Title: Eternity II: The Bay City Triad

Author: Kaye Austen Michaels

First Posted: March 14, 2002 at Love of Me and Thee

Sequel to: Eternity: A Promise of Forever

Eternity II: The Bay City Triad
by Kaye Austen Michaels

Prologue:
Gearing Up

Still blissfully out of breath, Hutch watched with envy as Starsky rolled out of bed and tapped his chest and legs, instantly ready to face the world, albeit invisibly, clad in jeans and a soft blue cotton shirt. "That's entirely unfair," Hutch murmured, commanding his limbs to move out of their passion-sated lethargy. Starsky merely wiggled his denim-covered rear and left the room. Within a minute Hutch heard the sounds of running water. That got his attention. He sprang out of bed and nearly bowled into Starsky on his way to the bathroom.

"Shower's ready, Hutch. Hop in," Starsky ordered, eyeing Hutch's nude form with appreciation.

Hutch rubbed his eyes. "Starsky, I told Saunders I'd be at the crime scene in twenty minutes. That leaves me, oh, thirty seconds to get dressed and out the door."

Starsky snatched Hutch's elbow and yanked him into the bathroom. "Beautiful, you reek like an intimate encounter. You're supposed to be a grieving man who has vowed never to replace his lost lover. Unless Saunders developed one massive head cold since this evening, he'll do some math in his head and wonder why two plus two equals nine. Now, get clean."

"Yes, smarty." Hutch ducked into the warm water and pulled the curtain. When he emerged, dripping, all of three minutes later, he was seized in an odd bear hug by an oversized bath towel. "Umm...I could get used to this kind of service."

"I just bet you could." Starsky smirked, hastily toweling Hutch's hair. "And you call me a hedonist. Clothes are on the bed. I've got coffee going."

"I didn't know valet privileges came with that gold band on your finger," Hutch teased on his way to the sleeping alcove. "Or maybe I should say--"

"Hutchinson, if you say one thing about 'wifely' duties, I swear to God I'll make you sleep alone in the greenhouse for a week."

Hutch choked back a laugh at Starsky's indignant face and turned meekly toward the clothes on the bed. Starsky smiled and hustled back to the kitchen. He greeted a freshly dressed Hutch with a steaming mug and a plate. "What's that?" Hutch asked.

"Coffee. Comes from a little brown bean. Tastes much better when I make it."

"No, on the plate, dummy. What gives you the idea I have time for a midnight snack?"

"It's a piece of cheese toast, Hutch. Gulp it down in two bites, throw back some coffee, and let's go. You nearly ran yourself ragged with Carla's murder. It's gonna be a long night. The key word here is energy."

Hutch swallowed a mouthful of toast and pulled his lover close. "You are undoubtedly the nicest person I've ever wanted to kiss senseless."

"Jeez, I wish I could take you up on that, but we're late, babe. Gimme the cup. Grab your badge and holster and I'll throw this stuff in the sink."

Chapter One:
Turf Wars

"Not our turf, Hutch," Starsky commented twenty minutes later, hand resting comfortably against Hutch's waist as they walked up the curved marble steps to the luxury apartment where a young dancer had been found dead. "Tells me something right off the bat."

"Yeah, this is going to make the Froman case look like a textbook exercise in the Academy, that's what it tells me. Also tells me Lieutenant...what's his name? Pritchard? Pritchen...handed this one over to Dobey because he doesn't think he's got the appropriate men for the job. That makes for a pleasant start."

Accustomed to his lover's cathartic irony, Starsky stopped Hutch with an increase in the pressure against his waist. He pulled him over to the edge of the stairs and placed firm hands on the blond's shoulders. "Babe, you know what's really happening here? Dobey is grooming you to be a trouble-shooter. You and Saunders. You ready for that?"

Hutch sighed. Just half-an-hour ago he had been encased in Starsky's loving, passionate grip. Some of that energy and fire still glowed in Starsky's eyes and Hutch felt his heart surge in response. "Honestly? If you--if you weren't here with me.... Look, you know I wouldn't trade Saunders for anyone else in that whole damn department, but without you, hell no, I wouldn't be ready."

Starsky grinned and brushed his lips quickly across Hutch's cheek. "Can't say you don't know how to make a guy feel needed. Let's go hook up with our other wheel."

"What, we're a tricycle now?" Hutch laughed softly.

Starsky winked and flashed his eyes in a manner guaranteed to redden Hutch's cheeks. "Only on the job, babe," he quipped and Hutch had to cover his mouth to hold in a shout of mirth. Whispers on the stairwell could be explained any number of ways, but Detective Ken Hutchinson practically crying with laughter all alone within a few feet of a crime scene made for a sticky scenario if witnessed.

"Don't even go there," he warned Starsky with humor still curving his lips into a smile. Starsky flung an arm around his partner's shoulders and gave an exaggerated sigh, "Poor, old-fashioned, stick-in-the-mud Hutch."

"Happily married to an equally devoted spouse Hutch," Hutch whispered in return, hand lightly slapping Starsky's rear.

"Just making sure you have your sense of humor intact before we get in there, babe. You know, insulation against the nastiness."

"You're my insulation against the nastiness. Always have been. Always will be."

Starsky grinned. "Not as solid insulation as it used to be."

Hutch surveyed their surroundings and then cupped Starsky's chin. "Just try to get a certain part of me to agree with that statement, lover."

"Not while you're on duty, I won't," Starsky retorted. "Ready, Hutch?"

"Yes." He watched as Starsky walked through the closed, glazed-oak door and then shook himself slightly. By now he should be used to the realities of life with a ghost, but some aspects of Starsky's new physique still rattled him. His rational brain refused to equate the warm hands capable of roaming his body with perfect pressure with the man who found no physical barriers to his entrance.

Realizing that he stood in front of the door with a hand outstretched, Hutch clenched his fingers and rapped on the wood. A uniformed officer opened the door and Hutch flashed his badge. He stepped inside and his detective's eyes catalogued the entire living room in a glance. Crime team, coroner, several uniforms, Starsky--unseen by anyone else--examining an awards display in the corner of the room, Saunders talking to a trembling dark-haired teenager. Elegant furniture and tasteful, expensive décor: professionally decorated, Hutch's instinct whispered.

"Hutchinson." Ray Saunders motioned for him and Hutch walked over to his partner and the obviously petrified teenager. With a pat on the kid's shoulder, Saunders said, "This is Toby Dickerson. He found the body."

"Pizza delivery," Hutch said, noticing the boy's colorful 'Taste of Italy' uniform.

Toby shook his head. "Italian delivery, s-sir. F-fine dining. W-we don't even serve
p-pizza."

"Told you, Hutch," Starsky said from across the room. "Not our usual turf." He gestured at the hallway and Hutch knew from years of reading Starsky's signals that he wanted a look around while Hutch gathered preliminary facts.

"Rather late for a delivery?" Hutch asked, eyebrow quirked. The boy squirmed despite the softness of Hutch's voice.

"No sir. We're open until two a.m. Lots of our customers are in the--theater crowd. Artsy types. You know. Night owls."

"Right."

Noting the boy's discomfort, Saunders took control of updating Hutch. "The restaurant received a call roughly an hour and a half ago from a female who gave this address and asked for Baked Veal Parma Rosa with garlic bread on the side. Toby here took the call himself. When he arrived about forty-five minutes he ago he found the door ajar. He looked through the opening and saw the body on the floor. Toby's a smart kid. Didn't attempt to enter the premises. Went around the block to the payphone and called the police, then sat in his car and waited for us to arrive."

"I feel bad that I--I didn't make sure she--I mean...when I saw all the blood...."

"You did the right thing, Toby," Hutch said with a reassuring smile. "If you'd come in to check on her you might have found yourself face to face with the killer. Not a position you want to be in, trust me."

"I've got all your information, Toby, in case we have to contact you again. You're free to go home now and thank you again for your quick thinking and assistance."

Toby smiled at both detectives and shuddered once more before he left. Hutch frowned at Saunders. "Kind of young to be out delivering food this late at night even in this part of town."

Saunders ran three fingers through his short brown hair. "No, actually he's freshman in college."

"Wha--at?" Hutch's eyes widened. "They must be making them smaller these days. He looks all of thirteen."

"Well, we've got the opposite here. Not as young as I thought," Saunders said with a catch in his voice as he lifted the sheet. "Take one look and tell me her age, Hutchinson."

Hutch nodded at the Medical Examiner, who removed his gloves and gestured for a crime team member to wheel over the gurney and body bag. "At a guess, eighteen, Saunders. Why?" Hutch dropped onto bended knee and scanned the body, eyes lingering with distaste on the sickening sight of the broken legs and the pool of blood that welled beneath the woman. He felt a hand softly clasp the back of his neck and thanked the Understanding Goodness that allowed his source of comfort and strength to remain at his side.

"Would you believe that according to her driver’s license, she's thirty? Her name's Alicia Holden."

"Thirty!" Starsky cried out, also dropping down for a closer look without removing his hand from Hutch's neck. "That's gotta be one helluva makeup job."

"Stabbed directly through the heart with a fairly small blade, Detective Hutchinson," the coroner said, indicating the wound. "That accounts for the large loss of blood. No matter the size of the weapon, heart wounds bleed profusely when the blade is removed. From the condition of her legs, I would say that she was beaten post-mortem, resulting in the fractures. Possibly a lead pipe or something else smooth but capable of inflicting great force."

"Like a baseball bat," Starsky said suddenly, hands instinctively rubbing Hutch's back when the blond tensed. "Sorry, Hutch. I know you don't need those memories," he whispered, his own mind flooded with unpleasant images of Hutch's girlfriend Abby being wheeled out of Venice Place on a gurney following a disturbed young man's attack.

Alicia wore a purple leotard of glossy, stretch material, skin-tone tights, leg warmers and sneakers. Her blond hair still maintained its twisted up-do styling. Hutch looked around and noticed a duffel bag by the coffee table. "What's in the bag?"

Still wearing gloves, Saunders stepped over to the bag and withdrew a pair of black, high-heeled tap shoes and scuffed pink ballet slippers. He dangled them until Hutch nodded and then dropped them back into the bag.

"What about the black roses, Hutch?" Starsky couldn't lift the sheet without drawing attention so Hutch uncovered the body and then looked up at Saunders. "The black roses?"

Saunders picked up an evidence bag from the couch and held it out for inspection. "Smells like spray paint to me, so I don't think they're going to be much of a lead in and of themselves--"

"What the hell is going on here!?" A shout from the doorway shook the entire living room.

All the living room's occupants stared at the newcomer, a tall balding man who stood fairly quivering with rage, his face ruddy and eyes bulging. He wore slacks and a blue button-up shirt but most noticeable was the shoulder harness. "This is my precinct. This is my case."

Starsky winced. "Like you said, Hutch. Real pleasant start." He stepped partially in front of Hutch as the blond detective approached the irate cop.

Hutch held out a hand. "I'm Detective Hutchinson, and this is my partner Detective Saunders. You didn't hear from Lieutenant Pritchen?"

The man ignored the offered hand. "I know who the hell you are, Hutchinson. Who the frickin' hell in this city don't know who you are? You're a disgrace to the profession, that's who you are. Your partner's been dead less than a month and you're just business as usual, that's who you are. Know what you're called round the stations? The Ice-Man. Now you're not satisfied with your own crimes, you gotta come bustin' in on somebody else's territory."

The words fell against Hutch like fists pounding his body and he swayed, barely realizing that Starsky shook, hands curled into defensive fists, and bounced threateningly on the balls of his feet. Saunders jerked out of a stunned silence and closed the gap between the stranger and Hutch. Inches from the cop's face, Saunders' voice was scant more than whisper but the words were needles, "You ever--ever dare talk to my partner like that again and you and I are gonna have one serious disagreement."

The sudden eerie silence gave way to pounding footsteps and a slightly younger, sandy-gray haired man burst through the open doorway and said, "Jason. Good God, Jason, what are you doing here?"

"Just telling the truth, Marty. No way should Pritchen have cut us out of this one."

"Jason," Marty said, soothingly. "Jason, you're on a medical leave of absence. You're not even supposed to be listening to the damn police radio. Jesus, when I got your call, I thought--" He stepped closer to the agitated man and placed a hand on his arm. Then he smiled shakily at Saunders and Hutch. "I'm Detective Marty Strauss. This is my partner, Jason Phillips. He's very sorry for any inappropriate remarks and we're going to be leaving now."

"No, Marty! Okay. I can handle being benched 'til they check out my ticker, but I'll be damned if I hand over my turf to this cold-hearted bastard--"

"That's enough!" Saunders roared and even Starsky fell back a step. Hutch remained immobile, his face frozen in a mask of shock and some less easily identified emotion.

Starsky turned his head and, catching sight of his lover's expression, gripped Hutch's arms and said fiercely, "Snap out of it, Hutch! Baby, listen to me! No telling what all's wrong with the guy. He's probably lying out his ass about-- Hutch! Dammit, Hutch, blink already!"

"Detective Hutchinson, you'll have to excuse my partner. He's overly emotional right now and--"

"Marty, you just quit talking for me. I'll leave. But you haven't heard the last from me, Hutchinson. You or this baby-faced mouthpiece of yours. That clear?"

"This baby-faced mouthpiece is two seconds away from re-arranging your mouth, Mister, if you don't get the hell away from our crime scene. I'm not even going to waste Lieutenant Pritchen's time with a report on this because it won't be repeated. That clear!?"

"Crystal, Detective Saunders," Strauss nodded, eyes apologetic and face flushed. He tugged on Phillips' elbow and towed him from the room. Hutch let out a long breath and sat down limply on the edge of the coffee table. Starsky dropped to his knees and caressed Hutch's shoulders, trying to get a look in his blond's eyes.

Saunders turned around and glared at the gawking uniformed officers and crime lab members. "We've got work to do, people. The body's ready for transport. You've got evidence to bag." As Saunders neared the coffee table, Starsky stood and moved to the side, left hand still kneading Hutch's tense shoulder. Saunders took his turn kneeling in front of Hutch. "Hutchinson? You okay?" He leaned closer and whispered, "If you take one word of that nutcase's tirade seriously, I just might make good on my previous threat of kicking your ass."

Starsky favored Saunders with an appreciative smile, but Hutch just looked up and stared, blankly. "So much for Huggy's brave front hypothesis," he said in an odd, choked tone and rose to his feet.

"What?" Saunders frowned, questioning.

Starsky rubbed his forehead against Hutch's upper arm. "Babe, you've gotta pull out of this tailspin until I can get you home. You hearin' me?"

Hutch brushed a hand across his eyes and then said, "Back to work, Saunders. Where were we?"

Chapter Two:
The Loner

"I want to see her," the young man said in a calm voice at odds with the streaks of moisture down his cheeks and the consistent use of a tissue. A uniformed officer appeared at his elbow with a steaming cup of coffee and the young man accepted it with a nod and sniffle. "Thanks. Damn, I need this." He gulped quickly and sighed.

Hutch and Saunders had barely gotten back into the swing of crime scene procedure when the door to Alicia's apartment opened and another visitor gave a shout. Not an exclamation of anger this time, but the beginnings of loud and prolonged grief at the sight of the body bag on the gurney. Hutch made it to the newcomer's side first, gripping the young man by the shoulders before he buckled at the knees and hit the floor. He led him over to the couch and only after a few noisy minutes was the man able to choke back the sobs enough to talk. One hand running through his dark wavy hair and the other rubbing a worn spot of denim over his left knee, he switched focus between Hutch and Saunders repeatedly while he told them his name and purpose for showing up at Alicia's apartment at such an awkward time. Alicia had been expecting him to share that order of Baked Veal Parma Rosa.

"I want to see her," Frederic Talbot repeated, letting the steam from the cup bathe his face. "I have--I have to see her."

"Frederic--" Hutch started, but Frederic ceased rubbing his knee, clenched his fingers, and pounded the fist on the coffee table.

"You don't understand. I'm all she had. If you're waiting around for next-of-kin, et cetera, you're going to be sadly disappointed. Alicia Holden was as alone as you can get. Both parents dead in childhood, no siblings, and one aunt she sort of kept in touch with who lives in London. I--I am--was her best friend in the whole world."

"A dance partner, too, if those pictures on the display over there are any indication," Starsky spoke up, voice choked. For a second he'd been standing in a studio apartment, chest heaving, having just gotten up from the floor after a knock-down punch from his own best friend.... ///"You're the best friend I got in the whole world..."/// He shook himself free of the memories and mentally re-grouped. Hutch was going to need one hell of a pick-me-up when they finally snatched a few free and private minutes. He couldn't afford to let old wounds claim an ounce of his buoyant spirit right now.

Saunders and Hutch exchanged a glance and then Saunders nodded at one of the uniforms to unzip the body bag. Frederic jumped to his feet, wobbled for a moment, and took jerky steps over to the gurney. He wouldn't touch the face that the opening in the bag revealed. He let his fingertips dangle just a fraction of an inch from the skin and brushed them in a stroking action without making contact. Tears welled in his unusual, almost silver eyes and finally he turned away.

Hutch zipped the bag himself and managed to snag a second of eye contact with Starsky. Just that one stolen look infused the claw-marks in his soul with healing salve. Starsky's eyes at that moment were a glowing blue, alive and flashing with love and the promises of comfort to come. Hutch took a deep breath, allowed the barest hint of a smile to dance across his lips that went unseen by Saunders and Frederic but was instantly acknowledged by a nod from Starsky.

Saunders nodded for the nearest crime team officer to remove the body before he turned back to Frederic. "Was this a habit? Your meeting with Alicia this late, here at her apartment?" Despite Saunders' soft voice and sympathetic face when he asked the questions, Frederic visibly flinched.

"We weren't sleeping together, if that's what you're trying to tactfully ask me. I don't play on that side of the street." He waited for his words to register. Hutch's face remained expressionless; Saunders merely blinked. Frederic must have assumed that his statement held no meaning for the detectives because he sighed and said, "For those of you not versed in the vernacular, that means I'm gay." All he got was a nod from each of his listeners. He half-smiled. "What? No barely concealed shudders or frowns? I just might applaud. Didn't know we were making such progress in the red meat world of law enforcement."

"Jeez, you can tell this kid hasn't had a rosy life," Starsky said, brushing a hand lightly against Hutch's back as he stood shoulder to shoulder with him.

"Thank you for the commendation," Hutch said without sarcasm, "but you'll have to understand that we are required to ask you these questions. Can you give us an idea of your movements from...say...eleven o'clock this evening until half an hour ago?"

Frederic's face turned a remarkable shade of gray-green and his hands, now clutching both knees, trembled. "M-my p-partner is in the hospital. He's...he's older than I am and two days ago he suffered a fairly severe heart attack. There's a nurse on his floor at Lincoln who lets me stay after hours...checks on both of us every fifteen minutes or so. She's been an absolute angel. The whole purpose of my having a late-night dinner with Alicia was for me to get a break from the waiting game. Paul manages to settle down and rest after midnight. I--I didn't want to leave him but Alicia kept insisting. Anyway, if you speak to Catherine Morehead, she'll vouch for my whereabouts."

"You danced with Alicia?" Hutch asked. Frederic's eyes widened.

"How--?"

"Photos on the display," Hutch explained with a sideways glance that allowed him to thank Starsky with his eyes as well as indicate the awards display in the corner of the room.

"Oh, yeah."

Hutch caught Saunders' eye and registered one dark uplifted eyebrow before he faced Frederic again. "Is that how you two met?"

"Yeah. We both belong to BC-squared."

"Excuse me?" Saunders asked, the raised brow this time intended for the young dancer.

Frederic managed to smile.

"That's our pet name for Bay City Ballet Company, our dance company. BCBC...get it? Alicia was with the group for twelve years. I joined eight years ago when I turned seventeen."

"You consider yourself Alicia's best friend, but did she have other friends or close acquaintances within the company? Anyone she saw socially? Anyone who disliked her?"

Frederic rose somewhat unsteadily and made his way to the awards display. With his back partially turned to the detectives, he traced fingertips along the edges of the curio's shelves and exhaled noisily. "Alicia was unusual for a dancer. You've heard of the prima temperament? The myth of the diva? Alicia had been the premier female dancer at BC-squared for ten years but she never acted like a spoiled child or threw tantrums...or lived up to any of the stereotypes. She was quiet, hardworking, and a loner really. I'm not even sure how I managed to weave myself into her social fabric. Just sort of happened. One day I found myself out having coffee with her and telling her a host of gay jokes to prove how hard-skinned and well adjusted I am. She listened patiently and then told me I could shove my façade up my ass and be myself around her or she wouldn't waste her time being my friend. I think I loved her at that moment...you know, platonic, grateful love. Then she realized she'd told me to shove something up my ass and turned tomato red. We laughed for ten minutes, practically spewing coffee out our noses. B-best d-damn day of my whole life...except for when I met Paul...." Frederic wilted then and fell back on his heels, shudders running through his back. "I'm sorry. I'm not answering your questions. No, Alicia didn't really have any other close friends within the company that I knew about. She interacted with the other dancers at work and then went her own way. No, I don't recall ever seeing her in an argument with anyone. There are a couple girls who have jealousy streaks a mile wide and think Alicia's over-the-hill for star status. But they're not killers."

"That's for us to decide," Hutch said firmly. "We'll be interviewing all the company members before we're done, but you could give us a heads-up. What are their names?"

Frederic sprang gracefully from his crouch and pivoted. "I will not be responsible for you harping on someone's case just because they are a little insecure about career advancement. Envy's a natural part of the dancing world because everyone wants to reach the top and so few actually do."

Saunders frowned. "Frederic, we don't 'harp on cases'. Have we harped on your case? We ask questions, gather facts, and hopefully come to the right conclusion--"

"Come to the right conclusion about who was sick enough to leave your best friend in this condition," Hutch finished, pointing at the bloodstain on the carpet. Frederic shivered.

"Gail Dennis and Louise Thompson-Ward. Louise has a prima's name but not the talent. Gail is clinging by a thread to her place in the company. She's more of a tap specialist and unfortunately--in my opinion at least--the days of Gene and Fred are material for the history books. Ballet, jazz, and modern dance are the in-thing, and if you ain't got it with those disciplines, you ain't got a chance at being top dancer. Simple."

"Do you develop a fan base? People who specifically seek out your performances, follow your careers?" Saunders asked.

Frederic nodded. "Oh, yeah. In the famous words of Anna Akhanatova, 'If you are a star, you are ze brightest zing in ze sky...'." The light died out of his eyes. "Alicia worshiped Ms. Akhanatova. She was outraged that she had to be out of town when Russia's shining light made her Bay City debut last year...what?"

Hutch looked away from Frederic's acute stare. "I was one of the detectives assigned to protect Anna during her stay in Bay City," he said, coolly, but Starsky heard the underlying quake in the voice and turned away from Hutch briefly. Damn if this wasn't a night for memories...Abby, Gillian, Anna.... Suddenly, Starsky wanted nothing more than to sweep Hutch up and out of this apartment, away from these weird allusions to past cases and former loves. Without realizing it, he stroked the gold band on his left ring finger, as a child would caress a security blanket. His eyes fell on Hutch's left hand--empty of jewelry. A frown marred his brow that did not go unnoticed by his other half, but Hutch couldn't spare a single moment of eye contact because Frederic had squinted his eyes and then pointed at Hutch.

"I knew I'd seen you before!" he blurted. "Been feeling that weird déjà vu sensation since I pulled myself together and actually got a good look at you. I was at every one of her performances and served as a behind-the-scenes consultant. It's a good thing Alicia was out of town, I think. She'd have been disillusioned. Anna is the exact opposite of Alicia. Self-important, pampered, domineering...why do I have the feeling I'm eating my foot for a late-night snack here?"

Hutch smiled. "I have a different opinion of the lady in question. But that's neither here nor there. Back to the fan base. Do you remember Alicia ever commenting on receiving letters, packages, or phone calls from anyone in particular? Perhaps something that made her uncomfortable?"

Frederic sank down on the couch and stared at his knees. "A couple years ago Alicia received several bouquets of bright yellow roses after performances with this weird note about the color yellow symbolizing a bright future...a future they would share together. I thought maybe she was dating someone she hadn't told me about, but after the third bouquet she broke down and said she felt concerned because she didn't have a clue who was sending them. She didn't want to go to the police because nothing ever happened. No one approached her, called her at home, or anything else threatening. I think she received four bouquets altogether before they just stopped coming. Nothing like that since. No one in the company 'fessed up to being a secret admirer. There are straight male dancers, you know."

"Who was in charge of getting flower deliveries to her?" Hutch asked, trying to jar his memory of how he and Starsky had handled that situation as a potential security risk.

"At that time it would have been Calvin. He coordinated what we call backstage dancer services. He no longer works for the company but you can get in touch with him. He teaches and produces Workshop Theater in what used to be that fabulous French restaurant over on Wellworth Avenue. Actually, Alicia and I do—d-did hang out quite a bit with him and his business manager, Ophelia." Frederic rubbed his eyes and bit back a yawn, a guilty look spreading across his handsome face.

"Look, Frederic, I think you've given us all you can right now. I have to tell you to stick close for the next few days. If you have any upcoming out-of-town engagements, you'll need to cancel them. But why don't you go home and get some sleep?" Hutch felt a hand massaging the back of his neck and he suppressed a smile at Starsky's means of conveying 'job well done'.

"Back to the hospital," Frederic said.

"None of our business, of course, but you've had quite a shock on top of your partner's illness. I think you need some down time," Saunders urged.

Frederic smiled weakly. "Yeah...yeah, you're probably right. Alicia would say.... Oh, God. Oh, yeah, I'm going home. Guess you need my vital statistics first though. How to reach me and whatnot."

"You're certainly knowledgeable about procedure," Saunders smiled. The tone of voice was complimentary but Frederic swayed on his feet and turned pale.

"What--what do you mean by that?" he asked sharply.

Saunders shrugged. "Just that you've been very helpful and made our job easier."

Hutch felt the warm hand fall away from his neck. Via peripheral vision he noted that Starsky stared at Frederic, head tilted slightly to the side, wary deductive look in place.

A good hour later Saunders walked behind Hutch and Starsky to the LTD. When Hutch turned to say, "Meet you at the station," he didn't actually get the words out of his mouth. He frowned instead. "Saunders, when you get that look, you remind me of a high school guidance counselor trying to comfort the troubled teen. Just spit out whatever's in your head."

Saunders returned the frown, his expression tinged with concern. "Go home, Hutchinson. I don't want to see you for at least five hours."

Hutch's frown deepened. "I'm fine, Saunders."

"The hell you are."

"The hell I'm not! Look, Saunders, I've got people watching my steps, okay? If I look like I can't do my job, I'm going to get yanked into the department shrink's office and put through their little chamber of tortures. You think I want that?"

"Pardon the vernacular, but bullshit, Hutchinson! You've more than shown the brass that you've got the goods with this last case. Don't go all stoic on me now."

"Stoic! Saunders, just what the hell do you think gives you the right to tell me not to be whatever I want to be at any given time?" Starsky winced at the coldness in Hutch's voice and slid through the closed door into the passenger seat, putting his head in his hands. He hadn't felt this worried about Hutch's emotional state since the night they were reunited after his death.

Saunders jerked back. "Because--because I'm your partner, you damn fool!"

Hutch started to shake. He knew he should get in the car, take refuge in Starsky's nearness, and keep his mouth shut. He couldn't manage the last thing on that list. His eyes not meeting those of his earthly partner, he said quietly, "You're a substitute." He didn't wait to see the intense pain that flowed over Saunders' face. He slammed the LTD's door and barely heard Saunders' shriek.

"If I see you before five hours are up, I'll haul you into the shrink's office myself! And tell me where you got the telescopic vision, Hutchinson, because I didn't see you go near that awards display all damn night!"

Chapter Three:
Comfort

When Hutch pulled up to the main highway, Starsky said in a voice that brooked no argument, "If you even think of turning in the direction of Metro, I'll wreck this car. Somehow. Piece of damn junk anyway, worse than your other two combined. I'd be doing you a favor."

Hutch smiled at his lover, seemingly oblivious to the rigid set to Starsky's shoulders. "What's got you riled?"

"Me? Riled? Oh, I don't know. Maybe your decision to compete for the asshole of the year award got my attention."

Hutch's jaw tightened and he jerked the car across two lanes of traffic and headed toward Venice. "Well, if that's the way you feel--"

Starsky immediately shifted in the seat and ran a hand up and down his beloved's nearest arm, "Hey...easy, Hutch. Easy, lover. I'm not the enemy here...and neither, for that matter, is Saunders."

"Starsky--"

"He wants to be your friend."

"David--"

"Don't you 'David' me, Kenneth Hutchinson!" Starsky shouted. "He's trying to look out for you. No way did he deserve that 'substitute' crap!"

"He was mothering me!" Hutch screamed back.

"So!? How much I have mothered you over the years?"

Hutch fell silent and cast a glance over at the seething form in the passenger seat. "That's different," he said in a hushed, almost reverent tone. "You...and me...we-- I mean...."

"What? We weren't nailing each other to the bed, floor, or shower wall for the first nine years of our friendship and I mothered you anyway. Never got any complaints like that out of you."

"Still different," Hutch insisted. "I--I think you were right the other night when you said we loved each other--even romantically--right from the start but we couldn't face it, or deal with it, until we did."

Starsky allowed his face to soften and a smile curved his full lips. "Okay. Granted, and thanks for the warm thought. Doesn't matter a damn, though, Hutch. Friends should be allowed to take care of each other, too."

"Maybe I don't need a friend right now."

"Maybe you need a friend now more than ever."

"Give it up, Starsky. I don't want to talk about this--"

"Tough! I'm dead, Hutch--"

"No, you're not!" Hutch shrieked. "Stop saying that--"

"To the world, I'm dead. And you have to deal with that every day you're out there. You think having a friend won't make that a hell of a lot easier? You can't shut everyone out but Huggy."

"I will not continue this ridiculous conversation." Hutch moved his right hand in the direction of the radio, but Starsky seized the shaking hand and clasped it between his own.

"Hutch, you can go ahead and admit you're human. I promise you the solar system won't implode. Dobey might have a heart attack, but--" Starsky frowned. His attempt at lightening the tone of the discussion failed miserably by the look of Hutch's frozen features and trembling lower lip.

