To give your life in the line of duty is usually viewed as something noble by societal standards. But to other cops, it’s often just the waste of a good man and a pain that never fades. The romanticizing public often forgets within a day or two.

Slowly, the multitude of police officers began to make their way from the graveside service toward their waiting cars. Some still lingered under the canopy, offering condolences to Avelechez’s grieving widow and two small children. The morning sunlight warmed the cemetery grounds in direct contradiction to the cold grief there.

Not for the first time Hutch threw a concerned glance at his partner. Funerals were always difficult for Starsky, but a cop’s funeral unfailingly brought back a barrage of unwelcome memories. Starsky’s sunglasses didn’t block out tight lines around the brunette’s eyes, nor could they mask the scrapes along Hutch’s own temple and cheekbone. Hutch cocked his head in his partner’s direction, gaining his attention. One elegant eyebrow raised from behind the glasses--you gonna be okay?

Starsky’s expression didn’t change, but a small, resolved nod was issued.

Hutch grasped his partner’s shoulder. "Let’s go find Perrigo. He’s not taking this too well."

"Would you?"

"You have to ask?"

The two made their way across the lawn toward the line of waiting cars. They found Perrigo standing under a large maple, blowing his nose.

"You doing okay, Marty?" Hutch asked, watching the tall officer wipe quickly at his eyes.

"Yeah, sure, Hutch. I’ll be fine. It’s kinda hard, you know?"

"Yeah." Hutch glanced over at Starsky. Though I hope to God I never really know what it’s like to lose a partner. "Can we give you a lift back home or to the rec hall?"

"Nah, thanks though. I drove myself. Needed some time to think."

A young man from the funeral home approached the small group. "Officer Perrigo, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to move your car out of the way. Some of the family needs to go ahead to the rectory hall. If you’d like, I’d be more than happy to move it for you."

"Uh, yeah. That’d be great." Perrigo dug into his jacket pocket for his keys. "You can just leave the keys in it, I’ll be heading out after I say goodbye to a few folks."

Perrigo waited until after the attendant was out of earshot before turning his attention back to Starsky and Hutch.

"I heard you’re staying on the case even though Captain Dobey wanted to pull you off for protection."

"That’s right. We’ve come too far on this one to…" Hutch’s words were drowned out by an explosion in the cemetery’s drive. The three men instinctively began running toward the source of chaos developing there. Perrigo’s race slowed to an astonished halt when he realized that it was his own car fully enveloped in flames, along with the cars directly before and behind it.

"Bomb squad’s released your car, Starsky. The said the only tampering they found looked like someone had hooked up detonator wires to the ignition, but left it unfinished. Must be they panicked or got interrupted." Dobey growled at the two men sitting slumped in front of his desk, their suit coats displaying the effects of the day’s fiery climax. "Perrigo’s gone into protective custody, I think you should reconsider and do the same, Hutchinson."

The blond ignored his captain’s warning. "No leads yet on the bombing?"

"Whoever planted the bomb in Perrigo’s ignition was at the cemetery with over fifty cops no more than a hundred yards away. He obviously knew what he was doing. Bomb Squad’s working on priors with similar MO’s. No one’s been able to come up with anything on Capernicus’ whereabouts either. NYPD’s getting back with me later today about his east coast connections. You two got anything new?"

Starsky got up from his chair and made his way to the water cooler, favoring his left leg. "We’ve checked out all the names R&I came up with. It looks like all of Capernicus’ and Randolph’s usual assortment of goons are either in jail or dead." The paper cup was quickly drained and discarded. "They don’t have the best track record of hiring very bright help."

"Except whoever planted the bomb, but maybe he’s new blood," Hutch added as he stood. "That puts us back at square one."

"So, what are you two yo-yos still doing here?" Dobey growled, retrieving the case folder from Hutch.

"I was just thinking that myself." Hutch turned toward his partner. "Where to next? Huggy’s?"

Starsky nodded and headed to the door, stepping aside to let his partner pass. "Sounds like a plan."

The evening trade was just beginning as Starsky and Hutch entered the dimly lit bar. Barely pausing to make eye contact with the proprietor, they continued through the small crowd to the corner booth.

