handle it; it's too damn hard.

Hutch shook his head a second time and tried again to find the light.

Where the hell was it?

A sob caught in his throat, and he forced it down. He wouldn't cry again, damn it! He wouldn't let them make him cry.

The palm of his hand struck the lampshade and something sharp stabbed through his flesh, causing him to yelp in pain. Then the lamp crashed to the floor, and he heard the bulb shatter and break.

Calm down, Hutchie. Calm down! He had to think his way out of this. He had to understand.

Did he shoot up or didn't he? He couldn't remember. He didn't know.

Didn't he say before that it was a dream?

Remember?

Remember!

Didn't he say it was a dream?

Hutch got to his feet, took a step and almost fell. He caught himself by grabbing the wall and pain seared through his hand again as something sharp dug deeper into his flesh.

What was that? Glass? When did he--?

Wait a minute. Wait a minute!

Something was coming back to him now. He'd cut his hand at the Bartlett on a piece of glass. Then he'd... then he'd...

Hutch shook his head again. Why couldn't he remember? Why was everything so black? Something must have happened at the hotel. He must have done something at the hotel.

But what had he done?

He'd awakened on the floor. He remembered that, right? Right? He'd awakened on the floor -- and then he'd left.

He'd walked from the Bartlett all the way home, right? Yes. He'd walked from the Bartlett all the way home.

It was raining and he'd gotten wet; his clothes were soaked. But he was tired, so tired, that he decided to lie down for just a few minutes before he changed. He'd locked the door -- he remembered that. He'd locked the door, pulled that damnable leather pouch from his pocket and tossed it away.

And he'd called Starsky before he went to bed. He remembered that too. He'd gotten the answering machine, but he'd left a message this time, right?

Wasn't that right?

Or was that part of the dream?

Hutch couldn't remember any more; he couldn't think. His head was getting all messed up inside.

You're an embarrassment, Kenny. You're a joke.

He thought he heard noises in the living room. He thought he heard something being pounded, thought he heard someone calling his name.

Loud! Loud! Why was everything so loud? Even the voices inside his head were so damn loud.

You can't handle it.

Hutch stumbled toward the bathroom down the hall. He used his hands to hold himself up and left wide, damp streaks of blood on the paint.

Please, please, please. Let this be a dream.

He felt like it was a dream. It had to be a dream. Why couldn't he believe that it was? Why couldn't he accept that?

Hutch made it to the bathroom and felt along the wall for the switch.

"Prove it to me," that's what Will would say. "Prove that it's just a dream."

And what he would do, damn it. He'd check things out. He'd prove it was a dream. He'd show them he could make it. He'd prove that he was strong enough to get this thing behind him, and then he'd get his family's voices out of his head.

Hutch found the switch and turned on the light. Then he stared into the mirror... and his reflection stared back. It was wild-haired, sweating, twitching, and pale.

He looked like a user, damn it. He looked like he was coming down.

You're an embarrassment, Kenny.

Damn...

Just... damn.

You're a joke.

It wasn't a dream, was it? He knew that now. He'd screwed up just like Will said he would. He hadn't meant to. Somehow it had just happened.

But he needed to say he was sorry.

He needed people to understand.

Hutch sank to his knees, his consciousness fading, his energy gone. He pushed weakly at the sleeves to his shirt, but was too tired, too broken to move them up.

He heard a crash, harsh and sharp in the outer room, and then the shouting he thought he'd imagined grew louder and became real. Seconds later, the air exploded around him as Starsky ran into the room, his gun clutched tightly in his hand.

Starsky squatted down and grabbed Hutch's chin, turning the semi-conscious man's face toward his.

"You okay?" He slid two fingers along Hutch's neck, found the pulse and monitored it for a second then jumped back up. "Stay here."

"Starsk..."

"Stay here!"

Hutch slumped against the toilet, legs stretched out in front of him, arms dangling uselessly at his sides. Stay here? What choice did he have? Who would have him? Where could he go?

He heard Starsky banging around his apartment, opening doors and turning on all the lights. He blinked.

All of the sudden it was so damn bright.

Then Starsky was back, shoving his gun in his holster, staring at him with eyes that were wide and confused.

"What happened Hutch?" He grabbed Hutch's bloodstained fingers. "What happened to your hand?"

"I'm sorry..."

"It's okay, it's okay. Just tell me what happened."

"Screwed up." Hutch's head dropped and he was unable to raise it. He fumbled instead with his sleeve. "Didn't mean to..." His eyes rolled restlessly, trying to make contact. "...joke..."

Starsky dropped to the floor and cupped Hutch's face in his hand, supporting his head.

"What're you talking about?"

"Can't handle it..."

Hutch scratched at his sleeve and, for Starsky, the lights suddenly went on. He leaned in close.

"Did you take something Hutch?"

"I'm sorry..."

Starsky used his free hand to push up the sleeve on Hutch's left arm. All he found were a bunch of old track marks. He rubbed his thumb over the skin inside and just below Hutch's elbow. Once again, there was nothing new. He repeated the process on Hutch's right arm. It was just like the other one, clean as could be.

"What am I looking for Hutch?"

"Bedroom..."

"Did you take something?"

For just a moment, the light blue eyes were clear. "No." Then they clouded, becoming confused and uncertain. "I don't know." They glistened and filled with tears. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't worry..." Starsky gently released Hutch's face. "We'll fix it."

Unsupported, the blond's head lolled as though his neck were broken. Starsky let it hang while he changed positions then he cradled the back of Hutch's head with one hand and grabbed his partner's belt with the other.

"Take it easy now," Starsky said. Using the belt as a handle, he pulled Hutch to a clear space on the floor. "I'm gonna' put you down."

"Bedroom..."

"In a minute. I'm gonna' put you down."

Hutch didn't fight it. He sagged as though he were boneless and let Starsky lower him to the ground. He felt cool tile under his back, heard Starsky shrug out of his jacket and then felt warm, soft leather placed beneath his head.

"There's blood all over the place, Hutch. You wanna' tell me what happened?'

Hutch didn't answer. The question seemed to come from far away, and other voices vied for attention in his mind.

You're an embarrassment, Kenny.

You can't handle it.

You're a joke.

The words got to him, and he wasn't able to stop it this time. He let them make him cry. Tears, hot and salty, spilled from his eyes, and he felt himself being drawn to that dark and sad place where Will and his father's voices filled his head.

Then he felt Starsky going over him, running gentle hands along his arms and legs, looking for wounds -- and somehow managing to pull him back. Throughout the process, Starsky talked almost constantly. He'd pause only after he asked a question and then just long enough to give Hutch a look that said, "An answer would be nice." Then he'd keep right on going.

It made it impossible to focus on anything else.

"Got your message when I got home," Starsky said. "Scared the hell out of me. Ran three red lights and drove ninety to get over here."

He slipped his hands under Hutch's back, checking his ribs and over his kidneys, checking along his spine. "Then I get to your apartment and find you'd locked the deadbolt on me. You never lock the deadbolt." He pressed his palms against Hutch's stomach then moved up to his chest. "Your landlord's gonna' be pissed, Hutch. 'Fraid I busted the door."

Starsky finger-walked his hands along Hutch's collarbone and neck. Finding nothing, he spread his fingers wide and checked Hutch's head. Both men winced when Starsky touched the egg-shaped lump behind Hutch's ear.

"Sorry," Starsky said. "Wanna' tell me how you got that?" He paused. "Okay, maybe not. Bet it hurts like the devil though."

He shifted his attention back to the injured hand, prodded gently and grimaced when he felt a shard of glass. "Jeez Hutch! Who'd you mix it up with, pal?"

Starsky pulled down a guest towel, ripped it in half and wrapped one section loosely around Hutch's palm. Then he folded Hutch's fingers over the wad and wrapped the remaining piece of towel around the entire hand. As bandages went, it didn't look like much but it kept the palm protected and kept Hutch from accidentally pushing glass further in.

"Ready to sit up for me?" Starsky took Hutch's uninjured hand and held it to his collar. "Can you grab that? Hold on?"

Hutch's fingers twitched. He did his best to secure a grip.

"Good enough. I'll take what I can get." Starsky leaned down and slipped his arms behind Hutch's shoulders. "Try to sit up on three, okay? One... Two... Three! Let's go!" He arched back and brought Hutch up with him, settling the blond against the tub.

"Pretty good, huh?" Starsky lowered his hands and grabbed Hutch's belt, locking one hand on either side of his partner's waist. "On your feet now."

"I'm sorry Starsk..."

"You ought to be. You weigh a ton." Starsky grinned, nervously at first then sincerely when Hutch's lips lifted in response. "Change your grip for me."

Hutch obeyed. He released his hold on Starsky's collar and wrapped his arm around Starsky's neck.

"That's good. You're doing fine," Starsky said. "Same thing as before, okay? Up on three."

He shifted so he and Hutch were shoulder-to-shoulder, one facing forward, the other facing back. The positioning made it possible for Starsky to bring Hutch to his feet naturally, using both sets of legs for leverage.

"One... Two... Three!" Starsky grunted as he pulled Hutch up. There'd been a grain of truth in his joke. Hutch was two inches taller than he was and outweighed him by more than twenty pounds. He heaved again, and the two men lurched unsteadily to their feet.

They were up for only a second before Hutch's legs buckled. Unnerved, he tightened his grip around Starsky's neck.

"It's okay. I got you. I got you."

"Need to sit down, Starsk..."

"What're you talking about? We just got you on your feet."

Starsky patted Hutch's back encouragingly. The man he held was completely pliant, completely passive. He wasn't acting at all like Hutch and that more than anything had Starsky scared.

"Let's get you on the couch then we'll figure out what to do, huh?"

They staggered from the bathroom to the hallway and from there to the couch. As soon as Hutch was settled, Starsky squatted beside him, the light tone he'd used earlier replaced by one that was straightforward and grim.

"I'm going to check the bedroom now, Hutch. Want to tell me what I'm looking for?"

Hutch averted his gaze. "Hypo."

"Where?"

"Leather bag. Table... floor..."

"Where'd you get it?"

"Bartlett."

"How?"

"Don't know..." Hutch forced himself to look Starsky in the eye. "I don't kn-know..."

"Anything else you want to tell me?"

I'm sorry for what happened! I didn't mean to let you down!

"I tried, I-I-I tr-tried... I-I-I le-le-left..."

Hutch staggered into silence. His throat closed up like a miser's wallet, but his mouth continued working. It was the worst part of stuttering -- to have people watching you and waiting for words to come out while you gasped and shuddered, opening and closing your mouth like a dying fish.

He hated it, but he couldn't stop it. He couldn't even slow it down.

Will loved watching it happen when they were kids. "Wu-wu-what's wrong, Kenny? C-c- cat got your tongue?"

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut.

Take it easy. Take it easy. He wasn't a child anymore, and it wasn't Will who crouched beside him.

He opened his eyes, looked at Starsky and saw an expression on his partner's face that was as pained as his own. Starsky was doing what he always did when this happened -- sharing Hutch's agony, but taking it for granted that, sooner or later, the words would come.

Hutch took a breath and tried again. "I le-left... a... note."

"For me?"

"Yes."

Starsky's eyes narrowed. "When?"

"Today... your desk." He broke off as Starsky's expression registered. "I thought I did." His eyes rolled up and he blinked rapidly. "I-I-I thought I did."

"Wait here."

Starsky was back in a minute, holding a small leather pouch. "This what you were talking about before?"

"Yes."

"You lift it?"

Hutch's eyes were vacant. "Must've... Wo-woke up... on the floor. Ha-had it... in my pocket."

"What's inside?"

"I don't know."

Starsky's eyes flicked up at him. "Don't remember or don't know?"

"I -- a hypo. I felt a hypo..." Hutch started to blink again, trying to collect his thoughts. "I don't know..."

Starsky opened the pouch and shook the contents into his hand. In addition to the needle, two small packets of white powder and a thick rubber band landed in his palm. He fingered them for a moment then dumped them back in the bag and tossed it aside.

"If you wanted this bad enough to pinch it, you would've looked inside. You're not stupid Hutch."

Hutch shook his head. "I took it."

"You wouldn't have called me."

Hutch didn't seem to hear. "I screwed up..."

"You wouldn't have told me where it was."

"...thought I could handle it... what a joke..."

"Hey!" Starsky snapped out the word, breaking the litany. "Wait a minute before you hang yourself out to dry, okay? I don't know how this stuff got on you, but I don't think you took it Hutch."

He broke off, and, for the first time, took a long, slow look around the apartment. Piles of candy wrappers, books and newspapers littered the floor. Empty coffee cups and drained bottles of high-caffeine soda sat forgotten on the radio, the table, the counter and the TV. The apartment was a testament to the hell Hutch had been through since getting back to town, and seeing it shook Starsky to the core. He sat on the couch and squinted down at his friend, forcing his voice to be calm.

"How long have you been hurting, Hutch?"

What had his stepmother said? "Keep this in the family, Ken. For God's sake, keep your mouth shut."

And he had -- until now. But he wasn't going to lie to Starsky. No matter what else he did, he wasn't going to lie.

"Since last week."

Starsky sighed. "You get any real sleep between then and now?"

Hutch looked at him. "Yesterday... when you were driving the car."

Starsky averted his gaze.

"Jeez..." His voice broke and he dropped a hand to Hutch's neck, drawing his beleaguered friend's head to his shoulder. "Jeez, Hutch." He rubbed Hutch's back gently as his own brow furrowed in thought. "Gimme' a minute to figure this out."

"Okay..."

Hutch's voice was barely a whisper, but it communicated everything that needed to be said.

He'd gone as far as he could on his own.

He was finished.

He was through.

Whatever happened next would determine his future, but he couldn't deal with that now. Couldn't plan for it, couldn't think about it, couldn't worry about the consequences if something went wrong.

Starsky continued to rub his back and Hutch sank against him gratefully. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't worry about being turned away. He put his entire life -- his reputation, his health, his job -- in Starsky's hands with nothing more than a quiet little sigh. He turned it over without question.

Just like that.

However you want to play this Starsky.

He was going to follow wherever his partner led.

Whatever you want to do.

Jimmy Sarcone clutched the bouquet of flowers in his hand and shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He couldn't remember exactly what flower was Sheila's favorite so he'd taken a chance on roses. A dozen red roses. She couldn't stay mad at him if he gave her a dozen red roses.

The door opened and Sheila stepped back to let him inside. Her hands trembled a little when she took the flowers and Sarcone's heart sank when he realized why. She was still afraid of him. He'd let his training and his background get the best of him for just a minute and he'd yelled at her -- let her see his other side -- and now she was afraid.

It made his stomach hurt just to think about it.

"Sheila, baby..." He reached for her but she stepped aside nimbly, groping almost blindly for a vase.

His pretty, little girl. His sweet, little baby. And he'd made her afraid.

"Sheila... Sweetheart, I want -- I need you to forgive me."

"I forgive you, Jimmy."

"I don't want you to be afraid of me. It breaks my heart."

She looked at him then. Tears welled in her eyes. "I-I'm trying, Jimmy."

She forced a smile. "I-I worked in the kitchen all day today. I made tuna salad from an old family recipe. It's supposed to stay in the refrigerator for a couple of days to let the flavor from the seasonings sink in, but I thought you could have it for lunch on Thursday."

He grinned. "You did all that? For me?"

"Yes. For Thursday." She lowered her eyes. "You said that's when you were going to go to City House and take care of Nate. I didn't think you'd have time to make anything yourself."

At the sound of Foster's name, Sarcone's face darkened and his smile faded away.

"I-I'm sorry, Jimmy," Sheila sputtered. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have mentioned..."

"No. No baby, it's not you. It's that stupid Foster. Just thinkin' about him pisses me off."

"But he killed Carnegie, Jimmy. He did just what he was supposed to do."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. And tomorrow he'll talk to the cops and convince them that Carnegie was getting kicked out of the drug program 'cause he couldn't stay straight. He'll slip in a few hints about Metter's drug problem and get the cops thinkin' that Carnegie was out to make a deal."

"And Metter will take the blame for killing Carnegie because his tires match the tracks at the warehouse, right?" Sheila asked.

"Right... Of course the dumb-ass cops probably won't figure that out for a while," Sarcone said. "But that won't matter 'cause I'll have already taken care of 'em both."

Sheila nodded and looked at Sarcone adoringly. "You'll make it look like they shot each other," she said. "Like Metter shot Nate because he figured out what was happening and like Nate shot Metter in self-defense. The cops will close the case and we'll leave for Colorado."

She snuggled against Sarcone and he wrapped an arm around her protectively. "I can't believe it's really almost over Jimmy."

He nodded and stroked her hair. "Yeah. It's been a long road. But it was worth it to get you away from Levin."

He sighed deeply. "You know, you've got class Sheila. Most dames would've stayed with Levin for the gifts and the dough. You're just walking away... walking away with nothin'."

"You're wrong, Jimmy." Sheila Wolinsky lifted her head. She spoke again just before their lips met in a kiss. "I have you."

He snored.

He sounded just like a damn frigging freight train on a damn frigging track on a damn frigging winter morning in that back-hole, backwater, half-acre of hell farm town where she'd grown up.

With a grunt of dissatisfaction, Sheila Wolinsky rolled out of the bed, leaving Sarcone to smile contentedly as he dreamed.

She hated it -- the town that is -- and she hated anything that reminded her of it. That included pushy, little weasels like Nate Foster, arrogant wiseguys like Robby Levin and big, beefy bodyguards like Jimmy Sarcone. She hated them all.

She hated her parents too, now that she thought of it. Hated them for wanting her to come home again. Hated them for always pointing out that her sister -- the crazy, old cow -- had gone to Iowa and taken up accounting and really done well.

So call the devil and invite him for tea!

She could have done well too, if she wanted to work like a dog for a living. Who said there was any glory in a crappy, old nine-to-five?

Sheila walked to the window and gazed out. Jimmy Sarcone was such a lug. Where did he get off thinking she'd give up living off Levin and walk away empty-handed? How stupid could he be?

She'd cut a deal with a real player months ago, months before she'd even met Foster or taken up with Sarcone. She was about to get what she deserved, all right. What did they call that -- just desserts?

The big guy promised her a huge payoff, and she believed him. Once he gave his word, he kept it. She could tell.

People like Foster and Sarcone would come and go, but this man was different.

He wouldn't let her down.

"Let's go, Hutch."

Hutch felt a touch on his back and stumbled forward obediently, shuffling his feet like a prisoner in chains. His injured hand, swollen to twice its normal size but now cleaned, sutured, bandaged and numbed by a half-dozen shots of local anesthetic, hung limply at his side.

"Listen to me, buddy. Do you know where you are?"

Hutch lifted his head. He tried to find a familiar shape, but his eyes wouldn't focus. He could only see dim and fuzzy outlines through the haze.

Doesn't matter.

He leaned heavily against Starsky.

"Safe..."

Safe. The word and the way Hutch said it tore at Starsky's heart. Sixty minutes earlier, a harried emergency room physician had assured him that Hutch didn't have a concussion, but his partner's vacant stare and confused mumbling still caused Starsky enormous concern. The doctor said the muttered words and the distracted behavior were likely the result of sleep deprivation, anxiety and stress. He advised prolonged bed rest, an overnight hospital stay and a sedative strong enough to knock Hutch out. But, as soon as he'd suggested using drugs, Hutch had pushed himself off the examination table and started for the exit.

He'd taken only two steps before he stumbled.

A third sent him crashing to the floor.

An orderly had tried to help him, tried to lift him to his feet, but Hutch reached for Starsky instead.

"No drugs, Starsk... Please."

One request. That's all it took. And so now, here they were.

Starsky closed the door to his apartment with his foot and steered Hutch past the couch and into the bedroom. He pulled back the covers while Hutch was standing then eased his semi- conscious friend onto the bed. Hutch's head lolled drunkenly and his shoulders sagged. If he were aware of Starsky kneeling and untying his shoelaces, he gave no sign.

For his part, Starsky pulled Hutch's shoes and socks off and sent silent thanks to the nurse who'd found a clean pair of surgical scrubs so he could help Hutch change from his rain-soaked clothing before they'd left the hospital.

Starsky put his hands on Hutch's shoulders and guided him down then turned and lifted Hutch's legs onto the bed. When he turned back, he saw Hutch staring up at him, trying hard to focus, blinking like mad. He was struggling to stay awake, breathing in and out in heavy, tortured gasps. He was so damn frightened.

Starsky placed a hand flat against Hutch's chest and patted softly.

"Try to let go, Hutch... Don't fight it now. Just go to sleep."

"N-n-no." Hutch shook his head. "No."

"I'm right here. Just let go."

"Can't..."

"Close your eyes..." The rabid blinking slowed, either from exhaustion or in partial response to his request. Starsky couldn't be sure, but it didn't matter. "I'm right here..."

Hutch was still panting, but his eyelids were barely moving now and his gaze was locked on Starsky.

"Hurts..."

"What?" Starsky's eyebrows knit in concern. "Your head? Your hand? What hurts, Hutch?"

"...you... m-mo-more..." Hutch's lips twitched.

Starsky smiled as Hutch's twist on the old joke registered. It hurts me more than it hurts you had become: It hurts you more than it hurts me.