"I can't afford special treatment," Hutch said, barely moving his mouth. "You heard what Dobey said to me the night of Carla's murder. People have to know I can function the same as I did--"

Starsky groaned and pulled his hands away, waving them in the air frantically. "I'm glad you've decided you wanna keep the job, but God, Hutch, I agree with Saunders' take on that argument. The commissioner handed out kudos this morning, for Chris'sake. You've shown the whole department that you've got iron balls, babe. And you don't need to prove it to me...I know, I've had my hands on 'em enough!"

Hutch snorted. Starsky slid closer to him on the seat and stroked his thigh. "Like it when they're hard and tight...means you're close to Paradise and I'm putting you there."

That produced a half-moan accompanied by a laugh. "All right. Starsky knows best. You happy?"

"Which means?"

"I'll--" Hutch closed his lips, stared out the window, adjusted the rear view mirror, negotiated a turn, and finally sighed. "I'll apologize to Saunders in the morning. First thing. How's that?"

"That's my Hutch."

After a brief but warm silence, Hutch said softly, "You don't like my calling you David?"

"When you're about to scream it and take me over the edge with you, oh yeah! When you use it like a mother calling her kid by all three of his names, no."

"Got you." Hutch smiled. "Hearing you say Kenneth like that made me feel about five-years old and snotty nosed."

Starsky grinned, "That's pretty common for you, schweetheart."

Hutch sneered and elbowed his laughing friend. "Oh, yeah, you're Mr. Maturity, crawling on Dobey's desk au natural."

"Crawled on it fully clothed, babe. The au natural part came later."

"Big difference."

"Huge difference. For a second I forgot about the changes in my physical realities and I had a horror of getting overly intimate with his stapler."

Hutch burst out laughing and the temperature in the car climbed by twenty degrees. Starsky leaned back against the seat and sighed. Part one of Operation Comfort Hutch was successful. Now if he could just get part two to go off without a hitch.

The camaraderie and light-heartedness followed them into Venice Place. Starsky kept a watchful eye for yawns and signs of fatigue in his lover, but Hutch seemed wired. He roamed the apartment aimlessly, smiling and no longer sullen, but restless. Starsky decided that his new body just might remember how to develop a headache if he watched Hutch take one more lap around the living room. He disappeared and when he returned, he carried an armful of candles.

Hutch stopped in mid-stride. "Planning on burning the place down?"

"Oh, yeah." Starsky licked his lips, eyes flashing. "But not with these candles."

"O-o-oh," Hutch stuttered, cheeks slightly pink. He stood still long enough for Starsky to light three of the candles and deposit them on various pieces of living room furniture before he resumed his pacing.

Starsky turned off the lights and plunged the room into a medieval coziness that spiked Hutch's erotic senses. He stared as Starsky pulled the coffee table over to the side.

"Starsky, I need you...what are you doing, producing a play?"

"Just got a little surprise for you." Starsky smiled, but the expression was tinged with nervousness and Hutch noticed immediately. Starsky found himself pressed close against a tall, warm body and relished the feeling of slender fingers toying with his hair.

"Starsky, are you feeling all right? You weren't having a blast at the Holden apartment tonight, either." Hutch replaced his fingers with his lips and traced kisses across Starsky's scalp, producing a series of shivers in his dark-haired lover.

"Let's not talk about any of that, Hutch, I wanna make you forget." Starsky pulled back from the soul-warming embrace and offered another slightly nervous smile. Hutch caressed Starsky's throat with several fingertips.

"So, this isn't an ordinary Starsky seduction scheme?"

Starsky shook his head. "Nope." He walked over to Hutch's record collection and made a show of hunting through the albums, holding up a hand to halt Hutch's approach. Finally, he made his selection and turned with another smile before he withdrew the record from its cover. His movements and nerves spoke volumes to Hutch.

"You're...you're going to sing to me, aren't you?" Hutch whispered. "Gonna try," Starsky whispered back, setting up the record.

"You have a beautiful voice," Hutch said, his chest pounding at the unexpected treat awaiting him. Hutch sang freely around Starsky and only felt nervous when faced with performing for others. Starsky, on the other hand, could seldom be called upon to sing unless he made a comedy of it, a hammy performance. If he meant to sing anything seriously, even in front of Hutch, his rarely seen self-conscious side pushed to the forefront.

Starsky turned once more. "Compared to yours my voice sounds like the mating call of an earthworm, but if you'll just--"

Hutch grinned. "I don't think earthworms have mating calls, Starsky--"

"Well, I do have one, and tonight, this is it." Starsky put the needle down and after a second's pause, soft, swaying, and enticing strains of music filled the candlelit room along with seductive background vocals....

"Shoo-bob, shoo-bob, my baby... shoo-bob...."

Hutch's eyes widened. "How in God's name did you know--"

"Shh," Starsky pleaded. "Detective skills later. Lose yourself now." The background singers gave way to a sultry feminine voice and Starsky matched hers with his deeper yet harmonious range.

"Hello, stranger...ooh...seems so good to see you back again...how long has it been? Oooh...seems like a mighty long time... shoo-bob, shoo-bob, my baby...ooh, seems like a mighty long time...."

Starsky stood directly behind Hutch and pulled the blond back against him, one hand playing with the buttons on Hutch's shirt while the other stroked his groin as he initiated a flowing motion, dancing in place to the rhythm of the music.

"My, my my, I'm so glad you stopped by to say 'hello' to me, remember that's the way it used to be...ooh...seems like a mighty long time....shoo-bob shoo-bob, my baby, ooh...."

Starsky took advantage of the back-up singers' return to caress Hutch's neck with his lips as his hands worked separately to open the shirt and pull down the zipper. Hutch's body swayed perfectly with his, and Starsky could tell his formerly tense partner was two seconds away from melting, eyes closed...

"Oooh, if you're not gonna stay, please don't treat me like you did before because I still love you so...although...it seems like a mighty long time..."

Hutch swiveled and grabbed Starsky's face, lowering his own so that he could kiss each of Starsky's lips. "Forever," he said over the lead singer's insistence that she was happy to have her 'stranger' back again. "I'm going to stay forever. Oh, dammit, Starsky, I love you for this...."

Starsky pulled Hutch over to the couch and pushed him back against the cushions, hastily assisting Hutch in shedding the clothes. "Glad our new turn-table has a repeat feature," Starsky breathed, eyes moist from Hutch's words, and straddled his lover, tapping his own chest and legs. Hutch seized his suddenly nude vocalist in a crushing hug and Starsky chose that moment to undulate in time with the music. The brushing of their erections caused Hutch's eyelids to flutter and close. He breathed deeply and tried to press Starsky even closer.

"Starsky, I want--"

"Ah, Hutch...Hutch! No, baby, not tonight. That's for passion....ah, ah, yes!...not for comfort." He positioned his face so that he could match Hutch's open, waiting mouth with his own. Tongue tips touched and danced in almost perfect concert with the movement of their lower bodies. Hutch's fingernails left trails of overpowering sensation down Starsky's back while Starsky's hands clenched and flexed on Hutch's strong shoulders.

Hutch freed his lips and sighed, "Starsky...please..."

"Yes...what, lover...what do you need?" Starsky flung his head back and gulped down air as he felt a scream building from the deepest portion of his soul.

"You...always you...want to feel you everywhere..."

"Hold me, sexy... Right up next to you...let me do the work..."

"Yes...! God, Starsky!"

Arms wrapped around Starsky's back, Hutch leaned forward enough that Starsky could curl his legs behind him, and then Hutch closed the gap between their bodies, allowing himself to grow still under his lover's rapid thrusts against his cock. The motion was exquisite, the contact blindingly erotic, but the closeness nearly brought Hutch to tears as it erased memories, removed the ringing of angry voices and cutting accusations from his ears, and cleansed him of guilt.

In the background, the feminine voice breathed, "Oooh, I'm so happy to have you here again..."

"Faster, David!"

"Yeah, Hutch, like that! Again, say it again!"

The lightning rapidity of Starsky's thrusts matched his accuracy. Despite the speed, every movement brought their flesh into perfect contact. The combination ignited Hutch and his hips jerked beneath Starsky's weight. "David!"

"Aw, man, don't want it to end...."Starsky's left hand moved away from Hutch's shoulder and caressed the crown of fine gold, nudging Hutch's face forward to rest against his moving chest.

Hutch stroked his cheek against the soft dark hair and choked out, "I love you...."

A throaty growl of pleasure was followed closely by a series of hoarse shouts. Both faded slowly into panting, shallow breaths.

>>>>>>

"If we don't move now, we'll never make it to the bed," Starsky moaned.

"Ummm...bed? What bed? Not moving," Hutch sighed, nuzzling the skin directly under Starsky's earlobe. "I think you rubbed me into paralysis from the waist down."

"Think comfortable mattress, snuggling under covers, stretched out full body contact."

"Sounding better and better," Hutch admitted, seizing Starsky's mouth once more before he moved from under his lover's weight.

As soon as they were curled together beneath the white sheets, Hutch's fingers caressing Starsky's brow as the dark head used the smooth chest for a pillow, Hutch said softly, "Tell me how you knew I loved that song. I don't think I ever told anyone. I mean, it's sort of a--um--"

"Chick song?"

Hutch swatted his lover's shoulder with his free hand. "I was going to say 'departure from my usual tastes'. Now when I end up in therapy questioning my masculinity and proper gender role, I'll send you the bill."

"Fine by me," Starsky said, yawning.

"Tell me. That's really an oldie...goes way back to...when?"

"Nineteen sixty-three. 'Hello Stranger' hit number three on the charts that year. You sure you want me to ruin the mystery?"

"I'll lie awake the rest of my spare time trying to figure out how--"

"All right. Goes back to the Academy. Day before one of our toughest exams. I'd gone out to play basketball with a group of the guys, but you stayed behind studying. When I came back to the room from showering, I heard you singing. So, I stayed in the hall and listened. I knew if I walked in, you'd stop and get all embarrassed. I wanted to hear you. Hutch, even then I thought your singing that song was the damn sexiest thing ever to pass by my eardrums. Told myself I was just remembering the way the girl's voice used to get under my skin, but that's a load of bull. By then it had been six years since the song was popular on the radio. Jeez, Hutch, you ever think about how many lies we've told ourselves over the years?"

"No one's ever made love to me with music before, Starsky," Hutch whispered. "You had me ready on the second word. I just wish, I.... Damn!" Hutch turned his face but Starsky heard the catch in his breath and felt the trembling of the smooth muscles beneath his cheek.

"Baby, hey, talk to me, Hutch. What's this?"

"What that Jason Phillips said. I--I can't bear the thought of people believing I don't care...that I...." The break in Hutch's voice intensified. Starsky propped on elbows and leaned down to kiss the skin just beneath Hutch's lower lashes.

"Shh...Hutch. The people who matter know how you feel about me. We'll figure the rest out along the way. No one ever said this situation was gonna be a bed full of roses. Gotta be some thorns to balance everything cosmically, I guess. We've been given a miracle; we can't afford to care what other people think...as long as it doesn't endanger you. If this Phillips becomes a threat, we'll deal with him. Meantime, close those beautiful blues and rock me to sleep. Please?"

"You think you have to ask? Starsky, what you did for me tonight--"

"Glad you liked it, Hutch."

Chapter Four:
Apologies

"Is it just me or do you get a little hotter every morning?" Starsky asked seriously. Hutch's eyes popped open and then he scrambled back toward the brass rails of the headboard. Starsky's face had been just a fraction of an inch from his own, his lover's muscular body sprawled haphazardly over his, and Hutch had not registered the weight until the vocalized question brought him out of deep sleep.

"Damn," Hutch grinned, recovering. "I'm getting too old for surprises like that."

"Not even. You'll never get old. You're like the guy in that story you read me...who was he again?"

"Cupid, Starsky. Not the little naked baby with the arrows, but the son of Venus. The God of Love."

"Yeah, and his lady's name was--"

"Psyche. The story is about the merging of the heart and soul after overcoming powerful obstacles: love and the mind joined together eternally." Hutch took hold of Starsky's shoulders and guided him up into a gentle kiss. Starsky moaned softly and caressed Hutch's cheeks until they pulled apart.

"Right." Starsky smiled at Hutch's love-softened expression. "Anyway, I imagine that Cupid dude would have looked just like you. All long, lean, and golden...perfect features, turquoise eyes, smile that could make a volcano seem cold..."

"You must have left half your brain and three-quarters of your vision up in Paradise, Starsk. And what have you been sniffing, anyway? Since when does David Starsky talk like that?"

"Guess marriage brings it out of me. Always had a sneaking suspicion I'd be a sappy mate. Too much for you?"

Hutch laughed and cradled Starsky's upper body, flipping them over so he could stare down into the deep blue eyes that roamed his face like a pilgrim at a shrine. "Just because you're blind doesn't mean I can't take advantage of the situation," Hutch said, lowering his face with each word until his lips hovered a hair's breadth above Starsky's. "Too bad I've got to be at work in about five minutes." He pulled away, eyes teasing. Starsky howled.

"I don't think so, torturer. Bring those lips back down here!"

"Come and get 'em."

"Best damn idea I've heard all morning!" Starsky surged upward, toppled Hutch over on the bed, and seized his good morning kiss. "Now you can go shower, Mr. Hardworking Cop."

"Now I need a cold one, thanks to you."

Starsky grinned, watching his best friend trudge out of the bedroom. "Just because you're insatiable doesn't mean I can't take advantage of the situation."

>>>>>>>

"Just a simple 'I'm sorry' oughta do the trick, Hutch, at least for now. Saunders isn't the kinda guy to expect you to dig ditches to make it up to him." Starsky turned in the seat and catalogued the signs of his partner's recovery from the emotional blows he endured at the crime scene. Resplendent in soft beige cords, a pale green shirt and his light tan leather jacket, Hutch had combed his hair shining and his face was minus several worry lines, his brow almost smooth.

"Yeah, right. Maybe he's not usually, but last night probably changed his mind. I'll bet you he gives me the cold shoulder all morning."

Starsky rubbed his hands together and brushed his knuckles across his bright red T-shirt, pouncing on the opportunity. "A bet, huh? I'm liking this. What do you bet?"

Hutch grinned evilly. "If I'm right, you have to walk around naked all day tomorrow."

"Even on duty?" Starsky smiled.

"You're invisible, Starsk."

"Not to you, I'm not. You're asking me to be a willing distraction while you're on the streets?"

"All right, all right. God, that protective instinct of yours is over-developed. Hmm... if I'm right, you have to tag along to that poetry reading a few days from now. If I'm not too mired down in this case to go."

"Oh, man. That meditative poetry thing? Jeez, what's got you into all this poetry stuff anyway?"

"Are you kidding me? I've been given my own personal angel and you ask me why I'm feeling poetic? Now come on, is it a bet or not? I can't sit here in the station parking lot all morning waiting for you to shake hands on it."

"Fine. Okay. But if I'm right...." Starsky leaned over, grabbed Hutch's shoulder and pulled him close so he could whisper in Hutch's ear. Hutch's eyes widened and mouth dropped open simultaneously. "Yeah, I'll shake hands on any bet that can make you look like that," Starsky offered his hand and Hutch just stared at it like an object from outer space. "It's my hand, Hutch. You take it in yours and move them up and down."

Hutch snapped out of shock and shook the hand waiting for him. "L-let's--um--let's go."

"After you."

"No," Hutch said, nodding at Starsky's faded, painted-on jeans. "After you."

The first thing Hutch noticed when he entered the squad room was a paper plate containing a bran muffin and peeled, separated orange pieces beside a glass of milk on his side of the table. A note in front of the plate read simply, "Hutchinson."

Starsky flexed his hands in a victorious, stretching motion. "Um hum. This is looking good. Real good." He laughed at the red tinge that started on Hutch's neck and spread to his cheeks.

A few minutes later, Saunders walked in and made a beeline for the coffee maker. He turned around and looked at the officers in the room, holding up the plastic coffee percolator. "Oh, this is funny, guys! Really funny, thanks!"

"Supply was getting on our cases, Saunders. Between you and Hutch--"

"Thanks, Hanson. Duly noted. I'll try not to damage this plastic miracle. Hope to hell it makes better coffee." Saunders poured himself a mug and then swiveled, regarding his partner thoughtfully.

"Morning, Hutchinson."

Starsky nudged Hutch. "I believe your partner's talking to you, buddy."

"What's this?" Hutch asked, pointing at the plate and glass.

"Food. Humans need to consume it at least twice a day. You seem to have forgotten how."

"You put it here. Why?"

"Did you eat breakfast this morning?" Saunders folded his arms and lifted his right hand to sip at his coffee.

"No."

"Now you will." Saunders smiled and sat down at his desk, fishing through a stack of files.

Hutch sat down and poked at the bran muffin. "Saunders, about--"

"Don't say it," Saunders interrupted without looking up from the files.

"Say what?"

"What you're going to say. You were mauled by a sadist hiding behind a badge and medical leave. You had to have an outlet. Besides, I know you didn't mean it."

"Oh, yeah? And just how do you know that?" Hutch valiantly ignored Starsky's developing case of snickers.

Saunders looked up at Hutch. "Because you're not schizophrenic, Hutchinson. You wouldn't pat me on the back at Huggy's, say I'm your partner, and then seriously tell me I'm just cannon fodder all in the space of what, six hours or so? Now can we get to work on this case?"

"I think this is the best bet I've won yet," Starsky laughed, perching on the table. "Can't wait for you to pay up." Hutch inhaled his bite of muffin and coughed violently.

Saunders frowned. "I wanted you to eat breakfast, Hutchinson. Not choke on it."

"Oh, shut up," Hutch sputtered, his tone completely good-natured. Starsky looked serene.

"Now, here's what we got so far. I managed to catch up with Catherine Morehead and she confirmed Frederic's story. Paul Barnett is in serious condition on the telemetry floor at Lincoln and Frederic has been all but surgically attached to the hospital bed. Impossible for him to have been out of her sight long enough to get across town, do the deed, and get back. He didn't leave the hospital to meet with Alicia until after she would already have been dead, according to the prelim ME's report."

Hutch sighed audibly. "Thanks for small favors. I really didn't want him to be the fly in the ointment."

"Yeah," Saunders agreed. "He's a nice guy. Got a chip on his shoulder that would weigh down a bodybuilder, but I guess that's understandable. In any case, the lab boys have narrowed the instrument used to beat her legs down to lead piping or a large hammer. Tiny metal shavings found in the tissue. They're working over the roses at the moment."

"The roses are important," Hutch agreed. "A calling card. I say we tackle that backstage coordinator Calvin first since he no longer has active ties to Bay City Ballet."

"Good call," Starsky said. "Guy like that probably has a mental storehouse of dance company gossip."

Saunders put his mug down. "What about interviewing the other dancers and company personnel? I'd think that would be first priority."

Hutch scratched the bridge of his nose and leaned over the table to reach for the preliminary post-mortem report. "We're going to walk softly on that front. I have a feeling we may be going under in this one."

"Going under?" Saunders asked, blinking.

Starsky gaped at him. "Oh, no. Tell me I'm not hearing this."

Hutch closed the file after a quick glance. "Undercover, Saunders. What? You--you've never been under?"

Saunders shook his head, a slight frown of discomfort turning down the corners of his mouth. "No--No, the cases M-Mark and I handled in Sacramento after we made detective never required--" He pushed back in his chair and lifted his chin. "I'm sure I can learn."

"I'm sure you can," Hutch said, smiling, "and with me you will. Starsky and I started from scratch, too."

"Get over yourself, Hutch. I tutored you. Me, I was born with undercover talent." He yelped as Hutch's half-full milk glass seemed to tip over on its own accord. Indignant, he tapped Hutch's head. "Hah, hah, smart ass. Can't stain these jeans."

Hutch mumbled an excuse about early morning clumsiness for Saunders' benefit and cleaned up the small milk spill with his handkerchief. "So, let's go see what this Calvin has to say about bright yellow roses and weird notes. Ten to one Alicia Holden brought the notes to Calvin's attention, so he should remember." He picked up the phone receiver. "I'm going to track down a number and see if anyone's over at the theater or can give us Calvin's home address."

"Need to check on the psych facilities, too," Starsky said half-a-second before Saunders jerked a phone over from the farther down the table and dialed a number. "I'll see about any recent psych releases with similar MO's," Saunders said.

Starsky beamed. "Hey, Hutch, I wonder if I'm developing a psychic thingy with this guy."

Taking advantage of Saunders' distraction, Hutch rolled his eyes.

>>>>>>

What had been an elegant, cream brick building with nineteenth-century accents and a sign that proclaimed in fancy cursive script, "Chez Giselle" now assaulted the eyes with a mixture of purple, red, and orange paint and a neon sign announcing "Bay City West Workshop Productions."

Hutch and Saunders shared a laugh while Starsky scanned the neighboring businesses and mused, "Ritzy area for such an outlandish paint job. Wonder what the neighbors have had to say."

"I want to know how a backstage gopher managed to set himself up in a business like this," Saunders said. "You're sure that office manager meant outright ownership?"

"Yep," Hutch replied, removing his shades and squinting at the neon sign. "Calvin is the Big Enchilada. He bought both the restaurant and the loft apartment above, and designed the additions he made to the building. No wonder he was able to turn it into a psychedelic eyesore."

The lobby of the theater boasted equally exotic décor. Starsky grinned. "You get the feeling Huggy and Calvin would be fast friends if we introduced 'em?"

To their left, the door marked 'business office' swung open and a tiny female with spiked blonde hair and dangling earrings that almost touched her shoulder blades appeared. Her clothes were as unusual as her jewelry: a thin purple silk blouse fell almost to the hem of her suede skirt, but that hem was a good ten inches above her knee. Despite her boots' spiked heels she still fell short of the average mid-five-foot mark.

"You're the detectives?"Her voice was clear, bell-like.

Hutch nodded, "Yes. Ken Hutchinson and Ray Saunders. You're Ms. Hampton? I spoke with you on the phone."

"Yes. Call me Ophelia. Nice to meet you both," she answered warmly, her smile lingering on Saunders. At their mutually amused expressions, she giggled. "No, it's not just a stage name. My mother is a 'Hamlet' freak. What can I say?" She ran her eyes over Saunders once more. "Have you ever been asked to do Hamlet? You have such a young Olivier quality about you."

Saunders' face matched the crimson carpeting. "High school. Senior year."

Starsky burst out laughing. "Did I not call it, Hutch? First night we met him. Velvet cape and all, what you wanna bet?"

Ophelia's smile brightened. "I'm sure you brought down the house." She gestured at the business office. "Come through here and I'll take you up to see Calvin."

When she turned, Hutch nudged Saunders and whispered, "Powerful first impression, Hamlet, Prince of Danes. Did you bring down the house?" Saunders flashed him a look that threatened bodily harm. Hutch quickly swallowed his laugh.

Starsky smiled. "Touchy subject. Guess you better not ask if his mom took pictures."

Their teasing faded when they reached the door to Calvin's loft apartment and Ophelia knocked repeatedly with no results. Saunders took his turn rapping on the door and announcing their official status. Ophelia shrugged, eyes troubled. "I don't understand. He was up here at least two hours ago. I was downstairs working on some promotion ideas for the new play and called up with a question."

"How many exits from the loft?" Saunders asked.

"He always comes and goes using those stairs we did. There's a fire escape out his spare bedroom's window. That's all."

"Knock the door down, Hutch," Starsky said, face pained and backing away from the door. "Trust me."

Hutch forced down a shudder at the tone of his lover's voice. "Stand back, Ophelia."

Saunders assumed the back-up position, gun drawn and safety off. Hutch tested the integrity of the lock and then gave the door a swift, hearty kick. The door yielded with the violent sound of protesting wood and slammed against the interior wall. The sight that greeted them sent Ophelia into a storm of hysterics. She stood, trembling in the open door way, mouth open wide in a continuous scream until Saunders pulled her off to the side and put his arms around her, shielding her face.

Starsky groaned, "Well, you had this one pegged, Hutch: serial killer all the way. Some sicko has a thing for black roses and beating legs and he's not just partial to dancers either. Damn!"

Chapter Five:
To be or not to be...normal?

Ophelia clung to Saunders like a child newly wakened from a nightmare and refused to budge from her white knuckled grip on the sleeves of his denim jacket. A female officer attempted to coax her away for a cup of coffee and a blanket to ease her shivering, but Ophelia promptly burst into uncontrollable screaming. Finally, Saunders graciously admitted defeat with an apologetic smile at Hutch and walked back down to the business office with Ophelia in tow. "We may never see him again," Starsky said with a wry smile at Hutch. "That girl has some weird kind of power, besides having been scared out of her mind."

"What have we got, Hutch? And where is Saunders?"

Both Hutch and Starsky whirled at the deep voice. "Captain? You just get here?" Hutch nodded at the crime team officers waiting to remove the body.

Captain Dobey removed his hat as the officer wheeled the body past his stance just beyond the doorway. He cleared his throat and turned back to Hutch. "Yes. When I get word of a second identical murder in less than twelve hours, I want to touch base. I repeat, where is Saunders?"

Hutch tried to maintain a businesslike tone and neutral expression. "He's looking after the young lady who was with us when we discovered the body. Apparently, she was here in the building when the murder occurred and is understandably in shock."

Dobey looked meaningfully at Officer Leslie Randall, dismissed her with a nod and a smile, and then sighed, waving a hand in the air at Hutch. "I ought to know anyone paired with you would adopt your sense of doing everything outside of SOP."

"Hey!" Starsky objected. "Gimme a little credit, Cap'n. Hutch got that from me!"

Hutch managed to control the urge to smirk. "I learned from the best, Cap'n. Got to carry on the tradition."

Profoundly moved, Starsky rose onto the balls of his feet and pressed his lips against the nape of Hutch's neck. "Aw, babe, if we were alone...."

Dobey frowned but his face changed as realization brought an almost reverent smile to his paternal features. "Er, yes, well... I'm not here to make small talk, Hutchinson. What's the run-down?"

Hutch rubbed a hand over his eyes and gestured at the bloodstain on the floor. "Same MO. Small blade weapon, straight through the heart. Legs horribly beaten. Again, post-mortem. I don't know why exactly, but I expected someone older. Calvin Wesson was thirty-three. We can place the death between the hours of six and eight because Ophelia consulted with him on the phone about business matters around six a.m. We found the body at ten past eight. Coroner tentatively suggests time of death closer to six than eight. That's what we're working with so far. Looks like the killer gained access by the fire escape outside the victim's spare bedroom window. The window's broken and the floor shows patches of mud corresponding to-- " Hutch stopped. "Oh, just come this way, Cap'n, easier to show you."

They walked into the room Hutch indicated. Although ostensibly a spare bedroom, the room itself more closely resembled a library. A single bed hid in the corner as if uncertain of its welcome amid the bookshelves, stacks of books on the floor, and two large tables boasting equally large stacks of literature. A worn leather wing chair occupied another corner, draped in an elegant, obviously handcrafted afghan. Hutch stepped carefully around the broken glass and noticed that Starsky had not joined them.

Shrugging slightly, he turned to the captain and motioned for him to look out the window.

"See, down below? Someone broke up a chunk of asphalt and cultivated a small flower garden. Odd place directly beneath the fire escape, but it's a lucky break for us. We've got fresh footprints closely matching a common type of work boot. If they belong to the killer, he's not concerned about leaving forensic evidence. Not that we found much in the Holden apartment, but hey, even Libbie Froman made a mistake we could capitalize on."

Dobey nodded and stepped back from the window. He glanced around the room, eyes lingering on the stacks of books, and mannerisms suggesting uneasiness. Hutch was no stranger to his captain's signals. He leaned against the wall beside the broken window and said softly, "Easiest thing, Captain, is just to spit it all out in a rush."

Dobey looked over his shoulder, hands toying with the rim of his hat. "Pritchen's catching heat for shipping this case out of precinct, Hutch."

"I see." Hutch felt a rush of gratitude for once that Starsky wasn't privy to one of his conversations and hoped his lover's heightened senses were sufficiently occupied elsewhere to prevent eavesdropping.

"So, we'd like to put this case to bed as quickly as possible."

Hutch stared at the floor and then folded his arms across his chest, looking up and directly into Dobey's eyes, "Why?"

"Why what, Hutchinson! Always a good idea to put these kind of cases--"

"Why is Pritchen catching heat?" Hutch interrupted.

"Oh, you know," Dobey waved his hat around, "department politics. Bunch of nonsense, but--"

"Why?" Hutch repeated, eyes holding Dobey's gaze relentlessly. The captain took a deep breath.

"Did you really think you'd keep last night's incident from me, Hutch?"

Hutch sighed. "Saunders tell you?"

"Of course Saunders didn't tell me!" Dobey growled. "Haven't you learned yet that boy's loyalty is squarely in your back pocket? I swear sometimes I think--" He bit his lip hard and turned his face.

"What?"

Dobey's shoulders flexed as the captain swallowed hard. "Sometimes I think Starsky hand-picked him. Sorry, Hutch."

Hutch's jaw tightened and his throat felt tight. "Don't be sorry. It's a nice thought. So you know about Phillips. So what?"

Dobey walked over to his lead detective and placed a hand on Hutch's shoulder. The gesture was so rare in its sentimentalism that Hutch flinched. "I want you to know, Hutch, the people who count--our people at Metro--don't think that way. They're proud. They know Starsky would've wanted you out there, making a difference. But there are some who feel... Oh, hell, Hutch, it's no secret how close you and Starsky were--"

Hutch raised an expressive eyebrow and Dobey's discomfort level climbed a notch. "Okay, so they don't know what I do, but still, your partnership was legendary. That shouldn't come as a surprise to you. Have you...have you even thought about talking to someone?"

"You mean the department shrink?"

"Hell, anybody, Hutch. Someone with training would be good, but--"

Hutch moved away from the friendly hand on his shoulder and turned his back. "I will not be forced into counseling, Captain. No shrink in the world can change the fact that Starsky was gunned down in that parking lot."

Dobey sighed, "See, that's what I mean, Hutch. Do you hear yourself? In my experience, most people in your position would say, 'no one can bring him back'. That's the normal response. You talk sometimes as if... I'm sorry. Much as I care about my men and their ability to do the job and do it safely, this isn't my place. Not when you and Starsky were—Hutch, all I'm saying is it might look better if you--"

"If I what?" Hutch asked harshly, swinging back around, face flushed in anger. "If I walked the streets crying? If I broke down in the middle of the squad room? If I lost my cool in a firefight and got Saunders killed? Would that make me 'normal'? I am not going to let some academic with an axe to grind play in my head and open a can of worms just for appearances' sake when I need to be coping and working and... do you understand, Captain?"

