Starsky and Hutch spent the better part of the day tracking down a few dead-end leads and touching base with their assortment of contacts. Interrogating the prostitutes and brothel employees from the previous day’s bust yielded nothing of any value. Either they didn’t know anything, or they were more afraid of what would happen to them if they did talk than of going to jail.

The partners spent the day completely unaware that Capernicus’ men were monitoring their every move. When the Torino came to rest in front of The Pits, a vagrant staggered out of a nearby alley and made his way to the phone booth on the block’s south corner. It took three attempts before the trembling hand was able to insert his only dime into the slot. The wino opened his dirty palm to read the number that had been written there for him in marker.

"They’re here." The vagrant had to pause to clear the phlegm from his underused voice. "Them two cops you was askin’ about--Harsky and Stutcherson--they just got to The Pits. So, how about the rest of that money you promised me?"

There were few occasions when Huggy was truly surprised, and this was one of them. His bar had been robbed a few times in the past, but rarely since word on the street placed him in tight with a certain set of detectives. Starsky’s car was so recognizable that whenever the Torino was parked in any proximity to the bar, it was like a warning beacon against trouble.

In Huggy’s mind, it stood to reason the five men wearing ski masks and waving baseball bats and pipes around must have been from out of town. There was no way anyone local would try and rob The Pits when they knew Starsky and Hutch were around.

Once the five men burst into the room the boisterous crowd fell immediately still, the only noise coming from the old Wurlitzer behind the pool tables. The music was cut short when one of the assailants charged across the room and smashed a length of pipe into it, silencing it permanently.

The gloved hand of the nearest thug snaked out and grabbed Huggy by the front of his turtleneck, sticking a small caliber pistol under his chin. "Open the cash register, now!"

If nothing else, Huggy was nobody’s fool. Raising both his hands in a gesture of surrender, he began to slowly make his way backward toward the register. "I can dig it, just be cool, man."

A second assailant grabbed Diane by her apron and drew her near. "C’mon, baby, fork over the cash you got in there." The waitress complied with shaky hands, digging into the apron pockets for her tips. Fearful brown eyes swept over the crowd, desperately seeking out her two favorite customers. Even as afraid as she was, Diane knew better than to call out for their help and blow whatever rescue they might be devising.

All the other patrons watched in stunned silence as the other three hooded men began working the crowd, taking wallets, purses and jewelry. Starsky and Hutch sat tensely, half-afraid someone in the bar would identify them as cops, or that the robbers would discover their guns and badges before they had a chance to retaliate. Even though it appeared only the first hood had a gun, the odds were still definitely against them.

Starsky glanced over at his partner and murmured under his breath, "How do you want to handle this?"

Hutch raised an eyebrow without turning his head toward the other man. "Me? What makes you think I’ve got a plan?"

Starsky issued a snort. "You’re the one always claiming to be the brains of this outfit."

Hutch was about to give a retort when the thug relieving the cash register of its contents began to get agitated. Huggy was roughly shoved into the back of the bar, knocking over several bottles of liquor. The next shove propelled him into the pool table, directly next to Starsky and Hutch’s table. "C’mon, man! Where’s the rest of the money? There’s gotta be more than this!"

Huggy glanced over at his friends’ taut faces, knowing they were fighting for self-restraint. He threw them a warning look, knowing the odds of the detectives taking on the five men in the crowded bar would undoubtedly leave more than one innocent person dead. Huggy pushed himself up off the pool table with his hands raised in front of him again. "Look, friend, I’d give it to ya if there was anything more to give! I…"

The assailant backhanded Huggy with the stock of his pistol, sending him crashing back onto the pool table and rolling off of it. The two detectives leapt to their feet, slamming their table into the gunman. The blow sent him crashing to the floor, but not before his pistol went off by reflex, shattering an overhead light. Patrons and employees went scattering from the room or ducking beneath their tables for protection.