Huggy gave a lift of his head in greeting, as he finished drawing a pitcher of beer and placed it on Diane’s awaiting tray. Wiping his hands on his apron, he poked his head into the kitchen.

"Hey, Angie! Cover the front for a minute, will ya?" Huggy didn’t wait for the grumbling affirmation, but made his way to the bar’s cooler and extracted three long-neck Coors and continued toward the back booth.

"Well, well, well…" Huggy intoned, sliding into the bench opposite his friends. "I hear there was almost a pig roast today, if you’ll pardon the expression."

"Gee, Hug, your concern is overwhelming," Hutch remarked dryly, as he popped off the bottle top. "What else have you heard about our little barbecue?"

"Not much. Just that a Mister Capernicus is one bad dude, and looking to get rid of a couple of obstacles in the way of his remaining in business."

Starsky downed half his beer in one take. "Tell us something we don’t know. Like who the hired help are these days."

Grimly Huggy shook his head. "I’ve only heard of a couple of the more major ballplayers. One cat by the name of Eddie Fraiser. Used to be a professional welterweight until he got ousted for playing rough, if you catch my meaning."

Starsky perked up at the name. "Hey, I remember him. Didn’t he kill a man in the ring back in ‘77?"

"One and the same. It seems ‘Lighting Eddie’ Fraiser was on Randolph’s payroll then and it was a hired hit. They figured that the boxing league would rule it as accidental, which they did, and that he’d only be suspended. A few months later he’s back, but dig this--Eddie started boxing dirty again, and its wham, bam, no thank you ma’am, he’s out of fighting permanently. In the ring anyway."

"Terrific. Anybody else?"

Huggy thought for a minute before answering. "There was another dude by the name of Michael Franscoli. Him and his brother, Kevin. But Michael got in the way of a semi-automatic hailstorm about six months ago. Other than that, I got zip."

Hutch finished off his beer and threw a twenty on the table. "Thanks, Hug. If you hear anything else…?"

"Hutch…" Huggy quickly grasped the detective’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip as his friend climbed out of the booth. "Listen, my blond brother. These are some bad cats. A certain Bear would be put out if you were another notch on Eddie’s championship belt. Watch your back, man."

Hutch smiled and jerked his head toward his partner. "That’s what he’s there for."

Huggy released his grip and finished off his own beer. Starsky continued out of the booth as well.

"Hug…"

"First word I hear, it’s yours."

Starsky patted the thin hand lying clenched on the table and followed his partner out the door and into the night.

Capernicus answered the call on the second ring, even though it woke him from a sound sleep. He listened intently to the person on the other end of the line without comment and simply hung up when they were finished.

By memory, the extortionist dialed the private home number of Walter Morgan, warden of the California Simi Valley Maximum Security Facility. Capernicus ignored the annoyance of being awakened at 1:00 AM by the man on the other end of the line.

"I understand you received a new inmate today. I anticipate you know what I expect of you." The receiver slid smoothly back into its cradle and Capernicus rolled over onto his side, into the rest of a man without a conscience.

Correctional Officer Patrick Higby hummed under his breath as he carried the metal tray toward the maximum security cell. He was pleased with his special assignment, knowing he was somehow playing a part, albeit small, in one of the biggest cases to hit Southern California in years.

In keeping Officer Perrigo safely hidden until the trial, Higby felt he was in a win-win situation: someone higher up might hear of his proficiency in protecting a witness, which could result in a promotion or transfer; and he had someone of interest to talk to. Higby had long since reached his limit of boredom with his usual assignment of solitary confinement prisoners. While Perrigo had only been on the force for a few years, he seemed to have some pretty interesting experiences and an easy way about him that Higby was drawn to.

Having passed through the checkpoints, Higby finally reached Perrigo’s cell door. C.O. Ron McFarlan sat in a chair outside the door reading yesterday’s newspaper.

"Hey, Ron. What’s new?"

The junior officer looked up from the sports section with disgust and began folding the paper. "Dodgers lost again."

"And you’re surprised by this? They’ve stunk all season." Higby tilted his head toward the cell. "Anything I need to know about?"

McFarlan stood and stretched, throwing the newspaper on his chair. "Nah, he musta slept straight through. Haven’t heard a peep out of him since about 3:00 AM."