Dobey nodded, eyes pained. "Loud and clear, Hutch. You're right. You're doing the job. Long as you keep doing your job, I won't try to force your hand. Just help me close the book on this one and get Pritchen out of hot water and off my back, okay?"

"I'll do my best, Cap'n."

"All I can ask, Hutch."

He left the room and after a moment Hutch heard the door to the apartment slam shut. Hutch leaned back against the wall and concentrated on the tops of his boots until he heard a voice that wrapped him in warmth.

"Feel like company?"

Hutch glanced up and Starsky smiled. "Coast is clear, Hutch. No one but us."

Hutch sighed, and whispered, "I know it's not professional, but if we're really alone, will you--"

Starsky closed the distance between them in two strides. Resting a hand on each side of Hutch's mouth, he breathed, "Will I what?"

"Kiss me. Please?"

"My pleasure," Starsky said and met the parted lips with his own, his hands moving to the back of Hutch's neck and his waist, pulling him into a constrictive hold that forced a grunt from the blond. When he relinquished the mouth that tried to hold him captive, Starsky laughed, "Now I've had breakfast, too. Have to say that was pretty good for a bran muffin." The laughter fell victim to a serious expression. "I love you, Hutch. So much."

Hutch sucked in his breath. "God, it does me good to hear you say that."

Starsky brushed two fingertips down Hutch's nose and traced his lips. "I don't say it enough, do I?"

"I didn't say that--"

"I love you. I love you. Nothing anybody thinks or says can change that, Hutch."

Hutch frowned. "You heard."

"I heard. We're gonna handle it together, babe. All things, always, together."

"If I live to be a thousand years old, I'll never deserve you. You know that, don't you?"

Starsky gave his partner's shoulder a shove. "Don't ever let me hear you say that again, Hutch! I'm not someone you have to worship. We're equals. Always were. That's what makes us work."

Hutch acknowledged Starsky's wisdom with a nod and then rubbed his neck, already lonely for Starsky's hand. "Speaking of work, we've got to rescue Saunders from Ophelia's hysterics and get cracking on this case."

"Got something to show you, Hutch. I was snooping around during your chat with Dobey."

"Lead the way, Detective." Hutch grinned, tucking a wayward curl behind Starsky's ear as a parting caress.

They ended up in the main bedroom. Starsky pulled out the three bottom drawers of the antique mirrored dresser. Hutch whistled. "Well, well. I'd say Calvin had a frequent female visitor."

"Not just any female visitor," Starsky said, lifting one of the luxuriant pieces of lingerie and holding it up for Hutch's inspection. The inside tag was monogrammed with an intertwined A and H. "I haven't seen any other signs of a female presence. No letters, journals, or pictures, but then I didn't have much time to go through the place."

"That monogram might not mean what we think, Starsky."

"No kidding, but since when have we ever put much stock in coincidences?"

"Coincidence is just a connection we haven't figured out yet," Hutch replied, smiling.

"Right. Let's see if Ophelia will spare us Saunders."

>>>>>>

Ophelia sat as close to Saunders as physically possible on a leather sofa in the business office. Her head against his arm, she clutched and 'washed' her hands by turn. The paleness of her face heightened the effect of the blue tinge to her lips. Starsky shook his head at her obvious state of mind and Hutch propped against the desk so he could face Ophelia. He managed to convey an understanding smile to Saunders, who nodded and tightened his arm around Ophelia's shoulders.

"Do you feel up to answering some questions now, Ophelia?" Saunders asked in a voice that called to mind feathers and goose down. Ophelia shuddered and nodded jerkily.

"G-guess I have to, d-don't I? Th-thanks for l-letting me wait this long."

"No problem. Is it all right if Detective Hutchinson asks you questions?"

"Y-yes." She rearranged the blanket over her legs and tried to burrow even closer against Saunders.

Starsky sighed. "How can we leave her alone like this? Damn, she gets any closer and Bev'll have to surgically separate them."

Hutch concealed a burst of laughter in a cough, looked away for a minute and composed himself. "First things first. Strictly a routine question, but I have to ask for the sake of our report. We know you were here in the building this morning. Can you tell us where you were last night between eleven p.m. and midnight?"

Ophelia's eyes flashed rapidly between Saunders and Hutch. She reminded Hutch of a frightened squirrel. He half expected her to tuck her hands under her chin and scamper from the room. "Why...I—I don't understand. Wh-what d-do you think I—did?"

"No," Hutch said firmly. "No, we're not accusing you of anything, Ophelia. We have to be able to show on paper why we've eliminated you from the investigation as a suspect. A dancer was killed last night in precisely the same manner as Calvin. We believe the murders are connected and the work of one person. If we can demonstrate that you were not at both crime scenes...you understand?"

"I—Yes. Yes, I do. I—I live with my aunt. She's elderly, a spinster, and very set in her ways. She likes for me to keep her schedule when I can. Between eleven and midnight last night we listened to this classical music program on the radio and played cards. My mother called from Texas to talk. Aunt Em was upset that she i-interrupted o-our game. I spoke to her for about fifteen minutes...that would have been about 11:30. Good enough?"

"Certainly. Now, I'll need to ask you questions about Calvin."

Ophelia's face crumpled. She turned her head and sobbed quietly against Saunders' sleeve. He shot Hutch a frantic glance, seeking guidance, and received a shrug in answer.

"You two were very close?" Saunders asked.

Ophelia nodded. "Yes. V-very close friends. Besides my aunt, he was my family away from home. He h-helped me adjust to life in a big city. I'm f-from a small town."

"Do you know of anyone who disliked Calvin? Did he ever mention receiving threatening mail, phone calls, or having trouble with a particular person?" Hutch took the shake of Ophelia's head as a reply and continued, "We know he left the Bay City Ballet Company to form this theater. Do you know the story behind his leaving? Did he leave by choice? Was he having problems with the company?"

Ophelia's head shot up. "No! Nothing like that. No, he didn't like the atmosphere over there. I don't know how much you know about a dance company, but you could film an entire season of a soap opera based on just a week at BCBC. But he wasn't terminated. He would have stayed if his grandfather hadn't died and left him enough money to buy this place and start the theater. He was—was so happy h-here."

"What about family, close friends? What can you tell us about them?"

"His parents live in Connecticut. He's an only child and his closest friends are involved with the theater. Some of them will be--" Ophelia groaned and buried her face in her hands. "We have a rehearsal scheduled for eleven this morning," she said through her spread fingers.

"Did he ever mention Alicia Holden?" Saunders asked.

Ophelia lifted overflowing eyes and shuddered again. Suddenly, she jumped to her feet. "Dancer killed! You—you never said-- Don't tell me—Alicia?"

"Yes," Hutch answered, surprised at the violence of Ophelia's reaction. The girl swayed on her feet and Saunders grasped her arm just as she buckled. He guided her back onto the sofa and wrapped her in the blanket.

"I guess—I guess there's no harm in telling you now. Oh, God, Alicia!"

"Wouldn't you say this confirms our suspicions about the lingerie, Hutch?" Starsky piped up, perching on the desk at Hutch's side. Hutch tilted his head as acknowledgement and then focused on Ophelia.

"They were in a relationship?" Hutch asked. Ophelia brushed a hand under her eyes.

"You could say that. Alicia was his wife."

Starsky shifted so quickly that he fell off the desk. Hutch had to restrain himself from extending a helping hand to lift his lover from the floor. Starsky righted himself, flushed at his mishap, and said, "You getting that déjà vu all over again feeling?"

Saunders' face spoke volumes. "Are you sure, Ophelia?"

"Yes; they were married three years ago."

Chapter Six:
A Different Kind of Closet

"How many people knew about the marriage?" Saunders asked. Hutch watched Ophelia's face closely. She smiled through her tears.

"I was the only person other than the magistrate who performed the civil ceremony and their witness. It was probably the Bay City cultural community's best kept secret. I never told a soul."

"You've known from the beginning?" Hutch clarified. Ophelia shook her head sadly.

"Alicia insisted on absolute secrecy, but one night Calvin just broke down. I think he despaired of ever being able to publicize their relationship, and he got fall-down drunk while Alicia was at a special rehearsal. He spilled the beans then. Apologized repeatedly and said he should have told me from the start, that I should have been at the little ceremony. 'You should have been there, holding a bouquet of flowers', he said."

"I'm starting to wonder how well kept this secret actually is," Starsky muttered. "Considerin' both of 'em are dead."

"I'm starting to wonder if this secret hasn't already leaked," Saunders said quietly. "Could be the connection behind the murders."

Hutch jerked as though electricity had been applied to his scalp. Starsky slapped his own thigh and said, awed, "This is too weird."

Hutch mentally shook himself and redirected his thoughts to the case. Saunders regarded him with an unreadable expression. "Ophelia, can you tell us why Alicia demanded the cloak-and-dagger approach to her marriage?"

Ophelia exhaled slowly and looked at Saunders. She seemed to visually soak up strength from his profile and then she turned her face to Hutch. "I—I like-- liked Alicia, don't get me w-wrong. I saw how happy she made Calvin. But she cared more about her dancing than she did about him, and that's the plain truth. You have to understand BCBC's director. Afton Edwards acts more like a relic from the early days of the Bolshoi in Russia than a transplant from the UK. He's old-fashioned and an absolute tyrant. His star ballerina cannot have any ties, any hold on her that might threaten her talent, her performance, or her devotion to her art. This may sound ridiculous to you, and I'm sure plenty of dancers in other companies are happily, openly married...but not at BCBC. If Alicia had announced her marital status, she'd probably have been demoted and another dancer put in her place. That would have destroyed her and Calvin knew it."

"So they lived in a marital closet," Saunders summed up neatly.

"We know something about that, don't we, babe?" The combination of sympathy and wistfulness in Starsky's eyes made Hutch's heart ache. He realized with a start that he'd instinctively placed a hand over the left side of his chest. He dropped it hurriedly but Saunders was oblivious, eyes focused on Ophelia.

"Yes. They alternated their time between apartments, but plenty of nights they stayed apart for one reason or another. It was b-breaking C-Calvin's heart slowly, but he loved her too much to push her into any kind of acknowledgement."

"Do you know Frederic Talbot?" Hutch asked.

Ophelia's eyes registered shock at the sudden change in subject. "Alicia's best friend? Sure. Super guy. He's an incredible dancer. Why do you ask?"

"He considers himself Alicia's 'next of kin' and yet he knew nothing about the marriage. Are you saying that was Alicia's choice, too?" Saunders' brow wrinkled but Hutch couldn't decide if the expression was one of distaste or confusion. Ophelia clutched her hands again.

"Yes, Alicia's choice. Frederic and Calvin got along like two thieves. He's another person Calvin really wanted to let in the inner circle. He would have had him as best man, I think, but Frederic was Alicia's friend first and foremost, so Calvin didn't feel it was his place to break the news and Alicia point blank refused. I don't think Frederic even suspected that they were romantically involved. That's how careful they were. Plus, Calvin almost lost Alicia about six months ago when he slipped and told her that I knew about them. Terrible argument. You'd be surprised what information the cultural communities across the world manage to pass between them when the CIA has difficulty getting news out of the Soviet Union. Word filtered to us that their recently married premier dancer was forced to fight for her position against an up-and-coming and unattached younger rival, even though her husband's a young Politburo official! The perfect Party match. That threw Alicia into a tailspin. She thought if someone as high on the pedestal as Anna Akhanatova could nearly lose her place in a dance company... I think she came close to leaving Calvin that night. So, he stopped pressing the issue of telling anyone else--" Ophelia fell silent as Hutch pushed away from the desk, turned his back on the sofa, and stood, rigid, blinking rapidly at the file cabinet against the opposite wall.

"Hutchinson?" Saunders' voice rose with concern, but it didn't hold a candle to Starsky, who faced Hutch's back with a blank stare that communicated more worry than Ophelia's pale skin and quaking hands.

Hutch's words emerged clipped and loud when he asked, "Did Calvin ever mention Alicia's receiving bouquets of yellow roses with unusual notes? This would have been a couple of years ago according to Frederic."

Ophelia's shivering returned full force and Saunders took charge of the blanket. Starsky stepped back quickly at the brilliance of Ophelia's eyes when she turned a smile of gratitude on the young, solicitous detective. Starsky shoved his hands in his pockets, rolled his shoulders as if shedding burdens, and then with a pained glance at Hutch, left the room. Hutch seemed to sense the departure, because he whirled around and stared at the door.

"Hutchinson, are you all right?" Saunders demanded.

"I'm fine, Saunders." Hutch tore his eyes away from the doorway. "The roses, Ophelia? Ring any bells?"

Ophelia placed her hand on Saunders' wrist, closed her eyes, and then rose, approaching the desk. She knelt, withdrew a silken cord necklace from beneath the neckline of her blouse, and pulled it over her head. A tiny key dangled from the cord and she used it to open the last drawer in the desk's side cabinet, closest to the floor. After a minute of rummaging, she held up a piece of faded pink stationery. Saunders took the note and read aloud,

"Yellow, faded gold. Only a shadow of the bright future we two might share. Come to me, my poetess on the wings of music and air. I will show you a paradise beyond your most cherished fantasies. You will dance to my tune and I will make you immortal."

"Fairly innocuous, really," Saunders said. "The writing of a secret admirer more than a dangerous stalker at first glance. I don't like the reference to immortality, though. Taken a different way--"

Ophelia shuddered. "Too bad Detective...what was his name?" She tapped her forehead with one dainty finger and snapped her fingers. "Phillips! Too bad he didn't have the intelligence to read between the lines two years ago when Calvin took the second note, identical to that one, to the police. Alicia refused to deal with the situation but Calvin put his foot down on the issue of her safety. Still, he didn't tell her he planned to consult with the authorities. He suspected they would want to interview her and she could find out then. How wrong he was! Phillips treated the whole situation like a waste of his time, and since Calvin couldn't kick up a fuss and explain just why he was so concerned—that the dancer involved was his wife, for God's sake—nothing was ever done. Alicia burned the fourth note with a match in her dressing room right after the bouquet arrived. That was the last she received." Ophelia's legs appeared to fold beneath her and she assumed a yoga-like position on the floor, a remarkable feat in her skirt. "Are you suggesting that those...those bouquets and letters might have something to do with—with— But that was two years ago!"

"We can't rule out any possibility, Ophelia. You'd be amazed how patiently stalkers—especially those with homicidal tendencies—can plan their contact with the intended victim or victims," Hutch said, allowing his gaze to linger again on the doorway. Saunders stood and walked to the door, peeked out, and then turned around, eyes narrowed.

"Ophelia, one last question and then we're done. Did Calvin have a theory about the notes? Any idea as to their origin or sender?"

Ophelia nodded at Hutch. "He thought someone inside the company was responsible. That's all he ever said. 'This is an inside job, little one, I'd bet my life on it—'" Ophelia choked up and tilted her chin downward, the dangling earrings sounding like chimes as they clinked against her shoulders.

"So, let me clarify something, here," Saunders said. "You knew Calvin before he opened this theater?"

Ophelia's gaze flickered to the opposite wall and her shoulders tensed. "Yes; I—I was a-- I worked in the administrative section of the BCBC. When he left to buy this place, I followed him to handle the business side of things. He'd become family to me by then...I'd have followed him anywhere."

Hutch watched silently as Saunders left the sofa, took gentle hold of Ophelia's arms and lifted her onto her feet. "May we take you home to your aunt?"

Ophelia swayed in his grasp and then steadied herself, cataloging each feature on his face with an intense stare before she pressed her thumb against his forehead, his left cheek, and finally his chin. "You—you have a green halo," she laughed. She pulled away from his hold on her other arm and approached Hutch, who wanted nothing more than to move out of her path but could not get his legs and brain to communicate in the same language. "You do, too...greenish yellow...that's weird...." She performed the same ritual on Hutch's face and promptly fell to the floor.

>>>>>

"I still don't like shipping her away in a taxi," Saunders said ten minutes later as they stood in the blinding sunshine, watching the cab disappear around the corner. Hutch barely heard the words because his soul sang at the sight of Starsky leaning against Saunders' car. He wanted desperately to haul Starsky into an empty room and demand explanations for his sudden departure, but he satisfied himself with giving Starsky a quick look filled with the intensity of his feelings. Starsky smiled, tapped a fist against his heart, nodded at Hutch, and then stepped through the door into the backseat. Hutch felt inexplicably soothed by warmth far greater than the California sun.

"Her aunt doesn't exactly sound like the kind of person to take care of a shocked, grieving girl or see that she gets medical attention," Saunders continued, juggling his car keys nervously. "Are you even listening to me, Hutchinson?"

Hutch's stride faltered at the weight of Saunders' hand on his arm. "Yes, I heard you, but there's not much we can do, Saunders. She wants to stand on her own two feet and she refused to let us take her to the ER. She fainted, but that's no surprise after the shock and stress of this morning. Not to mention that little sideshow she delivered before she turned into dead weight."

"Sideshow!" Saunders frowned. "God, listen to yourself, Hutchinson. What did Ophelia do to get under your skin?" He walked around the car and descended into the driver's seat, slamming the door behind him. Hutch sighed and got in the car.

"I don't know, but she certainly wove a spell around you, pal."

"Uh, Hutch, if antagonizing Saunders is a new kind of foreplay for you, could you at least wait until closer to the end of a shift so I can take advantage of it?"

Hutch had to squelch both a laugh and shiver at the tantalizingly seductive humor but he couldn't restrain the grin intended for the car's third occupant. Saunders took note of the quirky smile and smacked the steering wheel with his hand.

"I don't have a clue what the hell you mean by a spell, Hutchinson, but I'm not the one suddenly transfixed by doors and file cabinets and acting like a character from a B-quality monster movie--"

Hutch held up two fingers less than an inch apart. "Saunders, I'm this close to kicking your ass out of this car and making you walk back to Metro."

"This is my car, Hutchinson."

"Minor point, Saunders. I'm the senior partner in this team. What I say goes."

"Oh, yeah? What Oracle descended from Mt. Olympus and told you that fairy tale?"

"If you two are through bickering like overgrown children, we do have a case to close, a serial killer on the loose--" Starsky's smirk echoed in his tone.

"And you just—" Hutch aimed his words at the backseat before he could stop himself.

Saunders heard the sentence fragment and caught the direction of Hutch's gaze. "Just what?" he asked, turning in the seat and folding his arms across his chest. "Talking to my backseat, now? You know what, Hutchinson? If you weren't such a sane, logical person...let's just say it's probably not a coincidence that Ophelia fainted after touching you."

"Right after she wore herself out flirting with the young Olivier. You turned comforting a grieving witness into a contact-sport."

"Flirting! C-contact sport!" Saunders sputtered. "If you breathe a word of that around Bev, I promise you I'll slip Ex-Lax in the next bran muffin I put on your desk."

"This is better than Abbot and Costello," Starsky teased and relaxed in the backseat. "Popcorn, anybody? I could use a root beer too, if you got one. Just take your time. The sicko's only murdered two people in seven hours. We can just sit here and put on a vaudeville show and see who ends up next on the dance card--"

"I believe you would, too," Hutch growled at Saunders, face flushing at his lover's ribbing as well as his new partner's threat.

"You just be damn straight on that, partner!" Saunders shot back. The words hung in the air for mere seconds before both detectives convulsed. Starsky's throaty laughter mingled perfectly with the guffaws in the front seat. Saunders wiped his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. "Jeez, now I know how Alicia felt when she told Frederic to shove something up his ass." He sobered quickly, flashing a hand out and patting Hutch's wrist. "Hutchinson, I'm sorry; that was out of line-- "

But Hutch just roared with laughter and waved a hand, dismissing Saunders' apology. "God, I needed that. I think if I'd stayed in that office a minute longer, I'd have lost my last shred of sanity."

"I feel terrible about Ophelia," Saunders said gravely, removing his hand from Hutch's wrist and starting the car. "All alone with no escape now from the fussy maiden aunt and...maybe Frederic will look after her, help her back onto her feet."

Hutch shifted so he could study Saunders' profile. Starsky kicked back and rested his head against his clasped hands on the seat, "I think somebody's still under the spell," he murmured. Hutch allowed himself a tiny nod in response and vocalized Starsky's comment, "She really got to you, didn't she, Saunders?"

Saunders pulled the car hastily into traffic without even a glance in his mirror. "Huh? Are you back on that, Hutchinson? I wasn't flirting with the girl, for God's sake. She was a mess. How do you think we'd have gotten any information from her at all if I hadn't--"

"Hey, hold on!" Hutch interrupted. "I'm not climbing down your throat. It's all right to care, Saunders. You think there haven't been cases, or victims, that got under my skin, too?"

"We've both got a list of those longer than Saunders' career case load," Starsky agreed; momentarily back on a park bench beside a girl wearing sunglasses to hide her sightless eyes.

"I don't know...." Saunders mumbled, a mask over his usually open features. He passed an antiquated, creeping Chevy with barely inches to spare and hugged the curb on the next right turn.

"Personally, I like the kid's new driving technique, but something tells me it's just temporary. Better lend him a shoulder, Hutch. He needs one. Something happened in that office. I felt—Oh, hell, no need to go into it now when you can't talk back. Just ask him why he's driving this Dodge like an Alpha Romeo on a race strip." Starsky leaned forward in the seat so he could rest a hand on Hutch's shoulder and observe Saunders' reactions.

"Saunders? You okay over there?" Hutch asked, twitching his shoulder against the welcome hand in the form of an unobtrusive caress. Starsky smiled.

Saunders nodded, but refused to make eye contact.

"Look, pal, I do have two functioning ears and I like to use them for more than fielding calls on the police radio."

"I'm fine, Hutchinson! I'm—I'm...hell, no, I'm not fine, all right! I feel like my soul's been stripped from my body, shaken and twisted, and put back in again. Dammit, just listen to me-- I don't talk like that!"

"Whoa, Saunders. Pull over."

"What?!" Both eyes left the road and the car swerved erratically.

Hutch winced and thought about grabbing the steering wheel. "Pull off the damn road, Saunders, before you run over a little old lady or do something equally irreversible. You're driving like we're on our way to a hostage crisis and we're not even showing lights and sirens." Hutch clutched the dashboard and wrestled memories of squealing Torino tires and an oncoming cement truck as Saunders practically hurled the car into a dead-end alley and slammed on brakes. After killing the engine, he rested back against the seat, inhaled in short bursts like a winded marathon runner, and let his head loll to the side.

Hutch frowned at the unsteady breathing. "We're in the middle of a murder investigation, Saunders. I need to know what has you in a state. What happened back at the theater?"

"I don't know!" Saunders shouted, staring out his window.

"More to Ophelia than a little, lost girl, huh?" Hutch asked.

"That lost little girl is well into her twenties or I'm Captain Kangaroo, Hutch."

"No! No, I-- " Saunders turned suddenly and stared at the backseat directly behind Hutch. He gripped his head, massaged his scalp, and turned the key in the ignition.

"Wait a minute," Hutch barked. "Who said we're ready to get this show on the road?"

Saunders withered him with a glare. "Hutchinson, just because I've inconveniently decided to lose my mind doesn't mean we can shove this case to the side. That comes first or I need to turn in my badge. Understood?"

"Slow down! What's this crap about turning in a badge? Saunders, don't make me shake some sense into you. You're not losing your mind. You're spooked! Come clean and tell me why. Maybe there's a perfectly sane explanation behind whatever's rattling around in your head doing this much of a number on you."

Saunders sighed wearily. "Sometimes, I think I hear this voice softly in the back recesses of my mind as if suddenly my conscience has its own personality—but it isn't me! Jesus, I'm gonna have Bev order a PET scan or something. Maybe I'm the one with adult-onset schizophrenia."

"Hutch, I ain't got a clue what's going on here, but distract him now! Get him back on the case, yell at him, hell, start a fist fight if you gotta—just get his brain off the subject of inner voices!"

Hutch wanted to grab Starsky's hand, slink away, and leave the whole situation behind. He felt trapped between a desire to probe Saunders for more information and fear of endangering Starsky's place on earth. On one side he caught a brief glimpse of utopia, but he couldn't ignore the jagged rocks beneath the cliff of losing Starsky for the remainder of his earthly life. He swallowed a groan, felt fingers playing gently with the hairline on his neck, and counted to ten in Spanish.

"Saunders, you've just started a new job in a different world than Sacramento. You endured a gut-load of misery in your old department. We busted our tails on the Froman case. You're probably tired and winding down from an overload of stress. Shrug it off, hang together until you're off duty, and then grab Bev and make her forget the world exists outside your bedroom. How's that for a plan?"

Saunders turned his face and lifted the mood in the car with a bright grin. "Yes, Dr. Hutchinson. What do I owe you for this session on the couch?"

"More than you could afford, cop. Let's get back to work."

"We need a game plan," Saunders said, the sound of weariness erased.

"Right. Let's head back to the station, kick around a few ideas, and nail this psycho."

"Good work, Hutch," Starsky stroked his partner's cheek. "If you put your mind to it, you could probably hypnotize me into wearing a French bikini."

Hutch concealed an amused snort in a convenient sneeze as Saunders backed out of the alley.

Chapter Seven:
Connections

"What have we got?" Hutch asked, biting into an apple as he leaned back in the hard-back wooden chair. Starsky stood behind him with his back curved just enough that he could drape arms around Hutch without pinning him in place.

"What we haven't got is anything the least bit interesting at Calvin's apartment," Starsky answered. "While you two finished pumping Ophelia for info, I took another look around the place. Lived-in, well-worn, and full of Calvin, but nothing that screams a murder motive."

Saunders gulped down the last dregs in his third cup of coffee and rose to re-fill. Hutch cleared his throat. "One more this early, Saunders, and you'll be doing the Russian Cossack dance in the middle of the squad room."

Saunders poured the inky liquid into his mug defiantly with a back-off quirk to his left eyebrow. "We've got two murders. Identical MO, ME believes we're dealing with the same weapons. Two black roses left as calling card, again, inserted into the same hand post-mortem in both cases. Very little forensic evidence at both crime scenes with the exception of the shattered glass and footprints at Calvin's. Interestingly enough, no fingerprints around the broken window. Good enough summation, Hutchinson?"

Hutch snapped his fingers and waved the apple around. "Better than you know, Saunders. That's it! Shattered window. I knew when I was there this morning that something bugged me...."

"Break-in entry at Calvin's but not at Alicia's?" Starsky guessed, experiencing a jolt of warmth in their shared wavelength.

"Yeah," Hutch said softly in the manner of self-confirmation rather than dialogue. "No forced entry at Alicia's. Why not? Obvious answer is that Alicia opened the door to her killer."

"Unless he was lying in wait for her," Saunders suggested.

"But how did he get in?" Hutch persisted, tapping the uneaten portion of apple against his chin. "Cathy Wilson's little spare-key trick isn't the most common practice in my experience. No sign of break-in or tampering with the lock. Crime team says the windows were sealed in a careless paint job and her apartment isn't easily accessible from the ground anyway."

"Knowing her killer would fit in with Calvin's belief that the funky notes originated from inside the company," Starsky agreed. "If that's even connected to these current crimes."

"Doesn't mean she recognized the person, Hutchinson. She might have carelessly opened the door at the first knock. She was expecting both a delivery and Frederic, remember?"

Hutch pushed forward so quickly in the chair that he brought Starsky with him. Starsky grinned, made a joking, 'whoosh!' sound, and withdrew his arms from around Hutch's neck. "Say that again," Hutch demanded. Saunders stared at him.

"What? Opened door at first knock? Expecting Frederic?"

Hutch frowned. "Something about that—hmm. I don't know. In any case, Alicia doesn't strike me as the kind of woman to ignore the peephole in the door. That says one of two things to me: she knew her attacker or the killer had some plausible excuse for being at her door that late at night."

"Got to have a conversation with Phillips," Saunders threw in with a hint of dread in his voice. Hutch sighed and Saunders glanced up. "Hey, you tackled the gut-wrenching duty of calling Calvin's parents. Why don't you let me face down Phillips?"

"Alone, you mean?" Hutch shook his head. "Oh, no. Thanks a lot, but I'm not hiding behind you, Saunders."

"Hutch—" Starsky began.

"No!" Hutch repeated, emphatically.

Saunders held up a hand. "All right. One 'no' is enough: I do speak English. I just don't see why you should subject yourself to his brand of emotional tether-ball."

"Same reason you held your head high and marched into that 2-11 with me," Hutch said pointedly. "You're a cop. So am I. We can't give in to our demons. Period."

"Point taken. Fine. Back to cataloguing leads. Nothing on the psych facility front, I'm afraid. One release from San Leone after sufficient 'rehabilitation' that sounded promising, but he died two days ago of a stroke in a rural hospital."

"So basically we're looking at almost nothing to go on." Hutch tossed the apple core behind him into the trashcan and rubbed his hands together.

"I'd suggest another chat with Talbot," Starsky said. "Right now he's your only link to the company. You need more information before you can go barging in with fake IDs looking for who knows what."

Saunders reached for the telephone, "I'm calling Frederic. I don't feel right about tying him down at the hospital, but if he's home maybe we can swing by his place on the way to see Phillips."

Hutch leaned forward, "What put Frederic in your mind?"

"Don't, Hutch--" Starsky swatted Hutch's shoulder.

Saunders shrugged, tapping his foot as he waited for an answer. "We need to know more about BCBC. Seems like he's a likely source. He already knows we're cops.... Hello? Mr. Talbot? Frederic. Yes, this is Detective Saunders.... Look, how did you.... Damn! Frederic, we can be there in fifteen minutes. We'll have someone there faster than that. Hold tight. Thanks." Saunders sank down in his chair without hanging up the phone. Hutch reached over, confiscated the receiver, and replaced it in its cradle.

"Saunders? Earth to Saunders." Seemingly forgetting his inability to communicate with Hutch's partner, Starsky leaned across the table and waved a hand in front of the blank face.

"Care to fill me in?" Hutch finally asked, exchanging a brief glance with Starsky.

"Frederic just received what he believes is a death threat."

"Wha-at?" Hutch and Starsky reacted in unison.

"He stopped by his apartment to pick up something Paul wanted. He'd just walked in the door when the phone rang. Apparently, my phone call interrupted his staring at a desecrated wall in his living room. Come on." Saunders grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. Hutch barked an order for a uniformed officer to dispatch a crime team to Frederic's address and then had to increase his stride to match Saunders. Starsky beat them both to the car without even utilizing his ghostly advantages.