Starsky managed to clear his Baretta from its shoulder harness when the next thug rushed him, sending them both tumbling over a table. The remaining three men all rushed for Hutch, who dove and rolled out of their reach. With a number of bystanders still in the room, neither of the detectives wanted to shoot until they knew with a hundred percent certainty they had a clear line of fire.

When Starsky hit the ground, the wind was knocked out of him. Matters were further complicated when his assailant landed on top of him and the force of the blow loosed Starsky’s gun, sending the Baretta sliding under a nearby booth. Patrons cowering nearby fled to the safety of the kitchen as the detective began to grapple with the larger man, both determined to retrieve the handgun.

On the other side of the room Hutch was scrambling from behind the pool table, trying to make his way to the better protection of the bar. Fortunately, Huggy was nowhere to be seen, and out of harm’s way. Hutch hoped that his friend had the presence of mind to call for backup. The detective drew his gun and stood up from behind the pool table, trying to cover all three of the robbers at once. The assailants scattered within the still crowded room, using terrified patrons as cover. Hutch knew that his Python was virtually useless. As he made a dash toward the counter, a chair seemingly flew out of nowhere and struck him squarely on his back with a spine-numbing blow. Hutch tumbled forward and landed against the bar, his gun dropping from lax fingers. Before he had a chance to recover, two of the masked robbers were on him, each grabbing an arm before he realized what was happening. A third attacker rushed up on Hutch from behind, his arm drawn back with a lead pipe, preparing to cave in the detective’s skull.

At the last possible second, a familiar bellow reverberated across the room:"Huuuuuuuuutch!" Starsky had been successful in besting his opponent, but hadn’t managed to retrieve his gun from somewhere beneath the now empty booth. Just as Starsky staggered upright, wiping at the blood from his split lip, he saw the rush attack on his partner.

Even though Hutch was still stunned by his encounter with the thrown chair, he had the wherewithal to make himself as small a target as possible by going completely limp at Starsky’s warning. The unexpected dead weight dragged his two captors together as Hutch slumped to the floor. The third attacker was unable to check his forward motion in time, and mistakenly slammed the pipe across the back of one of the other robber’s head. The remaining two men stumbled on top of Hutch, one them accidentally kicking the Python out of reach, the other landing a haphazard kick to the detective’s jaw, stunning him further.

Starsky propelled himself toward the two men dragging his partner to his feet when a motion to his right caught his eye. The original gunman had recovered from their attack with the table, and was aiming the pistol at the blond detective struggling to break free.

Starsky changed course by springing onto a nearby chair and throwing himself toward the gunman. The assailant changed his aim to the body hurtling toward him. Catlike reflexes contorted Starsky in midair, twisting his body even as he descended on the gunman. The detective’s face registered surprise as Huggy seemed to appear out of thin air, brandishing a pool stick, which he effectively used as a bat against the gunman’s back. The thug crumpled to the floor, his shot going wild. Starsky’s body still collided with the hood’s, laying him out flat. As he scrambled up off the inert form, he snatched up the small caliber pistol and gave Huggy a quick thumbs up. The black man returned his focus to the unconscious form sprawled before him, the now cracked pool cue held ready in the event that either of the two men Starsky had taken down should recover.

Hutch, in the meantime, was holding his own against the last two attackers, the third of which never revived from the blow to his head. He slung one of the men to the floor and delivered a right cross to the other, knocking him unconscious. Hutch turned to where he had last seen his partner when the man he had just thrown to the floor recovered, the detective’s Python in his hand. Hutch quickly grabbed him by the wrists, grappling for the pistol. The inertia of their fight caused them both to lose their balance and fall to the floor behind the bar.

Following the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor, the unmistakable roar of Hutch’s gun silenced the room. In his hurry to assist his partner, Starsky stumbled into a table. For a terrified heartbeat he froze, sprawled across the wooden top, at the sound of the gunshot. The last masked assailant sprung up from behind the bar and ran hell-bent out the room and up the stairs to the freedom of the darkened streets.

