He sat at his desk, waiting.

He sat in his car, waiting.

He sat in his partner's apartment, waiting.

Waiting for a phone call, waiting for a radio call, waiting for a knock at the door.

It had been four days -- ninety-six hours since Starsky had vanished without a trace. There had been no taunting phone calls, no notes full of demands. Only silence.

He'd tried everything he could think of, talked to everyone they knew, gone everywhere they'd ever been. He'd found nothing, seen nothing, heard nothing.

Now he sat -- waiting -- for information he was afraid would never come.