"Zebra-3 to dispatch," Hutch barked into the mike as Saunders careened out of the parking lot. "Request nearest squad in the vicinity of Avondale to report to 110 Avondale Villas. Silent alarm."

"Where's the connection?" Starsky growled, striking a fist soundlessly against the armrest as Hutch flipped on the siren and attached the mars light. "Frederic and Alicia are both dancers; Calvin's not. Calvin and Alicia were married, but supposedly only a handful of people knew. Alicia and Frederic were just good friends. Doesn't make sense! There's always a connection in these cases!"

"They usually follow a pattern all the way through," Hutch added, returning the mike to its holder, and agreeing with the voice of wisdom from the backseat. Saunders screeched tires through a sharp turn at a caution light and frowned.

"What, Hutchinson?"

"Just thinking out loud," Hutch covered quickly. "Why are there scrawled death threats at Frederic's place but neither of the other crime scenes? These wackos usually force themselves into an unbreakable pattern. More often than not, that's how we manage to catch up with them."

"First time for everything," Saunders said grimly.

"Yeah."

"Hutch, listen, babe. I'm going on ahead." Hutch couldn't answer, but he tilted his head to the side questioningly and Starsky rushed on, "I'm concerned about Frederic. At least if I'm there, maybe I can do something preventive. I'd have to try, Hutch. Our ETA is still at least ten minutes. Didn't take nearly that long to kill Alicia or Calvin. I don't trust a squad to drop everything on this call."

Hutch shifted in his seat just enough that he could watch, eyes widening, as Starsky crossed his hands over his chest and bowed his head. Instantly the backseat was vacant. Hutch forgot to exhale the deep breath he'd taken and ended up coughing. Saunders let one eye stray from traffic. Hutch waved his unvoiced questions aside, "Swallowed wrong. Floor it, Saunders!"

Saunders cocked his head to the side and offered a feral grin, slamming his foot down on the gas. "Hang onto whatever you don't want flying off!" Hutch had just enough time to time to grab the door handle and avoid a harsh physical introduction to the glove compartment.

When they arrived, Hutch's first thought was a relieved prayer at the sight of Starsky standing, guardian-at-the-gate, in the open doorway to Frederic's apartment. Then, he noticed the seething, tightly controlled manner in which Starsky held his arms and the predatory lift to his chin. Something out of the ordinary had gone down, Hutch's instinct whispered, raising the fine hairs on his arms in a spread of goose bumps. Saunders brushed past him and through the open door just as Starsky stepped to the side and snagged Hutch's arm. "Hutch, I—I don't want you in there but I don't think you can avoid—"

Hutch looked around for spectators and then cupped Starsky's chin briefly before he turned to the door. He found himself blocked by a determined Saunders, who gripped his arms and shook his head. "No, Hutchinson!"

"What the hell—!" Hutch bellowed, struggling against the hands clutching his upper arms. "Kindly let me investigate my own crime scene, Saunders."

"You don't need...." At the dangerous light in Hutch's eyes, Saunders released him and snapped, "Fine, dammit! You're right. Who the hell am I to pamper you? Couldn't keep it from you indefinitely. Frederic's fine. Shaken, but alive and that's what counts."

Hutch nodded and paused as fingers laced through his own and held tight. Hutch squeezed Starsky's hand and allowed himself to be escorted by his lover into the living room. The uniformed officer nearest the door jumped at Hutch's appearance and bowed his head slightly as he moved out of the way. Hutch stared at the officer but two fingers turned his chin in the direction of the wall just above the couch where Frederic sat, arms folded over his knees and conversing with the other police officer. Pasted pictures of Alicia, Calvin, and Ophelia were crossed out in black spray paint. A picture of Frederic proclaimed, "You Will Be Reunited." But the most alarming graffiti hit Hutch like a punch to the groin. Above the pictures, red and almost electrically glaring letters spelled a monstrous epitaph beside a large, sloppily drawn Star of David: "In Memory of David Michael Starsky."

Hutch was never more grateful for the strong arm that slipped around his waist, hand caressing his side protectively. "Breathe easy, Hutch. We're gonna put this guy so far under a jailhouse he'll have a back door to China. All right?"

"I'm not getting an answer at Ophelia's house," Saunders spoke up from across the room at an end table. He slammed the phone down and made eye contact with the uniforms. "We've got this under control. You get over to 1110...Winwood Lane. Radio ahead for anyone closer. Give us a call the minute you arrive. Go!"

With another saddened glance at Hutch, the officers turned and followed orders. Starsky shot Hutch a reassuring smile and bowed his head, crossing his hands over his chest again before vanishing from sight. Hutch caught his breath, shrugged off a wish that his lover hadn't figured out how to be a first responder as well as phantom investigator, and turned his attention to Frederic. Saunders stood quietly as Hutch maneuvered around the coffee table and reclaimed the spot on the sofa vacated by the police officer. Resting a hand on Frederic's shoulder, Hutch said in his tone of victim-comfort, "How are you holding up?"

Frederic's head drooped. "Honest? Paul will have to undergo a double bypass. He's forty-two years old, and his arteries are already shot to hell. Runs in the family. Now this. The—the officers kept asking me...um...they said, this guy...." he pointed up at the wall.... "was your partner. He was with you during that thing with Anna A., right? I think I remember seeing him around with you backstage. I'm—I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. You came home last night, Frederic?"

"Yes; I was up at five, though. Can't sleep without.... I knew Catherine was still on shift so I went over to the hospital. Paul said he wanted a couple of books and a more comfortable pair of pajamas, so swung back by here. Walked in and found...this."

"You keep your doors locked at all times?"

Frederic straightened and propped a foot against the coffee table. "I'm living openly with another man. This is a fairly open-minded neighborhood, but still...of course we lock our doors. We're not idiots. One of the officers said the sliding glass door in the master bedroom is shattered. I—I haven't been in there. Couldn't move after I found this."

"When you entered the apartment, do you remember hearing anything? Detect any movement?" Saunders asked, resting a hand against the sofa arm. Hutch was grateful for Frederic's distracted attention because Starsky re-appeared and sighed, shaking his head.

"No one there, Hutch. No sign of anything out of the ordinary."

"Still and quiet as a grave, gentlemen," Frederic answered Saunders' question. "Look, I could use something liquid and strong. Care to join me? Oh, right," he said as the detectives declined with headshakes. "Duty and all."

Starsky spoke up before Hutch could open his lips. "Suggest something unopened, Hutch. No telling--"

"Frederic, I'd settle for something safely sealed like an unopened can of beer, and check over it for puncture holes."

Frederic turned around halfway through the adjoining dining area and rubbed at an ear as though convinced he was hearing things. "Why?"

Saunders shot a grateful look at Hutch before responding, "Because someone capable of decorating your living room with threatening pictures and graffiti could have left you any number of unpleasant surprises, Frederic. The crime team should be here momentarily and they'll give the place a clean sweep."

Frederic shuddered. "God. Maybe I'll—I'll just not have that drink after all. Better anyway. Paul will smell it on my breath and he knows I only drink hard stuff when I'm really worried." Instead of returning to the sofa, he plopped directly down on the floor, cross-legged, and stretched in a familiar dancers' warm-up exercise.

"Frederic, what do you know about any special connection between Alicia and Calvin Wesson?" Hutch asked, unnoticeably shifting to accommodate Starsky, who for all intents and purposes attempted to sit on his lap. The closeness soothed both of them as each felt the weight of the scrawled red letters above their heads.

"Special connection? No. They knew each other....All right. You obviously know a hell of a lot more than I do, I can see it all over your faces. What's going on here, guys? Do I warrant that much information at least considering some nutcase has been in my apartment?"

"Calvin Wesson was murdered this morning, Frederic, in the same manner as Alicia. Ophelia was with us when we discovered the body. She later informed us that Calvin and Alicia had been married for three years. Secretly."

Frederic scrambled to his feet and shook an emphatic hand at Saunders. "No. No, she'd have said something to me.... We—we really talked, you know? I'm not calling Ophelia a liar. She's one of those people who couldn't tell a fib to save her mother's soul...but...I just can't believe. I—"

"We're pulling records to verify her information, but her account sounds legit."

Frederic pounded both fists at his sides against the carpet. "Edwards! He's behind her pulling that kind of stunt. Shit, I swear the man could have given Hitler lessons on enforcing conformity in the ranks. The man's a cretin with his stupid views on relationships being a distraction from art."

"Just how adamant is this Edwards?" Hutch asked.

Frederic laughed harshly. "I don't think he's a homicidal lunatic, if that's what you're asking, but he'd have made hell for Alicia if he knew she was married, that's certain."

"You're one of his top dancers, right? Doesn't he know about you and Paul? He hasn't given you trouble?"

Frederic smiled at Hutch, "God, I love that you make the connection. That's one of the nicest compliments I've had and to come from a cop.... Yeah, Edwards knew about Paul and me and never gave me trouble. But don't go thinking that's because he's enlightened about homosexuality. Oh, no. Not everyone affiliated with the dance community accepts homosexuality as a matter of course. No, Edwards' take on the situation is that a man's relationship with another man would never be serious enough to warrant a distraction from his dancing, but a woman's involvement with a man, and marriage, oh, that was a different story. God, Alicia...three years hiding because of that-- When I get my hands on him--" Frederic trailed off and flushed. "Guess I shouldn't be issuing threats in front of officers of the law."

Saunders smiled. "Anger is human. Acting on it might get you in trouble with us."

"What we're looking for, Frederic, is a connection between all four of you. For some reason, this killer has chosen to focus on--"

"Uh, Hutch...make that five."

Saunders said quietly, "Think again, Hutchinson. This guy's brought someone else into the equation."

At that moment a sound rap on the door gave Hutch a welcome excuse to propel himself off the sofa and away from the emotionally charged questioning. The entrance of the crime team disrupted their interview but Frederic finally solved matters by ushering them onto the patio off his spare bedroom. Hutch declined one of the white wrought-iron patio chairs and leaned instead against the building.

"Granted, I don't have a clue why my—why Starsky's being dragged into this mess, but I still think the most important part of the crime involves the four people displayed on that wall. Now, all four of you were connected with Bay City Ballet, but in different ways. Two of you weren't even dancers."

Frederic had been looking out at the nearby pool, squinting in the sun and seemingly focused on the horseplay of three children and an oversized beach ball. At Hutch's final statement, his head snapped around. "What? What's that about—not being dancers? Every one of us danced at one time."

"Run that by me again," Saunders said, surprised.

"Calvin Wesson was a top-flight dancer until three years ago when he was thrown by a horse and shattered his left ankle. After surgery, he healed enough to function properly, but not enough for the punishing ballet you encounter at our level. He stayed on doing back-stage work while waiting for an acting break because he couldn't bear to be away from the arts' world. Similar situation for Ophelia. Hell, she was poised to be the next Maria Tallchief. That girl put on toe-shoes and you thought gravity just decided to crawl away awhile and rest. It was a given that she would succeed Alicia as BC-squared's star, but four years ago she compress-fractured her L1 vertebra in a car accident. Edwards wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole after that. He put her in the business office. She took a pile of business courses—ridiculous course load for a part time student-- at Jameson and got her degree. When Calvin left, Ophelia was the perfect choice to help him get the practical side of the theater established. A dancer's career is extremely fragile. Paul always worries about me. That something will kick me out of dancing and I'll never recover. Damn idiot can't figure out I could live a century without ballet but not ten seconds without--" He turned his eyes back to the pool.

Starsky stood in a perfect position to catch Hutch's eye. Reflected in light blue, two men stood in front of an ocean and hurled badges into the onrushing waves side-by-side. Starsky matched the soft smile that gave the soft blue a sudden sparkle. Hutch cleared his throat.

"Did the four of you ever perform together? Do you remember anything out of the ordinary taking place during a time when all of you actively danced with BCBC?"

Saunders nodded at Hutch's questions and added, "Would also be helpful for us to have a list of dance company personnel for the last...how many years?"

"If you're thinking of the first year all four of us were in the company, that would be seven years ago. Ophelia joined the year after I did. I—I have a box of materials. Performance bills, photos, and stuff like that. You're free to take it with you but I'd really like it back at some point." Frederic had the expression of someone debating the best form of after-school childcare.

"Of course," Hutch said.

"We were all together in a couple of performances five years ago. I'll rack my brain and see if I can remember anything odd. Don't right off the top of my head." Frederic looked away hurriedly from both detectives' probing stares.

"I get the feeling this guy is—I dunno," Starsky shrugged. "Probably nothing."

The phone rang and Saunders jumped. "About time those guys got over to Ophelia's," he said and dashed back into the apartment. Hutch wasn't prepared for Frederic to ask quietly, "Hard working with a new partner?"

Hutch inwardly flipped through several responses before he settled on, "It's an adjustment. You just have to adapt."

Starsky snorted. "Yeah, suddenly sleeping with your old partner was a damn big adjustment, too, babe, but you've adapted me all the way to the moon and back."

"Yes, but is it...I mean, do you.... None of my business," Frederic concluded, averting his face again with discomfort.

Hutch moved from the wall to one of the patio chairs. "Probably not, Talbot, but if you've got a question, just shoot."

"Just something one of the officers said. Spotted the wall and said, 'Jesus, that's gonna kill Hutchinson'."

Starsky flinched. Hutch said matter-of-factly, "Starsky and I ar—formed probably the closest partnership the BCPD has seen in the last decade. It's hell without him." Every second I don't have a glimpse of you, babe, is hell, his eyes told Starsky. "But Saunders is a good guy and he cares about the job. Most importantly, he gives a damn about the people we encounter on the job—"

As if on cue, Saunders appeared in the patio doorway and said, voice uneven and confirming Starsky's report, "No sign of Ophelia or her aunt at the home address."

"Could be out grocery shopping together, Saunders," Hutch replied, standing. Saunders shook his head.

"Why the X-mark across her picture, Hutchinson? No. Something's not right about this situation."

Starsky nodded. "Listen to him on this one, Hutch. I'll explain later."

"Frederic, we'll need that box of materials. Oh, and we should discuss some safety precautions--"

Frederic shrugged. "If you're talking about where I'm going to stay, I'll just camp out at the hospital. I'm not dancing until Paul comes through the surgery anyway."

"Fine, but we have no idea how much information this person has at their disposal. I think an armed guard on Paul's hospital room isn't a bad idea in this case." Hutch's statement didn't go over well with the young dancer but he finally acquiesced with a nod.

They touched base with the crime team, left Frederic packing an overnight bag for his return trip to the hospital, and had barely situated themselves in the car when the radio broke the silence.

"Zebra-3. Dispatch."

"Go ahead, Mildred."

"Prepare for patch-through landline call from Memorial Hospital."

"Ray?"

Saunders grabbed the mike from Hutch's hand. "Darlin'?"

"Ray, we had a patient come in about an hour ago. I just received word that she was semi-conscious on arrival and persistently calling your name. Her aunt says the girl's name is Ophelia Hampton. Do you--"

The hand holding the mike visibly trembled. "What's her status, Bev?"

"At present, she's unconscious, Ray."

"We're on our way."

Chapter Eight:
Cheating Death

Saunders broke into a run the minute the car door swung shut behind him. Hutch followed at a brisk pace and only froze for a second when confronted with Memorial's Emergency Receiving doors. Starsky tugged on Hutch's jacket sleeve and urged him forward. "Come on, Hutch, you're gonna have to sprint to catch up with Saunders."

"Forget sprinting. I need a rocket pack," Hutch observed caustically. "Just tell me what's going on, Starsky. You seem to be in the know."

"I promise, Hutch: explanations later."

Hutch didn't expect to encounter Saunders just around the ER's first corner and skid to a halt within inches of plowing into the detective's back. Saunders stood deathly still, watching a tall brunette woman down the unusually empty hallway deep in conversation with a lean, salt-and-pepper haired man dressed in scrubs and a lab coat.

"Saunders?" Instinctively, or perhaps inspired by the startled, almost dismayed expression on his partner's face, Hutch kept his voice to a whisper. Saunders jerked and turned his eyes.

"Hutchinson. He—" Saunders' voice, also a whisper, cut through Hutch like a sharpened razor blade, but the fierce tone wasn't directed at the blond detective. "N-not important now," Saunders mumbled finally, turning back around and calling, "Bev?"

Dr. Beverly Augustano whirled at the sound of her fiancé's voice and stumbled back a step. The man in scrubs patted her shoulder, leaned in close to say something in the vicinity of her right ear, and strode down the hall. Bev waited patiently for their approach.

"We're here about Ms. Hampton," Saunders said as though addressing the main desk receptionist.

Starsky whistled. "Uh, Hutch, I think we missed something major. He's talking to his fiancée, right? I mean this is Bev. The Bev...not some look-alike? If you ever used that tone with me I'd stay frozen for a week."

Bev could feel the chill in the air. She raised an unsteady hand, the anathema of all surgeons, and brushed through the curls that fell from beneath her surgical cap. "You saw--"

"Not here. Not now," Saunders interjected with the same quiet detachment.

"Ray," Beverly began but Saunders looked away and said again, "We're here about Ms. Hampton."

Hutch felt a surge of relief when Bev visibly collected herself and gestured across the hall at an office door bearing her nameplate among several others. Once inside the office, Bev folded her arms across her chest and said, "She's a medical anomaly in my estimation. If I believed in miracles, I'd say this qualifies as one. She should be dead. Based on her cardiac glycoside level and Electrolytes, she had enough digoxin in her system to effectively kill 99% of adult human beings."

"Digoxin?"

"Pharmaceutical name for digitalis. In plant form, also known as foxglove. It's used to treat congestive heart failure, PAT, atrial fibrillation...all of which are not indicated in a verbal medical history for Ms. Hampton given by her aunt and confirmed with her local physician. No heart problems, no reason for her to have anything to do with digoxin. She arrived symptomatic but semi-lucid and arrested shortly after reaching the exam room. We converted back to sinus rhythm and have given her slurry of activated charcoal prior to gastric lavage, which we followed with Digibind, our best antidote. At present, she has yet to regain consciousness."

"You're saying she was poisoned," Hutch said.

"My best guess, guys," Beverly nodded, not meeting her fiancé's eyes.

"Can you give us any idea how, when?" Hutch continued the questioning somehow certain that Saunders wanted to play a passive role. So far the young detective had not let his gaze stray anywhere near the doctor's face.

"Her aunt said she showed up on their front doorstep and collapsed—What, Ray?"

Saunders shoved his hands in his jeans' pockets and scuffed his foot on the floor angrily, "I knew it! I knew when she fainted something wasn't—Damn! God, some cops we are!"

"Fainted?" Bev asked.

"Ms. Hampton was with us when we discovered the body of her boss and close friend this morning across town at his Workshop Theater. We stayed with her long enough to ask the necessary questions and shortly before we left, she fainted briefly. Ray had his hand on the phone to dial for an ambulance when she came around and flatly refused any medical services. Just wanted to go home."

Bev stared at Hutch. "Did she seem weak, confused, disoriented, exhibit any strange behavior akin to delirium?"

Saunders nodded. "Yeah, I suppose you could describe her actions that way—especially toward the end. We assumed she was just shocked, grieved, shaken up...you know. Behavior you'd normally associate with someone who has just found a close friend murdered and beaten. She said something odd about seeing green or greenish yellow halos--"

"Yes; that's one of the symptoms of digitalis OD. And when was this?"

"Not much past eight o'clock," Hutch answered.

Bev sighed and spread her arms in a gesture of inexplicability. "Well, I—You know, I can only say...medically speaking, I can't offer you a reasonable explanation. If she ingested the poison anytime before eight o'clock this morning, she most definitely should be dead. It's—it's as though something kept the poison at bay for a length of time and then...the minute that agent or physical process gave way, her body succumbed."

"Same thing that kept the effects of Bellamy's poison at bay a little longer than normal," Starsky murmured cryptically. "Same thing that kept that virus from attacking your heart before we got the antibodies in your system."

Hutch would have hocked his entire collection of earthly possessions for five minutes alone with Starsky at that moment to pick his brain, but he settled for attacking the matter at hand. "You said 'ingested'. Do you mean in food or drink?"

"If the person is supposed to come by the poison without knowledge of receiving it, yes that's the most likely method."

"There was a coffee mug on her desk, Hutchinson, with one of those little tea bags on a plate off to the side." Saunders said.

Bev nodded. "That would be a plausible means of introduction. Herbal teas—or even plain steeped tea-- tend to mask unusual flavors. I think you're looking for someone with access to pharmaceutical digoxin, either in liquid form administered via dropper, or tablet. The severity of her overdose leads me to conclude in favor of that method rather than a natural plant extract."

"Get somebody back over to the theater, Hutch," Starsky said.

Hutch scrambled to the desk and grabbed the phone. "Dial 9 for outside line?"

"Yes."

"....Yeah, this is Detective Hutchinson. Get someone over to Bay City West Workshop Productions. Go to the business office and look for any sign of pharmaceutical drugs—specifically digoxin--and collect a coffee cup with tea bag on the desk for evidence. Oh, and I want a uniformed officer over here at Memorial. Have him ask for Ophelia Hampton's room. He'll stand guard until further notice. Right, thank you."

Saunders crossed the room and confiscated the phone as Hutch concluded the call, slamming it down on the receiver. "Tossing the place for the drug? You think--"

"Dotting the i's and crossing the t's, Saunders."

"Ray--" Beverly approached the agitated detective and stroked his jacket sleeve. He jerked away from her, still glaring at Hutch.

"Don't you think it's a bit of a leap to assume that the poor girl is trying to off herself?"

"Saunders--"

Saunders slapped his hands at his sides. "Oh, come off it, Hutchinson. She's being targeted by the same psycho who killed Alicia and Wesson and re-decorated Frederic's apartment--"

Hutch nodded and clasped Saunders' shoulder just as Starsky moved closer to the younger detective as well. "Easy, Saunders. I agree with you. You think I'd have an armed guard outside her door if I didn't believe she was in danger from an outside agency? But we have to investigate every plausible scenario. You know that."

Saunders' scowl faded immediately and he flushed, offering Hutch a lopsided smile. "Yeah. Right. Sorry I tore a strip off you."

"Just who is this Ophelia person?" Beverly demanded, hands clutching at her lab coat pockets. Saunders turned on her with a set to his features that Hutch and Starsky had never seen.

"Just someone who has lost two friends in less than twelve hours. Can we see her?"

"She's not even conscious. I've sent her aunt with a candy-striper down to the chapel because she wanted a quiet place to pray."

"Can we see her?" Saunders repeated as if deaf to his fiancée's words.

Bev's lips trembled and she looked away from her fiancé, avoiding Hutch's eyes as well, and stared across the wall at a display of framed diplomas and plaques. "Yes. Follow me."

"Hutch, I don't know what's going down, but this fairy tale romance in front of us looks like it just turned into a gothic novel, you get my drift?"

The trio of detectives followed Bev through the corridors to a hallway of trauma rooms. Sensing the stiffening of Hutch's gait, Starsky clasped Hutch's wrist and stroked fingers along the pulse point as they walked. Hutch's shoulders relaxed immediately.

Bev stopped at the room where a nurse sat in a chair in the hall directly beside door number twelve. "No change?"

The nurse glanced up from her book and Hutch shrugged off another set of memories. "No, doctor. No change."

Bev nodded briskly and opened the door. Saunders and Starsky, who chose not to utilize his unique means of entry, followed Bev into the room. Hutch paused for a minute in the hall, awash in the past. A nurse in a chair, reading a book, not even paying attention to the miracle about to occur in front of her...a miracle.... Hutch shook his head to block the thoughts and turned to the doorway.

Chaos confronted him. Ophelia's unusual eyes had fluttered open and a tiny, choked voice said, "Saunders? Saunders...." Saunders stood at the foot of the bed in abject shock. Beverly shot him a killer frown and sprang into action, producing a stethoscope and assessing her patient's condition.

"Mona," Beverly called and the nurse from the hallway rushed into the room. "Get Dr. King. He'll want to know about his patient's change in condition." The young nurse hastened away to do her bidding and movement from the bed grabbed Bev's attention. Ophelia's arms lifted and lowered almost spasmodically.

"Where...I...what?" Ophelia pleaded, eyes locked on Beverly. Bev smiled down on her and said, "You're very fortunate, Ms. Hampton, but I think it's safe to say you're going to battle all the way back."

"Must tell...is he here?"

"Who?" Bev asked, shining a penlight into Ophelia's eyes.

"Detective Saunders...."

"I'm right here, Ms.—Ophelia."

"Need to tell you," Ophelia attempted, but her eyes closed and her breathing steadied. Bev turned around.

"She's got a rough road ahead of her yet, guys. I'd suggest you check back in later. Obviously, she has something weighing on her mind, but she's in no shape to unburden her soul right now."

On their way out of the room, Starsky slipped an arm around Hutch's waist and said, "Hutch, you should've seen it. The minute—the damn minute he walked into the room, her eyes opened. Never seen anything like it. Bev looked ready to swallow her stethoscope."

Saunders remained at the foot of the bed, staring into the relaxed, sleeping face, until Bev took him by the elbow and turned him to the door.

"Ophelia's aunt is our top priority. Also need to check in with the guys over at the theater and then we should tackle Phillips," Hutch said when Saunders emerged in the hallway.

Saunders nodded. "Sounds like a plan, partner." Bev touched his arm.

"Ray, why don't you come back over at lunch...you and I can grab a bite together and--"

Saunders seemed to look straight through her, and then his gaze shifted to rest on the wall just to the side of her cheek. "I have a job to do and you've got your patients. I'll see you this evening." Without making eye contact, he swung around and marched down the hall.

Hutch stared at his partner's back and then cast a glance at Beverly, whose downcast features had tightened with anger and flushed with humiliation. Then, she lifted her eyes and Hutch caught his breath at the third emotion warring with the others. Guilt. Overwhelming guilt. He knew that look. He'd seen it mirrored in Starsky's eyes when he walked out of a scheming blonde's bedroom to face the music.

Starsky smacked his back. "Uh-uh, partner. You just hustle all those worms back into the can and put a lid on it. This is not the time for a Hutchinson conscience rewind."

"Ken, please take care of Ray out there today. He—he's not going to be himself. I'm going to see what's keeping Dr. King." She ducked her head again and walked down the hall in the opposite direction. Hutch frowned, massaged his forehead with two fingers, and looked at Starsky with an eloquent tilt to his head. Starsky breathed deeply and exhaled slowly.

"Saunders is right, babe. We've got a double homicide to solve. We'd better make tracks. Does he even know how to find the chapel? Or has he forgotten about the aunt?"

"I don't know, but I'd pay cold hard cash to avoid that chapel myself," Hutch whispered, eyeing the hall ahead for possible unwanted listeners.

"Why's that?"

"Oh, Starsky, you think I didn't spend my own 'quiet' minutes there? Yes, I actually prayed. Okay? Mr. Self-sufficient, to hell with the idea of God and all the psychological trappings. Made my own bargains. And you still—you still ended up--"

Starsky noted a door marked Linens and shoved Hutch toward it. "Starsky, Saunders is headed God knows where—"

"In there now!" Starsky ordered and Hutch immediately obeyed the no-nonsense tone.

Once the door closed and protected them from prying eyes, Starsky wrapped his arms around his lover and caressed the back of Hutch's head. "You still don't understand, do you? What did you pray exactly?"

Hutch let his body melt into that perfect hold and sighed. "Well, I'll admit I wasn't thinking too clearly. I found my way there shortly after you went into surgery. I—I think...I kept saying that—that someone like you should be—be allowed to live forever."

Starsky laughed out loud. "And now you wanna tell me again that No One heard you?"

Hutch coughed, squirmed in the embrace and tried without success to formulate words.

"Be careful what you wish for," Starsky laughed against Hutch's jaw line. "Especially when you're just the kind of person Divinity rewards."

"Oh, whatever, Starsky. Granted, you have a little more experience, but still—"

"Shut up, Hutch. I know what I'm talking about. The Commander-in-Chief, the Big Guy, Ultimate Love, the Mother of us all—whatever you wanna call the Power responsible for all the miracles—is an absolute sucker for people like you. Downtrodden, hardworking, doubting, caring, bleeding heart, do-gooder. Yup, you were heard that day, partner. 'Course it helped that I charmed the feathers out of all their wings up there, but—"

Hutch cut off the good-natured bragging with a passionate kiss and then broke away, sidestepping Starsky's insistent lips and arms. "Got to find Saunders."

"All the kinks out of your armor?"

Hutch's eyes sought the ceiling. "Starsky, do you know how irritating all that knight stuff really is?"

"Since when did I tease you for any other reason than to irritate the crap out of you?" Starsky grinned.

"Just do your ghost thingy and get down to that chapel ahead of me so I don't have to get everything from Saunders second-hand."

"Yes, sir, Hutchinson, sir." Starsky crossed his hands over his chest, bowed his head, and Hutch contemplated an empty linen closet.

"Never thought I'd have to worry about wearing loose pants on duty," Hutch said to the stacks of towels and bed linens, adjusting himself quickly before he braved the world outside.

When Hutch entered the chapel, Starsky rushed to meet him. "He's only been here a minute, Hutch. Must have taken him a little longer to find it. Or else he made a stop on the way."

Saunders noticed Hutch's arrival and murmured something to the plump elderly woman beside him on the pew. The young candy striper had moved a discreet five pews down.

"Hutchinson, this is Ms. Emily Fairley. Ms. Fairley, my partner, Detective Hutchinson."

"Detective Saunders tells me Ophelia woke up—for a little while?"

"Yes, Ms. Fairley." Hutch sat down in the pew in front of Saunders' and turned so he could face Ophelia's aunt. Starsky slid in next to him.

"She's such an important part of—I depend on her, really. I know she says she lives with me, but really it's the other way around. When she came out here to dance, my—my whole life changed for the better. I'm her mother's oldest sister. All my siblings moved away from me, married, and had families. I was left behind. Ophelia's been the daughter I never thought I'd have."

Looking at the worried woman, Hutch could see the family resemblance in the coloring, the pale blonde hair that was only touched by silver, but in Ms. Fairley's case, the added wrinkles enhanced the remarkable eyes.

"Would you describe your activities last night for us, Ms. Fairley?" Saunders asked in a soothing, quiet tone.

"Atta boy, Saunders, that's thinking like a professional. Don't give her any specifics, anything to work around, any reference to Ophelia," Starsky approved.