Starsky flung himself up from the table like a man possessed, and rushed to the back side of the bar. Hutch lay sprawled on the floor, absent of any signs of life. An uncontrollable rage consumed Starsky and propelled him up the stairs to the cooling twilight. The desperate energy that drove him quickly brought him within a few feet of the escaping felon.

Blinded by fury, Starsky planted his feet and took aim, snarling, "Halt, or I’ll shoot!" The running man hesitated only enough to change his course, barreling to his right toward a row of parked cars. Starsky allowed for two heartbeats to pass between the last word and the punctuating blast of the pistol bucking in his palm. The running felon faltered as if he were suddenly slipping on ice, then crumpled to the ground, dead before he even hit the pavement.

Starsky never even paused to watch the body fall to the ground. As soon as he knew he had made his target, he spun away and hurled himself down the stairwell to The Pits. About halfway down, he lost his footing and slid down the remaining steps. Fear and anguish drove him behind the bar to where he had last seen his partner. What he found stopped his heart, which had lodged into his throat moments earlier.

Huggy knelt next to Hutch, who was sitting up, resting his elbows on his knees. The blond looked up at his partner and coughed. Starsky staggered to his friend and dropped to his knees, then slid the rest of the way onto the floor.

"I thought…" A shared memory flashed through both detectives’ minds: another time and place, but the words, anguish and rage were the same--I thought you were dead.

Hutch coughed again, his ribs bruised from where the gunman had landed on him. "He missed."

"What?" Starsky shook his head, confused and overwhelmed with relief. The reassuring, if not delayed, sound of sirens trumpeted the approach of assistance.

"I said, he missed. When we fell, he was on top, and the gun was pointed past me. He knocked the wind out of me, but must have thought he shot me, because I didn’t move--I couldn’t move. So, I just played possum. He panicked and ran."

"You played what?" Starsky hollered at his partner. "I thought…" With a groan Starsky covered his eyes with his bruised hands and rolled onto his back, giving himself a moment to get his adrenaline under control.

The sound of rushing feet echoed down the stairway. Three uniformed officers burst through the open doorway, guns drawn.

"Hey, we got a dead guy out there!" a fourth officer called out as he entered the room. He then scanned the silent and unmoving room. "We got a bunch of dead guys in here, too!"

As it turned out, there were only two among the dead that evening: the man resisting arrest Starsky had shot, and the man whose skull was caved in by his own counterpart. It was well past 2:00 AM as the detectives sat in the darkened bar with Huggy, Captain Dobey and Agent Taylor.

"What I’m thinking..." Starsky paused to down the rest of his coffee, "is that they weren’t here to rob Huggy at all."

Hutch glanced up sharply at his partner. "How do you mean?"

Huggy got up gingerly from the table to retrieve the coffee pot from behind the bar. "Sure had me fooled."

"I think it was a hired hit. Clumsy, yes. Unprofessional, yes. But definitely hired."

"And you think we were the targets?"

"No, not we."

"You mean me? I was the target? Oh, come on, Starsk. Don’t you think that’s a bit of a reach?"

Starsky turned to his captain and the FBI agent, hoping to draw them into his line of reasoning. "Think about it: nobody local would have pulled that kind of a stunt if it had just been a robbery, me and Hutch are too well known here. So at best, it woulda had to have been from somebody out of town…"

"Or desperate," Hutch interjected.

"Okay, or desperate. But think about how it all came down. How many times could they have simply snatched the cash and split, even after things heated up? But they didn’t. They were more intent on removing that blond head of yours from the rest of your body."

"I seem to recall a few of them dancing with you tonight."

"Yeah, but only to keep me out of the way." Starsky leaned toward his partner, the intensity of his concern darkening his eyes. "Face it, Blondie, you were the target tonight."

Hutch looked away from his partner’s anxious eyes. "Okay, so even if I was--and I’m not saying I agree with you on this one, Starsk--they blew it. We’ve got three of them in custody. This could be the break we’ve needed to find Capernicus."

