The
Price of a Life
Chapter Two
Their first stop was The Pits. Starsky and Hutch pounded on the back door until they heard Huggy hollering “We’re closed!” through the thick metal door.
“It’s us!” the two detectives yelled back in unison, then looked at each in mild surprise at their chorus.
Huggy swung open the alley door and pulled another drag from his cigarette. “A little late for a nightcap, isn’t it? Shoot, Hutch, ain’t it about time for you to go to the gym?”
“You mean, you haven’t heard anything yet?” Starsky asked, passing Huggy through the doorway.
Huggy looked back and forth between the two. “Heard what?”
Hutch stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind them. “The captain’s been kidnapped.”
“You’re putting me on. Who would want to snatch the big guy?”
“We already know the who and the why. What we need to know is the where.” Starsky picked up the eight ball from the center of the pool table and rolled it around in his hands, expelling some of his nervous energy. “Ransom drop’s tonight at midnight.”
“We want him back before then.”
“Missing his melodious voice
already, huh?” Huggy stripped off the
dirty apron and tossed it on top of the bar.
“I can dig it. Let me put my ear
to the ground and find out what’s rumblin’ besides
the
˜ ™
Wheezer Johnson was no stranger to the warehouse district. After forty-five years of loading and unloading rail freight, he knew every one of the fourteen buildings in the southwest blocks like he knew his own reflection. A fire feeding off a load of dry chemicals gave Wheezer his nickname and an early retirement that kept him bouncing between the homeless shelter and the VA Hospital.
When the weather was good enough, though, Wheezer made his home in one of the warehouses from which he once eked out a living. He hadn’t visited Building 209 in several months, due to a stint of bronchitis that laid him out at the VA for a week. The homeless man headed there now, staggering under the effects of the bottle of Mad Dog he’d been able to lift from a convenience store while the clerk was chasing a pair of teenage shoplifters out the door.
Wheezer unsteadily climbed the dilapidated stairs leading him to the fourteenth of fifteen levels. The fourteenth—his favorite floor—hosted many smaller offices and storerooms, perfect for a bit of privacy from the other occasional homeless person, and safety from the drug dealers that sometimes frequented the district. After a night of roaming the streets, he was ready to find a quiet spot and settle down with his bottle for a good day’s sleep.
He was surprised to the point of nearly losing his grasp on the wine when he rounded the corner leading to the smaller storerooms to see one of the doors open and people inside. Even more frightening was the angry white man screaming slurs at the black man tied to a chair, obviously roughed up. Wheezer instinctively flattened himself against the wall and began sidling away from the scene, though his eyes were drawn to the scenario playing out before him.
When he heard Whitie call the bound man “Captain,” Wheezer knew he was witnessing more than just some bad crap going down, and decided to make a hasty retreat. His coordination was poor on the soberest of days, and Wheezer stumbled heavily across the floor, causing the ancient boards to creak. Before he was able to curse under his breath, a hand snaked across his chest and gathered a fistful of his coat, slamming the homeless man against the wall.
“Where the hell do you think you’re headed?”
“Nowhere, man—I ain’t headed nowhere. I was just lookin’ for a place to sleep.”
“What’s going on out here?” Andrews stormed out into the hallway.
Wheezer’s captor slammed him against the wall a second time. “I found this bum creepin’ around up here, but I don’t think he’s seen nothing.”
Andrew’s arctic glare sizing him up sent a chill down Wheezer’s spine. He had the feeling he was given the same consideration the angry blond man would give a cockroach. “Get rid of him, Murdock—permanently. He’s just another worthless coon living off my taxes.”
˜ ™
The man called Murdock, who hauled Wheezer out onto the docks, wasn’t paying too much attention to his charge, never anticipating the homeless man would put up a fight. Murdock was caught completely off guard when his intended victim jumped into the bay before he’d had a chance to place a bullet in his head.
Murdock fired twice into the ripples, marking where the old man had disappeared, the gun making its odd wuffling sound due to its silencer. He peered vainly into the inky darkness for any sign of life or death. When none appeared, he weighed the odds of the derelict surviving swimming to shore in his heavy clothes, against what would happen to him if he were to tell Andrews he’d let the old man get away.