Ms. Fairley blinked, but she rested back against the pew and said, "Six to seven is dinner time. Seven to nine, I watch television. Nine to eleven I work on my needlework. Eleven to twelve Ophelia and I listen to The Baroque Hour on the radio. At midnight I retire. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes." Hutch smiled. "Was Ophelia home with you the entire evening besides the radio hour?"

"Yes, she was. Would you please tell me...what's happened to my girl?"

"I'm afraid the evidence points to deliberate poisoning. Someone is targeting Bay City Ballet Company dancers. Last night Alicia Holden was murdered and this morning Ophelia was with us when we discovered the body of Calvin Wesson."

"Calvin! Not Calvin! No...." Ms. Fairley cupped her mouth and trembled. "Oh, dear. Oh, my poor girl...."

"Ophelia didn't have a chance to tell you about his death?" Saunders asked, voice tight with suppressed emotion. Hutch watched his face.

"No. No, the moment I opened the door when I heard the car engine outside—the cab, it turned out—she just fell over into my arms. The most frightening—oh, I'll never have another easy night without thinking of those minutes before the paramedics arrived."

"Has anyone called you or Ophelia and made threatening or unusual remarks? Have you received anything out of the ordinary in the mail?"

"No, not that I'm aware."

Other than confirming Ophelia's alibi, Ms. Fairley proved a dead end as an information source. They left her with reassurances that Ophelia should make a full recovery and would be under the protection of armed guard.

Once in the car, Saunders traced the steering wheel with the tip of his key while Hutch radioed through dispatch for connection to the officers at the theater.

"....Right. Didn't think you would, actually. Yeah. Good. Seal it back up, guys, and thanks." Hutch re-cradled the mike and shifted in the seat. "No sign of any drugs, digoxin or otherwise, anywhere on the premises. They did get the cup and tea bag off to the lab."

Saunders nodded, mute, and keyed the ignition. Now away from the concerned presence of an elderly woman, Saunders face resumed the pained, lost expression from the hallway.

"He's got massive hurt, Hutch. I thought I was only supposed to be able to feel
your pain. I must not have read the fine print, because, buddy, I feel like someone kicked me in the frank-and-beans, know what I mean?"

Hutch heard the implicit order in that statement: reach out to your partner. "Saunders?"

Saunders was no fool. He started the car and backed out of the space. "Don't, Hutchinson."

"Listen, I just want—"

"No! Look, no offense, but for right now I need you to be the I-don't-give-a-shit-about-you guy you were the night I met you, okay?"

Hutch couldn't restrain a grin. "You'll let me know when I can go back to being a semi-decent human being who isn't a piece of wood?"

Saunders managed a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I'll clue you in. Thanks. Phillips?"

"You said it, partner."

Chapter Nine:
Confrontation

Saunders parked in the expansive driveway of the colonial home. Hutch stared out the window at the trim yard, the perfectly cultivated flowerbeds and shrubbery. "Last chance, Hutchinson. I can go in there—"

Hutch turned his gaze from the window and Saunders shrank back against the driver's door. "All right. Easy, big guy," Saunders said quickly, opening his door.

"Damn, Hutch. You're improving the Hutchinson glare. Didn't even have to lift your finger. Actually, that look's kinda hot, if you ask me."

Hutch exited the car and slammed the door. Saunders was already halfway to the front walk and Hutch used his earthly partner's head start to brush his hand unseen through Starsky's hair. "You wait until I get you home," he whispered with a leer.

"Promise?" Starsky was all smiles and undulating hips. Hutch's memory presented him with a similar image: Starsky leaning over the Torino's open door, backside swaying to and fro. Hutch banished the flashback and talked himself sternly out of pulling that body to him for a lengthy embrace. He winked instead at his irrepressible lover and turned to catch up with Saunders.

Jason Phillips came to the door just as Hutch joined Saunders on the front step. His grimace would have intimidated most men, but Saunders merely offered his hand and a smile, both of which Phillips pointedly ignored. Dropping the hand, Saunders said calmly, "May we come in?"

"You're finally turning the case over to the proper authorities?"

"Jeez," Starsky said. "This guy doesn't give up."

"We're here to ask you some questions," Hutch informed Phillips, whose grimace graduated to a malevolent sneer.

"I think you should remember that I was a cop when you were probably still a virgin, Hutchinson."

"And I think you should remember that we're the investigating officers in this case," Hutch said through a controlled, cold smile. "We'd like to have a pleasant cop-to-cop chat with you, but we can make this more painful if you'd prefer."

"Threatening your fellow cops now, Hutchinson? Just how low do you actually stoop?"

"Phillips, that bum heart of yours only gives you so much leeway in my book, you got that? One more crack—" Saunders subsided at Hutch's hand against his shoulder blade.

"Not going to give you the pleasure of taking a bite out of your bait, Phillips, so you might as well cooperate with us." Hutch's even tone and carefully schooled expression obviously impressed Phillips because the sneer vanished, replaced by a less ominous frown.

"This guy makes me wish I was a poltergeist," Starsky growled low in his throat, following his partners into the house as Phillips stepped aside.

"Go on into the living room. You've got good timing, I'll say that much for you. Wife's at her bridge club. She doesn't want me having anything to do with police work until the docs clear me."

Starsky saluted Hutch on his way to prowl through the house in his capacity as private investigator and the narrowing of his eyes and casual hand slapping against his thighs told Hutch he had a specific motivation. This was a targeted prowl. Hutch didn't have time to guess at what Starsky hoped to find. Phillips had directed yet another barb his way that Saunders took personally.

"Hey!" Hutch shouted, calm demeanor shattered. "Cool down. Take a seat, Phillips! We're just here to ask you a few questions about Alicia Holden—"

Phillips didn't budge. He stood in front of the oversized armchair and folded his arms over his chest. "What, you stumped, Detective? Guess your partner was the real cop in your outfit."

"That's it!" Saunders blared and lunged at the middle-aged cop. Hutch caught him in mid-dive and experienced a rush of déjà vu, fending off the vibrating bundle of righteous indignation. But keeping Saunders from tearing Phillips' throat out was even more crucial than holding Starsky away from the two-bit hype Tremaine had been. Saunders transferred his glare to Hutch but the mesmerizing blue eyes pleaded eloquently and Saunders pulled away, straightened his jacket, rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat.

"Saunders, why don't you get some fresh air?"

"What?" Saunders' soulful brown eyes dimmed.

"Just for a minute. Phillips and I are going to have a chat. I'll grab you when we get back down to business. Trust me."

Saunders blinked at him and then gripped his forehead as if seized with a pounding headache. "Yeah, sure. Me and-- Yeah." Saunders shook his head fiercely and shoved his hands in his pockets, leaving the room.

When the front door slammed, Hutch swiveled on Phillips and lifted his hands, loosely curled into defensive fists. "All right. You want to take your best shot at me, Phillips? Come on. I don't think it's advisable if you're a heart attack waiting to happen, but hey, who am I to spoil your fun?"

"You're crazy." Phillips looked more than a little disconcerted.

"Am I?" Hutch seethed. "I'm not the one taking pot-shots at another cop like it's the newest fad. If you got something to get off your chest, I'm all ears. It's going to be now and we're going to get it out of our systems, because I have a multiple homicide on my hands and I don't really need the distraction. You understand the ground rules so far?"

"I—" Phillips turned his back on Hutch and the broad shoulders curved inward. "I hate that you don't seem—to give a damn about what—what you lost...."

"Believe me," Hutch said, a distinct tremor in his voice. "I know what—"

"He saved my daughter's life!" Phillips shouted over his shoulder. "What?!" Hutch shouted in response, more out of shock than anger.

Phillips turned slowly. "Yeah. He didn't know me from Adam and didn't know the girl was even my daughter. He was still in uniform. My daughter had started hanging out with a bad crowd. She'd disappear from home for hours at a time. One of those times she found herself cornered in an alley on the wrong side of a few punks who wanted more out of her than a partner in crime. This uniformed cop spotted the action going down and jumped into the middle of it. Faced 'em all down. Got my girl back to the station and contacted my wife. He apparently gave her a little pep talk along the way. She turned her whole act around. Started getting outstanding grades in school. Joined the youth group at our church. She's a Religious Studies major at Yale now. And—And I—I never got the chance to thank him personally. Came by the station a couple of times but never connected with him. Eventually I gave up trying, which was stupid on my part. No excuse for it. Should have written him a letter—should have—something! And you—you had a chance to work with one of the best cops ever to strap on a holster and you act like you don't care he's gone!"

Hutch grabbed Phillips' shoulders and said forcefully, "I loved him!! He was my family: my only real family on this planet. You can't even imagine how—how lost I was after it hit me that they couldn't resuscitate him like the last time. And none of my so-called blood relatives bothered to come and help me with the unbearable loss. I had to carry it practically on my own. Then...then I realized I had to keep living for him. I had to keep doing our job, keeping our beliefs alive, or everything we worked so hard to accomplish would fade away into nothing. You understand? I can't—I can't do both. I can't go around acting like a wreck of grief and do good police work at the same time. I'm just one man."

Phillips lowered his eyes from the anguished blue stare and when he lifted his face, moisture pooled beneath his lashes. "I—I'm sorry. I've been one hell of a jackass about all this. I—I think I'm just pissed at myself for not tracking him down and telling him what he did for my family...so I'm taking it out on you. You know...when you face something wrong with your ticker, you get to thinking about stuff you've left undone."

Hutch noticed a movement in the corner of his eye and knew it was Starsky, leaning against the doorframe across the room. He sighed. "You're going to think I'm nuts, but do you really want to thank him?"

"Yeah. Little late for—"

"Just say it. Out loud. Right now."

"Huh?"

"Thank him. I—I believe he'll hear you."

The earnest voice and perfectly sane expression on Hutch's face convinced Phillips, who stepped away from Hutch's grasp on his shoulders and picked up a picture frame from the coffee table behind him. Hutch inched closer so he could view the picture. The young girl in the photo looked ecstatic. She stood clutching a stack of books in front of a traditional Ivy League landscape, all greenery and stone buildings. Phillips could not tear his eyes away from the scene. "Uh...Detective Starsky? You saved my little girl when she was going around like a scraggly little criminal. You knew that's not what she was. When none of her family could reach her, you did. She's—she's on academic scholarship now and it's mostly 'cause of you. Wherever you are...I just wanna say thanks."

Starsky entered the room and walked right up to Phillips. He glanced down at the picture and up at Hutch with a shaky smile of recognition and modesty. Then he draped an arm over Phillips' shoulder and squeezed tight. "You're welcome, Pops. Any time. And congrats: she's got brains and beauty."

Phillips stepped back in the direction of the armchair and collapsed into it with a sigh, his hand resting over the left side of his chest. "You know," he said, awed, "I think this is the first time I've felt...at peace...in a long time."

Starsky grinned at Hutch and ducked behind him to plant a kiss on his neck just below his hairline. Hutch barely restrained a shiver of delight and was enormously grateful for the comforting gesture. The confrontation with Phillips had resurrected memories of a time that lashed at his soul. "Are you ready to answer some questions now?"

Phillips smiled and the effect was astonishing. Hutch would not have imagined him capable of such a kind expression. "Yeah. Better grab your partner out there, and you might do me the favor of telling him we've got things squared away. Got a feeling that boy would maul a grizzly for you."

Hutch laughed at the reference to the impression of youth that Saunders conveyed. "Yeah, he does seem to be working on a protective streak."

"Wouldn't have him any other way," Starsky chuckled, patting Hutch's cheek. "Only the best for my Hutch."

>>>>>>>>

"That's the closest thing to the Jekyll and Hyde phenomenon I've ever encountered," Saunders mumbled around a mouthful of hamburger two hours later. "I walk back in the house and he's a totally different person. What did you do to him?"

"Well, see, Saunders, I carry around this little medallion and I wave it in front of people's eyes while murmuring a chant—"

"Oh, get off it!" Saunders flung a French fry over at Hutch, who nabbed it and popped it into his mouth with a grin. Starsky made a salivating noise.

"Hutch, I want a kiss as soon as you can spare one, 'cause that food looks better'n a Tahitian vacation right now."

They sat in the car just a block away from the Bay City Ballet Company studio. Saunders put his burger down on the wrapping in his lap and took a swig from his soda. "All right. Here’s my take on the situation. I agree with Dobey: you need to be the one to confront Edwards."

"Saunders," Hutch said unhappily, preparing to launch into a seniority lecture. Starsky cut him off at the pass.

"Hutch, once upon a time you told me I was too hot to order food at the counter. The same goes for you this time, buddy-boy. Dobey's smart to be concerned about your pulling off an undercover assignment: right now people in New York and Miami know who you are from the Gunther media blitz and this isn't the kind of assignment you can wear a stupid gray wig and beard. You're too recognizable to be the under cop. You have to be the upfront guy and I'll be Saunders' backup on the under job."

Hutch eyed the rest of his chicken sandwich with disfavor and rolled it in the wrapping, tossing it into the bag at his feet. Saunders was still watching him expectantly, chewing his last bite of burger. Hutch smiled. "Right. I show my face now, you show yours later as a different person if we have to tackle this from the inside."

"Knew you'd see it my way," Saunders said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Don't flatter yourself that it has anything to do with your keen persuasive skills," Hutch fired back.

Saunders gave him his brightest "Who, me?" grin.

"And what do you propose to do while I'm in there questioning the Stalin of the ballet world?"

Saunders gestured at the mike. "Touch base with Memorial about Ophelia's condition." The sunny smile ducked behind a storm cloud and Hutch knew his partner's mind had made the leap from patient to doctor. Saunders turned and surveyed the driver's side backseat where the box Frederic gave them rested. "Then I'll start going through some of Talbot's performance materials."

Hutch gave a salute of approval and vacated the car. He stifled a snort of amusement as Starsky made a show of exiting the car by less conventional means. "Clown," Hutch accused in an affectionate whisper when they were a few feet removed from the car.

"Yeah, but don't clowns make great lovers?"

"Starsky, all those hints are threatening my professionalism."

"Want me to stop?"

Hutch glanced to the side in a move that would interpreted as checking for traffic before crossing the road and used the opportunity to smile at his life-partner with unabashed love and appreciation. "Not anytime in the next fifty years."

"Hey, you got your math wrong. You're living to be one hundred and forty eight, remember?"

"That's before I knew I'd have to keep up with you in bed," Hutch murmured. "I think you'll wear my heart out by the time I hit one hundred and twenty." Starsky's eyes narrowed as the curly-haired detective tried to assess the level of humor in Hutch's remark and the blond took an unobtrusive sidestep that allowed him to bump Starsky's hip. "Do not take that as a hint to tone down our love life," he cautioned, eyes sparkling.

Starsky grinned and broke into an off-key rendition of 'Hot Child in the City'.

Bay City Ballet Company was housed in a building of impressive stature and architecture, and the interior was clearly designed either to intimidate or uplift. The large front lobby, often used to house smaller fund-raising cocktail receptions, boasted a thirty-foot long and five-feet high tapestry depicting the history of ballet as an art form. Statues of past legends in the ballet community poised in life-like dance positions and seemed ready to spring into action any moment. The lush crimson carpeting spoke of royalty. Starsky scanned the room's décor, tipped his head back to stare up at the high ceiling, and then nudged Hutch. "Why do I feel like we're standing in some cathedral?"

Hutch nodded. "Art can be a religion to some," he said in an even softer whisper than he used outside. "From all accounts, this Edwards guy tends to feel that way so I'm sure this place suits his tastes perfectly." Starsky shivered slightly and followed Hutch across the room to the double-door second entryway. He paused in front of the statue of a male dancer preparing for a grand leap and snorted with distaste. "Is it just me, or did they seem more interested in capturin' what the guy has under his tights than the dance step?"

Without bothering to check for observers, Hutch stretched out his arm and covered Starsky's eyes with his palm. "Hey! No looking at another guy's crotch, thank you."

Starsky slapped at the hand and snapped facetiously, "Just take away all my fun, Hutchinson."

The banter ended swiftly when the double doors opened and a tall waifish brunette stormed into the lobby. Her thin pink chiffon practice skirt billowed out from her skin-tone tights and the spaghetti-strap black leotard left almost nothing to the imagination. Her having neglected to change into street clothes before making an exit emphasized her distress. Hutch and Starsky just stared in matching astonishment. She must have felt Hutch's eyes on her back because she turned, took one lingering, appraising look, and rushed up to him, standing on tiptoe and seizing his lips in a kiss Starsky could feel heating his own mouth. After a stunned second, Starsky shouted, "I don't think so!" and extended a foot, gently pushing against the dancer's lower calves. The nudge worked. Her lips slipped free of Hutch's and she stumbled into his supporting hold.

"How clumsy of me," the girl chimed, righting herself and moving away from Hutch's arms. "Hah! If only Edwards could've seen that! I'll kiss whomever I please...I hate him, I hate him, I hate him! Let him give the prima position to Louise because she's a damn nun. No, not a nun. Edwards wouldn't even stand for one of his dancers being married to Christ. A machine, that's what she is. A machine with no talent. I spit on him!" She thrust her face forward, slapped her hands on her hips and quivered with rage. "With Ophelia and Alicia gone, I should be the top dancer. I've worked my ass off for this place. This is the kind of thanks I get; sorry, no thank you; your focus is on romance instead of the ballet. Screw Edwards...although I don't think either gender wants the honor!"

"Just tell us how you really feel, lady," Starsky said in his rarely used but effective tone of disapproval.

Hutch's mouth opened and closed several times before the brain signals regarding his profession, badge, and intended questions reached the proper muscles. Finally, he extracted his badge and flipped it open. "Detective Hutchinson, BCPD. And you are?"

She swayed on her feet and put her hand over her mouth. "Oh, God," she mumbled through her fingers. "Boy, I've really stuck it in this time, haven't I?" She moved the hand from her mouth and held it out hesitantly. "Gail Dennis."

Hutch shook her hand, feeling awkward at the impersonal contact when the woman had just performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on him. "Are you normally alarmed at meeting a cop?" The question was framed with a broad smile.

"Aw come on, Hutch, don't go easy on her!" Starsky grumped.

Gail tugged at her raven curls and frowned. "Look...I—I didn't mean that I'm glad Alicia's gone. I know that's how it sounded. I—I certainly didn't—you know?"

"What?" Hutch asked, face neutral and eyes blank.

Gail blinked. "K-kill her. I feel terrible about that. I was at a nightclub dancing—dancing, mind you, when she was probably—Uggh. God. I won't ever be able to go back to the Purple Onion without thinking about--"

Hutch's eyes turned into blue laser slits as she fell into the trap he'd set for her. "Would you mind telling me how you know about Alicia's murder? The press has been strictly forbidden to release details pending notification of next-of-kin—"

"Freddy—Frederic Talbot—called about an hour ago and blasted Edwards off the planet for something. Don't know what exactly but it came out in the conversation apparently that he'd walked in on the crime scene last night. Edwards called Louise Thompson-Ward in right away and offered her lead dancer in the upcoming production. So of course Louise confronted me in the practice studio to gloat. I just gave Edwards a piece of my mind!! Now I'm out on my can. That's the long and short of it."

"So much for interviewing fresh, unbiased witnesses," Starsky muttered, hands in his pockets and eyes focused on the red carpet beneath his sneakers.

"You said you were at a nightclub last night, Ms. Dennis? Did you have someone with you?"

"Gail," the girl simpered. "Guess since we've exchanged spit we should be a little less formal, hm?"

"There won't be a repeat of that, doll face," Starsky said firmly.

Hutch felt a portion of his body stir at Starsky's demonstration of possessiveness but squelched the sensation with repeated multiplication tables until Gail broke his train of thought with her answer.

"I was with my fiancé, the main reason I'm not BC-squared's top ballerina, matter-of-fact. Robbie Hughes. Why?"

"I wouldn't advise you to break that habit when you go out in the near future, and be extremely cautious when you open your door to anyone." Hutch fished out his tiny flip-pad and pen and handed them to Gail. "Robbie's contact information, thank you." While she scribbled, Hutch decided to make use of her distraction. "Have you had any threatening notes, weird phone calls, deliveries backstage that didn't make sense?"

Gail paused with pen on paper and looked up at him. "No. Should I be worried about that? Hey, what's going on?"

Hutch motioned at the paper and she dutifully finished jotting down her information. He accepted the pad and pen back with a smile and said, "Do you know any reason someone might also target Calvin Wesson, Frederic, and Ophelia?"

Her face suddenly matched that of Carlotta Grisi's statue off to her right. "I haven't heard all those names in the same sentence in y-years. Sorry I can't help you. I—I need to go. Got to figure out what to do with myself now that I don't have a place in the company."

"You hit a nerve, Hutch. Little miss flirt's hiding something. I wish mind reading came with this ghost-gig." Starsky walked in a circle around the nervous dancers as if trying to capture an emanation from her.

Hutch snagged Gail's elbow as she turned and extended a card. "Someone is threatening BCBC dancers, past and present. So far I haven't been able to establish a pattern beyond their connection to the company. I can't promise you that you're not in danger. I don't want to alarm you, but take care of yourself. Don't take any unnecessary risks, and if someone contacts you in a strange or frightening way, you call me anytime day or night. You'll reach me at one of those numbers. All right?"

Gail tucked the card down the front of her skin-tight leotard and nodded. "Yeah. Sure. Thanks." She backed away a few steps, still looking at Hutch, and then turned and practically jogged to the exit.

Hutch gave Starsky a weak smile. Starsky shook his head, "I don't even wanna hear it, Don Juan."

"Starsky—"

"Not listening," Starsky crooned, hands over his ears as he vanished through the closed double doors.

After an argument with a secretary who believed her sole duty in life to be Afton Edwards' shield from the outside world, and Hutch wishing he had an ounce of the famous 'Starsky charm' and that his lover would cease laughing at his attempt to imitate it, the 'pair' of detectives were shown into a small anteroom with a modern designer sofa and Hutch was asked to sit patiently. The secretary crossed the room, knocked ever so softly on a closed door, and mumbled a few words. She turned and announced, as though for Elizabeth II, "He will see you now."

"He was going to see us—uh, well, you anyway--whether he liked it or not," Starsky said with a grin to Hutch, making a face at the overly prim, bespectacled secretary on the way past.

Hutch didn't know what mental image Starsky had formed, but his own was nothing like the reality of the small, thin man who presided over a desk ten times his size and seemed lost in the spacious swivel chair. Soft, lengthy gray hair brushed shining, one lock determined to fall over his right eye, gentle facial features nearly untouched by wrinkles, he did not present the picture of an artistic dictator who inspired at once hatred and devotion. He glanced up from his study of a photograph and cleared his throat.

"Alicia. She was graced with the elevation of Taglioni and the stage presence of Essler. A devoted soul, Detective, the likes of which this company shall, I venture to say, never see again. Her commitment to this company second only to her worship of her art."

The hairs on Hutch's neck most sensitive to hypocrisy rose and joined forces with his occasional contrariness. "I assume it will come as great shock to you that she was married."

"Jeez, baby. What is it with you and hornets' nests?" Starsky dipped his head and brushed his lips against Hutch's soft leather jacket sleeve. "If he keels over, you get to do the CPR."

Edwards looked like a man shown a glimpse of the Apocalypse. "No...not my—not... No, I'm sorry, Detective, you've been misinformed."

"Don't hand me that, Mr. Edwards. You know the police never take information at face value. She was legally married for the last three years of her life."

"Was it...oh, I hope she didn't marry one of our patrons. Softhearted, sacrificial girl so willing to do anything for the good of the company—"

Hutch couldn't release his nausea in a groan, but Starsky's was loud enough for both of them. "Don't...Hutch, please tell me we don't have another Rikard on our hands. I can't take it."

"No, not a patron. One of your former dancers: Calvin Wesson."

The gentle features developed a sharp edge. "Calvin."

"Who, I might add, was also murdered this morning. But then, you know all this already, don't you? Because Frederic Talbot called you this afternoon and made sure you knew. So why don't we quit playing games with each other because I don't really have the time for it."

"Touchdown, Hutchinson!" Starsky yelled proudly as Edwards leaned forward on elbows on the desk and rested his head in his hands.

"I had nothing whatsoever to do with their deaths," the older man said in a pained whisper.

"Glad to hear it, but your cooperation would be even more helpful."

Edwards' face darkened. "I don't think I like your implication—"

"I don't think I like you, Mr. Edwards, but that's beside the point. As a cop, I'm concerned with facts. Fact number one, you're known to have adamant views on your dancers' personal lives. Fact number two, you wasted no time after Alicia's death in replacing her. Fact number three--"

"You want my alibi, Officer? Let me save you the trouble of asking. Last night I was home alone with no one to vouch for me, and this morning early I took my usual constitutional in the park. Satisfied?"

"I'm not here to accuse you of anything yet, Mr. Edwards. I'd like your honest input on why someone is targeting your dancers."

"Calvin is not one of my dancers."

"He was and Frederic Talbot is," Hutch fired back.

"Shock treatment!" Starsky slapped his hands together in approval. "Smart, buddy."

"What are you talking about?" Edwards' entire upper body quivered.

"Oh, that makes perfect sense. Frederic's the type who would call and bawl you out about Alicia and Calvin, but wouldn't bother to tell you there's a bull's eye on his back too."

"He's my—my star!" Edwards protested as if his proclamation could halt the serial killer's progress.

"Never mind that he's a human being," Starsky snarled, plopping down in one of the nearby chairs and propping his feet irreverently on the desk.

"What Frederic couldn't have told you is that this psycho nearly succeeded in killing Ophelia Hampton as well."

"Ophelia...." The abject shock on Edwards' soft features was unmistakable. He gripped the edge of his desk with knuckles gone white.

"The question is what does someone have against these people? The only thing they have in common is Bay City Ballet. Or are they innocent victims in a grudge against you? Have you received any threats, unusual phone calls, or strange mail? Any ideas, Mr. Edwards?"

"No! No, I don't know. I can't imagine—I—"

"Mr. Edwards, I know about the roses Alicia received several years ago. I've just come from interviewing the detective who handled the matter. I thought it odd that Pritchen put one of his senior detectives on the case when it wasn't even a homicide and then that detective brushed the threats off like no cause for concern. Now I understand—"

Edwards inhaled quickly and coughed. "Y-yes. Lieutenant Pritchen understands the impact of negative publicity in the cultural community. Detective Phillips was under orders to downplay the situation and investigate with discretion. He came directly to me, of course. And I—the minute I heard about the deliveries, I knew who was responsible, so I called Lt. Pritchen and told him that I should like a chance to handle the situation in my own way. I do have quite the well-placed connections, Detective Hutchinson. I imagine Phillips didn't even tell you this afternoon anything other than to consult with me."

"You call allowing Alicia to receive two more deliveries handling the situation in your own way?" Hutch's voice slipped below freezing and Starsky made a vague 'brrr' noise.

"I—I had to make certain arrangements, Detective!" Edwards snapped, sitting back against his chair with his hands folded in his lap, fingers clenching tightly.

"Time to come clean, Mr. Edwards. Who were you protecting?"

"I'd prefer not to discuss it. That has nothing to do with these current crimes! You have to believe me: I don't want anything to happen to Frederic. He's—he's irreplaceable! It's been quite a blow to the company losing him temporarily to his—to Paul's illness—"

"I believe you, Mr. Edwards," Hutch said through clenched teeth. "Now if you'd said you were worried about a good person dying young and brutally, I'd have known you were shooting me a line of bull."

Edwards could do nothing but make fish faces.

Starsky whistled and smacked the chair arm. "Godalmighty, Hutch! I've always wondered why you lug that Magnum around when your mouth is twice as deadly. Ask him again, lover. He's ready to fold."

"One more time, Mr. Edwards. Who was responsible for those deliveries?"

Edwards looked away from Hutch's insistent stare and mumbled something unintelligible.

"Louder, please."

"My brother!" Edwards shouted, eyes squinched shut.

Chapter Ten:
Whirlwind

Hutch enjoyed the comfort and flexibility of his meditation outfit and basked in the greenhouse's silence. Around him the peaceful growth process replenished the air with oxygen as he gave his treasured plants carbon dioxide in fair, reasonable exchange: the perfect, unbroken cycle uncomplicated by emotion, memories, or pain....

The rest of their day had been a nightmarish whirlwind. Edwards' tale of his invalided brother who had developed a strong attachment for a ballerina he'd never actually met was poignant, but a dead-end case-wise. When his brother's condition deteriorated beyond home care, Edwards had placed Arnold into therapeutic care at a private alternative-medicine based convalescent home. Following Arnold's admission to Rose Briar, the floral deliveries to Alicia had ended, and Edwards had chosen preserving family pride over giving Alicia peace of mind about the origin of the flowers and notes. After that revelation, Hutch demanded an audience with the company dancers. Edwards capitulated after minimum argument, seemingly defeated by the discussion of his brother's very personal agony. Edwards' secretary was not at all fazed by Hutch's request for scraps of paper and as many pencils as she could collect.

When Hutch stepped into the bright sunlight half-an-hour later, he spared a moment to convey in one lingering and sultry smile his gratitude for Starsky's presence throughout the experience. Starsky fidgeted under the meaningful gaze and looked almost bashful, eyes sparkling and wide, long lashes moving quickly as he blinked against the emotion. Hutch shook his head in wonder, amazed that one exchanged glance could leave him feeling that he'd been kissed, open-mouthed and hungrily, for minutes on end.

Saunders greeted Hutch with a headshake that answered Hutch's silent question about Ophelia's condition. The younger detective pointed at Hutch's collection of paper scraps and Hutch laughed. "Papers for the teacher to grade."

"I know you're going to explain that one," Saunders said dryly. Hutch smiled.

Starsky leaned forward from the back seat and traced fingertips over Hutch's left shoulder. "Been a long time since we held a school session like that, hm, baby?" He grinned at the young man in the driver's seat. "We tell you that story, Saunders, and you really will think we were fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants hotshots."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Saunders asked reasonably, sifting through the papers Hutch had dropped unceremoniously in his lap. Hutch's sucked in breath and subsequent noisy cough distracted Saunders. He glanced up from his perusal of a particularly unintelligible scribble and asked, "What's the matter?"