Agent Taylor exhaled loudly. "That, gentleman, would solve our problem. In the meantime, Hutchinson, watch your back."

Hutch nodded his head toward his partner and gave the older man a weary grin. "Well, sir, that’s what I’ve got him around for."

Starsky snorted. "And don’t you forget it, you lucky devil."

The ringing of the phone propelled Starsky out of his bed, a flying mass of arms and sheets. Normally, an early morning call would only elicit a directionless arm flopping in the general vicinity of the phone and a mumbled, "‘lo?", but the tension that had plagued them both for the few days kept the detective on edge, even in his sleep. After he rubbed his burning eyes, he could make out his partner sitting up expectantly from where he’d been sleeping on Starsky’s couch. Both men had claimed they were simply too exhausted to take Hutch all the way back to Venice the night before. Though neither would admit it, they both slept better after the gunplay at The Pits knowing that the other was nearby. The detective cleared his throat before speaking. "Starsky."

Dobey sighed before he spoke. "You and your partner better get down here. They got Avelechez."

The two detectives made eye contact from across the room. Starsky didn’t need to be told who they were. "How? When?"

Another sigh preceded the black man’s response. "Just get down here."

A crime scene, especially involving a homicide, draws a considerable crowd. But place that same spectacle in front of a police station and you’ve got nothing short of a circus, even on a Sunday morning. Starsky and Hutch were forced to park in the station’s garage rather than their customary spot on the street in order to avoid the crowds and television crews. They then fought their way through the mass of humanity to get to the sheeted remains of Romer Avelechez. As they broke through to the barricades holding off the crowds, Hutch grabbed the shoulder of a patrolman.

"Get these vultures out of here, huh?"

"We’re trying, Sergeant."

Starsky put a restraining grip on Hutch’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Ease up. They lost somebody today, too."

The grim expression on Hutch’s face abated minutely as he turned back to apologize to the uniformed officer, but he was gone. Returning his attention to the task at hand, Hutch moved along side his partner to the body of the slain patrolman. A county medical examiner named Stravinski was finishing up his initial investigation and authorizing the body to be removed to the awaiting ambulance.

"Whatcha got, Strav?" Starsky called over, as he knelt to lift up the corner flap of the body bag off Avelechez’s face. The attendants paused in transferring the body onto a stretcher while the detective viewed the patrolman.

"Starsky. Hutchinson," the older man greeted, as he removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. "Small caliber bullet, probably a twenty-five or a thirty-eight, point of entry at the base of the skull, half inch above the collar line, execution style. Close range, got some gun powder residue back there. Hands were bound with coat or some other large gauge wire. Other than a few contusions, no other sign of trauma. Initial estimate that he’s been dead six to eight, so that puts the time of death approximately 11:00 or 12:00 last night, but don’t quote me on that. I’ll know more after I get him on the table. But they didn’t do it here, this was just the drop off point. Obviously trying to make a point, not just eliminate a cop."

Hutch jotted the information down on the small pad of paper he retrieved from his jacket pocket. Deep lines of tension and anger formed around his eyes and mouth. He quickly glanced up from his writing to the other officers and detectives milling around the scene. "Any witnesses?"

"None." The answer came from Dobey, as he descended the station stairs with a few other officers in tow.

"You’ve got to be kidding!" Starsky sprang up and joined his partner. "Somebody offs a cop then dumps the body at the foot of the station and nobody sees nothing?"

"What kind of fools and idiots work here?" Hutch barked at no one in particular.

"I see two kinds right in front of me!" Dobey bellowed back. "Now haul your self-righteous backsides on up to my office to get briefed!"

Hutch’s blue eyes turned to ice, as he stared back at his commanding officer. After a few tense moments, the blond moved forward in curt movements. Starsky followed in his wake, but not before placing a consoling hand on his captain’s arm. The large man nodded curtly in response, but never took his eyes off the sheeted form as the gurney was lifted into the waiting ambulance. Some days it just doesn’t pay to be one of the good guys.