Lighting up a cigarette, Murdock went back toward the warehouse, the decision easily made.
˜ ™
As the footsteps of his intended assassin retreated above his head, Wheezer dug his nails deeper into the post he clung to, shivering against the cold water. He cursed the loss of his overcoat and shoes, which he had quickly discarded after swimming under the boardwalk. Willing his teeth to stop chattering, the former Marine paddled silently toward the breaker wall, his anger and sense of survival propelling him forward.
Wheezer unsteadily climbed the dock’s ladder and slid quietly through the shadows cast by the buildings. He quickly ran through his list of options for shelter and perhaps some dry clothes, his mind surprisingly clear courtesy of the adrenaline that had kept him alive just moments before.
Taking another deep breath to calm himself, Wheezer began an unsteady jog out of the warehouse district. He had a friend who owed him a favor for a hot tip he’d provided a month or so ago, and would cash in on it.
And maybe—if he played his cards right—Huggy would throw in a couple of drinks as well.
˜ ™
When Dobey regained consciousness, he was astonished he was still alive. He knew the blows were given for the perverse enjoyment of his captures, not to subdue him. He had defended himself the best he could, which had been limited, since his arms were bound behind him and he was blindfolded. He had remained silent throughout, until Andrews wanted to “make the nigger lick his shoes.” That elicited a string of obscenities from the captive that would have made a sailor blush. The captain knew he and God would have a long discussion about his language—later—but right now, he hoped the Lord was pretty ticked off, too.
When the door swung open, Dobey was surprised to see light coming from the opposite room, not having realized his blindfold had been removed after he had lost consciousness, and the darkness around him was due to the small storeroom he’d been locked in. He blinked at the silhouetted figure entering the room, and Andrew’s oily voice mocked him.
“So, the big man’s coming around? You were out for quite a while there. You ready to lick my boots yet, boy?”
Dobey bit his tongue and simply glared.
Andrews lashed out, slapping the captain across the face. “Answer me!”
Still, Dobey remained silent, waiting for his head to clear.
“You better feel more like talking, you stupid nigger, because that’s the only reason we’ve let you live. The Feds demanded to hear your voice—prove you’re still breathing—or the ransom was no deal.” As he lit a cigarette, the flare of Andrews’ lighter briefly lit his face, and the younger man studied his victim. One eye was swollen shut, and the left side of Dobey’s lower lip was split. “You’re only gonna live long enough to regret the day you ever laid eyes on me.”
The longer the captain remained silent, the more infuriated the ex-patrolman became. Finally, Andrews lashed out again, nailing Dobey’s shoulder. When he’d first been brought to the room, the captain had been shoved across a dilapidated desk, collapsing it. Andrews was fairly sure he’d broken the other’s arm or shoulder in the fall. Dobey groaned against the pain, then grit his teeth, seething.
“You answer when you’re spoken to, boy!”
“When I get my hands on you—”
“You had your chance, Captain. But you’re not so big and bad when you don’t have your butt-kissin’ suck-ups with you, now, are you? I ought to¾”
“Hey.” Andrews was interrupted by the entrance of a man Dobey didn’t know, but recognized from when he was first jumped outside the station. The fact he was no longer blindfolded merely confirmed that they were going to kill him, since they didn’t need to conceal their faces from possible identification by him. “I just got the word that your favorite detectives have been askin’ all over town about him.”
“They haven’t found anything, right?”
“Nah, nobody’s saying nothing, ’cause they ain’t heard or seen nothing. It’s cool.”
Andrews looked back over to the captain, who sat stock
still, listening for anything that might be useful, and trying desperately to
see anything within his limited range of vision that could be used to tip off
the Feds. “Well, I’d say it’s about time
to make our next call, stir things up a bit.
We can holler at them for letting Starsky and
Andrews grabbed his captive by his jacket lapels and hauled him to a seated position, continuing as if he was never interrupted by the captain’s futile retaliation. “And then, I’ll do your wife. Got it? Not one word.”
Still breathing heavily, Dobey stared hard into the eyes of madness, until he finally looked away and nodded. He would make the call.