"Saunders, I—"

"Hutch, don't. I—I don't understand what's happening, but you can't be the one to bring me into the light as far as Saunders is concerned. Something's going on and maybe—just maybe it's gonna come to a logical conclusion. Just let it. All right? Tell him about the bar fulla odd characters from five years ago and then get us onto a different subject—"

So Hutch told Saunders the story behind the anonymous information he and Starsky had collected on pieces of paper in a seedy bar. Saunders chuckled at the antics of Fat Rolly, whom he could picture only too well thanks to his own introduction to the gaudy crook. "And what was the sixty-four thousand dollar question you put before the assembled group of dancers?" Saunders asked when Hutch's anecdote concluded.

"Simple. What do we most want to know? Who has a beef with Ophelia, Alicia, Frederic and Calvin...and why. So I put that question to the group. Unfortunately, my plan fell through the floor because the dancer I planned to single out wasn't even there."

"Who'd you plan to give the ink pen this time?"

"Louise Thompson-Ward," Hutch answered, stretching his legs as much as possible in the foot of the car. "I had Edwards describe her for me before I went in to talk to the dancers."

"Why her?"

Hutch related an edited version of his conversation with Gail Dennis, minus the scene of grand passion. He gave the information a chance to sink in and then added, "Louise seems to be on the inside track with Edwards and the company. That's a big reason I'd wanted to know precisely what she has to say on the subject without her knowing I can identify her answer. I find it interesting that she was the only dancer absent from the practice session my interview interrupted."

"So you're still thinking this is an inside job," Saunders said.

"No-o..." Hutch stared out his window at the dance studio's impressive façade. "I'm starting to think this weirdo has his feet firmly planted, if not on the ground, then at least outside that dance company."

"Then how do you explain the roses, stalker notes?"

Hutch's face went pink. He was still unused to having another partner, his mind having difficulty relinquishing the old absolute: if Starsky knows, that's all that matters. He twisted in the seat, stretched in the warmth of Starsky's understanding grin, and brought Saunders up-to-date on Afton Edwards' family issues. "That should be our next stop. Rose Briar. I want a look at this Arnold Edwards. See the facility. Get it straight in my own mind that he has been where he should be."

Saunders dumped the scraps of paper into Hutch's lap and cranked the car. "Just point me in the right direction. I'm the newbie in this part of the state, remember?"

"Oh, Christ. Maybe I should drive—some of those roads close to Rose Briar are—"

"Hey! I might be new in town, but I can drive, all right? Don't ever insult my driving—"

"Hutch, I've said it before and I'll say it again: this kid has class—"

Hutch ignored his lover's endorsement as a strange surge of competition pressed against the walls of his veins. "Sure, Saunders. Tell you what: I'll pick you up tomorrow and we'll see who can drive."

"Hutch, what are you—"

Saunders just chuckled. "In that—that mad scientists' version of an auto-Frankenstein you call a car? No thank you, Hutchinson."

Hutch's pulse quickened. "I have a car that could knock this—this Dodge—Whatever off the road standing still."

Fingernails clenched on Hutch's shoulders and an impassioned voice bathed Hutch's left ear in warmth. "Baby?? Are you—you're defending the Torino's honor, aren't you? Holy Shrieking— Do you know what that does to me?"

Hutch didn't see Starsky cross his hands over his chest and bow his head, but he felt the weight of his lover descend, curled around him, on his lap and a greedy mouth attack every inch of his face seemingly at once. Each vestige of Hutch's control worked double-duty to keep his arms from encircling the firm, slender waist and his lips from matching the kisses dropped like rain on his face. He sat stoic under the onslaught, never more acutely aware of Saunders' proximity, and praying that as pleasant as the lapse of control on Starsky's part was, the physical manifestation of it would cease before he had to explain the second Magnum he was suddenly packing. Starsky sensed his urgency and smiled, and just as quickly as he materialized, he was once again safely sprawled in the backseat.

Saunders' attention had mercifully been engaged with the remains of a recent wreck ahead in the road that forced a detour. "Well, Hutchinson?"

"Turn left...up at the light." Hutch fought the tremor in his voice with skill and determination.

"Need to get the Torino and Saunders' Dodge out on the drag-strip. Then we'd see who's boss," Starsky said proudly. "'Course, then I'd want to drive...."

Hutch heard the softening and darkening in the tone and had to throw caution out the window, turning to look not at traffic behind them, but at the slight frown tugging on the corners of Starsky's mouth. He wished he could borrow Starsky's invisibility just for a moment and kiss away the hint of pain, that his voice would go unheard by all except one if he said how much he loved his beautiful mate...how much he needed him.

But Saunders' voice turned the bittersweet heat of Hutch's love to a damp chill when he said softly, "You neglected to tack on an important part to the question you gave the BCBC crowd. Who has it in for all those dancers...and wants the deeds done in your—in Starsky's honor."

>>>>>>>

"That was a dead-end if I've ever seen one," Saunders muttered, bending down to grab a crushed soda can next to his right front tire. He cast a baleful glance at the expansive, salmon-stucco building on his way to the nearest trash receptacle.

Hutch leaned against the passenger door and turned his face, eyes closed, to the sun. "I know. But I wanted to cross this off the list...not just accept Edwards' assurances that Arnold was in no condition to be involved."

Saunders walked up to stretch out in a similar fashion beside Hutch. "I'm not complaining that we drove out here, Hutchinson. I'm frustrated that the lead didn't pan out. I know I should call Memorial and I—I don't want to...."

"Call Memorial or talk to Bev?" The words slipped from Hutch's mouth before he could clamp down on his tongue. He felt the body next to him stiffen and said, "Sorry, Saunders—"

Starsky put two fingers softly against Hutch's open lips. "Don't break your no-apology habit now, Hutch. He needs to talk about it. If you don't yank it outta him, it's gonna get too big for him to carry."

"Either," Saunders said forlornly. "Both...I don't know.... You ever feel that you're being pulled along by something you can't control?"

Starsky left Hutch's other side and stood directly in front of Saunders, comforting but un-felt hands coming down on the unsteady shoulders. "Saunders, that pretty much describes how I felt when I realized I'd fallen in love with my partner."

"Then maybe you can understand why I—" Saunders stopped short. He jumped away from the car and whirled on Hutch. "You—you didn't say anything, did you?"

Hutch tried offering a helpful smile.

"What—what did your partner s-sound like?" Saunders asked, rubbing at his forehead with one hand and back behind his neck with the heel of his other.

"Uh—" Hutch squelched the urge to smack Starsky upside the head when his angelic spouse merely shrugged and shook his head meaningfully. Saunders didn't let him linger in the torture seat. He raced around the car, fumbled around with both visibly shaking hands until he had his door open, and then glared over the car's hood at Hutch.

"Get in!" Saunders shouted.

"What?"

"Get in the damn car! I—I'm gonna stop by the nearest psych facility and check myself in."

Hutch took the burden of calling Memorial off his partner's hands and ascertained without having to speak to Dr. Augustano that Ophelia's medicated slumber continued. Starsky was as oddly quiet as Saunders. Just when Hutch thought he could no longer stand the strain, the radio sounded.

"Zebra-3. Come in, Zebra-3."

Hutch grabbed thankfully at the mike. "Zebra-3."

"Prepare for patch-through from Captain Dobey."

"Hutch?"

"Captain?"

"I have a woman on another line who's asking for you. She won't leave a message with me; I'll see if I can switch you over—"

The crackle of static intensified momentarily and then a female voice asked, "Detective Hutchinson?"

"Yes, hello? Who is this?"

"Not important. You need to ask Ophelia about Midsomer."

"What?" Dead silence. Hutch shook the mike. "Hello?" Nothing. He flung the mike against the dashboard in his frustration. Starsky reached over the headrest to gently cup the back of Hutch's head. "Jeez, Hutch, that solves the case right there. Why didn't I think of that—Midsomer, of course!" The soft stroking of Hutch's hair belied the frustration Starsky shared with his lover.

Saunders was not pleased. Concern etched a hard line in his forehead and his youthful face was suddenly care-worn and older. "Gail Dennis?"

"No," Hutch said, re-cradling the mike. "I heard enough to know that isn't her voice even with the static interference."

"I don't like this," Saunders muttered.

"Saunders, we've known since this morning that Ophelia is somehow involved in—"

"I don't need a professionalism lecture, Hutchinson. As soon as she's conscious, we go in and confront her. In the meantime--"

"Talbot," Starsky said firmly. "I'd bet on him being the next likeliest source."

Hutch drummed his fingers on his knee. "I—I guess we should swing by Lincoln."

Saunders nodded but refused to look away from the road ahead. "You want to pick Talbot's brains about that 'Midsomer' reference?"

"Right."

"What did the other dancers have to say? I didn't have a chance to read all of the notes."

Hutch shrugged. "Just as I suspected: nothing of any consequence at first glance. I imagine some of those dancers weren't even with the company when Ophelia and Calvin were in peak form. So many of them were just shocked speechless when I dropped the bomb. Louise must not have had the time or inclination to spread the word throughout the whole studio."

"Well, one solid lead could break the whole thing wide open," Saunders said by way of encouragement. Hutch smiled.

"Yes. That's what I'm counting on. We're dealing with a serial killer who isn't acting like a serial killer—I think we're going to need some luck on top of good law enforcement to nail this creep."

>>>>>>

They found Frederic in a state of watery-eyed panic. That came as no shock having learned from the nurse at the desk on Paul's floor that the heart patient had been rushed into emergency surgery. Ice coated Hutch from head to toe and without another word to Saunders he fled to the elevator and barely gave Saunders a chance to jump in before he pushed the button for the surgery ward.

Frederic paced the coronary operating room waiting area and seemed determined to pull his own hair out by the roots. The elderly hospital auxiliary worker at the desk just inside the room questioned Hutch's entrance immediately. He held out his badge and explained his desire to speak to Frederic. She nodded over at the uniformed officer who kept quiet vigil as far away from the worried dancer as he could.

"He's in a mess, that young one," she murmured. "That nice officer tried to offer him a cup of coffee and almost had his eyes clawed out. Is it true—I've heard that—the patient is his—well, from the way the doctors talk to him, you'd think they were... married or something." Her tone was heartily disapproving, but couldn't hold a candle to the disgust on her face. "You know what they say...unnatural activity breeds unnatural consequences."

Hutch turned to stone, mobility more than his muscles could accomplish. Saunders' face darkened and he leaned over the desk, pointing significantly at the breast pocket of the old lady's uniform where a patch of three large, intertwined C's read 'Compassion, Comfort, Consolation'. "Neglecting your duties a bit, aren't you?" Saunders asked coldly. The old lady's rosy flush and sputtering galvanized Hutch. He dashed across the room in two strides and touched Frederic's shoulder.

Frederic went vertical before turning around. The kindness and understanding in Hutch's eyes must have unlocked a door in the dancer's suffering heart because his face gave way to the dammed-in hysteria and he clutched at Hutch's shoulders for support. "He—he was st-stable...t-talking to me ab-about b-buying a v-vacation house...they said...setbacks happen with c-coronary p-patients. A setback?! They call this a set-back!!"

The all-too familiar words and the pain sliced Hutch straight through the middle and he discounted the audience of the officer, the frowning Crone of Judgment at the sign-in desk, and Saunders. He guided Frederic up against him and wrapped strong arms around the quivering back. "I know," he said from the heart. "God, don't I know!"

Hutch felt loving warmth cradle his own back and closed his eyes as Starsky's lips found his shoulder blade. "I'm here, baby. Right here and so—so damn proud of you, Hutch."

"Mr. Talbot?"

Frederic pulled back and paled at the sight of the man in scrubs who stood in the doorway. Hutch moved his arms, but Frederic clutched at his jacket sleeve. "D-don't let m-me go...please." Hutch nodded mutely and kept a comforting hand on Frederic's arm, leading him over to the waiting surgeon.

The surgeon's smile turned Frederic's knees to water, Hutch could tell, as he supported more of the young man's weight. "Paul is a fighter," the doctor began. Frederic emitted a shuddering sigh and the surgeon reached out to relieve Hutch of his charge. He led Frederic away to a cluster of chairs and sat down with him, their conversation continuing in low, earnest tones.

Saunders joined Hutch in the middle of the room. "You expected a different outcome," he said softly. Hutch couldn't restrain a shiver. Starsky's firm grip on his hand kept him from sagging under the weight of intense emotion and traumatic memories.

With a final pat on Frederic's shoulder, the surgeon nodded at the auxiliary worker and left the room. Frederic sat unmoving, staring straight ahead. Then his jaw twitched and he looked over at Hutch with a grateful smile. He managed to pull himself out of the chair and traverse the distance to the waiting detectives. "Thank you."

Hutch smiled. "I take it the news...was good?"

"He's in recovery. I w-won't be able to see him for a while, but...his surviving the surgery is a good sign. Y-you're here...about that ph-phone call I made to Edwards, right? I screwed up big time with that, didn't I?"

"We all make mistakes," Saunders said. "Technically, you were walking rather close to an obstruction of justice charge, but—"

"But under the circumstances," Hutch continued, "we're inclined to be lenient. That's not even why we're here."

Frederic nodded. "More questions, then?"

Hutch took in the dancer's rumpled clothing, tousled hair, and pasty complexion. "Look, why don't you have a bite to eat, maybe some of that coffee you couldn't face earlier, and get some rest. We'll come back at a more convenient—"

"No," Frederic interjected. "I—If I sit down right now with nothing to occupy me, I'll go insane. Join me in the canteen on this floor for that cup of coffee?"

"Right. And after that you'll—"

"Go to the recovery waiting area."

Hutch patted both Saunders and Frederic on the back. "Okay. You two go ahead. I'll catch up."

Officer Hallman showed no facial reaction to Hutch's role as comforter beyond that of bland professionalism. "Thanks for sticking close by him," Hutch said, offering his hand. Hallman shook it with a slight smile.

"Doing my job, Detective."

"I gather he was combative earlier?"

"Not really. Nothing more than might be expected from a person under his kind of pressure."

"Glad you see it that way. You're a good man, Hallman. We'll take care of him for the next few minutes. Take a break, get something to eat...we'll escort him personally to the recovery waiting area, so try to be there in about twenty minutes, how's that?"

"Thanks, Detective."

"What's with this 'Detective' stuff? I'm Hutch, Hallman."

"Right, Hutch." Hallman smiled. "It's just—"

"What?"

"You were acting more like a captain, that's all...." Hallman tipped the edge of his cap in a respectful salute and Hutch stared after him all the way to the door. Starsky waved a hand in front of his face.

"Hutch? Beautiful, you should close that mouth. You'll catch germs in a hospital with it hanging open like that. If it weren't for that busybody at the sign-in desk, I'd show you just what I think of you right now. Hallman ain't the only good man around here, Captain Hutchinson."

The auxiliary worker at the desk had to wonder about the sappy sweet expression on Hutch's face as he left the waiting room with his head held high, shoulders squared, and chest thrust forward confidently.

By the time Starsky and Hutch arrived in the canteen, Saunders had managed to coax half a club sandwich into Frederic's system and the coffee cup was nearly empty. Hutch sat down across the table from the two men and couldn't force down a broad smile when Starsky plopped down beside him, twisted in the chair, and draped his shapely legs across Hutch's thighs, crossing his red-sock covered ankles and getting comfortable. Hutch knew his mate needed the close contact as much as he did after the explosive drama in the waiting room.

Saunders tossed Hutch a look that told the blond detective no case-related details had been discussed prior to Hutch's arrival. "Frederic, what does the word 'Midsomer' mean to you?"

Frederic frowned and put down the second half of the sandwich. "'Midsomer' was one of our most successful performances. Ophelia, Calvin, Alicia and I danced featured roles. Um...didn't you see the playbill—in the box I gave you?"

Saunders scratched his forehead and shook his head apologetically at Hutch. "Didn't finish going through it before you got back to the car this afternoon."

"Yeah, it would've been at the bottom. That was my first important dance with the company. 'Midsomer' received such critical acclaim that a dance company in Russia fought the government for permission to produce their own version. In fact," Frederic smiled significantly at Hutch, "your Ms. Akhanatova cut her teeth on Russia's rendition of 'Midsomer'. She danced the role Alicia had made famous in the international arts community."

Saunders questioned Hutch silently with a raised eyebrow and Hutch flushed. The legs on his thighs tensed and Hutch willed himself not to stroke the knees within his reach. "Can you think of any reason the performance might have something to do with Alicia's and Calvin's deaths? With—" Hutch stopped and eyed Saunders frantically across the table. Frederic did not know about Ophelia's poisoning. How much could the young man handle under the present circumstances? Saunders cleared his throat.

"Frederic, the writing on your wall was more than just an idle threat. Ophelia is currently recovering from digitalis poisoning at Memorial. She's unable to talk to us right now, but we've had an anonymous tip that suggested that we should ask Ophelia about 'Midsomer'. Does that mean anything to you?"

Frederic's face turned into an emotionless mask. "I—I don't know. Sounds like someone might be jerking your chains."

Saunders and Hutch shared a puzzled frown. Starsky's legs tensed again, but for a different reason. "He's hiding something, Hutch."

"Frederic, if you know something, I can promise you that you're acting in Ophelia's best interest by telling us. We can't protect her—or you—unless we know what we're up against." Hutch used his most compelling expression accompanied by his soft, confidant voice. Neither melted the mask.

"Hey, I—Look, 'Midsomer' was a stunning performance, but the road leading up to it was rough, all right? Long hours, tense nerves, Edwards being his usual asshole-self. Nothing that should connect to all this craziness, though, or I'd lay it all out for you right here and now. Don't you think I can't appreciate the position I've already gotten myself in making that phone call?"

The rest of the sandwich remained on the plate and eventually joined the Styrofoam coffee cup in the garbage. They left Frederic in the care of Officer Hallman at the recovery waiting area with well wishes for Paul's continued healing. As soon as the elevator doors closed, Saunders let out an expressive sigh.

"Mazes and dark tunnels. Dead-ends and brick walls. Jesus!"

"I agree on all counts," Hutch said, feeling tired and in need of a recharge. "I could just shake Frederic! Anyone else I'd haul down to the station and threaten with an accessory charge, but I can't bring myself to even work up a good yell at him. What's wrong with me?"

Starsky slipped an arm around his waist. "It's because he's a basically an okay guy who's got the weight of the world on his shoulders right now and you don't wanna add to it even if it's for his own good. Was I any better at pushing Emily for information? And I sure as hell didn't follow procedure with Sharman."

"I think this 'Midsomer' tip is a lead worth pursuing," Saunders commented as they stepped out on the bottom floor.

"Yeah, there's something in Bay City Ballet's past that is 'need-to-know' information. I've never seen such a close-mouthed bunch of people. Gail, Edwards, Frederic—"

"I say we track down Louise Thompson-Ward and give her a chance to break the silence."

"Right. If that's a dead-end, I'd say whatever Louise knows, Gail Dennis could offer some commentary on the subject if we lean on her. Failing that, maybe Ophelia will have decided to surface and unburden herself. I have a feeling this whole 'Midsomer' mystery might be the root of her desperation to get hold of you."

"The root but not the only reason," Starsky commented enigmatically, reminding Hutch that his lover had some explanations of his own to deliver when privacy allowed.

Unfortunately, tracking down both Gail Dennis and Louise proved easier said than done, and Ophelia's 'slumber' remained unbroken. After both men had been sitting at their desks, too tired to find rejuvenation in coffee and poring over the performance materials in Frederic's box for over an hour, Hutch rose slowly to his feet and slipped into his jacket.

"I need to take a step back."

"That makes two of us," Saunders agreed, eyes weary. He glanced at his watch. "Jeez, I didn't know it was so late. Where'd the time go?"

"We've been running in circles for hours after leaving the hospital, Saunders. Trying to scare up a lead out of thin air. It's not working." Hutch grimaced. "My fault: I should have leaned harder on Frederic."

Starsky slipped his arms around his partner's waist. "Aw, Hutch, this case has enough twists and turns to qualify as a Marine obstacle course. That's got nothing to do with you. What Frederic's keeping to himself might not even have a bearing on the murders."

Saunders stood and picked up his denim jacket. "Nah, don't worry about it, Hutchinson. After a few hours' rest, we'll hit the pavement again. Something's bound to break."

"I'm picking you up, remember? How's 7:30?"

"Fine."

>>>>>>

But rest would not come for Hutch. He'd held Starsky at arms' length, pleading exhaustion and an inability to compete with Starsky's superhuman passion and energy, but even sleep eluded him, however comfortable he'd been wrapped in Starsky's strong arms. So he'd left his sleeping angel in peace and donned his meditation suit, hoping to find solace through quiet communion with his plants and self-reflection. He did not question the impulse to drag his photo album into the greenhouse with him. He did not analyze his reasons for flipping to the page that preserved under the plastic film a newspaper clipping featuring Anna Akhanatova. He sat in peaceful silence, stretching and feeling his muscles relax, letting the days' events wash over him and drift away with the tide. What a day it had been! He was not prepared for the footsteps that interrupted his solitude...or the pained voice that said, a hint of frost in the tone, "Walking down memory lane without me?"

Chapter Eleven:
Interlude

Hutch slapped the photo album shut with a quick flick of his wrist, but the move only made the direction his thoughts had taken seem worse than it was. Starsky matched Hutch's cross-legged position on the floor and his instantaneous transition from birthday suit to tightly cinched robe when Hutch looked up at him pierced the blond's heart.

"Starsky...."

"Lots of memories today. Everywhere we turned. Lots of pain, too. Even I feel like we worked a thirty-six hour shift in one day. Guess it makes sense that you'd choose to unwind by having a look at your past. Me, I wanted to kiss a cold beer off your lips and then kiss you all over, but you weren't in the mood so...."

"Starsky, I'm not—"

"You would've married her."

"What!? Who're you--"

"Don't gimme that, Hutch. Even if I hadn't seen your photo album open, I'd have known by the way you been reacting all day long every time her name came up in conversation. Plus, I was with you the night after she left and you got bawling drunk, telling me over and over again how you 'loved her a lotta bit'. I thought you were loose a screw in a vital location until you explained that you said that to her and why. And that's when I knew...I knew if there wasn't a damn Wall and she could've moved here, you would've married her."

"Yes--"

"And now that she's hitched herself to some political suit over there in Russia, you're thinking, 'That should've been me'."

"No!"

"Hey, I'm a man too. I've been down that road. You think you've put an old flame completely out of your head. Out of sight, out of mind, and all. And then, wham! you find out she's married and you automatically assume the guy's a schmuck and she'd've been better off with you—"

"No!" The echo in the room's semi-dark quiet gave the impression of a deep cavern. Satisfied that he finally had Starsky's undivided attention, Hutch expelled a slow breath and lowered his voice. "Don't put words in my mouth. If you want to be jealous about a woman I haven't seen in ages, who never even sent me a postcard, who's—as you say—married to some Communist Party mouthpiece in Russia, that's your business. Leave me out of the equation."

"I'm not jealous."

"Oh, sorry. Jealous and delusional. Wait a minute: I thought jealousy was a completely human condition. One of the inferiorities of mankind. How are you getting away with it?"

Starsky fidgeted under Hutch's patient, steady observation. Then he brightened. "Yeah, you're right: those are the kind of emotions I'm supposed to feed off you--share your pain, discomfort.... Why are you jealous, Blondie?"

Hutch sighed and a small smile threatened to ease the frown lines. He reached over to stroke at the hem of Starsky's robe, dipping his fingers under the material to tease the skin beneath. "Now we're getting somewhere with this conversation. I'm jealous of Frederic."

"What?!" Starsky scooted back away from the distracting hand.

"Oh, I don't envy him Paul's illness. Don't get me wrong. They aren't having an easy time of it right now. But I envy the openness they've managed. The life they built together. I'm sure they've had plenty of heartache and trouble from society. The judge-and-jury woman over at the sign-in desk today is probably just a taste. Doesn't seem to impact their love, though. Of course, we've never even met Paul, but Frederic certainly wears his devotion proudly. I wish—"

"You wish you had that."

"I wish we'd had that," Hutch corrected. He folded his hands in his lap as if concerned about their behaving without supervision, and stared down at them. "I'm not complaining about what we have, Starsky. I—I couldn't live without you here...you know that. I just wish I'd had the guts to sky-write over the city how I felt about you when we first came together...when you were still completely in this world. I thought about it. I know this guy out in the country who owns a crop-duster he's converted for commercial sky-writing and banners...."

"I never wanted you to lose everything you've worked for, Hutch."

"What the hell is more important than what we worked for...together? That’s something else I realized today. We've seen or heard about a lot of relationships in twenty-four hours, Starsk. You notice that? Alicia and Calvin who were hiding in some weird heterosexual closet; Anna's marriage which doesn't sound like the happiest union on the face of the earth if you read between the lines; Saunders and Bev—who I thought had everything in the world going for them—are acting like enemy armies camped across a field. Isn't it strange how the one couple who seem the happiest to me—despite some tough obstacles—is the relationship society says should never work because it's—somehow 'unnatural?'"

"Don't over-idealize it, Hutch. We don't know about the rocky times Frederic and Paul may have had. Any two people can get under each other's skin in the wrong way—"

"I'm not idealizing. I just feel that we should have had the chance for people to look at us and say, 'That relationship works '. Screw the labels and the stereotypes. It just works." Hutch's eyes turned crystalline, the edge in his gaze not directed at Starsky but inward and the hardness that he never inflicted on others, aimed at himself. "You're right: I'm jealous. I'm jealous of Frederic because he wasn't blind."

"Lost me again, philosopher."

Hutch moved his leg and tapped the photo album with his foot. "You said I would have married her. You're right. And it would have been the second worst mistake I ever made. She wouldn't have had any more of a chance than Van did."

"You are not laying the blame for Vanessa at your feet, Hutch. Not while I'm here to tell you that’s bullshit."

"Oh, don't worry, Starsk: I'm not saying she was Wife of the Year material. But think about it objectively. I have. Isn't the bond you make with your spouse supposed to be all encompassing in the sense that it takes top priority? Forsaking all others? That doesn't just mean not screwing around, you know. That bond dictated that I put it ahead of our partnership, ahead of you and me and our job. I could've taken Vanessa away somewhere at the beginning and really worked on salvaging what we had together. I didn't. Why? Because even then I couldn't think about a world without you in it. And don't hand me that line about other cops losing marriages to The Job. Sure, they do. The wives end up competing with the long hours, constant stress, and dangerous conditions. Husbands come home shells of human beings from a rough day on the streets—you heard Luke! But that's not what happened in my case."

"Hutch—"

"I stopped touching her. Not the other way round."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, never told you that, did I? She had every right to claim 'alienation of affection'. I remember how you used to blast her off the map behind her back for not giving me a little warmth and affection. You could tell I wasn't leaving a hot, loved-in bed every morning. Made you see red, because a man's not supposed to go without a good, healthy sex life, right? And you knew I wasn't getting any from other women. Not in my make-up. You didn't know I was the one who established the 38^th Parallel in our bed."

"Why—why didn't you tell me?"

Hutch laughed and the sound echoed hollow and recriminating. "I couldn't face you with the reason. It was easier to let you assume what men always do in these cases: that the woman turned frigid. A couple months after the department paired us up, Van decided to try her hand at the whole cop's wife lifestyle. Oh, yes, she went all out: bought tickets to the upcoming policemen's fair as a surprise for me, spent two hours in the kitchen wrestling with this recipe she got from her family's maid so she'd have something for the charity bake sale, called Edith and offered to help with the Children's Hospital raffle...she even went out shopping for an outfit that looked more 'everyday woman'. You think I'm lying, don't you? Hard to reconcile all this with your favorite Vanessa the Satanist mental image."

"What happened?" Starsky's voice had shifted into harsh coldness, the detective gathering facts before he would pass judgment, the man struggling for objectivity in the face of violent emotion.

"I still wasn't happy. Too much water already under the bridge, too many fights--who knows? I couldn't get enthused over her new leaf and she knew it. So to get me back, or to get my attention, maybe even some kind of cry for help, she found the one button she couldn't push with impunity."

"Me."

"Right. You are a detective. After one particularly tiring night of listening to her list all the reasons you should be removed from the universal genetic material for the sake of mankind's future, something snapped in me. Never laid a hand on her again. Tough pill to swallow, isn't it, buddy? Knocks your statue of Hutch the Martyr on its ear. You always have gotten off on that image of Hutch the Saint; you think I don't know it? Sometimes I think that's why I went after Kira...I'm just as capable of throwing out a vicious cry for help as Van. I loved you and I wanted you to see the real ME. The me who isn't above playing dirty pool if pressed into a corner."

"D-don't do that!" Starsky spat through clenched teeth.

"W-what?" Hutch was startled, uncertain how to read his lover's reaction.

"Don't turn yourself into some kind of a monster."

"I'm just relating facts here, Starsky, hard as they may be for you to digest."

"No!!" Starsky scrambled to his feet and turned his back on his mate. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You're trying to balance the books again. I pitched a jealous snit and now it's up to you to even the account. Make yourself the bad guy again. You think I haven't noticed how you do that? You're the one with the pet images, Hutch. Starsky, the overall good and loving, innocent-at-heart, and Hutch, the complex and disillusioned, corrupted cynic. Right? Not used to hearing me match your psychoanalysis, huh? Tell me how far wrong I am?" His tirade met with chilled silence and Starsky slowly turned to face his partner. "Yeah, I thought so."

Hutch abandoned his meditative pose and reached for the photo album. "I need some sleep. This case isn't going to look any easier in the morning light."

Starsky waited until Hutch stood poised to leave the greenhouse, and then with a small moan, he flung himself against his miffed spouse, knocking the album to the floor. "I know you, Hutch. I get off on you...not some favorite idea of you. Don't you know it's your down-and-dirty realism that made me understand how I felt about you in the first place? Don't—don't turn away from me."

Hutch wrestled his arms free and embraced Starsky roughly, arms testing the physical nature of his favorite spirit. He ducked his chin to brush parted lips against springy curls, loving their give and bounce, enticed by their tickle against his nose. Starsky seemed disinclined to move his head from its haven tucked in the curve of Hutch's neck and shoulder. "What do you want?"

Starsky trembled. "I know you're tired, but I really need to love you tonight."

"Ah, Starsk, you make it sound like I'd be doing you a favor instead of vice versa. Weren't you listening to me earlier? I was trying to tell you that you've been the most important person in my life since I first laid eyes on you."

Starsky smiled into Hutch's shoulder. "Can't you do something more productive with that mouth than talk?"

"Maybe if you'd quit hiding that beautiful face, I'd be inspired to shut up." The man in his arms trembled again, this time with laughter, and the dark head lifted, blue eyes open and bottomless in the moonlight. Hutch's breath caught in his throat. "Keep them open," he husked.