"Damn straight, man," Starsky said quietly. "Damn straight."

He continued the rhythmic patting on Hutch's chest but let his eyes drift casually around the room. Nothing to worry about, his actions said. They might as well have been playing checkers or watching a football game on TV. No big deal.

Hutch's eyelids drifted another fraction of a centimeter closer, and his mind wandered. The dream that had haunted him for the past week replayed itself in his mind, in sequence and not so scary now. His eyes rolled up and he found Starsky again. Not so scary.

He thought the dream would stop with him alone in the apartment, weeping as though the world had ended but, as it turned out, there was more. He could see and hear it clearly, even though he was awake.

He heard a door open softly and then close. For a moment there was silence then, as suddenly as he'd departed, Starsky was sitting beside him on the bed.

"Hey..."

He felt himself pulled up and cradled like a child.

"It's okay. I'm back now, Hutch."

"Gone..." His reply had been a whisper, but somehow Starsky heard.

"Just for a minute."

"Stay..."

"I'm staying right here."

"... stay..."

"I promise. I'm staying right here."

He'd relaxed then and let himself be comforted, let himself be held. But when his eyelids had fluttered, he'd fought sleep instinctively and struggled to stay awake.

"I'm right here."

Reassured, he'd let his eyelids drift closed. He'd felt better then, safe and secure. He'd felt protected. He'd felt loved... And he'd slept.

Something was different.

Starsky blinked. He'd let his thoughts drift for just a minute and, in that time, something had altered. Something had changed. He looked down and realized that the desperate panting had stopped. Hutch's anguished breathing had slowed. He wasn't asleep yet, but he wasn't fighting it anymore either.

Starsky leaned down and spoke softly. "You're doing great Hutch, just great."

The pale blue gaze that locked on him was steady and calm.

"You're okay... I'm right here." Starsky smiled. "Trust me. I'm right here."

Hutch sighed once, and then his stare turned glassy as consciousness flickered and went out. His eyelids drifted together... and, this time, stayed closed.

Sleeping. He was finally sleeping.

Starsky felt his own body start to tremble and realized he was exhausted as well. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and understood why. Wednesday morning. Two-twenty a.m.

It had been a hell of a night.

He reached across Hutch and grabbed the second pillow then stood and quietly made his way across the room. The house rule about guests taking the couch was out of the window for the time being.

Starsky turned in the doorway and, for a moment, just watched Hutch sleep. The blond lay motionless, a small, contented smile on his lips. If he dreamed, his dreams were peaceful. His rest was undisturbed.

Safe, he'd said. Hutch didn't know where he was, but he said he felt safe.

During the drive to the hospital, Hutch had managed to tell him most of what happened during the past week. Some of the details from the trip to Minnesota were missing, and his time at the Bartlett remained a blur, but he'd somehow managed to say enough. The past week had been horrendous, even worse than what Forrest put him because, this time, Hutch thought he was to blame.

But now he felt safe.

And all Starsky could think was, Damn straight. One way or another, he'd keep Hutch safe.

Of course, it was a hell of a lot easier to say that than actually do it. Starsky realized that right off the bat.

If Hutch's father or stepmother or sister were here, Starsky would make it a point to give each one of them a piece of his mind. If stupid-ass Will were here, Starsky was sure he'd break the man's nose. He knew how to handle those situations, but he also knew that taking on Hutch's family wouldn't keep his partner safe.

Something else was going on that he hadn't yet figured out. He knew that too. He felt like all the puzzle pieces were on the table. He just couldn't get them to match up.

He sighed.

He was so tired right now that his bones hurt. So what the hell kind of friend was he? Hutch was depending on him, and all he wanted to do was put his head down and go to sleep.

Starsky sighed again and rose to make a pot of coffee.

A few minutes ago, he'd thought the night was over. Now he realized, it had only just begun.

He'd never taken Nate's supply before. He'd never touched the hidden stash. But, for some reason, last night had been different. He'd been happy, confident and secure. He'd felt like he was in control again. He'd felt like things would be okay.

Maybe it was the euphoria of doing something for Nate for a change -- even if it was only letting his friend borrow his car. Nate had seemed so grateful and so happy. He'd seemed so relieved that his meeting went off without a hitch. And he, Patrick Metter, was responsible for Nate's good fortune.

It was a sign that things were finally looking up.

So, while Nate placed his phone call, Metter let himself into the drug storage room where Nate stored his secret supply of smack. He'd taken one packet and a single hypodermic. Not enough to get a good high, but more than enough to prove he could beat the temptation. More than enough to prove he was on the road back.

He'd stared at the packet and the needle for most of last night and struggled against a demon that proved to be stronger than he knew. He didn't break until morning, until he glanced at the clock and saw that it was already three a.m.

No harm in taking just a little hit.

The drug would probably be out of his system by the time he got to work.

Metter liquefied the heroin and filled the bladder of the needle. His hand shook as he positioned the needle over his arm. Damn it, he'd gotten so used to Nate giving him his shots.

He took a deep breath, then another, and another, and another until he finally felt some measure of calm. He had what his parents' housekeeper called the heebie-jeebies -- an irrational fear of the unknown. It was like his body was sending him mixed signals. One half said, Careful, careful. The other half said, Give me the drugs right now!

His parents' housekeeper always said to err on the side of caution. Good words but then again, she'd never been hooked on smack.

Metter eased the needle into his vein and began to push down the plunger. It was only halfway to the base when he realized something had gone wrong.

Dying, his body said. I'm dying. The part of his mind or his instinct or his spirit that had tried to warn him now answered quietly, Yes. Yes, I know.

Metter's eyelids fluttered. Horrific spasms tore apart his gut. His heartbeat slowed... slowed again... and was still.

His last conscious thought before he died was a sad one. It concerned two recent drug-related deaths he'd heard of. The men died in a warehouse and their bodies were discovered on Monday.

"I hope," he thought, "they didn't suffer like this."

It's Wednesday... Another math exam.

Wednesday... Why should I give a--

Dobey set his jaw, lowered his head and pushed open the door that separated the hallway from the kitchen. The door, part of the latest new addition to the family house, proved its worth as it kept the person singing in the kitchen unaware of Dobey's presence until the very last second.

As soon as the door opened, fourteen-year-old Calvin Dobey clamped his mouth shut, killing the song he'd been warbling. He grabbed a box of cereal from the cabinet and dumped some flakes in a bowl guiltily.

"Uh... want some cereal, Dad?"

"No."

"Um, oh--" Cal grabbed the bowl, sat at the table, realized he didn't have a spoon and jumped back up.

"Mom is upstairs helping Rosie," he said as he sank back down. "I'll call her if you like."

"No need, Calvin."

"Oh."

Dobey poured himself a cup of coffee and sat in the chair nearest his son. He scooted a couple of inches closer, purposefully invading Cal's personal space. "Did you have the radio on this morning, Cal?"

"Radio? No. No sir."

"Really?"

"No, Dad."

"Really... I could have sworn I heard music." Dobey began to hum a bit of Wednesday... Another math exam. "Have you heard that song before Calvin?"

Cal's shoulders sagged.

"At the PTA meeting last week, the principal said some of the older children were singing inappropriate songs in the halls, setting a bad example," Dobey said. He rolled his eyes, as though trying to remember the titles. "Let's see if I can get this right. Freakin' friggin' Monday. Barf-a-looga Tuesday. Wednesday... Another math..."

Cal's spoon clattered to the table and he crumpled like a piece of paper.

Jeez!

Dobey looked at his son and felt a tinge of regret. A few years ago, he'd been a top-notch interrogator and he had some damn good tricks up his sleeves. He hadn't even gotten to the fun stuff yet.

"I only learned them yesterday Dad," Cal said. "Really. A couple of the tenth-graders were singing them and they let me and Eddie... um, Eddie and I... um, Eddie and me, join along. I never sang 'em before Dad, honest. And I never sang 'em at home until today... 'cause I couldn't... 'cause I didn't know 'em... until yesterday."

He noticed his father's expression and sighed.

"That doesn't make it right, of course. And I know that. 'Cause I swore. Which is wrong. Especially in the house." He looked up hopefully. "But I only did it while I was singing Dad, and everybody swears while they're singing now. Look at Elton John."

Dobey stared at him blankly. "Who?"

"Nobody." Cal sighed again. "I'm grounded, right?"

"Yep."

"And I have extra chores?"

"Yep."

"Including helping Pastor Ellis after church?"

"Yep."

Call nodded, resigned.

Stupid songs. Stupid tenth-graders. Stupid, stupid day.

The phone rang and he jumped up to grab it. It was probably one of Rosie's little five-year- old friends calling to see what his sister was wearing to kindergarten today. Under normal circumstances he would have hated taking the call, but today he welcomed the interruption. He was grateful for anything that would get him from under his father's evil eye.

Dobey watched as Cal loped over to the telephone. His son was a good kid, he realized. If the only thing he had to worry about was Cal singing Wednesday... Another math exam, he was a lot more fortunate than most other parents he knew.

"Hello?" As Dobey watched, Cal's eyebrows lifted then knit in concern. "Sure. It's okay. No problem." The boy cupped his hand over the receiver then turned to face his dad. "It's Detective Starsky, Dad." His eyebrows tightened further. "He doesn't sound very good."

Dobey took the telephone and motioned to Cal to leave. The boy scooped up his bowl of cereal and scampered out quickly.

"Starsky?"

"Yeah, Cap." Starsky sounded dead on his feet. "Sorry to call you at home..."

"What's the problem?"

Starsky sighed... and sounded just like Cal.

"Where are you Starsky?"

"My place."

Dobey glanced at the clock. Six a.m. "Give me thirty minutes. I'll be right there."

He hung up but barely turned away before the telephone rang again. He grabbed it before anyone else picked up. "Hello?"

"Captain Dobey?"

"Yeah."

"It's Officer Berg, sir -- from the crime lab team."

"What is it, Berg? Do you have something?"

"I think so, Captain. I came in a little early this morning because I wanted to check on those tire castings we made yesterday -- you know, the ones from the Carnegie murder."

"I remember."

"It turns out that the tires are pretty unique. They're extra-wide tread; the kind collectors put on late model Buicks and Fords."

"Do you have a make on the car or a list of collectors?"

"No, not yet. I wanted to run this by you first and see what you thought."

Dobey brushed a hand over his hair. For all of his haranguing, this is what separated Starsky and Hutch from almost everyone else on the squad. They didn't need him to spoon-feed them anything. They were more than capable of making decisions on their own. They closed more cases than anyone else because they pushed and shoved and dug at every possible clue until they unearthed something revealing. And on the rare occasions when they did call for help, it was because something extraordinary blocked their path.

"Captain?"

Dobey sighed. "Good work with the castings, Berg."

"Thank you sir."

"Now start calling some of the local antique car clubs."

"Where would I find...?"

"Check the Yellow Pages and then follow-up with Buick and Ford car dealers. Ask for the name and number of anyone who has a late model Buick or Ford. When I get in, we'll compare your list with the short list of suspects and known acquaintances of suspects for the Levin murder. My guess is, we'll find a common name."

"Levin? But this is about Carnegie."

"This is about coincidences," Dobey corrected. "And I don't believe in 'em. Carnegie almost died on Sunday night with Levin. Yesterday, somebody killed him in the same warehouse where Levin was taken out. You see the link?"

Berg sounded chastened. "Yes sir."

"I'll be in by eight," Dobey said. "Meet me in my office and brief me then."

"Hello?"

He was tired and cranky and worried as hell but, in spite of all that, Starsky's lips curved into a smile at the sound of her voice.

"Hey."

"Dave? You didn't have to call. I left you a note."

"I saw the note." Starsky fingered the handwritten message that was still taped to the side of the grocery bag he'd found outside his door. "I wanted to call anyway." He cracked open the bag and peered at the box of doughnuts and the carton of hot chicken soup that sat inside. "You didn't have to do this, you know."

"I know, but when I talked with you earlier you sounded so... I don't know what it was..." Terry's voice trailed off and she stayed silent for a moment. "I'm not a cop, Dave. I don't know any other way to help you. It isn't much but..."

"It's everything." Starsky fingered the box. "You got chocolate with peanut sprinkles. They're my favorite. Thank you." His fingers slid to the left and touched the carton. "Where'd you find the soup?"

"I called in a favor. The parents of one of my students own a deli. They had some leftover soup from last night." She laughed. "Now I do sound like a cop, don't I? I called in a favor."

"I guess I'm a bad influence."

"The worst." Her laughter faded. "How's Hutch? Is he still sleeping?"

"Yeah." Starsky glanced through an opening in the divider that separated the living room and the bedroom and studied the man who lay sleeping in his bed. Hutch hadn't moved an inch in almost four hours.

"I hope..." Terry's voice broke then returned with a surprisingly hard edge. "I hope you find the people who did this to him."

"I will." He broke off as a car door slammed in his driveway and, seconds later, feet pounded up the stairs to his door. "Someone's here, Terry. I gotta' go. I'll talk to you later, huh?"

"Not 'til next week. I'm leaving this afternoon to visit my aunt, remember?"

"Yeah, that's right. Sorry. I forgot."

"It's okay." Her voice gentled. "Take care of yourself, all right?"

"Always."

"And Hutch."

"Always." He looked up as someone knocked lightly on the front door. "Terry..."

"I heard it. Bye Dave."

"I love you." The words were out before he thought about it. "Be careful. Have a good trip, okay? See you soon."

Even through the phone, he could tell she was smiling. "I love you too." She sighed quietly and eased the phone away. Her final words were barely a whisper. "I'll see you soon."

"About time, man." Huggy stamped his feet impatiently and walked inside as soon as Starsky opened the door. "If it were winter out there, I'd have gotten my death of cold." He smiled to take the sting out of his words and, without being asked, kept his voice low.

He glanced at the couch then angled his head toward the bedroom.

"Hutch still out?"

"Yeah."

"I went over to his place like you asked." Huggy grinned again. "Man, you did a number on that door. As soon as I started looking at it, Hutch's landlord came out, waving his arms and turning purple on me. He was totally pissed, if you know what I mean."

"That's what I figured. I propped it up before we left last night. Think we'll be able to fix it?"

Huggy shook his head. "It's DOA, Starsk. A total goner. I called my cousin Lenny, the one who owns the lumberyard. He came out with a replacement and put it up."

"Thanks." Starsky patted his pockets then glanced around, looking for his wallet. "How much do I owe you?"

Huggy shrugged. "Can't remember."

"C'mon Hug."

"Really. I forgot." Huggy sniffed the air appreciatively then moved like a guided missile toward Terry's bag. He pointed. "Are doughnuts in there?"

"Help yourself." Starsky watched as the impossibly lean man pulled out an impossibly huge doughnut and plopped a piece in his mouth.

"Umm," Huggy said. "Bear claw. My favorite."

Starsky smiled, but the expression didn't last. "Look Huggy, about the door..."

"Forget about it."

"I can't. You're about to open a new club. You can't afford to be tossing money around."

"I'm not tossing. It's called the strategic application of funds. Besides..." Huggy stopped chewing and his voice grew serious. "Don't think I didn't realize what you and Hutch were doing when you started paying me for tips last year -- tips you knew I'd give you for free. You weren't fooling anybody. I was strapped trying to get this club thing rolling; you and Hutch did what you could to help me out."

"Nah..." Starsky shook his head. This was the one thing he and Hutch agreed they'd never tell Hug.

"You're a lousy liar Starsky, at least to your friends." Huggy popped the rest of the bear claw in his mouth, licked his fingers and rooted through his pocket for a set of keys. When he found them, he tossed them to Starsky. "The bottom lock's still working but the deadbolt was shot. That square key is for the new one."

He patted his stomach and headed for the door.

"Need anything else, just call me. Leave a message at my apartment. I'll check the machine periodically."

"Thanks."

"Hey." Huggy shrugged, erudite as usual. He opened the door, blinked in surprise when he saw Dobey on the landing then nodded quickly, squeezed by the captain and trotted down the stairs.

For his part, Dobey stared at the man open-mouthed. Whatever was going on here demanded an explanation. He raised a finger, ready to launch into a "What the hell is the matter with you?" tirade, but sucked the words back in quickly when Starsky shook his head.

Starsky stepped on the landing and closed the door behind him.

"Thanks for coming."

"Starsky, what the hell is going on? What was Huggy doing here? And why the hell aren't you at work? I warned you, McAlpine won't tolerate that crap you..."

"I need help, Cap."

That stopped him, stopped him right in his tracks. Dobey's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"First of all, I gotta' tell you that I'll understand -- Hutch and I will understand -- if you want no part of this. McAlpine said getting involved with this could cost you your job."

"Getting involved with what?"

"The case. The way he wants to run it. His decision to split Hutch and me up." Starsky explained quickly, outlining McAlpine's decision to pair him with Colvin and Hutch with Lee. He explained Hutch's situation matter-of-factly, but his voice grew strained when he talked about the drug kit Hutch was sure he'd stolen from the old Bartlett Hotel.

"That it?" Dobey asked when Starsky stopped talking.

"Yeah."

"Hard questions then."

Starsky knew exactly what Dobey meant. It was time for straight talk now. No easy outs. He nodded. "Go."

"You're sure he's not using?"

"Positive. I checked him myself. He wanted it, but he's wanted it before. He fought it; he won."

"And he didn't lift the drug kit?"

"I'd bet money that he didn't. He didn't even know what was inside. And he pointed me right to it. He called me; he told me where to find it. If he'd wanted a hit bad enough to steal, he wouldn't have given the stuff away."

"So who put it in his pocket?" Dobey ran a hand over his hair. "You're not telling me you think it was Lee."

"No..." Starsky hesitated then shook his head decisively. "I can't believe that of a brother cop; besides, he doesn't even know what happened to Hutch. It must've been one of the users in the crash house."

"When was the last time you heard of an addict giving away his stash?"

"Not often... unless there was something more to gain. Hutch said he and Lee were at the Bartlett looking for a guy named Armando. He's an independent pusher, and Rodale said he might know what really happened to Levin. I'm thinking maybe Armando was at the Bartlett and he knocked out Hutch."

"And then put the drugs on him?" Dobey blinked. "Why?"

"Maybe to throw us off. Maybe to make people think Hutch was using. He didn't have to know anything about Hutch's past to come up with that trick." He looked Dobey in the eye. It was clear the captain wasn't finished. "What else?"

"According to Lee, Hutch said he was going to meet someone after he left the Bartlett. Is that true?"

"I don't know. Hutch doesn't remember. He thinks he might've said something like that when they were driving over, but if he did, it was just did to get a little breathing room. He left a note for me to call him. He wanted to set a time when the two of us could talk."

"Did you see the note?"

"No."

"But you believe he left it?"

"Yes." Starsky squared his shoulders. "Cap, everything about this case -- from the way Levin was murdered to Pike's so-called withdrawal from the drug trade to the way McAlpine's running the investigation -- has been weird. None of it makes sense. All I've got to go on is what I feel inside, what I know to be true even though I can't prove it. I know Hutch is clean. I know he's being set up. I know he wrote me a damn frigging note!"

"Because he told you." It wasn't a question this time.

"Yes, because he told me... and because he's Hutch."

Dobey sucked in a long, deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. When he spoke again, he spoke slowly. "I've got a connection in the mayor's office -- haven't ever used it until now -- but I think I can get you twenty-four hours without going through McAlpine. Can you have Hutch back on his feet by tomorrow?"

"Yeah... I think so, yeah."

"Okay. Here's how we'll play it then. A couple of weeks ago, the mayor asked for a briefing on a case you and Hutch worked on -- the Highland Hills murder, remember?"

"Yeah. Hutch and I wrote a follow-up report for you."

"Umm hmm. Fortunately for you, I misfiled it. Didn't find it until yesterday. I'll have my contact put a bug in the mayor's ear and convince him that he has to have the report by tomorrow -- no excuses. That'll clear the way for me to call the Twenty-fourth and pull you and Hutch back for the day. Stay here. Stay out of sight. If anybody asks, I'll say you're working at home to finish the report."

"Thanks Cap."

Dobey turned to leave, thought the better of it, and turned back. "Starsky?"

"Yeah?"

"About fifteen years ago, Mike McAlpine called me into his office and gave me a little heart- to-heart. He told me not to go after a job I wanted -- the SWAT team leader role -- because the men wouldn't support me. It was a bluff -- turned out he wanted the job for himself -- but I believed him. That decision's haunted me ever since." He smiled at Starsky's confused expression. "You know why I'm telling you this?"

"No."

"Because McAlpine's playing you just like he did me. He wants something -- to find a way to grab all the credit for solving this case, most likely -- but that stuff he told you about my job being in jeopardy was crap."

Dobey's smile hardened until it turned wolfish and grim. "He got away with this fifteen years ago, but it was a damn, huge mistake for him to try it again."

Nine a.m.

Colvin lowered his eyes from the wall clock and tried to focus on the report he was holding in his hands.

Where the hell was Starsky? And, for that matter, where the hell was Hutch?

The restless feeling that had been gnawing at his gut since last night flared again, and he shot a quick, nervous glance at Lee. His regular partner sat at his desk, cheerfully filling out an expense voucher for a ten-dollar payment he'd made late yesterday to a hype. He gave me another lead on Armando, Lee had said. Geffen's tip about the Bartlett had been a bust but Lee said he felt sure that this new information would pan out.