Dobey stomped into his office, slamming the door behind him. Starsky and Hutch sat silently in their chairs, the latter staring angrily out the single window. Without a word the captain flung himself into his protesting chair and drew the Capernicus/Randolph case file out of the center drawer. The manila dossier was slapped onto his desk as he examined the two detectives in turn. When Starsky finally looked up and met his gaze, Dobey growled, "This was no random killing of a cop."

Hutch turned abruptly away from the window, words grinding out of clenched teeth. "We know that, Captain. Stravinski said the shot was an execution style placement."

Starsky placed a calming hand on his friend’s arm, but his words were no less harsh. "And dumping his body here unseen leaves a very loud message."

"But what you two don’t know is yesterday somebody tried to take out Avelechez earlier in the day." Dobey had their attention now. "Around 3:15 Marty and Romer responded to a two-eleven at a convenience store. Somebody took a shot at them…"

"What’s so unusual about…"

"Starsky, if you’d shut up long enough to let me explain, you’d know that what’s so unusual is the shot that blew Avelechez’s hat right off his head came from a sniper holed up in the building across the alley from the convenience store. The shot wasn’t from the perps in the two-eleven."

Starsky’s eyes narrowed. "A lookout?"

"Not likely." The captain blotted sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "The two-eleven was a couple of inexperienced teenagers with an unloaded handgun. Probably paid off in order to get Avelechez and Perrigo out in the open."

Hutch reached over to gather up the case folder from Dobey’s desk. "This is the Randolph/ Capernicus file."

Starsky glanced up sharply from where he had begun reading over his partner’s arm. "You think Avelechez’s death is connected."

"What else can I think? Aside from the three witnesses…make that two…the majority of the evidence is circumstantial, certainly nothing that will get them for murder one. Eliminate the witnesses…"

"…and there’s little or no case," Starsky finished grimly.

"Captain, don’t you think that’s a bit of a reach?" Hutch passed his partner the case file. "There could be any number of reasons why somebody would want to kill a cop."

"Are you hearing what you’re saying, Hutchinson? You tell me why somebody would want to kill Avelechez. You heard the ME say it was an execution, not a random shooting. Use your brains." Dobey pulled the duty roster out of his desk drawer and began scribbling furiously. "As of right now you two are off the Dobson case and this one. I’m putting Perrigo and you two on inactive status and I want Hutchinson to lay low for a bit."

"Oh, come on!" Somewhere in the back of Hutch’s consciousness he realized that he didn’t hear his partner’s indignant voice harmonizing with his. Still, he pressed angrily on. "You can’t do that!"

Dobey paused in his writing to cock an eyebrow at the errant detective. Watch me.

"But, Captain…"

"Now don’t ‘but, Captain’ me, Hutchinson. If I’m right, they’re going after you again and Perrigo as well."

"Fine. I understand you think they might be trying to eliminate the witnesses. I accept the possibility. But we’re not doing anybody any good by holing up until Capernicus is caught. Captain, we’ve spent almost nine months putting together the Dobson case--nine months. Our contacts are not going to trust anybody else, and if Dobson gets wind of anyone new moving in, he’ll haul his operation out of here so fast…"

"Do you have enough for a conviction?"

"Yes, but there’re loose ends…"

"Someone else can tighten them for you…"

"…and you know we’re the Feds’ best bet on finding Capernicus."

"All right, all right. I get your point. But I still don’t like it." Dobey turned to the silent partner. "Starsky?"

Hutch turned his focus on his partner with an accusing stare. Are you going to support me in this or not?

Starsky locked eyes with Hutch, studying him. Finally he relented, nodding minutely. But the final look he gave his partner promised that if things got dicey he was changing both of their minds--and fast--whether Hutch liked it or not.

"Cap’n, Hutch’s right. I don’t like it either because that big, blond head’s an easy target. But in a few more days, we’ll be able to hand you Dobson with a bow on his greasy little head. In the meantime, I’ll take care of the Blintz."