"Hm?"

"Your eyes. Keep them open when I kiss you...."

"Hutch—" Starsky surrendered the rest of his words to the gentle lips that landed first in the corner of his mouth and slid seductively over for direct contact. The deep kiss ended in a gasp from Hutch when he felt the shock of naked skin under his fingertips. His hands circled Starsky's back and he moved to whisper in his lover's ear.

"You get a thrill out of doing that," he accused breathlessly. Starsky chuckled.

"No, I get a thrill out of getting you naked the old-fashioned way." Starsky nibbled at Hutch's neck and tugged on the red 'jacket' of Hutch's Karate Gi. "Although, I gotta admit this kung-fu costume of yours really lights my fire."

"Since when?" Hutch snorted. He wiggled to aid Starsky's de-robing efforts.

Starsky's hand crept down from the tempting hint of smooth chest to the bulge ill concealed by the Gi's thin cotton fabric. "Since I realized how nice it shows off your unspeakables."

"My what!?" Hutch burst out laughing and crushed Starsky against his chest, rocking them both with the force of his amusement. "I think you mean my 'unmentionables'."

"Whatever. They really stand out in this get-up."

"They'd stand 'out' even more if you'd get these clothes off me."

"For someone who wasn't in the mood earlier, you're really breathing fire and prancing around now."

"What can I say? You're a master of seduction." Hutch pushed Starsky away and took charge of shedding his clothes. "Sorry," he breathed at Starsky's confused pout. "I can't handle an endless teasing session tonight, gorgeous." He made the mistake of looking up from peeling off the loose white pants and succumbed to paralysis. Starsky's smile vied with the moonbeam for most dazzling. The light bathed Starsky in flattering silver, highlighting muscle tone and emphasizing the natural grace in his relaxed stance, and the shadows in his face turned the safe, familiar features exotic and slightly dangerous. Choking, desperate hunger for the man before him arrested Hutch's movement and he stumbled forward, still halfway in one pants leg, completely off balance and feeling like a schoolboy confronted by his first glimpse of human sexuality. The breathtaking vision of masculine beauty stepped out of the fantasy and was once more his laughing, loving best friend, reaching out to steady him.

"Just tell me I'm the only one who's ever gotten your motor running like that and I'll be a happy man forever," Starsky said, winking.

Hutch nodded, unable to speak.

Starsky went down on one knee and lifted the strong leg from the tangle of pants. He tilted his head back to stare up into Hutch's eyes and lowered the foot to the floor in slow motion, fingertips sliding up the leg on its way down. Hutch shivered. "You're going t-to tor-torture me tonight, aren't you?"

"No. You do need some sleep, and I have the perfect sleep-aid."

At that point Hutch surrendered his conscious mind to Starsky's trance. The journey between the greenhouse and their bed was a meandering path through a dream world in which kisses continued unbroken by the need for anything as mundane as oxygen and every single nerve ending took its turn at rapture. When they arrived at the bed, Starsky took advantage of Hutch's dazed state to pull him down between his open, inviting legs.

"Wha--?" Hutch murmured, too wrapped up in his mate's hypnosis to be ashamed at his lack of coherence.

"Put those unmentionables to good use, sexy man. Try massaging my heart from the inside."

Hutch gulped as the words ignited a chemical reaction below his waist. Starsky seized Hutch's upper arms, fingernails seducing muscle, and teasingly bumped his sides with his knees, making his desires clear. Hutch groaned. "What happened to foreplay?"

Starsky massaged the tremors out of the biceps in his grasp and Hutch let his head fall. Starsky rose up on elbow and kissed the hair from Hutch's forehead. "Are you kidding? You think watching you trip over your own clothes for me wasn't foreplay? In case you haven't noticed, I'm somewhere between painfully turned-on and delirious here. No countdown needed. I'm ready for lift-off. Put me in orbit, Hutch."

Hutch devoured the mouth that smiled so impertinently and thanked the advantages of Starsky's ghosthood. He slid easily into the clinging warmth that waited for him; watched as the sensations lit tiny fires in Starsky's eyes that mirrored his own passionate expression. "I'm—going—to—lose control," Hutch warned the man supposedly at his mercy. Starsky laughed and wrapped his legs around Hutch's waist, and the blond knew that for all the dominance of his position, he was very much under Starsky's control and spell.

"Counting on it, beautiful." Starsky lunged upward for another kiss; his sigh the siren call that filled Hutch's ears and started the dance. What Hutch lacked in a nightclub under a swaying luminous ball, he made up for in spades with the natural rhythm required for passion. No clumsiness, no excess movement, all strong legs and precision. Starsky was no passive dance partner. He matched Hutch's thrusts with his own energy and his alternating purrs and delighted shouts provided inspiring background music.

Hutch was lost in the heat, tightness and safety of Starsky's hands gripping his arms and legs holding him closer than he imagined he could get. He maneuvered his right hand to relieve some of the pressure he could see developing in Starsky's groin. As his hand fell into rhythm with his body, Starsky's hands moved and Hutch moaned as his beloved's arms crisscrossed behind his back, fingers clawing at his overheated skin as the pace quickened.

The loving claws and accompanying purrs unleashed a locked-away desire of Hutch's as he stared down into the twin blue flames attempting to visually coax his satisfaction. Suddenly careless of how the long pent-in endearment would strike his macho partner, Hutch flung his head back and cried, "Oh, kitten! Kitten...come with me!"

"Hutch!" Starsky's back arched and his mouth opened, pleading for a kiss. Hutch shot forward to meet the demand, fell victim to blinding climax mid-way, and breathed, "My kitten..." into the parted lips. Starsky's shrill cry of satisfaction was the last thing Hutch heard as darkness consumed him.

He surfaced to the sound of Starsky humming softly and the feel of fingers stroking his back beneath his shoulders. He decided he could still command the muscles below his waist and stretched his legs. He was sprawled across Starsky so his shifting registered immediately. The humming ceased.

"Hey...what are you doing awake? You were only out about an hour. That work-out should've been good for at least four hours uninterrupted snoozing."

"I love you," Hutch answered.

The fingers delved into his hair. "Aw, man, Hutch, I love you too. That was...one of the best times..." Starsky smiled and continued to pet the sweaty blond hair. "What was that kitten stuff?"

Hutch felt his body temperature spike. He turned his face into the pillow beside Starsky's neck and mumbled an explanation. Starsky was having none of that. In one swift movement he rolled them both over so that he could pin Hutch down and gain complete access to Hutch's facial play of emotion. Hutch closed his eyes. "Uh-uh," Starsky scolded. "Open those pretty peepers and tell me what has you calling me 'kitten' in the heat of passion, buddy."

"I—I've wanted to call you that for a long time," Hutch whispered. "Sorry, I know it sounds—"

"Sexy as hell, actually. Especially in that special voice. But what—"

"You—you'll think I'm weird."

"I've thought that since I met you, Hutch, so lighten up and spit it out."

"You remind me...when we're out on the street, you're like a jungle cat. A panther, leopard, jaguar...take your pick. Sleek, agile, fast, prowling for trouble, ready to tear someone to shreds if they threaten me. But when we're alone, loving each other, you have this soft side only I get to see, and if I'm touching you just right, you actually purr. The great cat turns into a—"

"Kitten," Starsky finished, laughing.

"R-right." Hutch tensed as the laughter continued. Starsky sobered and brought a hand to rest against Hutch's flushed cheek. He lowered his head and Hutch opened his mouth eagerly, accepting the soothing kiss with a sigh of gratitude. Starsky followed that kiss with a quick succession of lip brushings across Hutch's face. Finally, he pulled away after a peck on the tip of Hutch's nose.

"I think that’s the most beautiful compliment I've ever had. You can call me that anytime you want, Hutch."

The sensual moment fell to pieces at brisk pounding on Hutch's front door. Hutch's eyes tripled in size. "Who...who the hell—at this hour?"

Starsky cocked his head as though able to ascertain the visitor's identity through special hearing. He smiled at Hutch, but the smile held a trace of sadness. "Two years ago if you'd heard a knocking on your door this time of night, who would you have assumed—"

"You, of course, but—" Hutch shot straight up in bed. "Saunders!! He'll know I—" Hutch ran one hand through his love-rumpled hair and the other along his neck, feeling for tell-tale love bites.

"Hutch, when is the one time a guy never notices what's happening in his friend's love life?"

"What?" Hutch was already off the bed and searching for a pair of sweat pants. He located a pair and hurried into them. "I don't know...when?"

"When his own heart's been stomped on the ground, dummy. Go open that door!"

Chapter Twelve:
Paradise Lost

Saunders was barely recognizable. His face had the pallor of an end-stage 'Consumption' patient and the usually combed neat and shining short brown hair looked twice as long because it seemed to stand on end. He wore the same jeans, denim jacket, and shirt but they appeared to have been wadded up and thrown in a corner at some point during the evening. He stared at Hutch's own disheveled appearance through lowered, glistening eyelashes and mumbled, "S-sorry."

"Well, come on in, pal, don't stand in the hall." Hutch stepped back and offered a welcoming smile. "Mi casa e su casa."

Saunders chuckled lightly, but the sound was pitiful in combination with his facial expression. He walked past Hutch to the sofa and sat down on one end. Hutch sat on the other. Starsky had come into the room in the meantime and observed the interaction with hands on his hips and a shake of his head. When Hutch cleared his throat the second time and Saunders' discomfort level increased, Starsky took matters in his own hands. He stood right in Hutch's line of sight and waved his arms up and down. Hutch coughed. Starsky gestured wildly at the bathroom. Hutch gave a slight head toss. Starsky stomped his foot and said, "Bathroom now!!"

Hutch glanced at Saunders and said quietly, "Back in just a minute. Make yourself at home."

He didn't wait for a response but hopped up and headed immediately for the bathroom. Starsky followed him in and the moment the door closed, Starsky held up a hand to remind Hutch to keep quiet. After a minute, Starsky pressed down on the toilet's handle and a few seconds following the flush, turned on the water. Hutch understood then and burst out in an energized whisper, "What's the big idea?"

"What's the matter with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're being as comforting as a tree stump—"

"Hey, I did pretty good when he told us about his partner—"

Starsky shook his head impatiently. "That's fellow cop stuff. Any cop can sit and listen to another one talk about the major crap that happens on this job. He's here now not just for a partner, but for a friend. And you can't handle that—"

Hutch sighed. "Starsky, I—"

Starsky turned off the water. "Can't flood the bathroom out, so just stay quiet and listen to me. I swear to God sometimes your mind works in ways no one in their right mind should understand. You think I'm gonna feel like yesterday's table scraps if you're his friend? Hell, no! I consider him a friend already, but my communication with him is happening in bits and pieces, and I don't even know why it's happening or how or if it should be. So I can't do him much good. You can. So go out there and treat him like you'd treat me—"

Hutch's face froze into a mask of disbelief. Starsky threw his hands up in the air. "I'm not saying go French kiss him into oblivion, dummy! I'm talking about how you would have treated me a few years ago if I showed up at your doorstep looking like that. Whatever you mighta been feeling subconsciously, you sure weren't acting on it. You were my buddy, my pal. Don't just call Saunders 'pal', act like it. That kid out there just might save your hide one of these days—"

Hutch nodded, pulled Starsky close for a quick, appreciative kiss, and left the bathroom.

Saunders was still perched as close to the end of the sofa as he could get without sitting on the arm. He stared into space, and the only movement in his entire body was a twitching in his jaw. He didn't even notice Hutch nod his head and turn to the kitchen when Starsky said, "I think this is a brandy moment."

Brandy bottle and shot glass in hand, Hutch sat back down on the sofa less than a foot away from his openly traumatized partner and said, "I'm going to sit here and when you're ready to talk, just get right down to it. Have a swig of this." He extended the glass and Saunders shifted his head slowly to stare at the liquor and then his partner. The blank expression suddenly had a spark of life.

Starsky stood by and smiled. "That's it, lover. Use that famous Hutchinson Baby Blanket Voice. Does it every time."

Saunders knocked back the brandy, coughed violently, blushed furiously and remained silent. Hutch risked a concerned glance at Starsky, who shrugged his inability to help. Finally, Saunders leaned over and placed the empty glass carefully on the round coffee table. "I—I'm sorry for showing up unannounced like this—didn't know where else to go...."

Hutch squeezed the nearest shoulder. "I'm your partner. Of course, you come here. What happened?"

Saunders dug in his jean pocket and leaned over again. Holding his hand perhaps a foot over the coffee table, he opened his balled fist and let a small object drop with a plunk onto the dark wood. Hutch's eyes widened when he identified the object as a diamond ring. Starsky let out a muted curse. Hutch took a second to remember the English language.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes."

"I—I don't understand—"

Saunders laughed harshly. "That was my first reaction earlier today in the ER. Things have been getting steadily clearer since then, though."

"What—I'm sorry." Uncertain how to discuss the subject without prying, Hutch sat restlessly back against the cushions and Starsky immediately found a space right next to him, leaning his back against the other sofa arm and turning so he could nestle his feet in Hutch's lap. Hutch felt immediately comforted. He wished he could provide Saunders with even half that hope and solace. He remembered Starsky's words from earlier: his advice to get Saunders to unburden himself. "Something happened in that hallway at Memorial before I arrived on the scene," he said. Saunders nodded, staring at his own knees.

"If you can call her kissing another man with twice the enthusiasm she's shown me in the last few weeks something happening." At Hutch's silent amazement, Saunders nodded again. "Oddly enough, she claims today was the first time she and Dr. Llewellen had any...how did she put it?...physical contact."

"No wonder our partner looked like he'd stepped on a landmine when we caught up with him," Starsky commented, voice tender with sympathy.

Hutch concentrated on the practical. "Saunders, you've been in Bay City less than two weeks—"

"Right, well, it seems her unwavering support of my moving here had more motivation than meets the eye."

"This is just getting worse," Starsky said unhappily.

Hutch realized that Saunders wasn't going to volunteer information but would answer questions. Psychologically, something closely resembling an interrogation, a familiar process to him, was easier for the young detective to accept than baring his soul in a rush of words.

"She was communicating with this doctor while you two were in Sacramento?"

"Yes. What started out as a professional consultation about a patient who showed up in the ER in Sacramento apparently blossomed into a long distance friendship. I knew nothing about it...or him. Not that I really knew much about anything during that time. This all started right after the shit really hit the fan following Mark—Mark's death."

Hutch flinched as he considered that tidbit of information. "So you're saying she was so happy about the move to Bay City not just because of the job at Memorial but because it allowed her to be close to this doctor?"

"Pretty much."

Time for the important question. Starsky cuddled closer to Hutch and the blond detective had a difficult time forcing his arms to remain in a neutral, relaxed position at his sides. "Saunders, did you break the engagement...or did she?"

Saunders covered his face with his hands and shook slightly. "She did," he said, muffled, into his hands. "After I refused to go to Europe with her."

"Can't say this ain't a complicated mess," Starsky sighed.

"Europe?"

The hands dropped and Saunders looked his real age for the first time since Hutch met him. "Dr. Llewellen is returning to London in a month on some sort of research project and wants Bev on his team. The only problem is, participation on the project means the next eighteen months will be divided between London, Hamburg, and Paris. She's already made up her mind to go and asked me to go with her."

"And you said no-go," Hutch said, more to keep the information flowing than for clarification. Saunders must have taken the statement as disapproval because he turned a wild stare on Hutch.

"What the hell would you have done? What kind of situation is that? I traipse halfway across the world with her and play tourist while she works day in and day out side-by-side with this doctor she has these muddled semi-sexual feelings for? No, what she wants is a chance to have her cake and eat it, too. Sorry; I don't play that way."

Hutch flinched again, this time at unbidden memories of a blonde temptress perched calmly on a sofa dictating her right—and his—to indulge in that same practice. Starsky's toes gently nudging his groin propelled his mind back to present-day. "Hey, hey...I'm on your side here, pal. I can understand your reluctance to put yourself in that kind of whirlwind. So, she put it to you in an ultimatum?"

Saunders smiled, but the pain in the expression cut through both of the other men on the couch. "Oh, I think I failed the test. The 'prove how much you love me' test. I—I just don't understand. Three years we were engaged. I wanted to marry her a month after I put the ring on her finger. I was that ready. But, I'm no complete romantic idiot: I know women aren't treated fairly in the medical profession. I know they're expected to prove themselves beyond what men have to prove. So I backed away and gave her the space to concentrate on doing just that. Every now and then the subject would come up, but she pushed the topic away. I guess—I guess that should've told me something, but I was too hung up on her to care...."

"What's changed?" Hutch asked suddenly. Starsky sucked in his breath and said, "Oh, boy, Hutch, maybe you and I shoulda had that talk after all before this happened—"

Saunders blinked at Hutch's question. "What do you mean?"

"Less than a week ago you told me Bev is your life, and listening to you talk about her then, I would've agreed with you. Now...yeah, you're shaken. Upset. Hurt, frustrated...all those normal emotions. But you're not talking about her like she's about to take your whole life across that ocean—"

Saunders stood too quickly, swayed on his heels, and managed to remain upright. He stood silent and breathing harshly. His breathing evened out and he said, almost inaudible, "Sometimes it's just not enough...."

"What's not enough?" Hutch asked.

"When it's not real...." Starsky said, nodding his agreement at Saunders. "When it's not soul-deep."

Saunders sank back down on the sofa and proceeded to pour another drink. "I hate brandy."

"I'm not exactly fond of it myself," Hutch laughed. "But sometimes...."

"Yeah," Saunders agreed and gulped it down.

"Uh, Saunders...."

Those toes nudged him again. "Let him, Hutch. One more's not going to knock him out. He'll sleep like a baby through the rest of the night and you're driving in the morning anyway."

"Bev's a classy person," Saunders pronounced. "She's doing this for a reason. Never does anything without a reason."

"Saunders—"

"No! You don't know her! I lived with her for three years...Three! Count 'em...one, two, three—I know her!! I loved—love... Oh, God."

Starsky moved his feet so Hutch could scoot closer to the distraught man. Hutch wrapped an arm around Saunders' shoulders and pulled him to his side. "Shh...."

"Why am I...I'm not a crier, dammit! Why do I... always cry... in front of you!?"

"Because my Hutch tends to bring emotion out of people, Saunders," Starsky said fondly, nuzzling Hutch's other shoulder with his lips and nose.

"Well, I wish he'd quit bringing—" Saunders shuddered all over and flew off the couch, knocking Hutch backwards with the force of his propulsion. He turned and continued backing away, hands out in front of him in a protective gesture. "What—what's happening to me? I—I'm losing my mind. M-maybe that's it. Maybe B-Bev picked up on it and she doesn't want to hang around a lunatic—"

"Saunders...." Hutch began, but the young detective shook his head fiercely.

"I can't be here...I need to—"

"Saunders!" Hutch yelled. When the man quieted and stared at him, eyes still hazy with unshed tears and lips quivering, Hutch smiled encouragingly. "You're going to stay right here. I'll turn this sofa into a comfortable bed with blankets and pillows and you'll get some sleep. We're close enough to the same size that you can borrow some clothes tomorrow instead of going back to your apartment. One step at a time, you understand? That's the only way you get through something like this...."

"You don't need to—" Saunders hung his head and seemed to wilt.

"Look, no matter what the situation is or how you part ways, breaking up a three-year committed relationship is never easy. Hell, breaking up any relationship is like getting smashed on rocks. I—I've always had someone beside me through the worst of it—"

"And now, that someone is here to prove to you that you'll never have to go through it again," Starsky promised his lover, stroking Hutch's back.

Saunders nodded and Hutch could see the wisdom in his words ripping away at Saunders' defense mechanism. "Saunders, I asked you earlier if you'd tell me when I could quit acting like I don't give a shit. Is now that time?"

Saunders looked up and smiled. "Yeah, partner."

"Good. Then sit down in that chair behind you before you topple over on your face, and I'll get the sofa made up."

Saunders did as he was told and Starsky kept watch over him while Hutch collected bedding material and prepared as comfortable a bed as possible on the couch. By the time Hutch finished, Saunders was nodding off in the chair. Starsky smiled. "He's exhausted. Jacket and shoes go, but don't make him wake up enough to peel off the rest, 'kay?"

"Yeah," Hutch agreed, returning the smile. He knelt down and untied Saunders' shoes, but looked up in alarm when Starsky started inching Saunders forward by the shoulders for a grasp on the jacket.

"He's out, Hutch. It's safe."

Hutch eyed both of his partners skeptically but resumed towing off the shoes. Starsky finished removing the jacket and holster, and Hutch rose, leaning over and gripping Saunders gently and pulling him up from the chair. That partially roused the slumbering detective and he breathed, "Bev?" and tried to wrap his arms around Hutch.

"Shh, pal, it's okay. I got you."

Saunders relaxed in the hold and Hutch managed to maneuver him over and down onto the sofa. Saunders immediately grasped the pillow and burrowed his face in the comforting softness as Starsky pulled the blanket up, tucking it around him. Saunders rolled over, clutched the pillow tighter, and obviously asleep murmured, "Ophelia...."

Hutch fell back a step and observed Starsky's soft, understanding smile with open-mouthed incredulity. Then he gestured wildly at the sleeping area and tromped off in that direction without waiting for his lover.

As soon as Starsky climbed into bed beside him, Hutch grabbed him in a full body hug and whispered in his ear, "All right. You've been throwing around more hints and foreshadowing than a Wilkie Collins novel. I want you to start talking and making sense to your mere mortal spouse. Now. What's going on?"

Starsky answered first by taking control of Hutch's lips. Soft, repetitive kisses that pulled teasingly away from Hutch's attempt to cling to his mouth. Starsky got the response he clearly wanted when Hutch tightened the hug and pinned Starsky's mouth, kissing the curly-haired flirt as if in an exploratory first time. Starsky made little pleasure noises under the force of the kiss and stretched with ecstasy in the arms that held him fast. Hutch released him.

"Oh, no you don't," he breathed into the same ear. "I don't care if you are invisible...we're not getting this started with Saunders in the living room—especially since you're making some odd sort of psychic connection with him. If he rose off that couch and screamed my name in passion, I'd never be able to face him for work tomorrow. Anyway, I know what you're doing: you don't want to explain to me what's happening between Sleeping Beauty over at Memorial and our partner."

Starsky heaved a frustrated sigh. "Yeah, all right. It's just—It's gonna sound weird."

Hutch had to bite his tongue to control a laugh. Carefully keeping his voice beneath a whisper, he said, eyebrow quirked, "Weird? Nah, who'd believe that? Spill it, Starsky."

"You remember in the theater's business office, when I left the room?"

"Yeah, Ophelia was taking about Anna— I wondered then if—"

Starsky placed a finger over Hutch's lips and shook his head. "No, lover. That's when I left, but not the only reason why. You were counting the scratches on the file cabinet and trying not to react to that news about Miss 'Hootch', so you didn't notice the look Ophelia gave Saunders, but I did."

"So she looked at him—"

"No, Hutch. I'm not even sure I should be talking to you about this...."

"Why the hell not?" Hutch's tone shifted from skeptical to indignant and Starsky nibbled at his chin. That sensation erased the petulant frown and Hutch squirmed happily. "Quit flirting and talk to me," he ordered, grinning.

Starsky rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Hutch leaned on elbow and stared down at him, drawing circles in the downy chest hair. The soothing gesture loosened Starsky's tongue. "When I...when I died, the first thing I remember feeling was...horrible pain. Not physical pain. I felt that someone was tearing my soul in half. Even when I experienced the Love...the explosive love of Eternity...I still remembered the gut wrenching pain. Separation... Separation from you, beautiful."

Hutch brushed at his eyes with the back of his free hand and then lowered his upper body so he could plant kisses down both of Starsky's cheekbones. "I love you."

"I know," Starsky smiled, reaching up to tug on Hutch's hair. "I tried to reach you that day before we made love...the day of the...funeral."

"Really?"

"Yes. I came to the—the gravesite. Touched you. That's when I felt it. The actual mind-blowing joy of having the rest of my soul back where it belonged."

"Wow...."

"Yeah, take the best orgasm you've ever had, multiply it ten times, and it doesn't even compare." Starsky fell silent, his face unusually pensive. "When Ophelia looked at Saunders, I could tell...she felt it too. That same sensation. And I—I was unsure how you were feeling about the Anna situation and just couldn't be reminded of that feeling right then.... Had to leave, get my bearings."

"Starsky, are you saying—"

"I thought at the time she must have some weird kind of power, but after listening to Bev...the way I figure it, Ophelia was at that moment very, very close to death even if she wasn't acting like it. Hell, according to Bev, she shoulda already been dead. Wasn't some special power, but being that close to death that made her especially sensitive."

Hutch frowned and moved his right hand from Starsky's chest to his own chin, tugging on it thoughtfully. "I just can't believe...I mean—"

"What? You can believe it about us but not anyone else? You wanna take a stab at explaining why that poison seemed to just slow down in her body while she was around Saunders and then she collapses not long after we've—he's—left her? Why she wakes up the minute he walked into that hospital room?"

"Starsky, she's smack in the middle of a double homicide investigation and we don't really know what her part in it—"

"Hutch."

"What?"

"Who said life is always easy...always makes sense? How long did we go around trying to replace each other with other people before we got it right? I never said anything because I didn't want to influence you about them, but I never felt that connection between Saunders and Bev. Not once. She's a nice woman. She's special even. I don't know what she's up to right now. We all make mistakes...and if she's not happy, she's right to let Saunders know now. One thing I know, though: she's not Saunders' soul mate."

"And Ophelia is? Starsky, they don't even know each other!"

"Yeah, well, most soul mates don't know each other until they meet, do they? Did you know me before '69?"

Hutch couldn't argue that one. Starsky opened his arms and took a yawning blond into his embrace. "Shh...sleep now, baby. Tomorrow's gonna be rough. You'll have to help Saunders through it. Normally Dobey'd be pretty understanding and give him some time to get his act together, but not in the middle of a case like this one."

"Right," Hutch yawned again. "Sleep."

Chapter Thirteen:
Gone

The quiet in the apartment was nothing new. Most mornings were quiet and those following the nights that Starsky actually silenced his ghost instincts and slept were even more so. Consequently, Hutch stumbled half-asleep and yawning dangerously wide into the bathroom for his shower without even glancing at the living room. He managed the trek back into the sleeping area with the same lack of observation.

Only when he went, fully dressed, in search of his gun and holster, did he slide a glance toward the sofa. Something was wrong—

"STARSKY!"

At Hutch's side in a flash with his newfound speed, Starsky contemplated the empty sofa.

"Uh-Oh."

"That's all you can say?? Uh-oh?"

"Whaddaya want me to say?" Starsk demanded, slipping into a heavier accent in his agitation.

"You're—you're the one with the superhuman senses, instincts. How the hell didn’t you know he was gone?"

Starsky received that question with a scornful frown. "I slept, Hutch. I was loved-out, comfortable in your arms.... No matter how much you wanna think different, I'm a ghost; I'm not a god."

"Where—" Hutch gestured futilely at the sofa as if able to will Saunders back onto it.

The phone rang.

Hutch lunged at the coffee table and snagged the phone on the second ring. "Hutchinson!"

"Detective Hutchinson? This is Mildred—"

"Mildred—"

"From Dispatch...?" Her questioning inflection wasn't intended to convey uncertainty about her place of employment but of Hutch's putting two and two together. He swallowed and nodded slowly.

"Yes, Mildred, of course. What can I do for you?"

"I thought—I thought I should call you instead of Captain Dobey. It's about your partn—Um, it's about Detective Saunders."

"Yes?" Hutch's voice crackled with impatience; his entire body fidgeted. Starsky closed the distance between them and wrapped himself around Hutch's back, stroking at the taller man's shoulders.

"He's here. I think you should come down to Dispatch headquarters. Apparently, he sweet-talked one of our girls into letting him listen to some old tapes—"

"Old tapes?" Hutch's brow furrowed. Something to do with the case?

"Detective, just please come as soon as you can."

"I'm out the door now." Hutch slammed down the phone and a tremor crept up his spine. "Saunders is down at Dispatch HQ listening to old tapes."

"You're getting that partner-in-crisis feeling, Hutch. I can see—and feel it."

"Yeah."

"He probably couldn't sleep as long as he wanted and needed to do something constructive—"

"No." Hutch shook off Starsky's reassurances. "Mildred wouldn't have sounded like that if he were just there trying to track down a lead... Something's...." He implored Starsky with his eyes and Starsky nodded, bowing his head and crossing his arms. Hutch sighed in the sudden emptiness of the apartment and then rushed out the door.

Hutch jumped out of the Torino the second the engine died and nearly knocked over two pedestrians in front of the dispatch center in his haste to get to the front entrance. The glass door shuddered and clattered ominously behind him as he stood, wild-eyed and disheveled from hurrying, wondering where to go next.

"Detective Hutchinson."

She looked, as always, kind and efficient: crisp dark hair perfectly styled, uniform pressed and spotless. Not old enough to be 'matronly;' not young enough for 'pretty'. What some books refer to as a 'handsome woman', Hutch decided, realizing the ridiculous train of his current thoughts under the circumstances. "Mildred."

She smiled. "You must have broken the sound barrier."

"Where is he?"

"This way. He requested the tapes from April of this year and a place to listen to them privately. The girl who pulled the tapes went to offer him a cup of coffee about half-an-hour ago and found he'd locked himself in there. She banged on the door and he yelled for her to go away. So she came to me. I thought—"

"You did the right thing, Mildred," Hutch said, forcing a smile in the face of growing suspicion. Let's just keep this between ourselves. Okay?" He gave her what Starsky called the 'pleading hero' look and Mildred beamed understanding.

"Oh, oh yes, of course. Certainly. Well, here we are." She stopped in the hallway and indicated a closed door.

"Thanks. I—I can take it from here, Mildred."

"Oh, right." She backed away a few steps and then turned, hurrying back toward her duty station.

Hutch knocked on the door. "Saunders? It's me...Hutch."

Silence, then a shout: "Go away, Hutchinson!!"

"Saunders, pal, listen...whatever's going down, I'm on your side. All right?"

"Leave me alone."

"Can't do that. We're partners...right?"

"Oh, that's a hilarious choice of words!!" Saunders shouted, tone steadily approaching hysteria.

Enough coaxing. Hutch rattled the doorknob. "Saunders, unlock this damn door!"

"Already did!"