˜ ™
By midday, Starsky and Hutch had been through all of the snitches on Sanderson’s list, and had made contact with the majority of their own. Fatigue and discouragement were beginning to take their toll on the pair. Hutch leaned heavily against the roof of the Torino, staring across it at his partner.
Starsky glanced down at his watch. “Nine hours and counting.”
“So, where do we go from here?” Hutch rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension and fatigue growing there.
“We might as well check in with Huggy and grab some coffee. Maybe he’s heard something by now.”
˜ ™
Wheezer Johnson had slept off the remainder of the morning and part of the afternoon in Huggy’s spare room above the bar before waking and making his way down to the bar to talk further with Huggy. A few drinks loosened his tongue, and the homeless man relayed the information he had withheld from the barkeep when he’d first arrived. When Huggy heard about the large black man being held at the warehouse, he immediately raced to the phone while trying to convince Wheezer to stay put. But when he turned back around to promise Wheezer a few more rounds for his cooperation, the homeless man was gone.
˜ ™
Starsky scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to dispel some of his tension. “It’s a long shot.”
“But even if it’s not the captain, something’s going on there.” Hutch nodded and swung his focus back toward Huggy. “Your friend, this Wheezer...he’s reliable?”
“As reliable as any guy on a seven-year binge,” Huggy snorted. “But yeah, Wheezer—he’s a cat of a different stripe. He pounded on my door a couple hours after you two split. I don’t recall reading in the paper that it was ‘visit the Bear in the middle of night’ night. But here comes Wheezer, all wet and shivering, and madder than blazes. I think he’s straight up when he says he wasn’t out chasing pink elephants around the harbor.”
“Okay.” Starsky pushed himself up off the barstool. “Then the only question left is¾”
Hutch followed suit. “¾how do we get the captain back without them mussing up his
pretty face.”
“Yeah. I kinda like how his eyes bug out at us when he’s really mad. I think I’d miss that.” Starsky grabbed Hutch by the arm and pulled him toward the door. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Now, I’m afraid. Am I going to like it?”
“Probably not.”
Huggy just shook his head at the
departing pair.
˜ ™
The two men found themselves in the midst of organized chaos as they shouldered their way into Sanderson’s office. It was apparent something major was happening to warrant such activity.
As soon as the older man made eye contact, Hutch nodded toward the doorway. The partners left the office and waited down the hall.
Starsky dug his hands into his pockets. “What’s going on?”
“Edith got the call an hour ago.” Sanderson cleared his throat. “It was Harold, and the instructions for the ransom—they’ve moved the drop up by three hours.”
“What?” Starsky responded. “What do they think¾?”
“Wait, it gets worse.” Sanderson put up a restraining hand. “They want Edith to make the drop.”
The detectives’ reactions were swift and vehement.
“No way!” Starsky slapped the wall with an open palm. “There’s no way we’re letting her do that!”
Hutch’s expression was just as fierce. “They’ll kill her, too.”
Sanderson nodded, then glared back toward his office. “That’s what I told them. They’re in there right now ‘calculating the risk.’ They want to put her in a flack vest—”
“No!” Starsky growled. “One of us, but not Edith.”
Hutch’s voice took on a deadly calm. “Listen, we got a tip and just may know where they’re holding him.”
Sanderson perked up. “Well, let’s have it!”
Starsky shook his head. “First, we want your word that we get a crack at this before the Mod Squad there comes in.”
“Those are highly trained professionals¾”
“Whose hands are tied by a spineless bureaucrat. You said so yourself.” Hutch gestured back toward the office.
“I appreciate what you two want to do¾”
“Then let us do it,” Hutch cut him off. “C’mon, Lieutenant, we’ve been straight with each other so far. You know that Starsky and I aren’t afraid of ducking under the red tape. We have a better chance of getting in there now than your small army does later.”
“And that’s our captain. To them, he’s just some pawn that if they get him back alive, it’ll be good press.” Starsky moved in tighter to Hutch’s side—a unified front. “We go in, we can get him out, or at the very least, check the layout and report back to you so the cavalry can do their thing. If the tip was bad, or it’s not Dobey, then we don’t waste the Feds’ time tracking down a false lead.”