Dobey exhaled and ran his hand over his face. A shrewd glance from one set of blue eyes to the other affirmed the two detectives’ determination to see the case through until Capernicus was apprehended. A pencil was jabbed in Hutch’s direction. "All right. But I’m putting a car outside your apartment on twenty-four hour detail."

"Fine." Hutch stood up and slapped his partner on the shoulder as he headed for the door. Starsky stood up to follow.

"Starsky!" Dobey called, halting the detective. "Be careful."

The grin Starsky gave his captain was meant to reassure him, but fell short of erasing the tension in both of their eyes.

Federal Agent Taylor gave Phillip Randolph a few minutes to mull over the final offer of immunity. The interrogation of the remaining three assailants busted at The Pits yielded nothing of any value, other than they were paid off by a contact made on the street and had allegedly only heard of Phillip Randolph and Richard Capernicus. It now boiled down to getting Randolph to talk.

A tick developed under the extortionist’s right eye, as he swung a nervous gaze from the agent to the armed guard standing by the hospital room window. Providing all the names, dates and figures demanded of him, in addition to ratting on his partner, would spell certain death without protection before, during and after the trial. Afterwards, he would be guaranteed placement in the Federal Witness Protection Program, giving him a completely new identity and immunity from prosecution. All Randolph would have to do was sing like he’d never sung before at the upcoming preliminary, giving enough information to allow the case to go to trial once Capernicus was apprehended.

Randolph knew that his choices were limited. If he went to federal prison, he would likely be dead within months. He had made too many enemies throughout his years in business and would be an easy target for revenge. If he squealed on his partner and their associates, his life wouldn’t be worth squat if he remained on his own without federal protection. The only real chance of survival he had was in taking the agent’s offer, and if nothing more, Phillip Randolph was a survivor.

"Okay. Where do you want me to start?"

Starsky and Hutch were used to causing a bit of a stir when they walked into certain establishments, especially when things were heating up on the streets. But in the last nine years of their partnership, it rarely happened when they entered The Pits. The moment they walked across the room, the voices that made up the noisy din softened perceptibly, and more than a few sets of eyes followed them as they made their way to the bar.

Leaning against the counter, Starsky turned to his partner. "That was weird."

Hutch raised his eyebrows in agreement. "Could be something’s brewing."

The brunette stared at Hutch with mock amazement. "You think? You ever thought about becoming a detective?"

"Maybe your fly’s unzipped again."

"Shut up and buy me a beer." Before Starsky could call over to Diane, Huggy approached them, two mugs in hand.

"What it is, gentlemen?"

"Hiya, Hug," Starsky greeted as he accepted the beers. "I think the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees when we walked in. What’s the word?"

"Word? Man, there ain’t no words, if you catch my meaning." Huggy took a swipe at the countertop with his towel. "Things ain’t been this quiet since…since I don’t know when."

"When we walked in things got a bit quiet." Starsky glanced around the room as it returned to its previous level of noise. "What gives?"

"What gives is the patrons of this fine establishment know you two made a major dent in the some of the local action."

Hutch took a long drink of his beer. "And?"

"And the people of this fair city are too worried about their own hides to be talking about anybody else’s." Huggy folded his thin arms across his chest. "Ain’t good for information, but it is good for business. Jittery people imbibe in the spirits to calm their frazzled nerves."

"Well, in that case…" Starsky guzzled the last of his drink and slammed the mug down on the bar top. "Bring me another one." He gave his partner’s disapproving look a shrug. "It’s for medicinal purposes. You wouldn’t want me to get jittery, would you?"

The next morning the detectives gave their final court appearance, providing the prosecuting attorney enough evidence to convict Mitchell Dobson on three felony counts of embezzlement and a reduced sentence for voluntary manslaughter. It wasn’t quite the sentence they had been hoping for, but it was enough to put the greasy little man away for what would undoubtedly be the remainder of his greasy little life. The satisfaction they felt at the payoff of ten months of work paled in comparison to their growing frustration over the Randolph/Capernicus case, the loss of Avelechez, and the threat against the remaining witnesses.