The younger man inserted the key from the ring on his belt and pulled the massive door open for the relief officer. Higby stepped into the cell. "So, Perrigo, how do you think the Dodgers’ll do the rest of the…"

The metal tray hit the floor with a clatter. Higby staggered out of the cell, retching from the sight of Perrigo’s inert form, blood and brain tissue splattered against the wall just above his body.

"Explain to me how this could have happened!" Captain Dobey thought he would explode. The roar of his voice reverberated throughout the detectives’ squad room and well into the hallway. Under normal circumstances a bellow of this degree would have sent men scurrying from their desks, but not this time. This time, rage stemmed from the concern for one of their own. Fearing the worst, Starsky and Hutch scrambled into Dobey’s office without knocking, just in time to see the captain slam the receiver down with enough force to knock the phone onto the floor. The three men stared silently at the device as it began emitting a busy signal.

The senior officer slowly turned and stared out the window.

Agent Taylor was accompanied by a second FBI agent as he pushed Randolph’s wheelchair into the hospital’s service elevator. Four accompanying marshal servicemen walked point, forming a wall of protection around the extortionist. The elevator serviced victims flown in via the medi-chopper and linked the helipad to the burn unit located on the top floor of the hospital. This secluded area provided the ideal circumstances to move Randolph to the new safe house, under the protection of the U.S. Marshal Service.

The medivac unit landed on the helipad only minutes before. The pilot remaining with the chopper while the FBI agent that had accompanied him climbed out and radioed for Taylor to bring Randolph up. Four FBI snipers were already in position at each corner of the hospital roof, alert for any hostile action during the transition. Within moments the small entourage emerged from the elevator and rushed to the helicopter, assisting Randolph inside.

Agent Taylor shook hands with his two agents and wished them luck, as the pilot increased the rotors’ speed for lift off. The senior officer called through the two-way radio for final affirmation from the snipers that their quadrants were secure, then granted clearance to the pilot.

The helicopter lifted smoothly off the pad and, after gaining sufficient altitude, hurtled north. Taylor watched the chopper as it disappeared from sight. A small measure of satisfaction rippled through the agent as he prepared to release the four snipers on the roof. Taylor’s gratification was short lived when an explosion reverberated through the nearby city blocks. The senior agent spun in the direction of the eruption, only to find a fireball raining over the streets.

Hutch, Starsky, and Dobey sat across from Taylor at his desk. The FBI’s offices weren’t much different than those in their precinct, but the agent seemed almost swallowed up by his own workspace.

Taylor sighed heavily before lifting his head up from his hands. Tiredly, he ran his hands through his hair, leaving the gray tufts standing up at odd angles.

"I received a preliminary report from Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms a few minutes before I called you, Captain. No one, of course, survived in the ‘copter. All the bodies on board have been identified and accounted for, in addition to four civilians that where killed on Topeka Boulevard from the wreckage and fallout. There were a dozen or so more injuries from the traffic accidents the explosion caused, the two in critical condition were taken over to University Hospital." The agent looked out his office window. "The other agents, Yarborough and Ramsey, were two of my best friends."

"Has ATF come up with anything yet?" Captain Dobey’s voice was almost gentle.

"Nothing definite yet. The initial search is showing that, in layman’s terms, the rod operating and controlling the back rotor had been tampered with. It appears that it had been sawed almost three quarters of the way through before the rotation wore at it enough to make it break completely. That back rotor is what maintains the direction of the helicopter, so when it stops working, the body of the ‘copter begins to move uncontrollably in the same direction as the blades, making it impossible to navigate."

Hutch spoke up. "Wait a minute, don’t helicopter pilots have to do a flight check every time they make a landing?"

"Yes. We performed an extensive background check on the pilot, Jon O’Malley, as soon as Randolph agreed to give federal evidence in exchange for protection. O’Malley, of course, checked out fine--decorated in Vietnam, had been flying for County General for almost fifteen years. Hadn’t had anything more on his record than a parking ticket back in ‘75. Well, he had just dropped off a set of accident victims when the call from the Marshal Service came in for us to move Randolph. Since my man Ramsey would be at LAX to meet him in less than five minutes and have to move out immediately, O’Malley went against procedure and had the hangar’s mechanic do the pre-flight and refuel while he ran in to use the john."