Sanderson appeared to be wavering, but didn’t give his consent. “I don’t like this. We’ve got a half-dozen agents protecting Edith and kids, but that doesn’t guarantee their safety. And what about you two? I don’t like the idea of the two of you going in without back-up.”
Hutch gripped the agent’s arm. “Look, give us two hours. If we haven’t made contact with you by then, you can write us off and send in the big guns to get the captain out.”
“In the meantime, double the protection back at the house—just in case.” Starsky’s voice rose in anticipation of bringing the agent around.
“And who’s going to protect the two of you?”
The detectives looked at each other for a beat before Hutch faced Sanderson. “We’ve got us.”
Sanderson glanced from one determined face to the other. “All right, give me the address and you’ve got your two hours. But use this opportunity wisely. I don’t want to be the one to tell Edith that our screw-up cost Harold his life.”
˜ ™
With Starsky and Hutch in tow, Sanderson made his way down into the recesses of the federal building and extracted a large ring of keys out of his pocket. A floor-to-ceiling fence in a darkened corner of the basement partitioned off an area reserved for agency’s surplus. Sanderson opened the lock and rolled the large door open, then motioned for the two detectives to follow. He turned down the ninth aisle and, after scanning several boxes, pulled one down.
Starsky continued looking around at the paraphernalia stored on the shelves. Equipment ranging from M-16s to tear gas to Hazmet suits filled the enclosure. “Hutch, will you look at all this stuff!” Starsky’s voice held the same awe as a kid given carte blanche in a toy store.
“Here,” Sanderson said, holding out clothing to each of the men. “Those should fit you, I think.”
Both accepted a black turtleneck and dark pants similar to those utilized by paratroopers, complete with an assortment of pockets for various weaponry and equipment. Sanderson looked them over critically. “Hutch, your shoes are dark enough, but, Starsky, we’ll need to get you something else.”
The agent asked Starsky his shoe size and moved to a different aisle. After giving him a pair of dark boots, he continued to another box and extracted a black knit cap and tossed it to the blond. “You two boys got enough fire power?”
Starsky’s eyes lit up. “Whatcha got?”
“Give me a break, Starsk,” Hutch groused.
Starsky barely glanced at his partner. “Hey, you’re the one who carries an elephant gun.”
Sanderson had already moved down the aisle, and Starsky hurried to follow him. Hutch brought up the rear, rolling his eyes at his partner’s enthusiasm.
The small arsenal was diverse and powerful enough to impress even Hutch, who geared himself with a small semi-automatic machine gun. Starsky selected a high-powered rifle with a scope. Turning away, he sited across the room. A small chill of déjà vu ran through him, as he remembered the last time he had used such a weapon. For an instant, he thought he saw flames dance before his eyes, and the fear that he had just lost his partner burned in his gut. Hutch’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present.
“Can we go now?”
“Wait.” Sanderson tossed Hutch a high-powered two-way radio, a length of rope, and a canister the size of a woman’s compact. “Black out.”
“What’s that?”
Starsky glanced back over his shoulder from where he had returned to look over the weaponry. “We used it in ’Nam. Prevents reflection off your skin.”
Before Hutch had a chance to say anything, Starsky exclaimed. “Look at this! What is it—a shoulder holster for midgets?”
Sanderson took the small weapon from him. “No, a leg holster. That’s a .22 caliber. It only takes one round and doesn’t necessarily have the greatest accuracy, but if you’re in a tight spot it’s probably better than nothing.”
Starsky was enthused all the same.
“Be my guest.” Sanderson grinned and locked up the weapons rack. Starsky yanked up his left pant leg and strapped on the miniature firearm.
Hutch raised an eyebrow. “So what are you supposed to do? Just before some guy with a .357 blows your head off, take the time to pull up your pant leg, grab that peashooter, and hope he’s near enough for you to hit him? Oh, and maybe, you’ll be lucky enough to bruise him? Why don’t you just stick a rock in your pocket?”
Starsky gave his partner a dirty look, then raised his leg, his hand grasping the general area of the weapon without really getting a handle on the trigger. “I’ll bet I could just fire right through the pants.”
“And blow your foot off in the process.” Hutch shook his head as the three men began their trek out of the basement. “For crying out loud, Starsky—”
“Bond.” Starsky’s accent was atrocious. “Dave Bond.”