Hutch noticed how the strain was beginning to affect his usually affable partner. Starsky was getting anxious and easily provoked. The two detectives left the courtroom after shaking hands with Linda Barkley, the prosecuting attorney, both unsuccessful in their attempts to coax her out for a victory lunch. The trim lawyer thanked them both politely, offering a rain check when her case load lightened.

"You’re losing your touch, old man." Hutch chuckled as they made their way out of the courthouse into the midday sun.

"Me? I don’t see her falling all over you either, pal."

"Yeah, well…" Hutch’s voice trailed off as he watched a dull gray Chevy slow considerably in front of the courthouse, then pull into a parking spot at the end of the block.

"What? Whatcha see?" Starsky turned to follow his partner’s gaze at the nondescript vehicle.

"It’s probably nothing, but I think that’s the same Chevy I saw this morning sitting across from my apartment before you picked me up."

Starsky’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "Hunt or fish?"

"Let’s go fishin’, partner."

The two crossed the street and got into the Torino. Starsky gunned the engine, then laid rubber as he pulled out onto the street. Hutch took in the plate numbers as they passed the Chevy and tried to get a good look at the driver, but they turned their head away as the Torino passed by. Starsky headed toward the business district and, as they reached the first cross street, executed his typical tire squealing slide and hit the gas. Both men watched out of the rear view mirrors.

"Here fishy, fishy, fishy…" Hutch intoned. Within seconds the gray Chevy raced around the corner, obviously trying to keep the Torino in sight. Starsky turned to the left, cutting through a parking lot and shooting out onto a one-way street, headed in the wrong direction.

"Sheesh! I hate it when you do this!" Hutch groaned as he clutched the dashboard, fighting the desire not to close his eyes against the oncoming traffic.

"Nag, nag, nag." Starsky swung the red sedan onto a side street, knowing it dead-ended into a service bay and loading dock for a small clutch of businesses. He glanced up to make sure the tail was still following. "Get ready with the net."

The Torino swiveled into the shipping area and slid to a halt behind a large dumpster, well out of sight of anyone entering the cul de sac. Starsky and Hutch poured out of the car and positioned themselves against the wall of the building nearest the alley entrance. The Chevy careened down the passageway, turning sharply and slamming on the brakes when the driver realized that he’d been trapped in a dead end.

As soon as the car shuddered to a stop the detectives rushed it, their guns thrust before them. The driver panicked at the sight of the two advancing on him from different angles and threw the car into reverse, churning up dust and debris. Starsky dove out of the vehicle’s path, rolling behind the dumpster just before the Chevy drove over where he had been standing seconds before. Hutch fired a warning shot into the air, shouting, "Police!" as he raced toward the front of the car.

The young Asian man at the wheel ignored the warning and gave the steering wheel a hard crank, spinning the sedan into the dumpster. Hutch heard his partner cry out even as the car was thrown into forward and peeled directly to where the blond stood, blocking the only escape route through the alley. The large receptacle was sent spinning against Starsky, rolling over his right leg up to his thigh, pinning him beneath it.

"Starsky?" Hutch bellowed as he aimed and fired into the car, shattering the windshield. The Chevy’s driver flinched as the glass webbed, but maintained his deadly path toward Hutch. The blond fired again at the oncoming vehicle as he realized the driver’s intent was to crush him against the brick wall behind him. Hutch didn’t wait to see that his shot went wide, but rather jumped on top of a nearby trash can. He then flung himself up to the fire escape, catching the ladder with his left hand while maintaining his grip on the Python. Hutch’s legs swung free from the trash can just as the Chevy plowed into the wall below him.

The ancient metal of the fire ladder snapped under the duress of Hutch’s weight, sending him sprawling on the hood of the Chevy. Even though he was stunned, Hutch managed to find a purchase on the hood’s casing as the driver put the car in reverse and peeled away from the wall. The detective tried in vain to draw a bead on the driver while they careened out of the alley, but the Asian jerked the wheel from side to side, trying to shake Hutch off the car, or at least ruin his aim.