Starsky’s eyes narrowed. "So you think maybe it was the mechanic that tampered with the rotor?"

"That’s what it’s looking like. With nobody watching over the mechanic and with the amount of noise in the hangar, he could have easily ripped through that rod, even though it was guesswork as to how much of it had to be cut through to make it snap after the pick up with Randolph aboard."

"Who knows? Maybe the extra weight alone would be enough to finish the breakage. So where’s the mechanic now?" Dobey sighed, anticipating the answer.

"That, Captain, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Mechanic’s name is Dan Squires. Twenty-five, lived in California for maybe five months, no known immediate family, kind of a loner, no priors. His supervisor said he simply disappeared right after O’Malley and Agent Ramsey lifted off. An APB’s been issued and we’ve got men staking out his apartment." The agent’s face seemed to have aged several years since they had first met him. Eyes full of loss turned toward Dobey. "Captain, I wish you’d get your men to reconsider remaining on this case and lay low for awhile."

Before Dobey could speak, Hutch sat forward in his chair. "Sir, I appreciate your concern, but if a man’s not safe surrounded by the FBI and U.S. marshals, it’s not gonna matter where I am or what I’m doing."

"Hutch…" Dobey began.

"Captain, we both know that Starsky and I are your best bet. No offense to Agent Taylor, but we know these streets better than anyone out there. If anybody’s going to dig up Capernicus, it’s going to be us."

The captain’s eyes swung away from the agitated blond to his partner, who sat slumped in the chair next to him, eyes boring into the floor. Taking Starsky’s silence as consent, though not a happy one, Dobey eventually nodded. "See what you can find out about this Squires, but stay out of ATF’s way. If you come up with anything, report to Taylor."

Hutch nodded to his superior and waited for further admonishments. Instead Dobey simply growled, "Get out of here. You two don’t need me to tell you how to do your jobs."

Hutch stood to leave, but when his partner didn’t immediately follow, he slapped him on the arm and continued out of Taylor’s office. Starsky followed more slowly, his face a careful mask of underlying anger.

When they reached the outer offices of the federal building, Hutch finally broke the stony silence. "What’s with you?"

Starsky continued out of the building to his car, unlocking the passenger door before continuing around to his own door. The angry man threw his partner a glare and slid into the sedan. Hutch followed suit. "Well?"

"For somebody with four years of college under his belt, you’re pretty stupid sometimes!" Starsky ground out.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning you seem to think you’re...you’re invincible!" Starsky’s eyes burned. "For crying out loud, Hutch! Capernicus just iced his partner. Yeah, Perrigo and Avelechez were obvious targets, but this was the guy he’d been in business with for twenty some-odd years. Randolph was under twenty-four hour watch by both the FBI and the federal marshals. What makes you think you’re not gonna buy it out there on the streets all by yourself?"

Understanding finally struck Hutch. His reply was almost quiet. "Because I’ve got you."

Starsky’s mouth opened for a moment, either with a lost retort or in disbelief. He looked away, clenching his jaw and the steering wheel to the point of pain. A desperate fear filled his eyes. "What if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough? Hutch, if you get blown away out there, how am I supposed to live with that?"

Hutch reached over and placed his hand on his partner’s tense shoulder. Unspoken words were passed between the two, mixed with anxiety and determination. After a moment, Hutch nodded to his partner. "Let’s go."

Murray Phelps rolled down the freighter’s gangplank with the last load on his forks. As the small Yale truck bounced along the dock, a flash of color in the water caught his gaze. The dock worker glanced over at the number painted on the piling and finished setting down the crate beside the others he had just unloaded during his shift.

Phelps swung off the forklift and stretched out his lower back muscles, relieved that his day was almost over. Shaking out a cigarette as he walked over to the piling marked A54, Phelps paused long enough at the dock’s edge to strike the flint of his lighter. The cigarette fell out of his open mouth while the lighter fell to the planking unnoticed at the sight of the body floating face down in the water.

"Zebra Three, stand by for a patch from Captain Dobey."

"Copy that, Mildred. Zebra Three, standing by." Hutch glanced over at his partner, the tension in Starsky’s face still evident. "Wonder what’s up."