Hutch snorted. “Yeah, well, I think your brains are shaken, not stirred.”
˜ ™
A quick stop at Metro allowed the Torino to be swapped for the more nondescript LTD. The drive through Bay City to one of its warehouse districts was made in silence. When the partners reached their destination, Hutch called in to Sanderson, and the time clock began. As they climbed out of the car, Hutch pulled on the black stocking cap the federal agent had given him, and began tucking in the stray wisps of blond hair. Before Hutch had a chance to object, Starsky had smeared a significant blob of the black camouflage grease across the blond’s right cheek and was working on the left.
“What the¾? I can do it, I can do it.” Hutch pushed his partner’s hand away and leaned against the LTD’s door, bending until his face came into view in the side mirror. Starsky already had covered his face, throat, and the tops of his hands. In the waning light, his features were already becoming less distinguishable. As Hutch finished up his own face and throat, Starsky began humming “The Banana Boat Song.”
“Shut up, Starsk.”
Starsky’s toothy grin was exceptionally bright against his new complexion.
˜ ™
The westerly rays of the sun cast shadows through the abandoned warehouses, providing sufficient cover for the two detectives to scurry from building to building, making their way from an empty lot a quarter mile away toward Building 209. When they reached the warehouse adjacent to their destination, Hutch crouched down next to his partner, as Starsky drew out from one of his numerous pockets a blueprint of the building. An urgent call made en route to the precinct to switch cars had set Minnie in motion, and within minutes, the partners had a quarter-inch scale schematic of every building on the pier. How she had managed to come up with the diagrams so quickly was beyond them, but they were coming to expect her to work magic at a moment’s notice. Starsky quickly scanned the print, then cast a critical eye on the warehouse.
“There,” he said, pointing to the south side. “According to this, there’s a stairwell right off that back entry that’ll take us to the fourteenth floor, just like Wheezer said.”
“A good place for someone to be waiting to blow our heads off, too.” Hutch pulled Starsky’s arm closer to him and changed the angle of the print so he could see it better. “What’s this?”
Hutch pointed to a series of dotted lines that followed each level of the building. “Starsk, was there another print of this building? One that showed more detail, like the electrical?”
Starsky reached back into the blowsy pocket off his right thigh and extracted a second diagram. “This one’s the overhead view of the main floor.”
Hutch’s finger traced the similar dotted path as he saw on the previous drawing. “Look, here’s the air duct.”
“Yeah?” Starsky looked to where Hutch’s finger lay. He then scanned the legend on the side of the print. “Specs here say it’s a D-series ventilation system. What do you think that means?”
Hutch shrugged. “Don’t know. Let’s hope it means it’s big enough for you to fit your gluteus maximus through there.”
“My maximum what? Look, smart—”
Starsky’s grumbling was ignored, as Hutch began a crouching trot along the shadowed side of the building. The brunet quickly refolded the two maps and returned them to his pockets. As he re-shouldered the rifle and began a stealthy jog of his own, he began devising ways to get back at his partner¾as soon as he figured out exactly what it was Hutch had said to insult him.
˜ ™
A quick look through the grimy first-floor window revealed a posted sentry patrolling the hallway, periodically glancing through the open doors into each room. After the guard turned at the end of the hall and disappeared from view, the detectives watched for several minutes, gauging the timetable until the armed man’s return. After his second pass, they determined they would have approximately six minutes between each patrol. After the guard passed a third time and no one else appeared, they managed to quickly, and fairly quietly, pry open the window.
The two made a beeline for the stairwell and spent the next ten minutes quietly making their way up to the fourteenth floor. They experienced one heart-stopping moment glued to the walls when the ninth-floor watchman briefly entered the stairwell, but only long enough for a cursory glance up and down the multiple levels and to fling his cigarette butt into the semi-dark abyss.
Finally reaching the fourteenth floor, Hutch quickly glanced through a window in the hallway door, while Starsky watched and listened for any other guards to enter the stairwell. After the hall guard passed by the small window, Hutch motioned for Starsky to follow him into the hallway. He had just begun to turn the doorknob, when a second man came into view and stood outside a closed door—an obvious sentry for that room.