He wasn't concerned at all by Hutch's absence. In fact, he didn't even seem surprised.

Colvin rose, walked to Starsky's desk and sank into his temporary partner's chair. On impulse, he rifled through Starsky's files, looking for a hint of where the Metro detective could be. The reporter's notebook Starsky used to jot down information while he was away from the office was gone, and Colvin assumed Starsky had taken it home.

No surprise there. Detectives rarely left their notebooks at work.

A working copy of the case file was also on Starsky's desk though all it contained were one of the many duplicate sets of reports that Starsky or Colvin had already turned in to McAlpine.

Colvin grabbed one of Starsky's pencils and tapped it on the desk impatiently.

He knew there had to be something more here. Every instinct he had warned that something was afoot, and it would be his butt in a sling if Starsky and Hutch waltzed in mid-afternoon and announced that they had solved the case. Before the Metro detectives arrived two days ago, Captain McAlpine made it clear that he wanted credit for solving the case to be awarded solely to his men. That's why he'd split Starsky and Hutch up. He wanted to make sure that they - - and, by default, Dobey -- didn't steal the task force's thunder. His and Lee's job had been to stick to Starsky and Hutch like glue, to let them do the heavy lifting but to be ready in an instant to step in and make the actual bust.

Which is why not knowing where Starsky was at this moment was driving Colvin nuts.

But Lee didn't seem to care.

Colvin tapped the pencil harder against Starsky's desk and the little piece of wood cracked and fell from his hand. One piece dropped like a corpse to the desktop; the other fell to the floor and rolled under Starsky's desk.

He swung down after it and found it nestled against a crumpled piece of paper. Not in the trash can. Not on the desk. Maybe this was what he'd been looking for. He straightened, bringing the piece of paper up with him.

Colvin unfurled the paper and stared in dismay at the note. If there was a hidden message here, he sure didn't get it. All he saw were two lines scrawled by a shaky hand.

Call me. H.

No date. No time. No salutation.

Colvin blinked and he studied the message again. He remembered the way Hutch had reacted when Starsky finished typing his report. No big deal. No show.

Just like this.

Call me. H.

The fierce gnawing in his gut suddenly grew more intense. Colvin looked up and saw Lee staring at him with a gaze that was ice cold and intense.

Shit!

Colvin felt the skin on the back of his neck begin to tingle. Something was afoot all right, and Lee was at the heart of it. If Starsky had seen the note he would have kept it or destroyed it. He wouldn't have left it crumpled in a ball under his desk.

And if he hadn't seen it -- Colvin fingered the wrinkled paper again -- it was because someone in the department had gotten to it first.

Oh jeez!

It had been a mistake to tell Lee about Hutch. Colvin realized that now. Either the blond was using smack already or Lee had a plan to drive him back. Colvin knew it as surely as he knew his name.

But he was as trapped by this situation as Hutch was. He'd gain nothing by telling his captain. McAlpine wouldn't care. He could warn Starsky and the curly-haired detective would certainly get to Hutch. But Starsky would bring Dobey in on it too; Colvin was sure of it. Dobey would pull his detectives back to Metro, and McAlpine would have a fit. He'd look for a scapegoat and Colvin had no doubt that the scapegoat would be him. His career would be over just like that.

He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let that happen. He was too close to retirement and pension and quality time with his wife.

The decision to stay silent must have shown on his face because Lee smiled. It was a devil's smile, the type Lucifer must have given when he received the keys to Hell.

Dobey studied the stacks of paper carefully. Berg had done a good job of collecting membership records from antique automobile clubs. He'd even rousted some organizers out of bed when he had to but, unfortunately, the man's detective work had stopped there. He'd simply brought in the lists and presented them to Dobey. He hadn't made any effort yet to cull the lists and look for a common name.

Dobey traced his finger down the third page and wished, for probably the fortieth time since they'd been assigned to McAlpine, that he had Starsky and Hutch back in his division. They were always doing something to get his ire up but, with very few exceptions, they also delivered solved cases to him at or before his arbitrarily set deadline.

His finger stopped mid-page. "Got it!"

Berg looked up from the visitor's chair he'd settled in as soon as he delivered the stacks of paper to his captain. "You say something, sir?"

"Yep." Dobey turned the piece of paper around and pointed at a name. "See that? Dr. Patrick Metter. Starsky interviewed him on Monday. According to this list, he owns an antique Oldsmobile and an older model Buick. I'm willing to bet a week's pay that he's the connection we're looking for."

He grabbed the phone and pressed a button that connected him to his secretary. "Gayle? Get Starsky on the phone for me, will you?" He paused, listened then responded testily. "Yes, I know he's working on the mayor's report. I have a question for him though... Thanks."

He hung up and fingered the page thoughtfully. He'd gotten the results of the plane ticket investigation a few minutes after Berg arrived. The remnant found by Carnegie's body on Tuesday was part of a plane ticket to Colorado purchased in the name of James Sarcone. Dobey knew the man had some connection to Levin -- he vaguely remembered Starsky mentioning him earlier this morning -- but he couldn't put a handle on exactly what his role in Levin's organization was. That's what he needed to check.

The phone rang and Dobey grabbed it quickly. "Dobey... Yeah Starsky, hold on a minute." He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Berg. The officer was on his feet in an instant, as though invisible strings had jerked him up.

"Captain?"

"Do me a favor Berg. Get on the phone to City House and schedule an appointment for me with Patrick Metter."

"For you, Captain?" The man shifted uncomfortably. "Isn't this Captain McAlpine's case?"

Dobey shook his head once. He'd explain -- this time -- then the discussion was over. "He's got no interest in Carnegie. He said that murder had nothing to do with Levin. He's also got no interest in City House. We do."

"And-and you want to handle the interview?"

"Something wrong with that?"

Berg jumped. "No! No sir."

"Fine."

Dobey watched the man leave and rolled his eyes. Oh yeah, he was ready for this case to be over all right.

Who would've ever guessed it?

He missed Starsky and Hutch.

It was his first time placing a call to the big boss, and he was so nervous that his hands shook.

Berg hunched over the public telephone in the Metro precinct main lobby and dialed quickly. He hated this! He absolutely hated this! But he really, really needed the money. And it wasn't like he was hurting anybody. The boss said he didn't want to slow down the investigation... he just wanted to know what was going on.

The line clicked as a connection was made. Berg heard a heavy voice on the other end as one of the boss' assistants answered the phone. "Yeah?"

Berg gulped and spoke quickly, hoping his voice sounded stronger than he felt.

"Yeah. Uh, yeah. Th-this is B-Berg. L-let me talk to Mr. Hatcher."

He knew he was dreaming, but it was a good dream. He was floating on his back in the water, rocked gently by the waves. A gull flew overhead and called out as it passed. Its cry almost sounded human; it almost seemed to be calling his name.

Hutch. Hutch. Hutch.

But he didn't pay attention. The day was too enjoyable. The water was warm. He was warm. And he was drifting... drifting... drifting in the sea.

He could have floated on for hours, but the motion of the waves became stronger. They weren't rough exactly, but they were -- what was the word? -- insistent. They tugged at him and prodded him, encouraging him to wake up. And the bird returned to hover overhead, its cawing becoming louder and clearer.

Hutch. Hutch. Hutch.

The seagull swooped lower, and Hutch could see its face now. Its sharp, clear eyes were as blue as the ocean. Its curved beak opened -- not to peck at him surprisingly, but to speak.

"Come on. Wake up, Hutch."

Hutch struggled to comply, but it wasn't easy. His limbs were too heavy, and his head felt like lead. He tried to drift off again, but the waves became more determined. He knew they wouldn't stop until he woke.

He managed to crack his eyelids and a face swam into view. He stared into eyes as blue as the seagull's.

"That's the way. Sit up for me now."

Hutch blinked groggily and tried to clear his throat. Sit? His brain tried to process the instructions. Up? Sit up? He felt his legs moving, but they were operating on their own -- and apparently not doing very well. He felt himself gripped under the arms and lifted like a child.

A hand cupped his head and tilted it back. His mouth opened automatically and a glass of cool water was held to his lips.

"Drink."

He obeyed, swallowing eagerly. The water tasted wonderful; it soothed his too-dry throat. He hadn't known until this minute that he was thirty, but now he couldn't remember ever being so parched.

"You were out for over ten hours, you know that? Had to wake you or you'd dry up. The last thing you need is to get dehydrated..."

The water did more than quench his thirst; it started to rouse him. The fuzzy outlines of his vision began to clear. Hutch tried to lift a hand to hold the glass himself, but the appendage at the end of his right arm couldn't grasp anything. It was red and swollen and swaddled in gauze.

He pulled back in confusion.

"Had enough?"

The glass was eased away.

"...my... hand..."

"Is it hurting?"

Hurting? Hutch stared at it dumbly. No. It wasn't hurting. But he didn't understand.

He blinked

"Is it hurting, Hutch?"

He shook his head slowly. Not hurting. He held it out, confused but mute. What happened to my hand?

"You cut it on a piece of glass, remember?" Starsky took Hutch's hand and rested it flat on the bed. "Don't worry about it. We'll talk about it later, okay?"

Hutch nodded. Later was perfect. All of the sudden, he felt as though he'd been awake forever. All he wanted to do now was rest. His muscles started to relax of their accord, and his eyelids began to droop.

"Hutch?"

"...tired..."

"Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

No food... Not now... He was being lulled back to the dream again -- the good dream -- just like before. He tried to stretch out so he could drift again in the sea.

"Hutch?"

His body relaxed completely and he sagged. Falling? No. I'm okay. I'm not falling. The waves were there to catch him. They held him steady then gently laid him flat. And the gull flew overhead again, calling to him softly.

It's fine, Hutch. Go back to sleep.

Okay. He didn't try to fight it. Everything was all right now. He was protected here and he was warm.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

And he was drifting again. Drifting... drifting... slowly in the sea.

"Sit down, Jimmy."

Hatcher motioned toward a chair and smiled broadly. He did a good job of playing the perfect host, but Sarcone would have felt more at home if Hatcher's bodyguards hadn't relieved him of his gun and his knife and his brass knuckles as soon as he walked in the door. And he would have felt a lot more like having idle chitchat with Robby Levin's second-in-command if five of those bodyguards weren't standing in the ready-to-shoot position by the door.

He was on the spot for something. He knew it. He could feel it. He just didn't know what it was.

"How's it going, Jimmy?" Hatcher asked personably. "How's your day been?"

Sarcone nodded but, otherwise, didn't move a muscle. He was uncomfortable in the tiny, antique chair but he'd be damned if he was going to show it. "Day's been fine, Mr. Hatcher."

"Good." Hatcher mimicked his nod. "That's good." He leaned back in his big leather chair and studied Sarcone carefully. "So... you were planning a trip, Jimmy?"

Sarcone paled. "What?"

"A trip. You know?" Hatcher flapped his hands above his desk. "A little get-away. On a plane." His smile turned to ice. "To Colorado, maybe."

"Look Mr. Hatcher, I don't know..."

"A little bird told me you bought a ticket. One way." He shook his head sadly. "What's the deal, Jimmy? Weren't you planning on coming back?"

He rose and circled Sarcone's chair slowly. And, for the first time in a long time, Sarcone was scared. He'd worked for a number of bosses in his time, but Hatcher was a wildcard. He looked like an accountant but he was ambitious and he was cold. If Hatcher got it in his mind to do so, he'd grab one of the bodyguard's guns and shoot Sarcone himself. And he'd do it without a second thought.

"I just needed to get away," Sarcone admitted.

"Uh huh." Hatcher walked back to his desk and perched on the edge. "You know how I found out about the trip, Jimmy?"

"You've got a contact? At the airlines, maybe?"

"I've got a contact, and he's a cop. The cops know about your trip Jimmy. They've got a piece of your plane ticket."

"My ticket?" Sarcone shook his head. "No. They can't. That's not possible."

"They found it yesterday by Joseph Carnegie's body. You know anything about Joseph Carnegie catching a couple of bullets, Jimmy? Did you make the decision on your own to off him?"

"Off him? Yesterday?" Sarcone shook his head again. "I was doing business for you all day yesterday, Mr. Hatcher." He jerked his head toward one of the bodyguards. "He was with me the whole time. You can ask him."

"I already did."

"Then you know I couldn't have..."

Hatcher waved him to silence.

"Let me tell you something, Jimmy. I always figured that Robby's hit was an inside job. Rodale or Pike or Sloan may have been watching and giving direction, but it had to be somebody close to him who actually pulled it off. My first thought was that it had to be you, but then I heard how Robby had gone off on his own and I figured it might have been somebody else. So I waited and I watched and I even partnered with the cops so I could get a handle on this thing before it went too far."

He eased to his feet and started pacing again.

"Don't get me wrong, Jimmy. I'm not upset about Robby for personal reasons. The timing was a little off, but I would have taken him out myself before too long. What bothers me is the way it was done. It left the door open for Rodale or Pike or Sloan and that troubles me."

Sarcone didn't try to hide his discomfort anymore. He fidgeted now, and he began to sweat. He glanced at the clock on Hatcher's mantle. Five-fifteen in the afternoon. There were so many things he still wanted to do. Where had all time gone?

Hatcher stopped pacing and leaned in close. Sarcone prepared himself for the bullet or knife he was sure would soon follow but instead of a deathblow, he felt warm breath by his ear as Hatcher continued to speak.

"Here's the thing, Jimmy. The way I see it, you've got yourself a little problem -- and it's bigger than the one you have with me."

"A problem, Mr. Hatcher?"

"Someone's setting you up. Whoever it is wants you out of the way. They're making the cops think -- and making me think -- that you're in tight with Rodale." He shrugged. "I'm checking it out for myself and, if that's the case, I'm going to have to kill you." He shrugged again. "Nothing personal."

"I don't have any deal going with Rodale, Mr. Hatcher," Sarcone said quickly. "You can take that to the bank. I swear."

"Let's say for a minute that I believe you," Hatcher said. His voice was casual, almost friendly. "The cops have a lot of questions about that ticket. It wasn't there on Monday when they found Robby. That means you must've been back to the warehouse since then."

"I haven't, Mr. Hatcher. Trust me."

"Sure. Of course you haven't. A piece of your unused airline ticket just happened to fall by the body of man who was killed execution style with two shots to the back of the head." Hatcher laughed. "I'll tell you Jimmy. Somebody wants you bad."

He straightened and nodded to the bodyguards. Three came forward and stood beside Sarcone.

"Why don't we do this?" Hatcher asked.

The question was, of course, rhetorical. Sarcone could refuse but if he did, he'd die. Knowing that made the decision process fast and simple.

"You stay here tonight. We'll have a nice dinner, talk a little more maybe," Hatcher said. "You sleep on what I had to say then, bright and early tomorrow morning, you head out and have a nice heart-to-heart with whomever you've been working with. You let them know that I've had enough of these little games. I want this mess over with, and I want it over tomorrow. You understand?"

"I understand. Whatever you say, Mr. Hatcher."

"That's good." Hatcher patted his shoulder easily. "Now Jimmy, these fellas will take you upstairs to your room. You'll find a phone in there. I had it put in this afternoon. It's a private line so you don't have to worry about any curious, little ears listening while you talk."

Sarcone stared at him blankly and Hatcher sighed.

"I want you to call your partner, Jimmy. Explain that things are getting a little tense. Make sure your friend understands that either you two end this thing tomorrow or I will. Makes no difference to me." He shrugged again. "You understand what I'm saying Jimmy?"

Sarcone nodded. He understood all right.

He'd put an end to this tomorrow, or he'd be dead.

He sat on the bed for twenty minutes, twenty minutes, without moving an inch. He tried as hard as he could to figure things out. His mind, trained to see conspiracies and double- crosses at every turn, kept coming back to Sheila.

Opportunity, it said. Sheila had more than enough opportunity to tell the cops that he was involved with Rodale. Sheila had access to the plane ticket. She knew when Foster was going to kill Carnegie. Sheila could have arranged to have the ticket planted at the warehouse.

But why? That argument came from his heart. He loved Sheila and he knew she loved him. She told him so. She showed him so.

It couldn't be Sheila. He wouldn't believe it was Sheila.

But, if it wasn't Sheila... Sarcone's mind searched for culprits and one name surfaced quickly.

Foster. He was the only other person who knew enough to get him in trouble with the cops.

But how did he get the ticket? Damn it. Damn it! How did he get the ticket?

Sarcone snatched up the phone. Suddenly it didn't matter if Hatcher had been telling the truth or lying about the private line. He punched in the number quickly and shifted impatiently from foot to foot while he waited for an answer.

"Hello?"

"Sheila? Are you alone?"

"Jimmy? I didn't expect to hear..."

"I asked you a question. Are you alone?"

She hesitated and Sarcone could hear her quick intake of breath. He'd scared her again. He knew that. But apologies would have to wait.

"I mean it Sheila," he snapped. "Are you alone?"

"Yes. Of course I'm alone. Who did you think would be here Jimmy?"

"Listen to me. I need you to tell me the truth about this. Was Foster at your place yesterday? Was he at your apartment before he killed Carnegie?"

"Why are you asking me that? You're scaring me Jimmy."

"The cops found part of a plane ticket near Carnegie's body. It was my plane ticket, Sheila. It was the one I bought so you and I could go to Colorado." His voice hardened. "I want to know how it wound up by Carnegie's body."

Her voice caught in a quiet sob. Under normal circumstances the sound would have torn holes in his heart but tonight he was too scared to be moved.

"I mean it Sheila. I want to know how it happened!"

"It was Nate," Sheila answered. "I couldn't stop him Jimmy. He came over before he went to warehouse. I tried to shut the door but he was too strong for me. I couldn't keep him out. He wanted... he tried... When I said no, when I said I loved you and that we were going away, he just went crazy. He ran upstairs and went through my things. He found the tickets and tried to tear them up. I got them away from him but I guess he tore a piece off. I didn't know he did that Jimmy. I thought I'd gotten everything back."

Sarcone's voice was hard. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to get upset. I wanted to handle it, Jimmy. I wanted to take care of things this time because you always take care of things for me." She sniffed. "I thought I was doing the right thing, Jimmy. I thought I was helping you for once."

"It's okay, baby." The words were out before he even thought about it, but that was okay. He wasn't just stringing her a line. He really meant it. They were in a bad situation, a real mess, but it wasn't her fault. The problem was Foster.

And that problem had to go.

"Listen to me Sheila. Things are serious now. Hatcher knows something is going on. He wants us to cool it -- and that's what we're going to do."

"Hatcher knows?"

"He has me stashed at his place. He promised he'd let me go in the morning if I go back to my partner and calm things down. I'm gonna' calm things down all right, Sheila. I'm gonna' take Foster out."

"I know Jimmy, but..."

"No buts Sheila. If Foster tries to see you tonight, play things cool. Don't get him riled. I'll take care of everything tomorrow."

Sheila sighed. "Okay. Whatever you say, Jimmy."

He nodded as though she could see.

Sheila sighed again. "Whatever you say."

She hung up the receiver, picked it up again and dialed quickly. Things were moving faster than even she would have imagined.

Who would have guessed Hatcher would have a contact in the police department? The way she'd planned it, the cops wouldn't have connected Sarcone to the plane ticket until after Thursday, until after he and Metter and Foster were all dead... and she was long gone.

Now things were going at a faster pace and in a slightly different direction than she'd anticipated. She listened to the dull metallic clicks on the telephone line while she waited for a connection.

Think. Think!

She had to think her way out of this. She hadn't gotten Sarcone to eat the poisoned tuna salad yet so, unless he died killing Foster or unless Hatcher took him out, he was going to survive this whole thing. And if he did, he would finally realize that she was the one who set him up. After that, jail would only delay the inevitable. He would never stop looking for her. Never.

She sucked in a breath and tapped her foot impatiently while the telephone on the other end of the line continued to ring. The thing was, she wasn't even the one who'd come up with the plan. She wasn't the one who first decided to kill Levin. She wasn't the one who decided to set up Foster or Sarcone. She wasn't the one who decided Ricks and Carnegie and Metter were expendable. She was just an innocent. Sheila nodded quickly. That was it. That was it! She was an innocent, a pawn in someone else's game.

The line clicked and Sheila sighed as a man's voice filled the line.

"It's me," she said as soon as he answered. "We have a problem. Hatcher found out about the ticket. He knows it's Sarcone's and he knows about the trip to Colorado. He has Sarcone locked up for the night..."

She paused, listened then responded quickly. "No. Sarcone said Hatcher's going to let him go tomorrow. He's coming over first thing in the morning. He's coming here before he goes to City House to take care of Foster..."

She paused again and this time when she spoke, her voice rose in frustration "What do you mean, that's okay? It's not okay! It's not okay, damn it! If Sarcone has a clue that I'm involved in this thing, he'll kill me. You haven't seen him. He's crazy..."

She sucked in a breath. "No! No! You listen to me! I don't care what the plan was. I don't care who's behind this thing. It's my butt on the line here, not his and not yours. If I think for a minute that Sarcone's a loose canon, I'm going to take him out and I'm not going to worry about arsenic either. I've got a gun here. I know how to use it."