"Maybe he finally figured out who put the fake cockroach in his lunch bag last month."

Hutch smiled at his partner. The anxiety was still there, but his attempt at a lighter conversation was a start.

"Dobey here."

The blond depressed the microphone. "Go ahead, Captain."

"Get in here; they’ve found Squires."

Hours later, the two detectives took the homicide report with them to the station cafeteria. They had spent the remainder of the afternoon at the morgue and the prison cell where Perrigo’s body had been discovered earlier, then made a trip to the pier where Squires body had been located. Neither man had much of an appetite, but figured a change in scenery from the squad room might help clear their heads.

After making their modest dinner selections, they headed for the most secluded table near the far wall. It wasn’t lost on Hutch that his partner skillfully maneuvered himself into a position of being able to shield the blond from any potential threat.

"So what do you think?" Hutch asked as he opened his container of yogurt. He watched Starsky discretely scan the room.

"About what? Perrigo’s murder or about that glop you’re about to eat? It looks like the paste we used in the third grade."

"Huh, I thought you never made it past the second grade."

"Cute. Do you think you want to eat that crap or wear it?"

"I think there was somebody pretty high up on Capernicus and Randolph’s payroll that was in on this. Even if it was a paid hit made by an inmate, how else would they gain access to a maximum security cell? And how the heck would an inmate get a gun and silencer in there?"

"What about a guard?"

"Possibly. Taylor’s questioning those two--what were their names?" Hutch snapped his fingers. "Higby and McFarlan. How else could somebody get to Perrigo with a round-the-clock guard who swears on his mother’s eyes that no one came or went anywhere near that cell for the twelve hours he was on duty? Of course, it could be the guard was under the orders of a superior in Capernicus’ pocket…"

"…or the warden."

"…or the chief of police…"

"…or whoever. Shoot, it could even be the governor for all we know."

"Great. So where does that put us?" Hutch turned a disturbed gaze at his partner.

"Same place as always when it’s ‘who do we trust’ time."

The blond bolstered a bit of a smile. "Me and thee."

"Me ‘n thee," Starsky echoed back with a grin of his own.

Starsky and Hutch were beginning to feel like they were grasping at straws. But with little to go on, they were desperate enough to follow any lead, no matter how thin. The latest came by way of one of their new informants, a vagrant by the name of Milburn. He had only provided the detectives with something useful a few times before, and Starsky still wasn’t sure he was ready to trust the homeless man yet.

Hanging up the phone, the brunette stood up from his desk. There was something in Milburn’s voice that left an uneasy feeling in his gut. It was a warning that rarely failed him.

"What’d you get?" Hutch asked, glancing up from the notes he was jotting down in the case file.

"Mebbesumfin," Starsky mumbled, as he continued to chew on Milburn’s tip and the end of his pen.

Hutch cocked an eyebrow in his partner’s direction. "And for those of us who speak English?"

"Maybe somethin’, don’t know."

Hutch glanced up at the vague response and replaced the notebook in his jacket pocket. "Well, let’s go find out."

Starsky followed Hutch out of the squad room, pausing as his partner stopped for a drink of water at the fountain. Starsky replayed the conversation with Milburn in his head, trying to figure out why the information left a bad taste in his mouth--Meet me at Steadman’s Tavern at 5:30. I got something on that cop that got iced in the pen.

Finished, Hutch brushed the dampness from his moustache and studied Starsky’s furrowed brow. He had been on edge for the past week, none too discretely suggesting Hutch take Dobey’s offer of protection. Their differing views had led to many heated discussions with Hutch digging in his heels to remain "on the outside".

"Where’d you park?" Hutch’s question interrupted Starsky’s mental indigestion.

"Huh? Oh, out front."

Starsky shouldered past and headed down the hall to the station’s front doors. Hutch followed a few steps behind with a roll of his eyes. This case had better break soon or we’ll both be basket cases.

The unsettling feeling escalated as Starsky descended the steps. He paused at the bottom, allowing four uniformed officers to pass, then waited for Hutch to join him before continuing toward the Torino and voicing his concern. He was drawing a breath to speak when a glint of light from a passing car caught his eye. Instinct set Starsky in motion, catapulting him against his partner’s back. The leap landed Starsky’s forearm in the middle of Hutch’s back, slamming the blond onto his hands and knees behind the protection of the Torino’s front fender.