Hutch pushed Starsky away from the door. “There’s at least two of them on this floor. Fifth room down on the left.”
“And a bunch more throughout the building. There goes the idea of going in with both barrels blazing.”
Hutch jerked his head toward the grate above Starsky’s head. “Which means we’re going to have to check it out through the air ducts.”
Starsky nodded, then gave Hutch a curious look, remembering something. “Now, what were you saying about my maximum gladiola?”
Hutch grabbed Starsky by the wrists. “We’ll find out.”
Hutch raised his foot and stood on the tops of his partner’s bent legs. In one quick movement, he swung himself around to straddle Starsky’s shoulders. The brunet straightened, adding to Hutch’s height, and moved into position under the vent. Starsky handed up his Swiss army knife, and Hutch quickly removed the two screws holding the grate in place. Just as the blueprint indicated, the ductwork was approximately three-feet by three-feet, ample room for both men to uncomfortably maneuver to the various rooms on the floor. In the process of removing the grate, Hutch lost his grip and the grate slipped from his hands. His quick intake of breath was all the warning Starsky got. Years of conditioning kicked into gear, and he caught the vent before it struck the floor. However, it forced him to lunge to the side to make the catch, and Hutch’s additional weight caused him to stagger dangerously close to the stair rail. The blond’s own reflexes caused him to grasp Starsky’s head, effectively blinding him.
After a moment of staggering like a drunken sailor, Starsky was able to steady himself and stand upright. “You mind removing that screwdriver from my eye socket?” he hissed.
“Oh, sorry,” Hutch whispered back as he removed his hands from Starsky’s face and returned the driver attachment into the body of the knife. “Smooth moves there, partner.”
“Just be happy Ramon didn’t dip.” Starsky repositioned them back under the open ductwork. He then pulled a coil of rope out of one of his numerous pockets and tied it to the grate, then lowered it gently to rest on the floor. “Glad we packed the kitchen sink. You ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
Starsky cupped his hands under Hutch’s feet, then pushed, providing his partner with a platform to step onto his shoulders as he pulled himself up through the vent shaft to the ductwork, which traveled to either side of the opening. The blond slid forward until his entire body was in, then pushed himself backwards until only his head was visible to his partner. “Well, c’mon.”
Starsky cocked an eyebrow at him, then retrieved the cord attached to the grate and looped it through his belt. “Very funny. Rope?”
Hutch grinned and untied the end of a length of rope secured to his midsection. He then slipped the loop up around his chest and tossed the remainder down to Starsky. “Better hustle, we’re running out of time.”
“That’s my fault? You ready?”
Hutch wrapped the rope around his forearm and gripped it tightly, while bracing himself against the vent opening with the other. “Go.”
Keeping his eyes on his partner, Starsky hoisted himself up the rope and quickly drew himself to the opening. When Starsky had a good grip on the frame, Hutch crawled backwards, allowing his partner the room he needed to pull himself in the rest of the way. “Hurry it up; our friend’s due any minute.”
Starsky cleared the opening, then curled himself into a ball in order to turn himself around to face Hutch and the opening. He quickly grabbed the cord attached to his belt and prepared to hoist the grate cover back up to them. The sound of footsteps coming toward the stairwell door froze the partners, leaving the grate to swing mere inches above the floor. Starsky and Hutch held their breaths, staring at one another. In unison, they turned their attention to the figure casually opening the door, a cigarette held in one hand and the other cradling an M-16. His gaze was bored, as if he were certainly not expecting to see anything out of place there. Exhaling his cigarette’s smoke, he drew himself back into the hallway. But as he continued, the guard was nudged with a sense of something being out of place. Was there something on the floor that hadn’t been there before? The man tossed aside his cigarette and quickly retraced his steps. When he reached the stairwell door, he entered the enclosure with his gun ready.
Everything was as it had been. The guard chalked it up to the fatigue of having to maintain his uneventful post on the fourteenth floor, too many hours without sleep, and a fairly significant hangover. With a shake of his head, he shouldered his weapon and shut the stairwell door, returning to his weary plodding up and down the hallways.
If he had taken a moment to look up to the ventilation grate, he might have seen ten blackened fingers gripping the enclosure.
˜ ™