The man on the other end of the line said something right, something calming and Sheila exhaled the breath she'd been holding.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. We can do that." Her lips quivered into a smile that was almost sincere. "Sure. I want to see you too... We can talk about it then."

Her almost-smile widened. "I'll see you then."

Hutch stepped out of the shower and toweled himself off. He glanced in the mirror, saw his reflection and turned away. He still looked like hell, he figured. There were circles under his eyes and the furrow between his brow was deep and pronounced. His hand, which had started to tingle when he first woke up, now throbbed and the tight, little lines around his mouth were a testament to his current battle with pain.

But there was a flip side to this, too.

Hutch turned back to the mirror and studied his reflection again. This time he smiled.

Even though he'd been relegated to using his left hand he'd done a pretty decent job of shaving himself. In his opinion -- and yeah, so what if it was a little bit biased? -- his face looked just fine. Better yet, his eyes were clear and showed no sign of renewed drug use. The damnable cravings and overwhelming anxiety were gone. And he felt like himself again... for the first time in more than a week.

He burrowed into the bag Starsky had left in the bathroom for him and pulled out some clean clothes. It was late, already almost seven, so he settled happily for sweats and a thick pair of socks. A voice -- Starsky's -- popped into his head and his smile widened.

Your landlord's gonna' be pissed, Hutch. 'Fraid I busted the door.

He shouldn't be laughing. It wasn't really funny. But shit... Hutch snorted. 'Fraid I busted the door? One of the few things he could remember clearly from last night was the sound of Starsky crashing through that door. He might as well have driven the Torino through it.

Hutch balled up the pair of hospital scrubs he'd worn while he was sleeping -- scrubs he couldn't even remember putting on -- and tossed them into Starsky's hamper.

Your landlord's gonna' be pissed, Hutch. 'Fraid I busted the door. Hutch chuckled. His landlord would probably evict him the minute he showed up at Venice Place again, and then what? Hutch laughed out loud at the thought of what he could do. Surprise Starsk. I'm between apartments right now so I just let myself in. And, oh yeah... 'Fraid I busted the door.

The laugh faded in his throat as he stepped into the living room. Starsky lay sprawled on the couch, dead to the world. He slept on his stomach with one arm folded under his head and the other draped haphazardly across his back. He hadn't moved at all since Hutch passed him thirty minutes earlier on the way to the bathroom, and if he sensed Hutch's presence in the room now, he gave no sign.

Hutch moved through the living room silently and entered the kitchen. A half-full carton of chicken soup sat on the counter and Hutch fingered it slowly. He remembered Starsky waking him twice, once to give him water and once, much later, to force a cup of warm soup down his throat.

The soup had been wonderful, filling a hole in his stomach that had grown huge from subsisting for far too many days on candy bars, coffee and high-caffeine soda. Hutch heated the remainder in a saucepan and rifled through Starsky's cabinets for the spare bottle of aspirin he always kept in the kitchen.

He found the bottle tucked neatly away on the spice shelf, pulled it out and then turned his attention to Starsky's refrigerator. Five minutes later, he'd created a modest, little smorgasbord consisting of leftover chicken soup, two aspirin, a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, a turkey sandwich, three chocolate cookies and a tomato. He scooped the food onto a tray and wandered back into the living room.

Before he'd gone to sleep, Starsky had pulled the living room table close to the couch, placed the magazines and knickknacks in a neat, little stack on the floor and spread the contents of what looked like a duplicate of the Levin case file over the tabletop.

Now working quietly, Hutch pushed a bit of the paperwork to the side, placed his meal in the empty space on the table and settled on the floor. He leaned against the couch, unconsciously easing back until his shoulders rested against Starsky's legs, and grabbed his sandwich with his left hand while he used the tip of the index finger on his right to sift through the collection of interview notes and reports Starsky had assembled. For the time being, he left the stack of conclusory notes, scrawled on three-by-five index cards, alone.

When they first started working together, Starsky's way of reviewing a case file drove Hutch nuts. The contents of a case file are usually organized in chronological order, but the curly-haired detective would spread everything out, studying each photo and each report carefully. Then, as though he were putting together pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, he'd reorganize the paperwork, putting like elements together and relegating parts that didn't fit to a stack on the far side of his desk. When he was finished, the file would usually look like a road map, directing the detectives' attention in one clear direction.

Hutch stopped fighting the process after their third case. By the fifth, he joined in the process willingly and pushed his desk against Starsky's to create a larger workspace. Now, as he rooted through Starsky's first crack at the Levin case, Hutch felt the result of years of teamwork kick in automatically. He studied the notes, reorganized some of the paperwork trail and finally, about an hour later, turned his attention to the stack of index cards.

Their system of using index cards to summarize details of a case was simple. The most important aspect of the case was labeled "1". Every piece of information or evidence relevant to that aspect of the case was then prioritized as "1a", "1b" and so on. As expected, Levin's murder -- the starting point for this whole mess -- was labeled number one. Beneath the card were details of the case that Hutch could barely remember such as the results of Starsky's preliminary check on Sloan.

There was also new information about Carnegie.

The man had been murdered a day after Hutch questioned him, shot down in the same warehouse where he'd OD'd on Sunday night.

Sad...

Starsky's notes indicated the battle he'd fought and lost with McAlpine to have Carnegie placed in protective custody, and Hutch shook his head slowly.

Very, very sad.

As lovers went, she'd give him a nine.

Sheila Wolinsky pulled her robe tighter and stared down at the man who stretched languorously on her bed. He wasn't the best she'd ever been with.

No, certainly not.

His tall, lean body was definitely not one she'd covet in her dreams, but she had to admit that she liked his air of mystery.

She still didn't know how he'd found her. The only thing she could imagine was that he had connections throughout the West. And she had no clue how he'd known about her juvenile record for shoplifting and soliciting and aggravated assault. Those files were supposed to have been sealed when she'd turned eighteen. But he'd found out about them somehow -- and he told her they gave her a competitive advantage.

He'd liked the fact that she could be ruthless and he liked the fact that she had no qualms about getting close to Robby Levin or Nate Foster or Jimmy Sarcone.

"I'll do whatever I have to do for the payoff," she'd said.

He'd laughed at that, but he'd also given her five grand. In cash. Right in her hand.

And she'd been hooked.

Just like that.

Now he stared at her narrowly and asked, "How'd you leave things with Sarcone?"

She shrugged.

"It's fine. He's staying with Hatcher tonight. He'll come over tomorrow morning. We'll talk. Then he'll go to City House and take care of Foster."

"What about the poison? You said you had a plan."

"I do have a plan. I set the whole thing up the last time he was here. I put enough arsenic in the tuna to take down a moose. He thinks I made it special for him. I'll put it in front of him just before he leaves. He should start getting sick within thirty minutes, and he'll be dead within hours."

"But you're sure he'll be able to take care of Foster?"

"Oh yeah." Sheila smiled. "He's convinced that Foster's been over here threatening me and that Foster's the one who's setting him up with the cops. He's so pissed right now that you could roll over Sarcone with a semi and he still wouldn't stop until he'd taken Foster out."

"Umm. It always pays to have a little insurance though. We need something that's sure to drive him over the edge. That way, even if the arsenic doesn't kill him, the cops definitely will." He pointed to his little satchel. "Bring me my bag, will you babe? I think I've got some gum in there."

He always chewed gum after they'd been together. Secretly, Sheila wondered if he was trying to get the taste of her kisses out of his mouth. He had a guilty conscience, most likely. Just one more reason why married men shouldn't fool around.

She scooped the little satchel off the floor and handed it to him silently. She didn't watch him riffle though it. Instead, she turned her back to him. She walked across the room and stopped by the bedroom window.

"So what's the deal with Sarcone anyway?" she asked without turning. "Even if he lived through this thing, the cops would still put him away. Once he kills Foster, the case against him would be airtight."

The man shrugged, though Sheila couldn't see it. His nonchalance was evident however in his voice. "The boss doesn't want to play it that way," he said. "He has this thing, this anxiety, about loose ends."

Something about those words -- or the manner in which they'd been spoken -- got to Sheila, warned Sheila. They prickled her skin and sent jolts of apprehension that raised her hair.

She turned, but turned too slowly.

She raised her hands, but not in time.

The man aimed a gun at her chest and he fired. The course of the bullet was direct and true.

So this is dying, Sheila thought as she was falling. It wasn't what she'd expected. Just like everything else in her life, it had been vastly overblown.

Her head hit the carpet, bounced once then lay still. Blood gurgled in her mouth and the man walked forward, curious about what she had to say.

Last words were always so interesting.

He bent down to listen. Sheila's eyes rolled toward him, locked and then glazed. Her mouth moved a final time and her last words drifted out in pillows of air.

"Well... shit."

The man blinked. Well... shit? That was it? That was key to Sheila Wolinsky? He straightened, more frustrated than confused. Just his luck, he'd gotten tacky when he'd wanted profound.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the torn edge of a business card. The words "Nate Foster" were about all that were legible.

He stooped again and shoved the torn piece of paper in Sheila Wolinsky's cupped hand. It looked as though she'd grabbed the paper in a struggle -- the struggle for her life -- which obviously she'd lost.

If this didn't push Sarcone over the edge, nothing would.

By noon tomorrow, the big man should be half out of his mind. After that, there was nothing to do but let nature take its course.

Sarcone would kill Foster.

The cops would kill Sarcone.

And, a few months later, Hatcher would fold like the proverbial fan.

The boss would be happy because the plan he'd been working for years would finally pay off. He'd finally have control of the territory that used to belong to Robby Levin.

"You finished pushing that paper around yet?" Starsky yawned, wiped a hand across still- sleepy eyes and stared at Hutch drowsily. "With all the time you've spent working on that thing, I figured you'd have it solved by now."

"Could've, but all that snoring you were doing distracted me."

"I don't snore."

"I had quieter days when I was training with the bomb squad, Starsk."

"Please."

Starsky rolled back on the couch, lifted a leg and prodded Hutch with his foot. Hutch ducked obediently and Starsky swung his legs over the blond's lowered head and dropped his feet to the floor. He sat up, drew a hand across his face then leaned over to study Hutch's changes to Levin's case file. One revision caught him by surprise and he pointed.

"Why'd you move that?"

"What?"

"That card about Metter. I thought he was holding something back when I talked to him on -- when was that? -- Monday? You've got him listed as 'possibly involved but no flight risk'. How come?"

"He's dead. Ain't going nowhere."

Starsky's eyebrows rose. "When did that happen?"

"Early today or late last night." Hutch said. "Dobey called. He said it looks like Metter died of bad smack but we won't know for sure until the ME's report comes in."

"Smack? You mean like Levin and that other guy? What was his name?"

"Ricks."

"Yeah, Ricks..." Starsky wiped his face with his hand a second time. "Jeez. I should have picked up on the fact that he was using. I knew something was off with him, but I didn't know what."

"You talked with him for how long? Fifteen minutes?"

"More like twenty-five."

"And in all that time you didn't figure out that he had a drug problem that he'd managed to keep hidden for years? You're losing your touch, Starsk." Hutch rolled his eyes. "Don't beat yourself up about it. There's no way you could've known."

He let his head loll back and glanced at Starsky over his shoulder. "Right?" When there wasn't an immediate response he used his elbow to jab Starsky's leg.

"Am I right?"

"Yeah..."

Not good enough.

"Am I right?"

"You're right," Starsky agreed. He sucked in a breath, shrugged off his souring mood and slid off the couch to sit beside Hutch on the floor. "How do you know he kept it hidden? The drug problem, I mean."

"Dobey interviewed some people who worked for him. None of them knew what was going on."

"Oh."

"He did get something solid to tie Metter to Carnegie though," Hutch said. "The tires on Metter's car match tire casts made at the warehouse on Tuesday when Carnegie's body was found."

"So Dobey's thinking there's a straight line connection to Levin and Ricks?"

Hutch shrugged. "He doesn't know. He's going to talk it over with McAlpine later tonight." Hutch grabbed Starsky's arm and glanced at his partner's watch. "It's almost eight o'clock now. Dobey said he was going to meet McAlpine at nine."

"What about that other guy who works at City House -- the one McAlpine wouldn't let me do the follow up on?" Starsky asked. "His name was Foster, Nate Foster I think. Did Dobey talk with him?"

"Yeah. Dobey said he thinks Foster knows a hell of a lot more than he's saying but we've got nothing to nudge him with. We don't have any reason to hold him, much less bust him. There was nothing Dobey could do but say thank you very much and let him go."

"Umm. So we've got Levin dead, Carnegie dead, Ricks dead and Metter dead. We've got pretty solid reasons to cross Rodale, Sloan and Hatcher off our suspect list..."

"And we've got someone working like hell to point the finger at Jimmy Sarcone," Hutch interrupted.

"And that someone is Sheila Wolinsky."

"Who, from what you said in your notes, has a heart of ice but probably not the brains or the muscle to pull this thing off..." Hutch said.

The two men starting playing off of each other, speaking so rapidly that their words overlapped. "Which means she's working for somebody," Starsky suggested.

"Somebody who doesn't like loose ends..."

"...who has enough ambition to want Levin's turf for his own..."

"...and enough clout to make things happen."

They smiled at the same time and they spoke at the same time as each read the other's thoughts.

"Pike!"

"So how the hell are we going to prove it?" Starsky asked. "McAlpine's convinced he's got Pike on the run. There ain't no way he's going to let us follow this line of an investigation."

Hutch shrugged. "He can't keep us from talking to Wolinsky or Sarcone. They're material to the case. I think if we put a little pressure on them, one of 'em will roll over. Whoever does will probably give us what we need to finally nail Pike." He grinned. "That would feel good, wouldn't it? After all this time, to finally nail Pike."

Starsky nodded. "Damn straight." He yawned. "But how 'bout we tackle this tomorrow? I'm beat."

He glanced in dismay at the tomato stem that sat, lonely and pathetic, on Hutch's plate. "Is that all you had to eat? A tomato?"

Hutch shrugged again. "You know how I feel about going through somebody else's kitchen Starsk." He looked at Starsky pitifully. "Of course, if you're offering to make something..."

Starsky groaned. "Yeah, fine. Gimme' a minute though. I want to call Terry and make sure she made it to her aunt's okay."

"No need," Hutch said. "She called earlier."

"She called too?" Starsky turned around and stared at the dent he'd left in the sofa. "What was I, dead?"

"Dead to the world at least. She didn't want me to wake you."

"What did she say?"

Hutch wriggled his toes. "A bunch of mushy stuff. You know: You're terrific. You're wonderful. I love you." He stopped, blinked and awkwardly snapped the fingers on his left hand. "And, oh yeah -- I almost forgot. She said to say hi to you too."

Starsky groaned. Great. Just great. He'd been had. Again.

Hutch grinned at his friend's pained expression. "Actually, she said the trip was fine. She and her aunt are going out to dinner then off to visit some other relatives. She said not to call tonight because she doesn't know what time they'll get in. She'll talk with you this weekend."

"Umm." Starsky's stomach growled and he patted it companionably. "Guess it's time to feed my better half." He started to push himself up but stopped and sank back down when Hutch caught his arm.

"What?"

He turned to Hutch expectantly... and the blond's confidence evaporated without warning, leaving him raw and exposed.

"I..."

Hutch broke off self-consciously and looked away. He stared down at his injured hand and tugged on a piece of the bandage that had unraveled, toying nervously with the frazzled gauze thread.

Watching him at that moment was painful. Being him hurt even more.

"Hutch..."

Hutch didn't look up. He couldn't look up. But he found his voice again, even if he couldn't yet meet his partner's eyes.

"I was kind of out of it for a while, Starsk."

"It happens." Starsky's voice was gentle. "It happens to me too whenever I think too much about 'Nam."

"Yeah..." Hutch tugged once more on the string and it fell apart in his hand. Snapped. Broken. Just like him. He smiled a smile that was somehow both amused and sad.

"What?" Starsky asked.

"It's just -- it made me remember how I thought the world worked when I was a kid. Everything seemed so simple then."

"Umm hmm."

"Like with my grandpa..." The sad, little smile tugged at Hutch's lips again. "He used to have us make lists of everything we wanted for our birthdays and for Christmas. Most of the stuff would change from year to year as we got older. One year it was skates, the next it was riding lessons, the next it was a trip somewhere. You know what I mean?"

"No, but I got a great imagination." Starsky smiled encouragingly. "Go on."

"There was only one thing he couldn't get for me. But until I was nine -- until I learned better -- I always put it at the top of my list."

"What was it?" Starsky grinned. "A pony? A car? Keys to the girls' locker room?"

Hutch shook his head. He flicked his eyes at Starsky then looked away.

"What?" Starsky pressed.

"A brother."

Starsky's smile faded. Technically, Hutch had gotten what he wanted. His father's second marriage had given him Will.

"When I was little, I'd lie awake for hours wondering what would happen if my parents died or if there were a famine or if we went to war. It scared me," Hutch admitted. "But I always thought that if things got too hard to handle, this brother -- my brother -- would just be there. He'd hold me up until I could manage on my own."

Hutch lifted his head and turned to Starsky. For once, he made no effort to hide the emotion shining in his eyes.

"And he did." Hutch smiled again, this time without sadness and without pain. "He did."

"Hutch..."

Hutch patted Starsky's leg with his bandaged hand. "Thank you."

For a moment Starsky simply stared down. Then, with absolutely no trace of embarrassment, he placed his own hand over Hutch's.

He didn't look up and he didn't smile. But when he spoke, the depth of what he felt was clear.

"You're welcome, Hutch. Anytime."

It was an old trick that McAlpine was pulling -- keep the visitor waiting to make him nervous while you use the extra time to get yourself under control. Dobey used it himself often enough to know it was effective.

Most of the time.

But not tonight.

He glanced at the wall clock outside of McAlpine's office and smiled. Nine forty-five. McAlpine was stringing him along all right. Their appointment had been for nine o'clock sharp but McAlpine, out of the office for an off-site meeting, didn't even get back to the precinct until nine-twenty. Since that time, he'd been holed up in his office, supposedly talking with the commissioner on the phone.

Dobey leaned back in the visitor's chair and stretched out his legs to get more comfortable. Well, this was a bad decision on McAlpine's part. Cooling his heels out here had given him a lot more time to think.

The door swung open then and McAlpine stepped out.

"Harold?" He forced a smile and the resulting lines softened the planes of his too-thin face. "I didn't think you'd still be here. Things got a little hectic and I'm running late."

"Umm hmm." Dobey stood and faced McAlpine. He didn't offer his hand.

"We'll need to do this another night," McAlpine said. "I've got a report due and that takes priority. I'm sure you understand."

Dobey walked around him into the office and settled himself in one of the captain's guest chairs. He stretched his legs out again and let his body language talk for him.

We'll do it tonight... and I don't understand.

He heard McAlpine curse sharply but didn't turn, didn't move until the task force captain stomped back in the room.

"Maybe you didn't hear me, Harold."

"I heard you."

"Then what the hell..."

"There're some things we need to go over," Dobey said. He pulled a stick of gum from his pocket, unwrapped it and let the paper casing drop to the floor.

"What the hell..." McAlpine started. But Dobey waved him off.

"I understand you split up the team I sent over here," Dobey said. "I have a problem with that."

"You have a problem--"

"And you seem to be under the impression that they'll be here as long as you want them to be." Dobey shook his head. "Sorry Mike. No can do."

"What? What!"

McAlpine's face slowly turned scarlet and, from his guest chair across the desk, Dobey allowed himself to smile.

So this was what it was like.

He'd never pulled anything like this when he was coming up through the ranks so this was a new experience. No wonder Starsky and Hutch took such delight in tormenting him.

This was pretty damn fun.

McAlpine got himself under control and glared at his counterpart.

"I don't know what you're trying to pull Harold but let me remind you that the commissioner is the one who ordered Starsky and Hutchinson over here. The commissioner is the one who gave me the authority to run this investigation the way I see fit. And the commissioner..."

"...is the first one the mayor will call after I deliver my report," Dobey interrupted. He leaned forward, and his voice turned flat and hard. "That report will detail the way you and this task force screwed up on Pike..."

"What do you mean, screwed up on Pike?"

"I mean you blew it! You muffed it! You have holes in your strategy big enough to drive a truck through! Drug busts aren't the only way to tell if a neighborhood's got a dope problem, Mike. Incidental crime -- robberies, rapes, assaults -- tell the same tale. Starsky and Hutch didn't think Pike really pulled back on drug dealing so I checked it out. You know what I found? The rate of incidental crime didn't budge an inch after Pike's so-called pull-back from the drug trade."

Dobey watched as realization spread slowly across McAlpine's face. The taller man paled and sank back in his chair.

"I don't know what kind of scam Pike ran on you Mike but, whatever it was, you took it hook, line and sinker. He never pulled back from drugs. He kept right on dealing on his same old turf; he just took the commerce underground. If the mayor hears that you missed this, he's gonna' have your ass in a sling and the commissioner will be right beside you."

"You're bluffing," McAlpine snapped. "I know you Harold. Straight-arrow Dobey. Mr. Play- It-By-the-Book. You didn't have a clue about departmental politics fifteen years ago and, from what I hear, you haven't learned anything since."

Dobey rose and towered over McAlpine's desk.