Starsky staggered as he reached inside his jacket to draw his Baretta. Just as the handgun cleared its holster, a slug from a high-powered rifle sliced through the collar of his windbreaker, laying open the flesh of his right shoulder. Ignoring the burning sensation of the wound, Starsky continued his draw even as the propulsion of the shot knocked him to one knee.

Hutch had drawn his Python and followed his partner’s bead on the taillights of the now fleeing sedan. Both men fired several shots, but the light blue Impala was quickly disappearing into traffic. Several officers flooded out of the station upon hearing the shots, taking cover behind parked vehicles. The sedan squealed around the corner and disappeared from view.

Starsky turned to the nearest patrolman. "Light blue Impala, probably a ‘72 or ‘73. California plates: Mary, Robert, Lincoln, nine–oh–three."

Hutch pulled drew himself up and replaced his gun in its holster. "Mary, Robert, Lincoln, nine–three–oh."

Starsky shook his head. "Nine–oh–three."

The patrolman’s head followed the conversation like the spectator at a tennis match, until Hutch finally shrugged his shoulders. "It’s one or the other, take your pick."

The patrolman just stood there for a moment, confused. Two voices rang out in unison. "What are you waiting for?"

The young officer startled like a deer and sprinted to his partner waiting in an idling patrol car. The description and plates were called in as they sped to join other squad cars in pursuit.

As the partners turned back toward the station a delayed flair of pain staggered Starsky and sent him reeling into the Torino. Hutch was immediately at his side, concern pinching his features. It was only when he took his partner by the shoulders to steady him against the hood of the car that Hutch felt the dampness of blood soaking through Starsky’s shirt and jacket.

"You’re…why didn’t you tell me you were hit?" The exasperation in Hutch’s voice couldn’t mask his concern. As gently as he could, he began peeling the ripped clothing away from the wound.

Starsky hissed as the material pulled at the tender flesh of his right shoulder. "Stop it, it’s only a graze." He pushed ineffectively at Hutch’s hands.

"Starsky, quit it! You’re probably gonna need stitches at least." Hutch traced the bullet’s path across the flesh of his partner’s shoulder, then placed his clean handkerchief against the injury. Even knowing the wound was superficial couldn’t block the icy fear that gripped him--a few more inches…

As Starsky reached up to apply pressure, Hutch turned his gaze away from the wound down to his hands. His partner’s blood mingled with his own where his palms had been scraped on the cement. The sight of Starsky’s blood there unnerved him. That was so close…too close.

"Hutch?"

The blond lifted his eyes to meet his partner’s. Starsky’s expression softened at the fear in Hutch’s face. "Let’s go inside, Dobey’ll want to know what’s going on."

Hutch shook his head. "Hospital first. I can call Dobey while they’re stitching you up."

"Hutch, I’ve bled worse cutting myself shaving. Dobey’ll have kittens if we don’t fill him in."

"Fine. Then I’m taking you to County General." Hutch grasped his partner by the elbow, offering support without having been asked for it. Additional officers were already filtering down the steps. Hutch turned back to Starsky before they were interrupted with questions. "Starsk...I’ll do it."

Starsky turned his paling face toward his partner and stopped, his cobalt eyes searching Hutch’s for understanding. Hutch glanced away from the probing gaze, back to where Starsky’s blood stained his hands.

"I’ll do it…I’ll go into hiding."

Starsky steered the Torino into the car wash’s lot and pulled into line behind a nondescript black Cadillac. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel betrayed his nervousness. "You set?"

Hutch didn’t even look up from his newspaper. "Mm hmm." His non-committal response relayed his anger toward the circumstances forcing him into hiding.

Starsky’s agitated fingers moved on to tapping out a tempo on the hard surface, bringing the Torino up closer to the car wash as the line progressed.

"You remember the signal?" Starsky’s hands moved in a combination of long and short taps. "Got it?"

"Mm hmm." Hutch turned the page.