Starsky was finally able to extract himself from beneath the dumpster, shredding the leg of his jeans and gouging the flesh on his thigh as he freed himself from the rough metal. Ignoring the pain shooting down his leg, he hurtled down the alley after the sedan and his partner. Just before the Chevy reached the street, Starsky planted himself and took steady aim. The single shot exploded the rear driver’s side tire, but never slowed the car down as it barreled out toward the afternoon traffic. Starsky continued his race down the alley, fearing what would happen to his partner once the sedan made it onto the busier streets.

The Chevy left the alley and executed a sliding turn onto the street, sideswiping a Lincoln Continental traveling westbound. Hutch was flung off the Chevy and across the hood of the Lincoln, the momentum rolling him off the second vehicle and onto the pavement. The Chevy disentangled itself from the wreck and tore down the street, leaving behind pieces of rubber from the destroyed tire. As Starsky cleared the alley with his faltering gait, he glimpsed the Chevy careening around the corner, the rim of the wheel digging into the pavement.

"Hutch, Hutch, Hutch…" Starsky intoned pushed his way through the growing crowd to get to his dazed partner. Hutch was just now pushing himself up off the blacktop to a sitting position. "Somebody call an ambulance!"

Hutch shook his head to clear it. "I don’t need an ambulance." He looked at the blood soaking through his partner’s pant leg. "But maybe you do?"

Starsky shook his head. "I don’t need an ambulance. You okay?"

"I just said I was, didn’t I?" Hutch tried to stand, but was unsteady and went back down onto his backside. Starsky tried to stand as well, making it as far as a crouch, then tried to help Hutch up.

"No, you said you didn’t need an ambulance. You didn’t say that you were okay." In trying to pull the blond to his feet, Starsky started to go back down as his rapidly swelling leg gave way.

"I’m okay, are you okay?" Hutch grabbed his partner by the hand to keep him from falling, but it only resulted in both of them sprawling back down onto the pavement.

By the time the first squad car arrived, the two detectives were seated on the curb, their heads in their hands, recovering from the last few moments’ events. One patrolmen approached the damaged sedan, looking for someone to explain what had just happened, other than the obvious damage done to the Lincoln. The second patrolman met the Lincoln driver, then looked over to the two ragged men on the curb. "They okay?"

Neither detective looked up. "We’re okay!"

The two detectives returned to Hutch’s apartment to clean up from their scrape in the alley and change for Avelechez’s funeral. Originally, the plan had been to catch a bite to eat after their court appearance, then go directly to the church service. The altercation cut short their time and appetites. Both men’s injuries were superficial, though painful, neither saying a word about them in light of what they would have to face that afternoon. As they left the scene, though, Starsky had hesitated before turning over the ignition and looked at his partner. "Strike two," was all he said, then started the sedan and drove them to Hutch’s place in silence.

After his own shower Hutch loaned his partner a pair of his slacks, a clean shirt and suit coat, even though they were a bit long for Starsky.

Hutch checked in with R&I for information on the Chevy’s plates while Starsky took his turn in the shower. The patrolman had called in the identification and description at the scene, only to be told that the car had been reported stolen the day before. Nothing new had surfaced since then, other than that the sedan had been abandoned a half mile away from where Starsky had shot out its tire. The lab had dusted the interior for prints, but unfortunately, that had only revealed the perpetrator didn’t have a prior record in the state of California. The information was already being sent out of state for similar checks.

Hutch hung up the receiver as Starsky emerged from the bathroom, dressed in the borrowed clothes. Hutch couldn’t even muster up enough energy to make a crack about the poor fit. Feeling older by ten years, he hauled himself out of the chair and slipped into his jacket. Starsky slapped him on the shoulder as they headed out the door and into the sunlight.

It was time to bury the dead.

Chapter Three