"That incident with the SWAT team was a long time ago, Mike. I was a scared, skinny kid and a lot has changed since then. I'm no longer scared, and I'm obviously not skinny, and those cops we were talking about before -- Starsky and Hutchinson -- are mine. They're my men. My team. And I decide how to handle them... You've got them on loan until the end of the week, Mike"

"Now wait a minute!"

"The end of the week. And they work as a team."

"You don't give me orders, Dobey!"

"The hell I don't!" Dobey slammed his fist on the desk. The silver framed photo of McAlpine's wife and son wobbled and fell to the floor. "You may have connections with the commissioner Mike, but I've got one with the mayor. I've never used it before this case; I've never had to. But if you push me, I'll be in the mayor's office before five o'clock tomorrow. I'll burn you, Mike; I'll take you down."

The two men stared at each other, gray eyes on brown. In a similar situation fifteen years ago, Dobey had chafed and squirmed and stared at the floor. Tonight, McAlpine was the first to look away.

"So, we're agreed on this?" Dobey asked.

McAlpine nodded slowly. "Starsky. Hutchinson. Back as a team."

"Starting tomorrow. And you'd better give them enough rope to close this case Mike because if they're not back at Metro by Monday morning, I'll take my story to the mayor anyway."

There was a lot more that could have been said, but Dobey didn't bother. He'd turned a light on his shadows; he'd buried his ghosts.

He turned on his heel and walked out of McAlpine's office. And then, just for the hell of it and because secretly it was always something he'd wanted to do, he used his foot to slam McAlpine's door.

"Come on Jimmy. Eat up. Eat up."

Hatcher grinned broadly and used his fork to point to a plateful of eggs.

"It's not often that I have company for breakfast," he said warmly. "I had this made special. You're going to hurt my feelings if you don't have a bite."

Sarcone lifted his fork obediently and picked at the cooling bacon and toast. He wasn't in the mood for this. All he wanted to do was just in his car and head over to Sheila's. He wanted to hold his girl against him and let the memories of this horrible night just fade away.

Then, of course, he wanted to slam an extra clip in his gun, head over to City House and blow that no-good, double-crossing Nate Foster straight to hell.

"I see you're busy thinking," Hatcher said. "It's like I can tell just from watching you. I can almost see the little wheels turning in your head."

He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and leaned back.

"You thinking about that partner of yours, right?" he asked conversationally.

"I got it under control, Mr. Hatcher."

"Umm hmm." Hatcher dabbed at his mouth again. "Nobody ever has something like that under control Jimmy. Take it from me, partnerships stink."

Sarcone shook his head stubbornly. "I got it under control."

"Whatever you say." Hatcher smiled thinly. "But, just for the record, let me be clear about how I feel about this."

"Yes sir."

"Killing Robby has caused me a huge inconvenience. More importantly, it's opened the door so somebody -- Pike, Sloan, Rodale, I don't care which -- thinks he can walk in and take over. All of the sudden the term 'over my dead body' has personal meaning for me Jimmy, and I don't like it. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"I'm still trying to get a handle on who's behind this whole thing."

"I told you Mr. Hatcher, I wasn't working for nobody."

Hatcher snorted. "If you believe that then you're a fool, Jimmy. You're a fool and you're going to die."

He snorted again. "Pulling this off took ambition and brains, and you're lacking in both. Your partner -- whoever that is -- is setting you up, Jimmy. When this is all over, your partner will get the payoff and you will be dead."

Lee grabbed his BC Sailors cup from his desk and strolled to the coffeepot. He whistled cheerfully as he walked over and, for once, greeted Colvin with a broad smile.

"Great day, isn't it?" he asked. He glanced at the wall clock. Straight up eight o'clock. "No sign of Starsky and Hutchinson yet, huh? Maybe they're taking another day off to enjoy the weather."

Colvin stared at him. This was his partner, the man he depended on to watch his back, and he felt like he was looking at evil incarnate. It made his head hurt.

It made him sick.

He'd made a mistake telling Lee about Hutch. He couldn't prove it, but he knew in his gut that he'd somehow put the blond detective's life at risk. He didn't know how to fix it, but a dozen half-baked ideas drifted through his head.

Maybe later he could get Starsky away and talk with him in private. Maybe he could talk with McAlpine and explain his misgivings about Lee. Maybe...

His thoughts broke off abruptly as the squad door opened. He glanced up, disinterest giving way to surprise and surprise evolving into relief as Starsky and Hutch entered the room.

"I'm telling you man, it ain't my fault we're late," Starsky grumbled. "You're the one who couldn't get his butt out of the door."

"You're the one who was driving. You could've gone faster."

"Oh yeah? Now you tell me I could've gone faster. All the way over here you were complainin' that I was going to get us killed."

The two men glanced around, noticed Colvin watching them and nodded in greeting. Starsky flashed a crooked grin and jerked a thumb in Hutch's direction.

"You believe him?"

Colvin smiled in response even as, beside him, he felt Lee grow tense.

"How'd it go yesterday?" Colvin asked. "Finish that report for Dobey?"

Starsky shrugged. "Piece of cake."

Colvin grabbed a Styrofoam cup and trotted toward the two late arrivals. He nodded at Hutch's hand.

"What happened to you?"

"Cut it," Hutch said. "Slammed it on a piece of glass." He looked at Colvin and smiled. "Hate it when that happens."

"You sure you can work like that?"

Hutch lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. "Doc says I can do anything but type."

He noticed Colvin glance at the gun that was now holstered over his right side. "Don't worry about me backing up Lee, Bernie. Every time we qualify we have to shoot with both hands, remember? I'm not so bad as a lefty."

Starsky overheard the comment and smirked. He caught Colvin's gaze and rolled his eyes. "Remember that old saying, 'Can't hit the broadside of a barn'? They invented that for him."

Hutch grabbed a piece of paper, crumpled it in his left hand and pitched it at Starsky. His aim was perfect. The paper bounced off Starsky's head.

Colvin watched the balled up piece of paper roll under Starsky's desk, and he sobered. His worries about Hutch being back on smack were obviously unfounded. With the exception of a heavily bandaged hand, Hutch looked and acted fine.

But his concerns about Lee were justified.

From the corner of his eye, Colvin watched his partner stomp to his chair and slam the oversized coffee cup with the Bay City baseball team logo on his desk. The man was seething and the only thing Colvin could attribute it to was the fact that Hutch was back in the office, apparently healthy, apparently well.

Colvin leaned in to Starsky and tapped his arm. "Gotta' minute, Starsk?"

Starsky misinterpreted the gesture and grinned in embarrassment.

"Hey Bernie, I was only kidding about his shooting. He's fine left-handed."

"That's not what I--"

Colvin broke off as McAlpine's office door swung open. The captain peered out, his face tense and sallow, and motioned to Starsky, Hutch, Colvin and Lee.

"You four, in my office."

He stepped back to allow the detectives to enter then closed the door behind him.

"I've read your reports from the last two days, and I'm not satisfied with the progress you're making on the investigation," he said. "So, beginning today, we're going to try a different tact." He angled his head toward Starsky and Hutch. "There may be something to that City House angle you posed after all. I want you two to follow it up."

"You want us working together on this?" Hutch asked.

"Something wrong with your hearing, Hutchinson?"

Hutch stiffened. "No."

"Then follow my orders. You and Starsky did the preliminaries; I want you to run the rest of it to ground. My secretary has a call into City House right now to schedule an appointment with that guy you mentioned on Monday. Foster, I think his name is. Make it a point to talk with him today."

The two Metro detectives nodded. The objection to McAlpine's strategy came, surprisingly, from Lee. He cast an angry glance in Hutch's direction and started forward.

"What about the line Hutchinson and I were pursuing, Captain? Sloan seemed to think there was something worthwhile in checking out that hype Armando."

McAlpine shook his head. "I read your report, Lee. It's a dead end."

"But Captain--"

"I'm not being figurative, Lee. I mean that it's a dead end. Armando Reyes died last night. He must've been high or something because he was seen running through the park screaming that people were chasing him. He ran in the street and got clipped by a truck. Dead Armando. Dead end."

McAlpine cast his gaze wide enough to include both Colvin and Lee. "The two of you keep following up on Rodale and Sloan... but don't look the other way if anything comes up about Pike. There may be a chance that he's tied into this somehow. If anything surfaces that points to him, I want you to let me know."

He turned back to Starsky and Hutch. "And that goes for the two of you as well. Since you were so damn convinced that Pike was involved in this thing, I want you to hit the streets and see if you can come up with something concrete. If you do, I want to know about it ASAP. Got it?"

Starsky and Hutchinson only nodded in agreement. They'd yet to call him Captain, McAlpine realized. For the two of them, that designation seemed to belong exclusively to Harold Dobey.

McAlpine gritted his teeth. The thought that Dobey had managed somehow to earn these detectives' loyalty made him sick.

He could handle it if they were supportive of anyone else.

Anyone except Harold Dobey.

There was a soft knock, and his door was pushed open a few inches. Grace, his secretary, poked her head inside.

"I just heard back from City House, Captain McAlpine. Nate Foster is in an off-site meeting until one-thirty. The receptionist said not to come early, though. Most of the administrative staff is at a planning retreat and most of the patients are at BC General for their quarterly tests. The place is almost deserted today."

McAlpine nodded and, without bothering to say thank you, waved her away.

"Here's how I want to play it," he said as Grace closed the door. "The four of you gather as much information as you can between now and two o'clock. Call me here and brief me on what you've found then meet up at City House."

Colvin looked confused. "All of us?"

"Yes, all of you." McAlpine said. "Maybe if you're together when you question Foster, you can finally bring this case to a close." His patience at an end, he grabbed a manila folder from the stack on his desk and flipped it open.

When he spoke again, his eyes never left the page.

"Dismissed."

He held her and rocked her and cradled her in his arms, but her body was limp, her head lolled lifelessly and her eyes, her beautiful, beautiful eyes, were glassy and still.

Jimmy Sarcone felt hot tears roll down his face and did nothing to brush them away.

He couldn't remember the last time he cried. It wasn't when his brother got shipped off to Vietnam. And it wasn't when he'd pounded the life out of his father for slapping his mother around. It wasn't when the old lady rolled over on him to cops and had him sent to juvenile hall for killing his father. And it wasn't the first time he'd taken a life to get in good with someone in the mob.

It must've been even earlier than all that. Perhaps when he was just a little kid, maybe. But, who the hell would know?

And it didn't matter anyway.

Tears were a sign of humanity, of compassion. Sheila had reawakened that side of him, and now she was gone. Somebody had killed her. Somebody had taken her away from him. And without her, there was absolutely no way in hell's half-acre that Jimmy Sarcone would ever cry again.

He let Sheila's body slide to the floor and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Someone was going to pay for this, damn it. Someone was going to pay.

He scanned the room looking for clues and, in his desperate hunt, almost missed the little piece of paper still clutched in Sheila's hand. He pulled it out and studied it closely.

It was a little hard to read because blood had splattered over part of it and covered most of the letters, but it looked like a piece of a business card. Sarcone squinted at it and turned the paper toward the light.

He could make out the curve of the City House logo and he could finally read a few of the letters through the blood. ...oster, it said. He didn't have to see the other letters to figure out the word. Foster, Nate Foster. Sheila had obviously struggled with Nate Foster before she died.

And he hadn't been here to protect her.

He hadn't been here to save her life.

Foster was going to die for this, Sarcone decided. His death was going to be painful and it was going to be slow. And, after that, he was going after Hatcher because Hatcher had kept him away from Sheila last night. Hatcher had sentenced his baby to die.

Sarcone didn't have any illusions about his success in that area. He knew going after Hatcher would probably get him killed.

But he didn't care about that anymore.

Without Sheila, he had no desire to live.

Sarcone stumbled almost blindly into the kitchen, drawn there by the memory of Sheila's sweet voice as she told him what she had done for him. "I-I worked in the kitchen all day today. I made tuna salad... I thought you could have it for lunch."

Sarcone moved robotically and made himself a sandwich, scooping a large spoonful of the tuna onto a slice of bread. He'd take it with him, he decided. He'd eat it on the way to City House. He'd have it inside him when he choked the life out of the man who'd murdered his girl.

He'd had the timing worked out even before he'd reached Sheila's. The receptionist at City House told him that Foster would be back at one-thirty and Sarcone had already planned to be there when he arrived.

He knew Foster would drag him into that catacomb of a basement where all the administrative offices were located, but that would be all right today. That would be just fine.

No one would hear Foster beg for mercy down there.

No one would hear him scream.

A piece of tuna salad fell from the side of his sandwich and Sarcone used his index finger to grab it and scoop it in his mouth.

It was hard to believe.

For just a moment, he'd actually let Hatcher convince him that Sheila was pulling a double- cross. He'd let Hatcher raise his doubts. And that had caused his last conversation with Sheila to be less than perfect.

Sarcone grunted and dropped another piece of tuna salad into his mouth. There was no excuse for making him doubt his baby, and Hatcher had done that.

His mind locked around one overriding thought: As soon as he finished with Foster, Hatcher would have to die.

The four hours they'd spent trying to round something up on Rodale or Sloan had been fruitless.

Colvin stared out the car window and wondered if Starsky and Hutch hadn't been right all along. Maybe Pike really had orchestrated this whole thing. More and more, it was beginning to look like he was the only one who would really prosper from Levin's death.

Of course, just because it looked that way didn't mean they could make a case. All the signposts still pointed to Wolinsky and Sarcone.

Colvin sighed. Even on his worst day with Starsky, he'd never felt this alone. He rolled his eyes to the left and glanced at Lee. His partner drove silently. The only sign that he was even conscious was the angry working of his jaw.

The man had been in a foul mood ever since Hutch had walked into the squad room this morning.

Walked.

Unaided.

And doing just fine.

Colvin turned his gaze back to the window and stared out, watching the city pass by.

Partners. He thought of Starsky and Hutch. So that's what it was like.

"I'm telling you Starsk, I don't know how you can eat that stuff." Hutch stared at his partner in dismay, watching him power-shove a handful of caramel corn in his mouth with his right hand while he steered the car with his left.

"It's not even one o'clock yet. Jeez!" Hutch rolled his eyes. "You just had lunch thirty minutes ago."

"Ever heard of dessert?"

"Ever heard of cholesterol?"

"Ever heard of walking?"

The two men glared at each other.

"Look, don't harp on me while I'm driving," Starsky warned. "I could lose my concentration."

"Oh yeah? And I would notice that how?" Hutch grabbed for the dashboard as Starsky turned a corner. "You're saying your normally abysmal driving style would get even worse? Can't happen, pal. No bloody way."

"Did I mention how glad I am that you're feeling better?" Starsky groused. He mimicked Hutch's earlier gesture and rolled his eyes. "I just love having these happy-go-lucky conversations with you when I'm trapped in the car. Why don't you ever do this when we're walking in a park somewhere? Then I could run away."

"Yeah well, one day you'll thank me," Hutch muttered. "Somebody's gotta' watch out for you brother, and I'm the one who's around you the most."

He snagged a piece of caramel corn, popped it in his mouth and lifted his eyebrows in surprise at the taste. A second later his hand snaked out again and he grabbed a handful.

"Hey!"

"This isn't bad," Hutch admitted. His hand shot out a third time and he grabbed the bag.

"What the hell--"

"Watch the road," Hutch commanded. He popped a handful of caramel corn in his mouth and talked around it. "Thanks for this."

"I didn't get that for you!"

"Of course you did."

Starsky turned to face him, one hand off the wheel and one finger raised.

"Zebra Three, Zebra Three. Switch to Tact Two for a patch with Captain Dobey."

"Hold that thought," Hutch said to Starsky. He grabbed the radio with his left hand and used the fingers on his right to switch to Tact Two. "Go ahead, Captain."

"Hutch?" Dobey's voice softened slightly. "How was the meeting with McAlpine?"

Hutch caught Starsky's gaze and smiled. They both knew Dobey had done something -- pulled something -- to get McAlpine to change his policy on letting them work together. And they both knew Dobey would never reveal what it was.

"Fine Cap," Hutch said. "He paired me with Starsky again for some reason. He also decided we can take another look at Aldus Pike."

"Find anything yet?"

"Nothing solid, but you know how good Pike is at covering his tracks. We figure there're at least three people who can help nail him though."

"Who?"

"Sarcone, Wolinsky or Foster. We don't think any one of them has what it takes to pull this thing off so one of them has to be close to Pike."

Starsky grabbed Hutch's arm and brought the mike close to his own mouth. "Or close to whoever's dealing directly with Pike," he said. "It's always possible that Pike has somebody else, somebody a bit more reliable, as his go-between."

Hutch pulled the mike back. "Yeah Cap. It's possible."

"Well, I can't help you there," Dobey said, "but I can take a name off your list of leads. Sheila Wolinsky was found dead this morning."

Starsky whistled softly.

"That surprises me," Hutch said. "From what Starsky said about her, I thought she'd be one of the last one's standing. What happened?"

"Bullet to the chest. The ME thinks she died sometime last night."

"Any leads? What about Foster or Sarcone?"

"Foster was at a fund-raising event most of the evening. He's got about three hundred witnesses so we're assuming he's not the one. Sarcone didn't show up at Wolinsky's place until this morning. One of the neighbors saw him arrive. He was gone by the time the housekeeper showed up and called the cops, but he's not a suspect in this. He got there way too late."

Starsky grabbed Hutch's arm again. "What about Hatcher? Maybe he figured out Wolinsky and Sarcone had a thing going and guessed they were the ones who killed Levin. Maybe he decided to take a little revenge."

They could almost hear Dobey shrug. "Maybe. Who knows? Run it by McAlpine and see if he wants you to check it out."

"Good idea, Cap," Hutch agreed. He glanced at Starsky's dashboard clock. "We'll have to take care of it in awhile though. We're headed to City House to interview Foster. McAlpine set up a meeting for two o'clock."

"What time is it now?"

"Almost one-thirty."

"Umm. Listen, I'm going to have a black-and-white meet you at City House."

Starsky and Hutch exchanged frustrated glances. They were back on their feet again, operating as a team again -- they didn't need backup.

"Don't you think that's overkill, Captain?" Hutch suggested.

"If I thought it was overkill Hutchinson, I wouldn't be doing it."

"Well I think it's overkill."

"Did I ask for your permission?"

Starsky rolled his eyes as Hutch and Dobey launched into a familiar tirade. Just like old times.

"I'll tell you what's overkill," Dobey sputtered in response to something Hutch had said. "Overkill would be for me to come down there and supervise this thing myself." He paused. "And maybe that's what this case needs, damn it. Maybe that's what I'll do. What time did you say the meeting was again?"

Hutch scraped his nails against the face of the microphone. "I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't get that."

"Don't pull that crap on me Hutchinson! I know there's nothing wrong with this mike!"

"What was that?" Hutch scratched harder. "Sorry Captain Dobey, I've lost you."

"Hutchinson!"

Hutch broke the connection and replaced the mike. He stared at the radio for a moment then shot a quick, sideways glance to his left.

"Go ahead and admit it," Starsky said. "You missed the big guy, didn't you?"

"Give it a rest, Starsky. We haven't even been gone a week."

"But you missed those little pick-me-up chats and that chipper exchange of information." Starsky chuckled. "Bet Dobey hasn't yelled like that in days. You're a little ray of sunshine, buddy."

"Kiss it, pal."

"You bring out the best in everyone, Hutch."

"Yeah? Well..." Hutch twisted his features as he cast about for a good retort. "Look who wound up with the popcorn, buddy."

"I'm the one driving the car."

"If you call what you're doing driving. If you call this can of Ragu on wheels a car."

That got to him. Starsky swore under his breath and Hutch grabbed for the dashboard as his partner whipped the Torino around another corner.

Yep. They were back in the saddle again.

Just like old times.

The last thing he wanted to do -- the absolutely last thing he wanted to do -- was to have another meeting.

Nate Foster trudged wearily down the steps to his basement office. He'd hated the fund- raising party he'd had to attend last night and he'd hated the follow up meeting he had to go to this morning. What he really wanted to be doing right now was to be sitting in the airport with Sheila Wolinsky, waiting for their names to be called so they could get on a plane.

He'd bought the tickets a few days ago. He'd also bought a ring.

As soon as he got in contact with Sheila, he'd be able to put their plans in motion. By this time tomorrow night they'd be in Texas as husband and wife.

He nodded at the huge, thuggish man who'd managed to squeeze himself into the guest chair outside of his office and felt a tug of panic. The guy looked just the way Sheila had described Jimmy Sarcone.

Not to worry though.

Foster shook off the sense of foreboding. Sheila had promised that she'd never reveal his real name to Sarcone. Besides, Sarcone was supposedly healthy as a horse. This guy looked positively green around the gills. He was sweating and swallowing like his mouth was full of water and his breath stank of garlic as though he'd had a huge Italian meal.

Foster opened his office door and motioned the man inside. He wanted to finish this meeting as quickly as possible so he could call his girl.

He turned his back on the big man for just a moment. When he turned back, the man stared at him with eyes that were black with hatred and held a gun in his slightly quivering hand.

"What--?" Foster sucked in a quick, desperate breath. "What's going on?"

"You don't recognize me do you, you little shit?" the big man asked. "My name's Jimmy Sarcone."