"Don’t forget to call at 3:00 PM sharp. Start with the first pay phone number on the list. If I’m not there for whatever reason, wait ‘til the next day, call the second number at 3:00 P.M. If I’m not there the second day, go back and call the first number on the third day, then if…"

Hutch’s hand shot out from behind the newspaper, gripping his partner’s dancing one. "Starsk, I got it. Stop worrying, you’re driving me nuts. I’ve got it all right here." Hutch released his partner’s hand and tapped himself on the temple. "I’ll be okay. Okay?"

Starsky searched his partner’s eyes for any sign of doubt or fear. What he saw must have reassured him because after a few heartbeats his features lost some of their tightness, though he couldn’t manage a smile. "Okay."

Starsky pulled the Torino into the car wash’s entry slats. He quickly rolled down the window and extended three singles. "Deluxe wash."

"You got it. Have a nice day, sir."

Starsky rolled up the window as he shifted the car into neutral. The automatic conveyer belt gripped the Torino’s tires and pulled the car into the wash tunnel. After the soap was sprayed over the body of the sedan and the brushes scrubbed past, Hutch quickly reached into the car’s back seat and retrieved an overnight bag. As he made to open the passenger door, Starsky’s grip on his arm stopped him.

"Hutch…"

The blond turned and met Starsky’s concern. With a gentle nod, Hutch reached back and patted the hand that held his wrist.

Starsky squeezed the wrist one more time and released his partner. After a torrent of rinse water, the dryers began a wind tunnel to blow the excess moisture from the car. Hutch flung himself out of the dripping Torino and sprinted against the wind toward the black Cadillac on the line ahead of them. Another blond man got out of the Cadillac’s passenger side and ran toward the Torino. Without a word between them, J.D. Turquet shrugged out of his jacket and handed it off to Hutch who exchanged it for his own. Turquet slapped his black cowboy hat on the detective to cover Hutch’s lighter colored hair, then reached up to peel off the false moustache Hutch had been wearing since shaving off his own that morning.

"Ow!"

"Sorry ‘bout that." Turquet haphazardly slapped the moustache under his nose and traded sunglasses with Hutch. "Good luck, amigo."

"You, too." Hutch continued to the Caddy and slipped into the passenger seat.

"Just in time, too," Huggy groused. "Here come the dudes with the towels." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, two workers emerged from outside the car wash and approached the Cadillac, wiping away the remaining drops of water. Hutch slid low in the seat and tipped the cowboy hat further over his face, concealing his features. The sedan left the car wash, but before slipping north on to Palmcrest Boulevard, Huggy tapped the brakes twice, signaling the Torino behind him.

As the red car emerged from the car wash, Turquet had Hutch’s newspaper raised up to eye level, covering his features from any casual look inside.

Starsky paused at the end of the drive, staring after the receding Cadillac. With a sigh, he finally tore his gaze away from the taillights and pulled into traffic, heading south, away from his partner.

After his third stop and as many changes of clothes and vehicles, Hutch was beginning to feel more than a little ridiculous. The second change came after the car wash by stopping at The Pits. There, disguised as Turquet, Hutch went through the kitchen and up to Huggy’s apartment. The person who emerged was a seventy-year-old derelict, ala the costume Hutch had constructed a few years back to fool his partner during a deadly game of hide-and-seek. The derelict made his way a mile north to a flop house where his room had been rented for a week. The man who left there was a thirty-something hippie that looked like he should have been playing bass for "The Grateful Dead". The rather large, rather hairy man poured himself into a psychedelically painted VW bug and headed out of the city toward Bakersfield. As much as Hutch hated the lengths to which Starsky had made him go to assure his safety, he had to admit he felt more secure than he had in weeks.

Three hours later Hutch found himself at a nondescript "Super 8" motel with the reservation his partner had made under the name of "Ollie Begoode". Hutch all but winced as he gave the reservation clerk his name, paying cash for his room in advance. Starsk, I’m gonna kick your butt royally when this is all over.

Slinging his canvas army bag over his shoulder, Hutch made his way down the inner hall to his unit. Out of habit, he thoroughly searched the room, checking the shower, closets and windows before settling himself down on the vinyl floral print armchair. Snapping on the TV for some background noise to break up the lonely silence, Hutch dug out a beer from the groceries he had purchased at the Seven-Eleven a few miles up the road. He finally propped up his feet against the TV cart, his gun resting on his lap, beginning his weary vigil.

Chapter Four