There was a silencer on the muzzle of the gun Sarcone aimed at Foster's left kneecap. The gun made a quiet, little "pffst!" sound as it fired. A second later, Foster hit the ground.

"What are you doing?" he screamed. "What's the matter with you?"

"Did Sheila beg you for mercy?" Sarcone demanded. "I bet she didn't. I bet she faced you like a man."

He aimed at Foster's right kneecap and fired a second time. Then, inexplicably, his mouth seemed to fill with water again and he spat.

"What about Sheila? What about her?" Foster crawled across the floor on his belly and tried to reach the phone.

Sarcone waited until he was about a foot away from the desk then shot him in the shoulder.

The man screamed again and rolled onto his back.

"Why are you doing this?" Foster asked. "Is it because of Sheila? I can't help that she loves me. It-it wasn't even my idea for us to go away."

"Don't lie to me! Don't lie!"

Sarcone spat again and wiped a hand across his sweating brow. He'd felt like shit for almost forty minutes now. His stomach had been so upset a few minutes ago that he'd had to run to the bathroom to vomit up the remnants of Sheila's sandwich.

He shot Foster in the arm. The bullet went a little wild though and just caused a graze.

Everything bad that had happened, happened because of this man. He knew that now. He knew it! Just the thought of being around the man who'd killed Sheila was making him insane.

Foster lay on his back and sobbed. He was bleeding heavily. The bullet to the shoulder must have gone a little wild also. From the way the man was panting, Sarcone guessed it had passed through his chest and done enough damage to kill.

Let him die then, Sarcone thought. Just like his Sheila. Let him lie on the floor and die.

He twisted off the silencer and slipped it into his pocket. Out of habit, he pulled out the gun clip and flipped in a spare.

Damn!

His hands were shaking like a schoolgirl's and his stomach had already twisted again in knots.

Hatcher's words flowed into his mind unbidden.

You're a fool, Jimmy. Your partner -- whoever that is -- is setting you up.

Sarcone shook his head, trying not to think about the man he'd worked for years ago in Boston. He'd planned to kill the man slowly, over time, with arsenic. But he'd given his boss a bit too much of the powder one day, and he'd died within hours.

It had been a horrible, painful, ugly kind of death. The old guy had puked and staggered around like a rabid dog. His mouth kept filling with saliva, he could barely swallow and his breath smelled like he'd eaten a garlic clove.

Memories of that death stayed with Sarcone for a long, long time. He'd even felt some guilt about it. But Sheila had been so comforting, so supportive, so understanding when he'd told her.

When he'd told her...

Hatcher's words came back a second time.

When this is all over, your partner will get the payoff and you will be dead.

So it was true then...

Sarcone lowered his head as the realization washed over him. Sheila had been the one setting him up all along. If Foster hadn't killed her, she would have gotten the payoff and he would have wound up dead.

Correction.

He spat again. He'd still wind up dead. He knew how bad off he was now. He knew he didn't have much time. He rolled his eyes down and stared at Foster.

The man had died quietly. His glassy eyes were open and staring upward. His mouth was partly open as though he were extending an invitation.

Come join me in hell, Jimmy Sarcone.

Sarcone put a hand out reached for the door. He was dying. He could accept that. But there was no way that he was going to die alone. He was going to take someone with him. Right now, he didn't care who.

He could hear the muted sound of church bells tolling in the distance. Two o'clock. He snorted derisively. He'd be dead and on his way to hell by three.

He'd made it halfway to the stairwell when he heard men's voices drawing close. He pressed his bulk into a doorway, squeezing in close to the fuse box that controlled the lighting for the basement and the stairs.

"You sure it's this way, Starsk?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I told you, Metter gave me a personal tour."

"Bet it drove you nuts coming down here, didn't it?"

"You got that right."

Sarcone placed one of the men's voices right away. Starsky. He remembered Starsky. The curly-haired cop had been one of the first ones to hint that he was being set up.

Sarcone's hand tightened on his gun. Starsky had known about it all the time, probably. Maybe Sheila had been on the up-and-up before Starsky had talked with her. Maybe Starsky had scared her into pulling a double-cross.

Another voice joined the first two.

"So why didn't you interview Foster on Monday, Starsky?"

"He wasn't available. At least that's what Metter said. I should've pushed him harder though, Bernie."

The older cop! Sarcone could place his voice too. From the sounds of the footsteps he guessed that four men were coming this way. Four men to join him on his ride to hell. He flipped open the fuse box and slammed the butt of his gun against the panel, throwing the entire basement into darkness. Then he stepped into the hallway, gun raised.

"What the hell--" one of the four cops muttered.

"What's going on?"

Sarcone squeezed the trigger twice. Facing him, the cops were like fish in a barrel, trapped and blind. He had a sense of where they were though. They were all dressed up like penguins and they wore hard-soled shoes. Whenever they moved, he could hear the sound of their shoe heels clicking on the floor.

"Get down! Get down!" one of them shouted.

Sarcone pinpointed the sound and fired again. He heard a grunt and someone hit the ground hard.

For a second there was silence and then, without warning, there were three rapid pop- pop-pops as an automatic was fired in his direction.

Sarcone shrank into the doorway.

Two more heartbeats... then the silence was shattered by the roar of a larger gun and a bullet whistled by with almost pinpoint accuracy.

Sarcone flattened himself against the wall. He didn't move. He didn't breathe.

"Who's hit?" someone in the hall demanded. "Starsk?"

"Fine. You?"

"Okay."

Sarcone could hear the men moving, scrambling around. They were like fish in a barrel again. Then he heard one of the men separate himself from the others. The man sank to his knees -- Sarcone could hear the thud -- and got physically sick.

"Bernie? Where's Bernie?"

"What about Lee?"

There was more scrambling and then the hallway reverberated with someone's gut-wrenching groan.

"I've got Bernie, Starsk. He's hit. Stomach, I think. I can't tell how bad."

"Can you get him out?"

"Together, Starsky! Come on!"

"The guy hasn't fired again, Hutch. You must've got him. I'll stay here and help Lee."

"No!"

There was more scrambling and an agonal cry of pain. Then Sarcone heard Starsky's voice again. "It's okay. We'll be right behind you."

"I mean it, Starsk!"

"I promise. I promise. Right behind you."

Working silently, Sarcone slipped his shoes off as two of the policemen hobbled back to the stairs. He could hear them pause as one of the cops -- the one named Hutch more than likely -- turned near the stairs.

"Right behind me, Starsk!"

"Gimme' a minute. We'll be right there."

Sarcone listened as the footsteps receded. He heard the click of Starsky's shoes as the detective walked toward the man who'd hunkered down by the wall.

"Lee?"

"Get the hell away from me, Starsky!"

"This place will be crawling with cops in a few minutes, Lee. Let's just get outta' here, okay?"

"So you can do what? Tell everybody I lost it when Colvin got shot?"

"I ain't tellin' nobody nothin', Lee. Let's just get outta' here. This place gives me the creeps."

Sarcone waited until he heard the crinkle of fabric as Starsky holstered his gun and crouched down to help the other cop. Then he stepped into the hallway, gun leveled.

"Hold it, cops! Don't move!"

He could hear both of them gasp. They sucked in air like they were drowning. Sucked it in and held it like they'd forgotten how to breathe. He didn't have to see them to know their positions. Starsky was at his most vulnerable, legs bent, caught in a crouch. The other cop -- the one called Lee -- was still huddled on the floor.

And an idea came to Sarcone in a flash of inspiration. He was going to die and one of these cops was going to die... but for the other, there would be something even worse than death.

"You!" he snapped. "Lee! Is that your name?" He waited. "I said, is that your name?"

"Yes. Y-yes."

"You want to live?"

The man sucked in another breath. It was the quick, sharp, painful gasp of someone whose back was literally and figuratively against the wall.

"I said, do you want to live?"

"Yes!"

"Then get out of here. You wanna' go, go."

"B-but..."

"All you have to do is turn your back on your buddy. Think you can live with that, Lee?"

There was another pause and during those few moments Sarcone could hear Starsky start to breathe in rapid, desperate pants. He knew what the answer would be. Even before Lee spoke again, Starsky knew.

"This is the last time I'm going to repeat myself Lee. You think you can live with turning your back on Starsky? He's going to die down here and so am I, so you're the only one who'll ever know."

There were a series of rapid clicks as Lee scrambled to his feet.

"Answer me Lee! Can you live with it?"

"Y-yes! Yes!" The man pushed away from the wall and ran. He used a zigzag pattern just in case Sarcone tried to shoot at his retreating form, but Sarcone never shifted the location of his gun.

"I know exactly where you are, Starsky," Sarcone said. "You're crouched down like a football player and you're turned to face me. You shift from one foot to the other and I'll hear it. If I hear it, I'll shoot. You understand?"

"Yeah..."

"We can hear the church bells down here, did you know that?"

He could hear Starsky try to swallow. Funny wasn't it? His mouth was full of fluid and the cop's mouth was too dry. He didn't have to repeat himself though. The cop managed to choke out a reply.

"Yeah..."

"Well that's a good thing," Sarcone said levelly. "Then you'll know when your time is up."

"Sarcone, listen to me..."

"Your brother cops are going to storm this place sooner or later, Starsky. If they come down before three o'clock, they'll shoot off enough bullets to kill us both. Friendly fire, I think it's called."

"And if they come down after?"

Sarcone laughed. "Won't matter to you. Your time runs out at three o'clock. When that last bell sounds, you're going to be dead."

"Oh God... Oh God..."

Colvin clutched at his stomach and groaned painfully. Blood seeped through his wound, through his shirt, around his hand.

Hutch tried to stop it, tried to apply enough pressure to stem the flow, tried to keep the man from dying on the stairs. He'd barely gotten Colvin up the second flight of stairs when he heard footsteps behind him. He whirled and saw Lee rush into view.

"Where's Starsky?"

Lee's face twisted with what looked like impatience... or surprise. "He-he's coming. He found Foster. He's talking to him on the second floor. He said for you to keep going." He grabbed one of Colvin's arms. "Come on, Hutchinson. Help me! My partner's dying here!"

"You're sure about Starsky?"

"He'll be up in a minute! Come on! Come on!"

Colvin was barely conscious when they reached the first floor landing. The handful of residents and staff at City House evacuated the building as soon as they heard the shots. Somebody, thankfully, had called the cops and the single black-and-white Dobey had ordered had been joined already by a half-dozen patrol cars.

A SWAT van rolled into view as Hutch and Lee helped Colvin onto the grass and the team barreled out in double-time, ready to handle what they'd been told was a hostage situation.

"What's going on?" One of the men -- the SWAT leader presumably -- raced over and squatted beside Hutch, Lee and Colvin on the grass.

"We went downstairs to interview a guy named Foster," Hutch explained. "We were on the second level, about one hundred feet away from the stairs, when the lights went out. Next thing we knew, shots were fired. This man was hit." He angled his head toward Lee. "My partner and this man stayed down there for a while." His eyes narrowed. "You said Starsky found Foster. Isn't that right, Lee?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's right." Lee stared down at Colvin and his face paled. "Shouldn't you call an ambulance for him or something? Is he supposed to look like that?"

"The ambulance is already on the way," the SWAT leader said. He glanced down at Colvin then shot a quick glance at Hutch. "Can you stay with him?"

The meaning behind his words was clear. He's a cop and he's dying. Do what you can.

Hutch clasped Colvin's hand but angled his head toward the building. "Listen, have your guys be careful when they go in there, okay? No false heroics. My partner's in plain clothes and he's got a gun."

"What's his name?"

"Starsky. Dave -- David Starsky."

The SWAT leader nodded and rose. He bellowed an order to his men to bring their flashlights and, without a backward glance, led his little troupe toward the door.

"Hutch..."

Hutch turned his attention back to Colvin.

"Yeah Bernie, it's me. Everything is fine now. Everything's okay."

"I'm... sorry... Hutch. I..."

"Don't worry about anything," Hutch soothed. "Don't try to talk."

"Didn't mean it..." Colvin's eyes rolled and locked on Lee. "...didn't know..."

"It's okay." Hutch looked around desperately, trying to find the ambulance. "Whatever it is Bernie, it's okay."

The older man's gaze shifted back to Hutch but his eyes moved at a leisurely pace now.

"...good cop, Hutch..."

"You're a great cop, Bernie."

"You... you're a... good cop..."

Hutch looked up and caught Lee's attention. "Get out there," he hissed. "Find that ambulance and get those guys over here. Now!"

"He's my partner, Hutchinson..."

"Now!"

Lee moved reluctantly and Hutch brought his focus back to Colvin. He pressed harder against the man's stomach wound, ignoring the fact that Colvin's blood had soaked through his own gauze bandage and turned it bright red.

"It's okay, Bernie," he said quietly. "It's okay..."

The older man looked up at him trustingly. He knew he was dying but there was so much he wanted to do still, so much he wanted to say.

He tried to breathe slowly. That's what they told you to do at the Academy if you were ever shot. But his body wouldn't cooperate any more. His heart was beating like a piston and his lungs were straining, causing him to pant. And he was cold all of the sudden, so very, very cold.

Colvin heard another person settle beside Hutchinson and then felt his other hand lifted and held.

"What happened, Hutch?"

The voice sounded so familiar, Colvin thought. It took a moment to place it, then he knew exactly who it was. Dobey. It was Captain Dobey. Maybe he hadn't been shot after all. Maybe he was back at Metro.

He tried to smile, but coughed instead when his mouth filled with blood.

"Take it easy, Bernie," Dobey said. "The ambulance attendants are on their way. Give 'em a minute. They'll be right here."

He wanted to say that that was just fine, but his voice didn't work anymore... He could hear Hutch speaking but the blond detective's voice was very soft and it sounded like it was coming from very, very far away.

"Ambush," Hutch said. "We went down to talk to Foster. Somebody killed the lights and started shooting. Bernie got hit in the first round."

Colvin shuddered. His stomach didn't hurt anymore, but he was still cold.

Still cold...

Still... cold...

Still...

"Shit." Dobey lowered the dead man's hand then, without warning, made a fist and slammed it into the grass. "Shit!"

He looked up, blinking rapidly, and swore again as the ambulance crew with Lee in the lead trotted across the grass.

There was another burst of excitement as the press arrived. A photographer with three thirty- five millimeter cameras slung around his neck ran squirrel-like around the grass, snapping pictures of everything in sight.

Ping.

Hutch's internal radar went off and he rocked back on his heels, looking for Starsky.

"Hutchinson? Lee? What's going on?" somebody behind him asked. "Dobey! What the hell are you doing here?"

Ping!

Hutch's radar sounded again. It was stronger this time, and insistent. But suddenly McAlpine was there, pressing in hard, demanding to know what was happening. He grabbed Hutch's arm... but Hutch jerked away. He rose to his feet and scanned the crowd, taking in everything -- the cops, the civilians, the members of the press -- in one frantic glance.

PING!

The realization that something was wrong -- dreadfully wrong -- hit Hutch like a body blow.

And he was running then, racing at breakneck speed for the City House door. He almost made it, would've made it, but the SWAT team charged out at the moment and two members of the squad grabbed him and forced him back.

"Let me go!"

Hutch struggled to get away but a third member of squad moved forward quickly and swept his foot behind Hutch's legs. The maneuver worked perfectly and Hutch found himself flat on the ground.

"Stay down!" The SWAT leader nodded to another member of his squad and the man dropped and dug his knee into Hutch's chest.

"Where's Starsky?"

The SWAT leader looked at him then with an expression that was not unkind, not without compassion but utterly, completely without hope. He shook his head once, looked up and nodded in recognition as both Dobey and McAlpine ran toward them.

"Where?" Hutch's voice broke.

"I'll explain it in a second," the SWAT leader said. "It isn't very good."

He spat.

It didn't help though. Didn't get rid of that garlic smell that seemed to rise from his body like vapor; didn't eliminate that horrible metallic taste in his mouth; didn't make it any easier to swallow now that his throat felt like it was going to close up.

He spat... and wished he could see the clock so he would know how long he had to wait to die.

Sarcone heard Starsky's anguished breathing and knew the man must be in agony, that his stiffening leg muscles must be inflamed.

"You getting tired there, Starsky?" he asked.

Sarcone wished he had some water so he could wash that horrible taste from his mouth. He bet Starsky wished he had some water too.

Starsky had surprised him though. When the SWAT team came trotting down the hall a few minutes ago, Starsky had managed to stay calm. He'd called to them to stop, had explained the situation quickly and had gotten the team to withdraw before anyone could fire.

Now it was just the two of them again. Alone. Lonely. And waiting to die.

Sarcone grunted and wondered what Starsky was thinking.

Then he realized that he didn't care.

He spat.

He wanted to reach his hand out. He wanted to lean against the wall. His legs were shaking so badly he didn't know how much longer they would hold him up. His muscles were so exhausted they burned.

Starsky blinked, trying to keep the sweat from his eyes.

He couldn't straighten, couldn't move. If he did, Sarcone would hear the click of his hard- soled shoes on the linoleum floor, and he'd shoot.

And Starsky would be dead.

Just like that.

He blinked.

Focus Dave. Focus! Focus! Focus!

But his mind insisted on wandering. It would dart to the future, fade to past, then reconnect suddenly with the pain.

It would help so much if he could just reach out and grab the wall.

It struck him then. This wall reminded him of another wall in another country and another time.

"Hey!"

The voice -- Macario's voice -- appeared from nowhere and filled his mind.

Starsky blinked again.

Oh God, please God. Not this. Not now. He had to stay in the present. He couldn't flash back to Vietnam.

"Hey!"

He knew why it was happening though. It was because he was stuck in this damnable basement. He hated being in tight, dark places and he hated being confined. He hated anything that reminded him of that horrible tunnel in Vietnam and the awful death of his buddy.

His friend Macario.

His pal Mac.

He heard Macario's voice again. This time it sounded so close by, just behind him and maybe a little to the left.

"Hey, Dave?"

Starsky blinked again, but it didn't make things better. It didn't help. His eyes rolled up and he fought to control his emotions. He hated what was happening to him, but he was damned if he was going let it make him cry.

"You with me pal?"

He felt himself falling then, slipping, sliding, gliding down that long, sad slope back to Vietnam.

Focus Davey. Please just focus.

He was trying to, damn it. He was really, really trying. But it was so damn hard. He'd feel so much better if he could touch something solid. He'd feel so much better if he could only talk to Hutch.

Starsky gulped air and tried to swallow, but his mouth was so damn dry. He needed something to drink. He needed someone to help him. His eyes flicked around then, desperate and searching.

Hutch isn't here, remember Davey? Hutch isn't here.

He blinked.

That's right. That's right. Hutch isn't here.

He was stuck in this place with a madman, wasn't he? Lee had left him all alone.

Starsky heard Sarcone spit in the background.

"Hey Dave? You with me pal?"

Outwardly, he didn't move a muscle but Starsky nodded in his mind.

"Yeah," his younger self answered. "Yeah Mac, I'm right here."

PING!

Hutch clutched at his stomach and paced like a lion on the corner of the lawn where he, Dobey, McAlpine and the SWAT team were sequestered. Lee stood apart from them, scowling in the distance. If he had moved closer, Hutch would have drawn his gun.

"So that's the way we see it," the SWAT leader said. The man -- Adams -- turned and favored Hutch with a compassionate stare. "Your partner didn't exactly give us all the details, Hutchinson. The other guy, Sarcone you said his name was, he filled in all the blanks."

Like the blank that said Lee left Starsky and ran.

And the blank that said Sarcone would shoot Starsky if anyone else came down the hallway.

And the blank that said Sarcone intended to shoot Starsky at three.

PING!

Hutch hunched his shoulders and picked up his pace. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be.

He stopped in front of hastily constructed layout of the basement that Adams and his men had erected on the lawn. When they'd gone downstairs the first time, each member of the SWAT team had carried a flashlight and, from what they'd observed, both Starsky and Sarcone were in a direct line of sight from the second floor staircase.

Without the flashlights blazing, the basement was pitch black again but Adams was certain that a sharpshooter stationed on the stairway could easily pick off Sarcone if he did something -- anything -- to make himself visible.

The only problem was that something was blocking the shot... and that something was Starsky.

They had to get Starsky down and out of the way so someone could take out Sarcone.

"I know what you're thinking," Adams said, interrupting Hutch's reverie. "Believe me, we've considered it too. We played with the idea of calling out to Starsky, telling him to get down, and having a sniper take out Sarcone. And, if we run out of time, we'll try it. But only if we run out of time. I don't want to chance it otherwise because the success factor is unacceptably low."

"Success factor?"

"The likelihood of the hostage, of Starsky, coming out of this alive," Adams clarified. "Look, I'm sure your partner's reaction time is great under normal circumstances Hutchinson, but he's been in a crouched position for," Adams broke off and glanced at his watch, "for more than twenty minutes now. He's probably experiencing muscle fatigue. His mind's starting to wander. We can't depend on either his body or his brain to react appropriately to a command to get down. If we could help him that would be one thing but..."

"We can!"

Hutch whirled, turning to face Dobey.

"We can send someone in behind him, Cap. We pull him down or lift him up, anything to get him out of the way."

"It won't work, Hutch. You heard what Captain Adams said. Sarcone will shoot the minute Starsky moves."

"I know but..."

"You know Starsky," Dobey interrupted. "He's going to react if he hears -- or if he senses -- someone coming up behind him. He won't be able to help it. He's going to move."

"He reacted when we came down the first time," Adams confirmed. "The only thing that saved him was the fact that we didn't know we were supposed to be quiet and that the first words out of his mouth were orders for nobody to shoot. Personally, I think Sarcone got off on it. He got a thrill telling us how he was going to take Starsky out."

"Then maybe..." Hutch began, but Adams cut him off.

"That was then, Hutchinson. Sarcone's not going to give us that kind of leeway twice. Now that we all know the ground rules, he'll use any excuse he gets to pump your partner full of holes."

Hutch winced at the description but he wasn't ready to give up on the idea. Not yet.

"I can get behind him," he told Dobey. "Starsky and I did a scenario like this before, when we were preparing for team qualifying exercises last June. He'll sense that I'm behind him -- I know that -- but he won't move. He'll stay put."

Dobey frowned, considering the option. He'd gone to the field to watch Starsky and Hutch in the team qualifying exercise and what he saw stuck with him. The two had communicated with each other in silence, relying exclusively on pats, nods and hand signals. They'd never said a word in twenty minutes, but they'd operated completely in sync.

If anybody could get close to Starsky, it was Hutch.

He nodded -- and McAlpine exploded, shaking his fist angrily in the air.

"Are you all stupid?" the captain asked. "You can't send that man in there. I won't allow it. Just talking about this violates at least a half-dozen rules."

Dobey waved him off. "Drop it, Mike."

He turned to Adams. "It's two-fifty. If we time this thing just right, Hutch can take him down just before three o'clock. When Sarcone fires, you'll see the flash of his gun. That will pinpoint him for the sharpshooter."

Adams nodded. "Yeah, but it's a tricky shot." He flicked his eyes at Hutch. "The sharpshooter has as good a chance of nailing them as he does taking out Sarcone."

McAlpine shoved around Hutch and got in Adams' face. "Are you listening to me? I'm not asking here, Adams. These men are still under my command. I'm ordering you to back off. Figure something else out. Don't..."

He had a lot more to say -- and he probably would have said it -- but just as the roving cameraman stepped forward and fired off a few quick shots, Dobey grabbed McAlpine's jacket and spun him around. His fist shot out and cracked against the side of the task force captain's jaw and McAlpine hit the ground like a sack of wheat. He squirmed and swore, but knew enough not to get up.

Dobey aimed a finger at him.

"You deserved that Mike. You've deserved it for a long time. Now just shut up and stay put while we figure this out."

Dobey turned his back on the other captain and faced Hutch.

"Yours is the only idea that has a chance in hell of working, Hutch. How do you want to play it?" He glanced down. "Think you can handle Starsky with that hand?"

"I don't have a choice."

Adams leaned forward, voicing a concern that was starting to gnaw at him.

"This isn't just a matter of strong-arming Starsky to the ground, Hutchinson. It's a matter of trust. You know the plan; you know the risks, and I think you're smart enough to be afraid. That fear is going to radiate from every pore of your body. You're going to look nervous, feel nervous, act nervous -- and Starsky's going to sense it. Are you sure he'll trust you enough to let you take him down?"

Hutch opened his mouth to answer but Will's words from a week ago barreled into his brain.

Either he's naturally stupid, or he's just pretending to trust you.

Hutch flinched.

"Hutchinson?"

He's just pretending to trust you.

Hutch nodded, hoping he sounded more confident that he felt.

"Yeah. He-he'll trust me."

"He better," Adams said. "Because you're the only chance he's got."

"You scared Dave?" Mac asked.

"Hell yeah!"

Starsky sucked in a breath and tried to remember where he was. He tried to keep the memories from coming, tried to focus on being in Bay City, not in Vietnam. But it was hard. It was so damn hard. And he kept hearing the soothing, calming, comforting voice of his friend.

"You scared?" Mac repeated.

"Hell yeah!"

He blinked, jerked unexpectedly back to the present. He was still scared. Even here in Bay City, he was scared. And he was tired. And he hurt. Every muscle he had was aching. His upper body trembled, but his legs had locked in place like iron. His feet never moved.

Starsky cracked his mouth and managed to lick his lips. So thirsty. So lonely. So tired. He wanted, needed to grab onto something solid. He needed something that would hold him up.

He could hear Sarcone in the distance. The man sounded like he was in agony but Starsky didn't delude himself into thinking that he'd loosened his grip on the gun.

Wouldn't happen.

Sarcone had figured out exactly how he wanted to die.

Starsky licked his lips again... And he heard Macario's voice again.

"It's okay, Dave. No biggie. We're the NYD..."

"You sure he can make it?"

Evans, the SWAT team sharpshooter, nudged his captain and angled his head toward Hutch. The blond, oblivious to the conversation happening around him, held his arms straight out as another member of SWAT team buckled him into a bulletproof vest.

Adams shrugged in response to Evans' question.

"Don't know," he admitted. "But damned if I can think of a better idea."

He broke off when Hutch lowered his arms and patted the vest to confirm the fit.

"How's it feel, Hutchinson?"

"Heavy."

"Then let's get ready to rock and roll." Adams motioned Evans forward. "This is Stan Evans, the best sharpshooter we've got. He'll trail you into the basement. He'll stay out of sight, but don't worry. He'll only be about thirty or forty feet back until you get to the bottom step. You got that?"

"Yeah."

"Now remember, it's pitch black down there. Evans will station himself on the bottom step so he'll have a clear shot down the hallway. You'll have to feel your way to Starsky, somehow fill him in on the plan and get him down before three o'clock. Evans will have the gun locked and loaded and aimed at your back. As soon as Sarcone shoots, Evans will fire so you'd better have your partner on the ground before Sarcone uses his gun. The rest of the squad won't be far behind and we'll swarm the place the minute we hear Evans take the shot."

Locked, loaded and aimed at your back...

Hutch turned and looked at Evans for the first time. The sharpshooter was a few years younger than he was and he had bright, excited eyes.

"Don't worry, Detective," Evans said easily. "I've got a great record and this -- this is the sort of thing sharpshooters dream about. No way I'm going to blow this. It'll be a great story to tell."

Locked, loaded and aimed at Starsky...

Hutch turned back to Adams and shook his head.

"No."

"No what?"

"Not Evans." He flicked his eyes at the younger man. "Nothing personal." He turned back to Adams. "A little while ago you said my partner would sense what I'm feeling. You remember that?"

"Of course, but..."

"Well, you're right. He'll know I'm scared of what's in front of me -- a crazy man with a gun. He'll accept that. But if I'm also worried about what's behind me, if I don't have absolute faith in what's behind me, Starsky will think I'm being set up. He'll try to protect me, and he'll react."

"Then if not Evans, who? I'm no sharpshooter." He followed Hutch's gaze to Dobey. "What? Are you nuts?"

"He's the best."

"He was the best. That was fifteen years ago, Hutchinson."

"He qualifies in the sharpshooter category every year. He's posted the best scores in the department for three years running."

"The best simulation scores. This isn't the range, Hutchinson. This is real. It's your life and your partner's life we're talking about here. You're telling me you want Dobey to be the one trailing you down those stairs and holding a gun at your back?"

Locked, loaded and aimed at my back...

Locked, loaded and aimed at Starsky...

"Damn straight," Hutch said. It would be Dobey or no one. "Damn straight."

"I think I'm hurt, Dave. I can't feel my legs."

Starsky blinked.

Why hadn't he gone first?

He'd never been able to answer that question. Why had he let Macario move in front of him? Why hadn't he insisted on staying in the lead?

Hutch said that was one of those questions that didn't have an answer. Hutch said things had worked out the way they were supposed to be.

So was this the way things were supposed to happen also? Was this the way it was supposed to end? If he was going to die in a dark and lonely corridor, he might as well have died in Vietnam. Then, at least, Macario would have survived.

He let his mind wander back again.

What were you supposed to do when somebody's legs got blown off? He didn't know. He clamped both hands to Mac's waist, to what used to be Mac's waist, and tried to stop the bleeding.

"Shit Mac!"

"Is it bad?"

"N-no, but shit! Just shit!"

Hutch crept toward the second set of stairs slowly, feeling stiff and awkward in the bulletproof vest. He could feel Dobey's hand on his shoulder. He could feel the captain's hot, anxious breath on his neck.

They'd altered Adams' original plan significantly. Rather than have Dobey always stay thirty or forty feet behind, they decided to stay together until they reached the bottom step on the second floor.

Hutch slid his shoeless foot forward and felt the lip of the top step. He reached back, tapped Dobey once on the leg, then began to inch forward.

PING!

It hurt to do it -- God, it hurt to do it -- but Hutch bit hard on his lip and forced all thoughts of Starsky and his anxiety and the pain he had to be feeling out of his mind.

All he could think about, all he would think about, was making his way down these stairs.

He slid his foot forward and took another step.

He swayed.

Focus David! Damn it, focus!

Starsky caught himself just in time. Planted his feet again just in time. Straightened himself up again just in time.

But, for what?

His internal clock said it was almost three o'clock and some deep, dark part of his subconscious was secretly glad. It was the part of his subconscious that didn't surface very often, the part that still felt guilty for surviving his tour when Macario died.

Don't worry about it, that part of his mind said. It'll be over soon. Everything will be all right.

Starsky blinked and tried to swallow. He wanted desperately to wipe the sweat from his eyes. He wanted desperately to have something to drink.

Don't worry about it...

His eyes rolled up and he felt his mind wander. His eyelids fluttered and he started to sway.

Last step? Hutch slid his foot forward. Last step!

He reached back, patted Dobey's leg twice and felt the captain's arm fall from his shoulder. Then he started forward, doing the one thing he could never have done if Evans had been behind him.

He forgot all about the man with the loaded rifle. He forgot all about the man with the gun aimed right at his back.

Locked, loaded...

Hutch put that thought completely out of his mind and opened himself up again to Starsky.

PING!

It was just like riding a bicycle. Hutch's internal radar sounded almost immediately. Within seconds, he was so tuned into Starsky's anxiety level that he could almost feel his partner breathe.

How far away was he now? Three hundred feet? Two hundred feet? Without lights, the hallway and stairwells were pitch black. It was impossible to see.

Hutch kept one hand -- his good hand -- pressed flat against the wall and used his sense of touch to guide him forward.

Almost there now. Almost there.

He could hear two people breathing. One person was almost gasping, groaning painfully with each breath. The other was panting, sucking air in and out like it was a struggle to stay awake.

It was hot as a sauna down here, Hutch realized. The two men were perspiring and the air was heavy with the stench of sweat.

Hutch froze as one man -- the gasping man -- made a sound like a steam engine and spat. The other man didn't seem to notice. He just continued to breathe with those desperate, dog-like pants. Trying to stay focused, Hutch thought. Trying to stay on his feet.

He inched forward another step... and froze.

He's just pretending to trust you.

Will's voice thundered through his brain.

Had it been a made a mistake for him to come down after Starsky? Was Will right?

Hutch stiffened.

Starsky had seen him at his worst just a day ago. Starsky had seem him flat on his back and unable to move.

Would he trust his life to someone as messed up as that? Could he?

Hutch shook his head and tried to drive Will's voice out of his mind. He could do this. Starsky could do this.

But his brother's voice would not be silenced.

He's just pretending to trust you.

It simply got louder and louder and droned on and on.

Someone else was with him now.

He could feel it. He could sense it. That realization offered hope, and Starsky caught himself again as he started to sway.

A dozen conflicting thoughts crashed through his brain. He wanted to turn around and grab the person. He wanted to hit the floor. He wanted to run. But most of all, he wanted to believe this person would help him, would save him, would get him out of this horrible mess and let him go home.

He wanted to swivel and see who was back there, but he didn't, wouldn't, couldn't turn his head. Because that would move his body. That would move his feet. And Sarcone would hear his heels click on the linoleum... And then he would be dead.

Starsky tried to pinpoint the other person's presence without looking. Behind him? Yes. The other was behind him. Male? Probably. Though bathed in the total darkness, it was impossible to tell.

Years of police training started to activate and Starsky felt his body tensing, preparing to move.

And then it stopped.

Just like that.

He couldn't see the other person. The other couldn't call his name. But it didn't matter, all of the sudden.

His body recognized who was behind him. His body sensed it. His body knew.

He could almost reach out and touch him. Almost.

Hutch slid his foot forward and took another slow, painful, meticulous step toward his partner.

He could tell Starsky knew he was in the hallway. He'd heard the subtle change in his partner's breathing pattern a few seconds ago. Sarcone had been oblivious, but Hutch heard Starsky's breath catch and hold.

PING! PING! PING!

Hutch took another step... and stretched out his arms. His uninjured left hand touched Starsky's back and Hutch moved closer instinctively. He wrapped his arms around his partner, holding him, bracing him while Starsky adjusted to his presence.

Starsky didn't move, didn't shift, didn't give any outward indication that he was no longer alone. But his desperate, rabid panting slowed just a fraction... and a sound -- maybe a groan, maybe a whimper -- escaped from his throat.

"You finally starting to wear down, cop?"

Sarcone's voice was scratchy and rough. He sounded like he was in pain, but he was clearly aware of his surroundings. He was obviously alert.

"Still don't want to talk with me, huh? Well, don't worry about it. I know you haven't moved since we started this little party and I still have the gun. In case you're wondering, it's pointed right at your belly and I'm going to pull the trigger at three o'clock."

He grunted and spat.

"Start saying your prayers, cop. It's almost time for you to blow."

Hutch loosened his arms and took a half-step back. As he moved away, another little sound escaped from Starsky's throat but, if he heard it, Sarcone apparently didn't care.

Hutch dropped to one knee and placed his left hand on Starsky's waist, securing a grip on both the fabric and Starsky's belt. Then he put his bandaged right hand flat against Starsky's back.

Stay with me buddy, he thought. Stay with me.

He pulled his right hand away and softly, silently tapped Starsky on the back.

One!

Hutch could feel the rivulets of sweat pour down Starsky's back. He knew his partner's eyebrows were knitted together in frustration as he tried to figure out what was going on.

Hutch pulled his hand away and tapped Starsky again.

Two!

He's just pretending to trust you!

Hutch stiffened.

Wasn't true. Wasn't true! Their lives depended on that not being true. He tapped Starsky again.

Three!

And tugged on Starsky's belt.

When we do this for real, just relax buddy. Relax and let me lift you.

Hutch hoped Starsky would shift his position just a little to let him know he understood, but his partner stayed immobile. If anything, his legs clamped harder in place.

He's just pretending to trust you!

Hutch could feel Starsky shiver. He was confused, Hutch knew. He was scared. But for them to survive this, Starsky had to trust him. Completely.

In the distance, the church bell started to toll. It was an eerie sound -- a hollow, mournful ringing that marked the last few seconds of their lives. The melodic prologue ended quickly and the bell began to toll the three o'clock hour.

Sarcone's deadline.

Starsky's lifeline.

One!

Hutch tapped Starsky squarely in the back. Trust me, Starsk. Please, please trust me.

He felt a drop of sweat roll down his own back. It was followed by a second, then another, and another, and another. It was uncomfortable as hell, but Hutch forced thoughts of his discomfort out of his mind.

Two!

Hutch tapped Starsky again.

"This is it, cop," Sarcone barked. "You ready? You ready? Next time that bell rings, you're gonna' be dead! Bet you wish you hadn't stayed to help that other cop now!"

Hutch licked his lips. Sarcone was right on that point. Starsky could have gotten out of here, but he'd stayed in place to help Lee. Now it was just the two of them.

Me and Starsky.

Me and thee.

He's just pretending to trust you!

Oh God, Starsky please...

Three!

Just before the third bell sounded, Hutch tapped, gripped hard with his left hand, slid his shoulder against Starsky's back and heaved.

He's just pretending to trust you!

Hutch put as much muscle as he could into it. He was prepared for resistance, prepared for Will to be right -- but Starsky's body went limp at the first hint of motion. The old judo throw worked perfectly. Hutch lifted him as easily as if he were made of air.

The bell rang a third time and Sarcone's gun cracked once, spitting a lethal piece of metal toward the place Starsky was supposed to be. The bullet exited Sarcone's gun in a spray of sparks that illuminated him clearly for the briefest of seconds. Then, another gun sounded. It was the crack of a sharpshooter's rifle -- the crisp, hollow snap of a precision weapon put into use.

And then there was silence.

Just like that.

Dobey's voice was the first to break the stillness. "Stay down! Hutch! Starsky! Stay down!"

A half-dozen flashlights turned on, brightening the hall as well as the overhead lights ever had. Dobey, who had been stationed on the stairwell, hunkered down on one knee, pulled himself up heavily. Younger men in flack jackets pushed by him, their automatic weapons drawn and ready.

Dobey followed behind wearily. His eyes were trained on the two still bodies that lay on the floor. Their limbs were so entangled that those of one man were indistinguishable from those of the other. Dobey could make out the splash of blond hair that was Hutch but Starsky's head and upper body were hidden, buried protectively under his partner's flack jacket and arms.

Dobey had just reached them, had just dropped again to one knee, when Adams sounded the all clear.

"It's okay." Dobey tapped Hutch on the shoulder gingerly. "Sarcone's down. You two all right?"

Hutch rolled toward his captain, flopping exhaustedly on his back. As soon as he moved, Starsky rolled in the other direction. He came to a stop after a few inches, his back propped wearily against the wall.

"You all right?" Dobey repeated.

"Yeah." The answer came from Hutch. The blond turned his head to glance to his left. "Starsky? Were you hit?"

"No..."

"You all right?"

Starsky hesitated, trying to take stock of his still-shaking limbs. He'd been scared this time, more scared than he could remember being since that dreadful, horrible night in Vietnam.

"Starsk?"

Starsky rolled his eyes to look fully at Hutch. Am I okay? He thought once more about Mac. Am I all right? He shook his head faintly, trusting Hutch to understand.

"...no..."

The balance of power shifted. Hutch grabbed for it without hesitation; Starsky let it go without a fight.

Hutch pushed himself up and clasped Starsky's hand, encasing it in a grip that was solid and warm.

"It's okay, buddy. Don't worry about it. It's okay." He turned to face Dobey. "We need to get him out of here, Cap."

"Sure."

"Captain Dobey!"

Three sets of eyes turned to where Adams stood over what was left of Jimmy Sarcone.

"Helluva' shot, Cap!" the SWAT leader called. He lifted his first two fingers and tapped himself squarely in the forehead, indicating the spot where Sarcone had been hit. "Helluva' shot."

Dobey nodded and, for the first time since he'd come down the stairs with Hutch, flipped the safety on his rifle and lowered it to the ground.

Epilogue

Just like that.

He'd lost it all.

Just like that.

Three years spent planning his move into the big leagues of the drug trade. Two years spent converting City House into a smoothly operating distribution center. Nine months pulling the strings on those pawns Nate Foster, Jimmy Sarcone and Sheila Wolinsky.

All of it lost. All of it gone. Thanks to those renegade cops Starsky and Hutch.

Aldus Pike stiffened as he thought about the two detectives. He was beginning to think letting them live this long had been a terrible mistake. He'd held out hope for years of getting one or both of them on the take, but he was definitely running out of patience now. He was getting truly and royally pissed offed.

Another incident like this and he'd just as soon see them dead as on his payroll.

Pike grimaced, thinking back on the thousands of dollars it cost him to tie up a half-dozen loose ends. Twenty-five thousand dollars to have Armando Reyes killed. Twelve thousand dollars to move his City House operation to other locations. Thirty thousand dollars to make peace with Rodale and Sloan. And fifty thousand dollars to cool things with Hatcher so the little weasel wouldn't spill the beans.

Crap! He'd lost a hell of a lot of money on this operation, and that stunk.

Pike swiveled in his chair and stared at the man who sat across from him. The man usually looked smooth, confident and in control. But he didn't look like that now. Now he was sweating. Now he was scared.

He'd been in charge of this operation and he'd blown it. And there weren't many second changes when you worked for Aldus Pike.

"I-I know things don't look so good right now," the man said. "But I-I need to remind you that I took care of Wolinsky personally and I managed to contain things with Sarcone. I almost kept the cops from saving Starsky, and I made sure you'd know if the task force came up with any hard evidence that could put you away."

"Umm hmm." Pike stared at him coldly. "But if you recall, the reason I wanted you to go after Rodale and Sloan in the first place was so I could get a list of the cops and judges Sloan has on his payroll and get access to whoever's bankrolling Sloan. None of that happened, did it?"

"Well no, but that was because Starsky and Hutchinson..."

"I lost the entire City House operation and won't be able to make a move into Levin's -- or shall we say Hatcher's -- territory for some time. You told me you were ready for more responsibility, and you blew it." He stood up and stalked toward the other man. "You blew it, Mike! You blew it! You want to give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you killed right now?"

Mike McAlpine shifted uncomfortably. He had one card up his sleeve, one chance to save his life. He hoped like hell that it was enough.

"You're always saying you want more cops on the payroll. I have one for you, Mr. Pike. I can get him in today if you like."

"What's so special about this particular cop?"

"He has a thing about Starsky and Hutch. You can use him Mr. Pike. He'll do whatever you want for a chance to put them away."

Pike stroked his chin. "You sure about that?"

"Yes sir!"

"What's his name?"

"Lee, Mr. Pike," McAlpine managed to smile. "His name's Gil Lee."

"He better be good, McAlpine. Your life depends on it."

"He is, sir. He is. He's very motivated, very ready. He, um, he just has one favor to ask before we get under way."

"A favor?"

McAlpine shrugged. "Kind of like a show of faith."

Pike slammed his fist on his desk. "He wants a show of faith from me?"

"Well I, um he, I-I told him how good you are at making things happen from the sidelines. You know, pulling the strings behind the scenes..."

"I know what I do, Mike."

"He uh, he just wants to see that once for himself."

Pike stroked his chin again. "Ballsy SOB, ain't he?"

"He is that, yes sir."

"What exactly does he want?"

"He said he'd rather talk with you about that in person, Mr. Pike. All I know is that he wants you to get a guy Starsky and Hutch busted back on the streets."

"Who is it?"

McAlpine shrugged. "I don't know that much about him. I only know his name. It's Prudholm, George Prudholm."

Reprimanded.

Disciplined.

Suspended... for the first time in almost thirty years.

Dobey sighed and stomped down the stairs heavily. It was almost nine, but he still wore his robe cinched tight over his pajamas.

Suspended... Yeech!

He passed through the living room, saw Rosie's little stack of kindergarten books and Cal's larger pile of junior high texts, and sighed again. The kids were going to school and he -- Captain Harold C. Dobey -- was being kept at home.

With another huge sigh he rounded the corner and entered the kitchen disinterestedly. For the first time in a long time, he had absolutely no appetite. His little family -- Edith, Cal and Rosie -- stopped talking as soon as he walked into the room.

"Morning," Dobey managed.

"Hey Dad!" Cal stopped chewing his cereal and gave his father a huge grin. "They showed you on the news again this morning. Boy, you really let McAlpine have it! Right in the kisser! That was great, Pop."

Dobey rolled his eyes. A good, upstanding cop and his son wasn't interested. Suspended... and suddenly he was cool. Jeez.

"Don't congratulate your father for beating up his coworkers, Cal," Edith chided. "I'm sure he's very contrite. Aren't you, Harold?"

"What's contrite?" Rosie asked.

"Embarrassed," Cal answered. He looked at his father in dismay. "You're not sorry for what happened, are you Dad? One of the reporters said you told McAlpine that he had it coming. They said that twice on the news."

"Captain McAlpine," Dobey corrected. He glanced at Edith. "And yes, I am very contrite."

"You don't sound very convincing, Harold."

"I am very, very contrite," Dobey said. He looked at his son levelly. "I got suspended, Cal. That's nothing to joke about."

Cal shook his head stubbornly. "That's not what they said on the news. They said McAlpine, um Captain McAlpine, wanted the commissioner to suspend you and he considered it. He changed his mind after Detective Starsky and Detective Hutchinson told him you were a hero and that you saved both their lives."

"Cal..."

"He's right, Harold." Edith patted Dobey's shoulder soothingly. "Don't overstate the situation, dear. You aren't really suspended."

"Yes I am! I got the call myself before I even left the warehouse!"

"No, you're not," Edith corrected.

She pointed Dobey toward a chair and slid a plate of waffles under his nose. "The commissioner changed his mind after he talked with you. You're not suspended anymore. You were given the day off with pay."

"I was relieved of duty, Edith..."

"Not one negative word went on your record."

"I was disgraced..."

"You didn't even get an official reprimand."

"Humiliated..."

"The commissioner even said Ken and Dave convinced him that you deserved a commendation, not a suspension," Edith countered. "He was so impressed that he gave all of you -- you, Ken, Dave, even McAlpine -- a day off with pay." She smiled sweetly. "You're on vacation, dear. You're not suspended."

Dobey looked up slowly. "He said that? Really?"

"His very words Harold." She stooped to hand Dobey a fork and knife and lowered her voice so only her husband could hear what she said next. "I talked with my cousin in the mayor's office this morning. She said Ken and Dave called the mayor at home yesterday. They said they'd be compelled to tell the press how the city was actually funding a drug smuggling business right under the task force's nose if the commissioner suspended you. They went to bat for you Harold, and they didn't back down."

Dobey raised his eyebrows and smiled slowly.

"I guess they did." His smile broadened. He reached for the syrup, suddenly hungry. "I guess they did."

Cal studied his father carefully. "Dad?"

"Yes, Calvin?"

"Does whatever you're talking about mean you're okay with punching out Captain McAlpine?"

Dobey felt Edith's hand drop to his shoulder. "Uh -- no, son. I'm still very, very contrite."

"Would you do it again?"

Dobey glanced at his wife and she nodded her assent. Sometimes the truth was exactly what was needed.

"Oh yeah," he said, lifting a forkful of waffle to his mouth. "In a New York minute."

"What about this one? You ready for it to go out?" Starsky pointed to a trash bag wearily.

He'd bounced back surprisingly quickly from his ordeal and had happily volunteered to help Hutch clean his apartment. He'd been in a great mood when they'd started... but that had been hours ago. Now, his good humor was starting to fade.

Hutch half-turned from his desk and stared at the bulging plastic sack. It was taking more time -- and more effort -- than either of them anticipated to clean this place.

Who would have believed he could do so much damage in just one week?

Besides, even though he didn't want to admit it, being back here was hard. It was causing him to relive everything he'd been through, everything he'd done.

Hutch heard the sound of Starsky's foot tapping impatiently and forced himself back to the present. He nodded at Starsky, giving him the go-ahead to dump the trash then swiveled back to finish sorting through the stack of mail.

Who would've guessed he would get so many letters? Wasn't there some kind of law against junk mail?

"Ooo-kay then." Starsky grunted and hoisted the bag over his shoulder. "Out to the dumpster it goes. Back in a minute..." He broke off and frowned, studying Hutch closely. His partner sat frozen, a handwritten letter hanging limply from his hand.

"Hutch?"

The blond didn't move.

Starsky let the trash bag slip to the floor and walked across the room. He stopped at the desk, standing close enough to Hutch to read the letter if he tried.

But he didn't.

"Hutch?"

Hutch handed him the letter without a word.

"Read it?" Starsky asked.

Hutch nodded.

"Out loud?"

"Yeah."

Starsky lowered his gaze and studied the letter for a moment before he read. The writing was neat and precise, just like Hutch's. The lines were straight. The grammar was perfect. The spelling was exemplary. Just like Hutch's.

"Dear Ken," Starsky read. "I hope this letter finds you well. I was concerned after you left the house last week, but Paul said it would be better not to call... I want you to understand that the last few days have been very difficult for me. Until you told us about your..." Starsky paused.

"Keep going Starsk."

"You sure?"

"Why not? I may as well hear it for myself."

"Didn't you read it?"

"I stopped where you did. I know what she's going to say: 'Sorry about that godfather gig Kenny, but there's no way we're going to trust you with our kid.'"

"C'mon..."

"I know my family Starsky. Screw up and you're SOL. I messed up big time, don't you think?"

"No, I don't. Look Hutch, Forrest got you hooked on smack, but you beat it. You beat it! I know that. You know that. Deep down, your family knows that too. Jenna may have reacted badly at first but she wrote you, didn't she? She probably wants to make up."

Hutch looked up and smiled sadly. "You must believe in second chances."

"Yeah, and happy endings too. They happen sometimes, Hutch."

"Not in my family, pal. Not to me." He angled his head toward the letter. "Keep going."

Starsky gave him a look that said, "You'll see." Then he started to read again.

"Until you told us about your problem, I was sure you were the best choice for our baby's godfather. I always looked up to you when we were kids, and I thought Paul and I could rely on you to take care of the baby if anything ever happened to us. But now..."

Starsky paused again, his eyes quickly skimming the rest of the letter. When he continued reading, his voice was quiet and pained.

"But now, I don't think that's a smart decision for us to make. You always say to just spit out the truth Ken, so I will. I need to know that whomever we pick to be the baby's godfather will be able to put our child's interests first, no matter what. I need to know I can trust him completely... Paul and I talked about it, and we decided that his brother should be the baby's godfather after all. I'm sorry, Kenny. I hope you're not too disappointed, but I'm sure you understand... I have to go now, but I'll be in touch. Stay well, Ken. We're all pulling for you. Love, Jenna."

Starsky let the letter drop back to the desk. "Shit, Hutch..."

"So much for second chances." Hutch lifted the letter and methodically tore it to pieces. Once he finished, he dropped the scrapes of paper on the desk and scooped them into a pile.

"It's their loss, Hutch. You would've been a great godfather."

Hutch laughed softly. "Wanna' hear something funny? I thought so too." He laughed again. It was a short, sad puff of air. "Who's gonna' trust me to do that?"

"I would."

"You're my partner. You have to say that."

"Yeah?" Starsky rocked back on his heels and smiled. "Just remember that ten years from now when you're up to your ears in little Starskys."

Hutch snorted. "Up to my ears? What are you planning to do, spawn a football team?"

"Damn straight. I can see it now. Twenty or thirty little Starskys, all running around with their hands in the air, all looking like me." He sighed. "Sounds great, don't it?"

"Sounds scary as hell." Hutch laughed, yanked, in spite of himself, from his darkened mood. "Twenty or thirty?"

"Probably more like two." Starsky grinned. "The world can only take so much perfection." He whirled, scooped up the pile of shredded paper and dropped the pieces into the trash bag in one smooth motion.

"Enough future thinking," he said. He hoisted the bag and, for a second time, slung it over his shoulder. "Anything else for this?"

"Nope."

"Then I'm outta' here. Back in a sec." He trotted to the front door but paused just before he stepped out. "Hey..."

Hutch looked up. "What?"

"I meant it, you know... I'd trust you." He smiled, a quick flash of white teeth against olive skin... then disappeared down the hall.

Just like that.

Hutch stared after him. That was Starsky, all right. Five feet, eleven inches of happy endings and good thoughts. Who else could live through Vietnam and still believe in second chances? Who else could go through what he did with Sarcone and bounce back overnight?

Hutch turned back to his desk and noticed a scrap of paper that Starsky had missed. A few words of Jenna's letter were still legible. I'm sure you'll understand...

Hutch absently tore the little piece of paper in half once, then again and again and again.

Yeah, he understood all right. That was the way of the world.

He thought about Starsky's promise and sighed.

He wouldn't hold his partner to it. Five years from now or ten years from now or whenever it was that Starsky got married and had kids, he wouldn't get his feelings hurt if the friendship cooled and the promise was forgotten.

He shrugged and pitched the miniscule pieces into the trash.

After all, that was the way of the world, wasn't it?

That's just how things happened.

That's just what people did.

"Profiles In Blue"-- Transcribed Interview (unedited)
Jan. 13, 2001

Present: Ken Hutchinson (BCPD Deputy Commissioner), Hal Roberts (Bay City Gazette), Elaine Cook (BCPD Public Information Officer and Special Liaison to the Mayor)

Others in transcript: Girl on telephone (not identified by name)

---

HR: Thanks for continuing the interview even though Starsky had to bow out for a while. I'm under the gun to get this thing wrapped.

KH: No problem.

HR: You're not expecting any interruptions, are you?

KH: Just a call from the DA, but it shouldn't take long

HR: Nothing else?

KH: Not that I know of... Don't worry though, Elaine's helping with the phones.

HR: Elaine? Elaine Cook?

KH: Umm hmm.

HR: You got the Public Information Officer to help with the phones? How'd you swing that?

KH: It's late. She knew I could use the help. She volunteered... I asked her not to interrupt unless it's a priority.

HR: Oh. (pause) Okay then, let's move on. Um, I don't know that much about Inspector Starsky's job -- Chief Investigator for the Special Prosecutor's Office in D.C., right?

KH: Right.

HR: It must keep him hopping if he has seven p.m. conference calls.

KH: Yep.

HR: To be honest, I'm kinda' surprised he even agreed to do these interviews. (casual) You probably don't know this, but the first time I called for an appointment, he turned me down flat. The commissioner pitched a fit when I told him. He was pretty determined that I interview you guys for this series. (pause) Any idea why?

KH: You're writing about former partners; we're former partners. We're still alive. (light) We still remember working together...

HR: (sharp laugh) Oh! You heard about those other guys, huh? Those two who were partners in the Forties...

KH: (laughs) Everybody heard about them! (laughs) You arranged a reunion, brought in a photographer, paid for a fancy meal... and once they got there, neither knew who the other was. They didn't even remember each other's names.

HR: (laughs) That was, like, the longest night in the world. I don't know who was more relieved when it was over, them or me...

KH: Yeah...

HR: The funny thing is, they didn't break up on bad terms. They just sort of drifted apart, didn't even think about each other for more than fifty years. (pause) (casual) Happens, I guess.

(pause)

KH: (soft) I guess. (pause) So... (clears his throat) You want to keep going here?

HR: Sure. Let me double-check a couple of facts first...

Sound: Paper rustling.

HR: Um, let's see. You and Inspector Starsky were partners for fifteen years?

KH: About that, yeah. We went through the Academy together -- got to be friends. After graduation, we worked with other partners while we were in uniform and asked to be assigned together when we started in plain clothes.

HR: And after that you were partners all the way through... until Inspector Starsky left the force, I mean?

KH: Yes.

HR: And he left...

Sound: Paper rustling.

HR: ... following his mother's stroke, correct? He moved back to New York for a while then took the job in DC?

KH: Yes.

HR: And you two stayed in touch? Stayed friends?

(pause)

KH: (soft) Yes.

(pause)

HR: To be honest, that surprises me.

KH: Why's that?

HR: It's just not consistent with what I've been finding... I've interviewed a lot of ex- partners for this series -- a set from every decade since the Thirties -- and you know what? Most of 'em don't even stay in touch.

KH: Umm.

HR: I tipped off Commissioner Stilman a few months ago. Told him the series might not turn out as pro-BCPD as he'd hoped... Next thing I know, he gives me your and Starsky's names and insists I include you guys in the interviews.

KH: (surprised) Really?

HR: Never mentioned that to you, huh?

KH: No.

(pause)

HR: Pardon the cynicism, but I have a hard time buying that. I'm getting the feeling I'm being set up here... What did Stilman do, call you guys in and tell you to do the happy dance for me?

KH: No. (stiff) We don't dance.

(pause)

HR: Look, nothing personal but I've been a reporter for almost twenty years. I've seen everything there is to see in people, and here's the bottom line. Friendship is like marriage. Nobody sticks around for the long haul... What I saw with those other cops -- that's the real deal. You do your job; you walk away; you don't look back.

KH: (soft) No happy endings. No second chances...

HR: No second chances.

KH: (pause) (soft) Right...

Sound: Knocking. Door opens.

EC: Excuse me, Hutch. You've got a call on line two.

KH: Oh... Okay, thanks Elaine.

EC: Sure.

Sound: Door closes.

KH: Sorry, it's probably the DA. Stay where you are; it won't take long.

Sound: Speakerphone activated.

KH: (flat) Hutchinson.

Girl's Voice (filtered): Hi Uncle Hutch!

KH: (surprised) (pleased) Hi sweetie! How's my girl? Is everything okay?

GV: Yep.

KH: (pause) Sure?

GV: Oh yeah.

(pause)

KH: Hold on a second for me, all right?

GV: Okay.

Sound: Call put on hold.

KH: Why don't you step outside and grab a cup of coffee? Elaine can tell you where it is.

HR: I thought we agreed to continue the interview unless it was a priority call.

KH: It is a priority call.

HR: (hard) It's just a little girl. (pause) Look, if it were up to me I'd say go ahead and talk, but we're up against a deadline here.

KH: (firm) It's a priority call.

(pause)

HR: (sighs) Can I at least leave my stuff here? My notebook and my tape recorder...

KH: Sure.

Sound: Tape recorder being moved.

HR: I'll turn off the tape.

KH: Thanks.

Sound (very soft): Continuous Record button depressed.

KH: I'll find you when I'm through.

HR: (sighs) Fine.

Sound: Door closing.

Sound: Call taken off hold.

KH: Hi honey. You still there?

GV: I'm here... Are you busy?

KH: (laughs) What're you talking about? You know the rule.

GV: (laughs) Never too busy for me.

KH: Never too busy for you. What's up? (casual) You sure everything's okay?

GV: Umm hmm.

KH: So what's going on?

GV: Well... (pause) (light) Mom's giving Kenny a driving lesson.

KH: How's that going?

GV: (laughs) He's awful! Mom says he drives just like Dad. Last time she took him out, she came back and lay on the couch for an hour with a washcloth on her head. (laughs)

KH: (laughs)

GV: Dad says she should wait until Kenny and I come visit you this summer. That way you can teach him to drive.

KH: (slow) Oh really...

GV: Dad says Kenny won't get arrested for driving on the sidewalk if you're teaching him, since you're the deputy commissioner and all.

KH: (laughs) Sounds like your dad.

GV: (laughs) Umm hmm, it does...

(pause)

KH: (soft) Anything else going on?

GV: (pause) You sure you're not too busy?

KH: Nope. I have all the time in the world.

GV: (pause) What about the interview?

KH: We're taking a little break. Your dad's on a conference call.

GV: I know. He told us about it last night...

(long pause)

GV: I learned to play that song you sent me. It's really nice.

KH: I'm glad you liked it.

GV: It's great...

(longer pause)

GV: You're sure you have time?

KH: Absolutely. (pause) What's on your mind?

GV: Well, I was... I mean, I wanted... (pause) Do... (pause) Do you know anyone whose parents died, Uncle Hutch?

KH: (pause) (careful) When the person was young? Like you?

GV: Yeah.

KH: I can think of a couple of people. Why?

GV: This girl in my school -- Sharon -- her mother was a single mom, and she died.

KH: When was that?

GV: Last night... They told us about it in Assembly this morning. She died in an accident. She wasn't sick or anything.

KH: (gentle) Is that what's--? (pause) (soft) Your parents are fine, honey.

GV: I know... but bad things happen, right?

KH: (pause) Yes. (soft) Sometimes they do.

GV: And you can't stop them, right?

KH: (pause) Not all the time, no.

GV: (soft) I know. (sad) They told us that today, too.

(pause)

KH: Is Sharon a friend of yours?

GV: Not really. She's two years ahead of me.

KH: Seventh grade?

GV: Umm hmm. I don't know her very well.

KH: What did the teachers say? Is she all right?

GV: Nobody knows... The police put her in foster care until they figure out what to do. She has an aunt in Kentucky, but her aunt owns some kind of business. She doesn't want to come out right now.

KH: Oh...

GV: We talked about it a lot in Homeroom... Some of the kids got really scared.

KH: Why's that?

GV: Foster care, Sharon's aunt not coming, being alone, a bunch of stuff...

(pause)

GV: My friend Allie says things like this happen all the time. She says everybody oughta' be scared because kids get left behind a lot... (pause) But I always thought... (pause) (nervous) I always thought if something bad happened, you would just be there, Uncle Hutch. I never worried about it before. Allie says I'm being stupid, but...

KH: (quickly) You're not being stupid.

GV: (shaky) That's what would happen?

KH: That's exactly what would happen.

GV: You'd come get us? Right away?

KH: Right away.

GV: (pause) But you're busy too. Just like Sharon's aunt.

KH: Never too busy for you.

GV: (pause) (soft) Never too busy for me. (pause) (stronger) That's what I thought.

KH: You were right, too.

(pause)

GV: Do you ever worry about stuff like that, Uncle Hutch?

KH: About something happening to your folks?

GV: About something happening to you. About what would happen if you got hurt.

KH: (pause) Everybody wonders about that sometimes, sweetheart.

GV: Oh... (pause) (gentle) But you know, right?

KH: (soft) I know.

GV: (steady) We'd take care of you Uncle Hutch. That's exactly what would happen.

KH: I know it is, baby. (very soft) I know.

Sound (muted): Car horn.

KH: (long, shaky breath) (clears his throat) (pause) Who's that?

GV: Um, just a second. Let me check... (pause) It's Kenny and Mom. We're going out for dinner tonight.

KH: Yeah? (clears his throat) (light) So, who's driving?

GV: (laughs) Not Kenny! Mom won't let me near the car when he's driving! (laughs)

KH: (laughs)

Sound (muted): Car horn.

GV: Gotta' go Uncle Hutch.

KH: Okay. Hey --!

GV: What?

KH: Did you tell Mom what happened at school today?

GV: Not yet. I had a music lesson and got home late. She and Kenny had to go. (pause) Maybe I should tell her at dinner, huh?

KH: (casual) Sure. That's a good idea.

Sound (muted): Car horn.

GV: (rushed) Say hi to Daddy for me.

KH: Okay.

GV: Talk to you later Uncle Hutch. Love you.

KH: Love you too.

GV: Bye!

KH: Bye sweetheart.

Sound (muted): Phone hanging up.

Sound: Speakerphone deactivated.

KH: (very soft) I love you too.

Coming next in the Bay City Gazette series: 1977: F., F., Double G. The trail to Aldus Pike takes a convoluted turn when Starsky and Hutch go undercover as contestants on the hit game show, Brains & Brawn.

Plot and original characters. Copyright 2001