Hutch turned the knob and felt silly for not trying before. He opened the door and turned to stone halfway in the room. Saunders sat huddled in the opposite corner and Starsky could have been the man's jacket. The look on Starsky's face matched the one on Saunders', equally terrified and uncertain, as the curly-haired man cradled the younger detective like an ailing child. In the hallway, Hutch had heard noise that indicated a tape in play. Now, he heard the words.

"....Calling all units in the vicinity of Jasper and Continental. 2-11 suspects reported leaving the scene in a late model brown Chevy sedan. License number unavailable. Zebra-3. Come in Zebra-3."

"Zebra-3."

"Come in, Zebra-3. Repeat, come in, Zebra-3."

"Zebra- 3. Reading you. Starsky here. Go ahead, control."

"What is your location, Zebra-3?"

"Heading north on Jasper. We're in pursuit of a late-model, dark brown Chevy sedan, license number KFX zero-one-niner—"

Eerie silence descended as Hutch clicked down on the stop button. He talked himself into calmly walking back across the room and shutting the door. Then, he turned and leaned against the door and collected his thoughts. He was shaken. He did not expect to be so unnerved at hearing Starsky's voice in the presence of another human being who could also hear it...after several weeks of living in a world that could no longer hear his vibrant partner. Starsky remained silent and simply held tight to the traumatized detective. Hutch's protective instincts rushed into the fray and he mentally kicked himself: he'd known this was no good; Mildred's words and tone had assured him of it, and yet he'd shoved Starsky onto the frontlines without a qualm.

"If—If Linda'd told me about this p-part of the j-job description of being your partner, I'd—I'd have taken her advice and run for the hills...." Saunders stammered, sounding ten-years old and still convinced of monsters under the bed.

"What?"

"That—that I'd e-end up ch-channeling your pa-partner!"

"Saunders—"

"No!!" Saunders shrieked. "Stop evading this subject with me. I know you can't see detailed, small pictures from fifteen feet away, I know you don't have four hands, and I'm fairly sure you haven't learned to untie shoelaces with your toes!! So—so just quit letting me as-assume that I-I'm two feet away from the loony bin!"

Starsky's head drooped at the reference to the previous night and Hutch wanted more than anything to make his lover feel better about their collective blunder, but he knew addressing Starsky in front of Saunders would send the man over the edge.

"So you weren't exactly out of it."

Saunders glared. "I was in shock and a bit liberal with the brandy, but I wasn't comatose."

Hutch stared at the tips of his shoes and tried to think of something intelligent to say.

Saunders shook. "What? No 'you're just tired, Saunders. Overstressed, new job, new place, etc?'"

Starsky's mouth seemed glued shut. Hutch let out a snarl of frustration and banged his fists together. "I could lose him, Saunders! The—the miracle allowing him to be here came with some restrictions. So, yes, I was willing to risk even your sanity to keep him. I—I won't apologize for that. There's—there's not much I wouldn't do to keep Starsky close to me."

Saunders gaped at him. "You're saying...you're saying he's here—he's— What's he doing—"

"He's holding you."

The already shaken man scrambled to his feet and leapt halfway across the room. "Holy shit!"

"Uh-uh, Saunders. Watch your language. We owe it to a Higher Goodness, his being here and all—"

The joking reminder of a happier, less stressful time was meant more for Starsky than Saunders, and the ploy worked. Starsky burst into relaxed laughter and Hutch felt a smile form on his own lips. Saunders ran trembling hands through his hair.

"What's—What's so funny?"

"He's laughing."

Saunders shook his head. "I don't hear him."

The laughter subsided and Hutch frowned in response. "No, you don't hear everything he says, either. I'm not sure what's happening, Saunders. You weren't supposed to hear or notice anything. Did you feel his arms around you?"

"N-no. Believe me if I'd felt some ghostly—uh...sorry, can he hear me?"

"Yes," Hutch laughed, amused at the embarrassed look on his earthly partner's face.

"I—I just can't believe—"

Hutch removed his light leather jacket and flung it in Starsky's direction. Starsky seized it in mid-flight and slipped into it with ease. Saunders backed against the wall and nearly overturned a shelf of boxed tapes. "Holy—" he clamped down on the slang word and tried to regain his equilibrium.

Starsky shed the jacket and tossed it back to Hutch. With force of habit, he straightened his soft blue shirt and said, "Poor guy's gonna be a basket-case, Hutch. This, on top of Bev...."

"Yeah, I know," Hutch agreed out loud without thinking. Saunders' eyes just took over half the surface area of his face.

"You—you're talking to—" Saunders' expressive brown eyes returned suddenly to their normal size. "That explains a lot— During the Froman case.... Outside the theater yesterday morning...."

"Saunders, I know you need time to adjust to this—"

"Adjust!! Adjust? My partner's former—My partner's partner and—and lov—and spouse is the newest superhero in town, still on the job and—why the hell do you even need me?"

"Superhero." Starsky flexed his muscles and grinned. "Yeah, I like the sound of that."

Hutch was silent. Starsky walked up behind him and nudged him between the shoulder blades. "Say something, Blondie. The man's askin' an important question."

"Saunders, we both need you. The three of us make a good team. We each have our talents."

Saunders calmed. The tension flowed from his face in almost tangible waves, his rigid posture relaxed as he slumped against the wall, and a hint of smile broke through the shock. "The Bay City Triad, huh?"

Starsky laughed. Hutch grinned. "Right. Something like that. I'd love to explain all the nice details, but we're in the middle of a nightmare case and I think—"

"How many people know about—" Saunders broke off and bit his lip. "Damn. I can't keep saying 'him' like he's not in the same room. There I go again!"

"Just address the air around you, pal. He'll hear you, and I'll translate whatever I can't answer myself. You know, and Huggy knows."

"Huggy Bear. You told Huggy, but you wouldn't even tell your—"

"No, Huggy found out accidentally. He walked in on a bottle of wine floating through the air in my apartment. Kind of hard to explain that one without the truth, don't you agree?"

Saunders chuckled. The chuckle turned into outright laughter. "Yeah...no convenient schizophrenia to blame it on...jeezus, I really thought I was two steps away from the funny white jacket and drug sedation—"

"Been there, done that one, no fun, Saunders." Starsky smiled.

Saunders snapped his fingers. "I heard that!!"

Hutch smiled. "Yeah, you're getting partial reception. I suppose you need an antenna."

"Very funny, Hutchinson. Strap something large and metal on your own head. I'll stick with baseball caps."

"Speaking of things to wear," Hutch said pointedly. "Since you didn't raid my closet before leaving this morning, don't you want to head back to Venice...grab a shower and whatnot before we hit the grindstone again?"

Saunders groaned and stretched. A sudden thought clearly distracted him from his own sartorial predicament, because he glanced around the room and asked, "Starsky, what are you wearing?"

Starsky rolled his eyes. "Why do they always ask me that?"

Hutch laughed out loud. "He's wearing blue sneakers, an old pair of jeans, and a blue button up shirt with a dark blue T-shirt under it."

Saunders accepted that information with a satisfied nod. "I'll swing by my own place and clean up."

Hutch's worried look returned. "Uh, pal, you think that's such a good idea? Right now?"

"Bev's on shift at Memorial already. I'll be okay."

"Well, I'm driving."

"Hutchinson, I'm not hung-over or incapacitated."

"No, but you've been through a living nightmare the last twenty-four hours and just got introduced to paranormal truth this morning. Why don't you let me tackle the tasks that require abstract thought?"

"And my car?"

"Will be safe right here during the day. I'll clear it with Mildred."

Saunders yawned and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. "I really don't want to ride around in that modern junk-art exhibit you drive. No offense."

Starsky went into peals of laughter. He moved to sling an arm around Saunders' shoulders and gave himself completely over to mirth. Saunders must have sensed Starsky's amusement and contributed a few snickers of his own. Hutch attempted a sarcastic scowl, but failed miserably. Finally, he joined in the laughter.

"No offense taken. You and Starsky have a lot in common, and condemnation of my superior tastes in automobiles is just one example. Don't worry: we're not taking my old beauty."

Saunders acquiesced with a slight grunt and followed Hutch out of the room.

Mildred was so relieved that Saunders acted reasonably sane, she didn't quibble about his car taking up semi-permanent residence in the dispatch center parking lot. Hutch thanked her profusely for her kindness and assistance and left her pink-cheeked and enraptured.

The day was an unparalleled brilliant Southern Californian combination of dazzling sun, blue skies, and a mere hint of smog in the air. Starsky was in his element, the sunbeams dancing through his curls and glinting off his smile. Hutch watched him with undisguised adoration. Saunders didn't notice. He was too busy staring at the red-and-white car parked in front of the center.

"The Torino!! I get to ride in the Torino!"

Hutch shifted his attention from Starsky. "How do you know—"

"Ah, hell, everybody knows about the Torino," Saunders replied, interpreting Hutch's question easily. He touched the hood with reverence. "This is a classic car...."

Starsky beamed. Hutch rolled his eyes, squinting in the sunlight, and groaned. "Oh, God, I'm outnumbered."

Chapter Fourteen:
Midsomer

Starsky and Hutch waited somewhat uncomfortably in Saunders' living room while he hurried through showering and changing clothes. "It's funny," Hutch said, looking around the tastefully decorated but homey room. "We had a lot of laughs here the night Saunders invited me over for dinner. Now, I feel like I shouldn't be here."

Starsky was flipping through a stack of Sports Illustrated magazines. He nodded without looking up. "Yeah. Know what you mean. But think about Saunders. Gotta be even rougher for him."

"He's tough, Starsk, and he's holding most of it in. When is it going to come out? That's what scares me."

"That's one reason I'm glad he now knows he's got two people in his corner."

"Let's hit the streets and solve this case," said a quiet voice from the hall doorway.

Hutch looked over and promptly gave way to snickers. Starsky abandoned the sports magazines and followed Hutch's gaze. "Oh, my God."

Hutch agreed with a louder laugh. "Saunders, what kind of get-up is that?"

Saunders glanced down, frowning in confusion. He wore dramatically faded jeans, a soft pastel blue T-shirt and a light gray summer sports coat, the material of which closely resembled linen. "What? What's wrong with my clothes?"

"I don't think I've ever seen quite that...um...combination," Hutch said.

Saunders shrugged. "So I dress ahead of my time. Hey, I might even start a trend."

"In Miami, maybe," Hutch teased.

"You have no style, Hutchinson. Starsky, let's drag this blasé bozo out and get some work done." He marched past an admittedly more plainly dressed blond detective and opened the front door. Starsky grinned as Hutch examined his own jeans, beige shirt, and gray leather jacket thoughtfully.

"I'm liking this new set-up. We can really gang up on you now, Blondie."

"Great. Just great."

Saunders stretched in the mid-summer sun and donned his shades. "Now if I just had a Ferrari."

"Why?"

"It'd go with the outfit, don't you think?"

"Saunders, get in the car."

Saunders grinned, but the expression faded and was replaced by discomfort as he stared at the Torino. Hutch paused mid-way into the driver's seat and waved at his partner. "Earth to Saunders. Simple procedure: you open the door, sit down in the seat, pull your legs in and close the door behind you."

Saunders scratched his forehead. "Shouldn't—I mean, it is his—uh, I mean...maybe I should take the back—"

Starsky grinned at Hutch and turned with a salute to Saunders. "Now that's what I like, Saunders: a fellow who respects his elders. Hutch never did catch on."

Saunders' partial reception kicked in because he laughed and lifted his hand in a high-five gesture even though he couldn't place Starsky's exact location. Hutch bounced a sardonic smirk between the two of them. "You're only a few months older than I am, Methuselah, and anyway, I might respect your seniority if you didn't act like a twelve-year old half the time."

Saunders' entire face beamed. "I'm liking this new set-up."

Starsky laughed at the look of disbelief on Hutch's face and slipped into the backseat. Hutch rubbed his eyelids with thumb and forefinger and exhaled slowly. "You two are going to be the death of me. Get in the damn front seat, Saunders. I'm not driving around looking to the outside world like I'm your chauffer."

"Are you kidding? You'd look perfect in a dark suit and jaunty cap. Make a great Jeeves...or James...whatever the appropriate cliché." Saunders got in the car and settled happily in the passenger seat.

"Personally, Saunders, I've always thought he should be called Sparky," Starsky chimed in. Hutch swiveled and shot him a warning glare.

Saunders snorted. "Sparky. Yeah, I can see that."

Hutch gripped the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition with more than necessary force. "I'm ignoring both of you the rest of the day," he announced. "Sparky...sounds like a dog's name."

Starsky lounged in the back seat and lifted his feet, crossing his ankles over the back of Hutch's seat just inches from his lover's shoulder. "No way, lover boy. 'Sparky' is for all the sparks that fly whenever you get your hands on me. Ain't nothing wrong with your ability to rub two sticks together."

Hutch turned brilliant red and threw an embarrassed look at Saunders, but the blank, patiently waiting expression on the passenger's face told him Saunders had not heard that tidbit. He calmed down and turned his attention to backing out of the parking spot. "All right, team. Suggested first order of business?"

"We've ruled out a connection between those rose deliveries and the current murders," Saunders said, questioning inflection on the last word.

"Right. I still think the black roses found on two of the victims are important, but they appear to be separate from that past incident."

"You said yesterday you think the killer is an outsider not affiliated closely with the dance company."

"That's my current judgment, yes. Hypothesis only, Saunders. I don't have any evidence to back up my claim."

Starsky tapped Hutch's shoulder with the toe of his sneaker. "Instinct's worth a lot. And for what it's worth, mine are squarely in the same basket with your theory."

"Starsky supports the outsider theory," Hutch informed his front seat passenger. Saunders nodded and sat up straighter in the seat, folding his arms across his chest and assuming a meditative air.

"What's boiling in that cauldron, Saunders?"

A quirky smile preceded a soft laugh. "I think we need to give up on tackling this case as an undercover assignment at some future point. We should stick together and plow through this openly, two—er-- three cops sniffing from lead to lead."

"Reason being?"

"Reason being that no matter how much Edwards cooperates with us, we—I—don't have a prayer maintaining a cover. No way can I pass as a dancer—"

"Oh, come on, Saunders. You—Prince Hamlet—can't cope with the tights and slippers?"

Saunders turned in the seat and wagged a fist at the back seat. "If I could see you, I'd smack you—"

Starsky laughed.

Hutch grinned. "He laughs at your meager threats, pal."

"Yeah, whose side are you on anyway?" Saunders countered, grinning back.

"In this argument, my own. I don't want to sleep on the sofa and I don't want a pissy partner."

"Great, I'm paired up with a politician. No, seriously, I could swing the tights and slippers—stop laughing at me!! —but the actual moves are light years out of my reach. One day in a practice room and they'd know I've never had a ballet class in my life. What does that leave? Dance instructor is out for the same reason. Support personnel rarely have extended contact with the dancers until a performance. Patron? Someone financing an upcoming production? Even they don't have the inside track day in and day out. So, my point is—"

"You're right."

"I'm just saying...what?"

"I said, you're right."

"Damn," Saunders said, disappointment softening his tone. "Just when I was gearing up for a grand debate."

Starsky laughed. "Yeah, I was looking forward to a good argument myself, Saunders."

"I heard that! You know, I think I'm seeing a pattern emerge here—"

Hutch, engrossed in the back and forth conversation, slammed on brakes as they neared an intersection with an adamant red light. As the car idled, he turned in the seat and glanced between Saunders and his lover. "Why don't we work out the specifics of your communication with the troublemaker in the back seat when we break for lunch? Right now I want to figure out our next plan of action."

"If some of us even get lunch," Starsky pouted. "You never did give me a chicken-sandwich-and-French-fry kiss yesterday. And why am I the troublemaker? You want a plan of action? I say we lean hard on Louise."

Hutch took off at the green light. "Starsky's all for cornering Louise."

"I agree, if we can find her. Last night she seemed to have jumped off the face of the planet."

Hutch clucked his tongue thoughtfully. "Starsky has this neat trick—"

"Uh-uh," Starsky interrupted. "I know what you're thinking and it doesn't work like that."

"Why not?" Hutch used the rear view mirror for a quick look at Starsky.

"I don't know why not; I just know it doesn't. I didn't make the rules. Hell, I don't think I even know half of 'em. But I know I can't just think 'I wanna be where Louise is', and do my hand over the chest routine. I have to know a specific location first."

"The trick?" Saunders asked.

"Never mind. Casper says it's not that simple. We'll start at Bay City Ballet and take it from there."

>>>>>>>

They hit pay dirt. The same disapproving secretary informed Saunders and Hutch that Ms. Thompson-Ward was indeed in Practice Room B, and had been there for two hours already. Hutch looked at his watch and whistled.

"She always here that early?"

The older woman adjusted her glasses and radiated disdain. "Of course. Ms. Thompson-Ward is a devoted dancer. Every night for the past week she's stayed until three a.m. and is back in at six. Tommy told me she wouldn't even let him fix her a cup of coffee. I told him a dancer of her quality knows not to pollute the body with—"

"Excuse me, Ms. Davis. Who's Tommy?" Hutch ran through the list of dancers' names in his memory and drew a blank.

"Our night watchman," Ms. Davis answered in a tone that indicated Hutch should just know who Tommy was.

"Practice Room B?" Saunders queried, peeking out into the hallway.

"Down the hall, up the stairs to the second floor, second room on your right."

"Thank you."

They heard the raised voices intermingling with music the moment they stepped onto the second floor.

"Again, Louise! Again! How many times do I have to tell you, when the violins swell, you begin the grand jete—"

"And I say that sequence of steps is totally out of place with the music!"

The music abruptly ceased with the loud scratch of phonograph needle on a record. "Your job is to dance what I choreograph—you are NOT artistic director. I am tired of this endless struggle with you—"

"You're not artistic director either, Lionel, so don't try to wield your authority over me. I've danced with this company long enough to know what rights I have as lead dancer!"

"Lead dancer! Don't make me laugh. Alicia Holden...now she was a lead dancer! She took what I gave her and made it light the stage. She never questioned my choreography; she brought it alive. She could dance these steps in her sleep. You—you're—"

The unmistakable sound of a hand hitting flesh drifted into the hallway. The 'trio' of detectives in the hallway had only a moment to raise eyebrows and softly exhale before Louise's irate voice sounded again. "Don't you ever...EVER...mention that woman's name to me again! I've earned this spot and I won't dance under her shadow."

"You listen to me, Louise Thompson-Ward. You can dance half the night, show up at the crack of dawn, drink magic potions, and you'll still not be the caliber of dancer we need at the head of our company. If Edwards wasn't such an uptight, stubborn prick with the hang-ups of a young Hitler, you'd be dancing second-fiddle to Gail Dennis and I'd have fewer migraines. So delude yourself about your talent all you want. I don't have to stick around for the abuse."

Saunders and Hutch stepped back just in time for the door to swing open. A tall, graceful man in the practice outfit preferred by male dance instructors barely spared a glance for the two men waiting in the hall. He stormed past them and down the hall toward the stairwell door. Saunders grabbed the practice room's door before it slammed shut and knocked on it to attract the dancer's attention.

She turned from the record table and waved impatiently at them. "Whoever you are, go away. I have no time right now."

"I'm Detective Saunders and this is my partner, Detective Hutchinson. BCPD. I think you'd better clear your schedule for a chat."

"Come on in, then. I suppose I can spare five minutes."

"That's about all I can stomach anyway," Starsky said, voice sour. Hutch smothered a laugh and the desire to squeeze his lover's shoulder.

The room was deceptively large, polished hardwood floors gleaming as brightly as the three walls of mirrors. Along each of those three walls ran the obligatory dancers' barre at hip height. Louise chose to take refuge at the barre, stretching one long leg over it and leaning over to caress her ankle with the opposite hand. She wore a simple pale pink body suit with a tiny black chiffon wrap-around skirt. The color choices were perfect for her porcelain complexion and ash-blonde hair. She could have been the dancer on a music box, minus the sweet face.

"What do you want?" Clipped, cold, impersonal.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions about 'Midsomer'."

"That's it, Saunders. Go for the jugular," Starsky approved, hand resting unacknowledged against the younger detective's back. Saunders jumped slightly and his movement told Hutch that he'd once again heard Starsky's words and was not yet accustomed to the sensation. Hutch couldn't help but smile.

"What about it?"

Hutch stepped farther into the room. "You should know. You're the one who called in an anonymous tip."

She didn't jump, nod, or betray herself with any movement. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your voice is rather unique. What is it, Massachusetts' brogue?"

"Check my personnel file, Detective, I'm from Delaware."

She was now stretching in an even odder fashion across the barre. Her position conveniently made facing Hutch impossible. He frowned. "Two people are dead and another was nearly killed. A fourth has been threatened. I think you could manage to give us your undivided attention for a few minutes, Ms. Thompson-Ward."

She straightened. Shifting a cold stare between Saunders and Hutch, she finally rested back against the barre and nodded. "All right. Ask me something that makes sense."

"Can the act," Hutch replied.

Starsky nudged his arm. "Play to her vanity, Hutch."

Hutch leaned slightly to the side as acknowledgement of the touch and suggestion and said, "There aren't many dancers still with the company who have firsthand knowledge of that performance. Two of them are dead, one's unconscious, one's under protective guard, and the other two weren't there yesterday afternoon when I interviewed the company. That narrows it down quite a bit, because I had a chance to talk to Gail Dennis and I know she isn't the woman I talked to over the radio. You're a veteran: you've been on the inside track for years. If anyone knows the dirty little secrets in this place, you would."

"Attaboy, lover." Starsky strutted over to the barre and matched Louise's position: elbows and lower back braced on the barre, legs extended, head tilted toward the mirror behind the barre. Even in street clothes his natural grace put her studied pose to shame. Hutch forced himself to focus on BCBC's new lead dancer. Saunders already had her pinned with a stare. Hutch shivered: his partner's steady gaze could be more chilling than his frozen politeness and was so foreign to his normal warmth and openness. No wonder the man had managed 'Hamlet' in high school.

"I don't want to get involved," she said.

"You should have thought of that before you called us," Saunders responded.

"Jeez, I'm gonna need a jacket in here before long." Starsky grinned.

"You can save your posturing, Detective."

Hutch walked up close to the dancer and looked down into her eyes. "I wondered about your absence from the practice session yesterday when I interviewed the dancers. I'd have thought you would stick around longer, spread the word about your promotion, but you must have left right after you threw your success in Gail Dennis' face. You know what I think? I think you have someone special, too. Someone you keep in the shadows because you have to with Edwards' tyranny. I'd lay book you rushed off to share your good fortune with that someone yesterday—wonder what Edwards would think about that?"

"That's my Hutch!" Starsky shouted. "Yes, ladies and gents, I'm with him. Um-hum, he's mine. Yeah, I know, ain't I lucky?"

"That's blackmail!" Louise hissed, looking ready to scratch Hutch across the face.

"I don't think so," Saunders joined in. "I didn't hear him say anything about telling Edwards. Did you say anything like that, Hutchinson?"

"Of course not." Hutch smiled menacingly. The room went quiet.

She gave way under the force of concentrated silence. "Fine! I don't know what anyone has against Frederic and Calvin, but I can tell you that Alicia and Ophelia made one enemy for life during prep for 'Midsomer'. Ophelia especially. Don't let that little sweet and innocent act fool you; she's a vicious cat under all that Texas charm."

Saunders stiffened. Hutch instinctively backed away from Louise and inched closer to Saunders, catching Starsky's smile in the corner of his eye. "Why don't you start talking specifics?"

Louise smiled. The room's temperature plummeted. "'Midsomer' put this company on the map. We were struggling before then. Apparently had been struggling since the mid-fifties. Gail and I were supposed to be just chorus dancers. The main roles went to Calvin and Frederic, Alicia, Ophelia...and Rebecca Kensington."

"Rebecca Kensington?" Saunders glanced at Hutch, shrugging. Hutch shook his head.

"Yeah, no one has told you about Rebecca. That makes sense. We're a cutthroat lot, we dancers, but we don't like to advertise that fact to outsiders. They just wouldn’t understand."

"And this has to do with Alicia and Ophelia...how?" Impatience crept into Hutch's tone and registered with Louise immediately because she pushed away from the barre and stalked over to the record table. Her back to the detectives, she flipped through the musical selections and sighed.

"Alicia didn't like Rebecca. Gave her the evil eye at every practice session. Of course, little Miss Ophelia couldn't have Alicia unhappy. Everyone knows if you're on the lead dancer's good side, you get the good supporting slots. So Ophelia did Alicia's dirty work and went to Edwards. Next day Rebecca's bags were packed and she was told not to show up at the next practice. She'd been getting some tentative offers of a place in one of the New York companies, but the minute she was dismissed from BCBC, the offers fell through. She fell off the map. I don't know where she is now, but she's not a dancer with any decent exposure anywhere, I can tell you that. Not that I totally blame Ophelia: if I'd been Alicia's little flunky, I probably would have done the same thing. Whatever puts you on top, you know? I'm sure Rebecca didn't see it that way, though. I don't know about you, but what happened to her would make me itch and twitch for a little revenge."

"Enough to kill for it?" Saunders asked, rivaling Louise's smile for frigidity. She frowned; it was actually a pleasant change from her nasty smile.

"You wanted to know who might have it in for those dancers. I've told you. Now leave me alone so I can practice."

Chapter Fifteen:
Rebecca

"I want that Tommy's phone number," Saunders announced the minute the door shut behind them. "She was here until 3 a.m. supposedly every night this past week, but no one seemed to be able to find her when we called here yesterday evening. That tells me she might not have been here the whole time on the night Alicia was killed and—"

"Saunders—"

"I know the footprints outside Calvin's fire escape indicate a male suspect, and the force of the blows appears to confirm that, but these dancers are strong. You'd be surprised how much strength even a tiny female dancer has in her arms—"

"I know, I've arm-wrestled one. But, Saunders, where's her motive?" Hutch held open the stairwell door and leaned against it. Starsky stood waiting just inside the stairwell. "I'd agree completely with you if Alicia was our only victim. For all her condemnation of Ophelia, Louise is definitely the type of person who'll run over people to get where she wants to go. But what the hell does she have to gain by offing Calvin, Ophelia and Frederic? And why the anonymous tip?"

"Cover. Even her 'reluctance' to discuss it with us could be her way of hiding that she's trying to push us in a different direction." Saunders glanced around. "What does the brain in your relationship have to say about it?"

Starsky guffawed and stroked at Hutch's neck with two loving fingers as the handsome features flushed and twisted into an indignant scowl. "He says you shouldn't be impertinent to your mentor."

"I did not!" Starsky protested, hastily drawing back the fingers. "No misquoting me, buddy boy! New ground rule. God, if I ever start taking like that...'impertinent to your mentor...'. Sheesh!"

Saunders just waited patiently, one eyebrow higher than the other. Hutch's scowl faded. "You know, Saunders, if I were you I'd play up to the member of this team you can actually see."

Saunders laughed. "Seeing isn't everything."

"Ain't dat da truth," Starsky joked. He turned to face Saunders. "I agree with both of you, Saunders. Get the watchman's phone number and cover the bases, but I think you're over-analyzing Louise. I agree with Blondie here that Louise doesn't have motive one—that we know—for wanting all four of our victims out of the way. And the forensic evidence is a little hard to ignore, although I admit it could be faked. A woman off her rocker enough to commit these murders would probably have the strength to do the deed. As for motive, the same goes for this Rebecca too. Why would she have a beef with Calvin or Frederic?"

"Did you catch all that?" Hutch asked.

Saunders nodded.

Having braved once more the secretary's blatant lack of appreciation for their interference in her workday, the detectives descended the studio's impressive front steps, each man showing signs of a renewed sense of purpose and confidence in their ability to solve the case. The bounce in Starsky's step was only exceeded by the relaxed nature of Hutch's carriage and Saunders alternatively snapped his fingers and tapped a fist into a palm in a strange drum cadence.

The finger-snapping and palm-tapping lasted only as long as it took Hutch to ascertain Ophelia's condition. When Hutch stretched further into the car to re-cradle the mike and then slipped back through the open window to turn and lean against the driver's side door, Saunders dropped his hands to his side and said, "She's awake, isn't she?"

"Yes. She's been conscious for six hours, but her primary doctor insisted she be given time to build her strength before she submitted to an interview of any kind."

Starsky tilted his head in the streaming sun. "Hutch, you want me to—"

Hutch shook his head. "No, I don't really see the need, do you? She's fine. Guard at her door. We can be over there in a matter of minutes."

"All right," Starsky agreed and slipped through the Torino's door and into the backseat.

Saunders stared at the asphalt, scuffing a shoe at a miniature pothole beside the Torino's back tire. "Let's go see what she has to say." His voice and tensed shoulders warned Hutch to keep any solicitous commentary to himself.

The first two miles passed in silence before Starsky sat forward, rested his arms on the back of the front seat and drawled, "I don't know what's eating him worse, the possibility of running into Bev or facing Ophelia with this Rebecca business."

Hutch gave a slight nod and focused on navigating the busy morning traffic.

>>>>>>

Starsky's sigh of relief was every bit as loud as Hutch's when they reached Ophelia's room without any sign of Dr. Augustano. Saunders had walked steadily forward, eyes straight ahead, not a single glance to the side, a homing missile determined to avoid deflection.

Ophelia propped against inadequately fluffed hospital pillows and stared, mesmerized, at the room's wall-mounted television. The sounds of a cooking program drifted down from the low-quality speakers, the chef's French accent and broken English turning the terminology into indecipherable background music to the sound of sautéing food.

"He's preparing the ingredients for a savory sauce to accompany foie gras," Ophelia informed her visitors without moving her gaze from the TV screen. "I've understood three words so far: medium, heat, and stir. Of course, even if he was speaking perfect English, that'd be about all I'd catch. I can boil water, fix a grilled cheese sandwich, and bake mean cheesecake brownies. Beyond that, I'm helpless in a kitchen." She attempted a tiny laugh, choked halfway through it, and bit her lip. "I'm sorry, you're not here to—"

"How are you feeling?" Saunders asked, declining the visitor's chair in favor of the corner of the bed. Starsky lifted an eyebrow at Hutch, who turned his head momentarily to avoid responding with an inappropriate facial expression.

Ophelia flushed. She was not a pretty sight by even the kindest estimation. Her ultra-modern short blonde hairstyle reacted to enforced bed rest by sticking out in twenty different directions. Bisque features minus a hint of makeup made her seem more ghostly than the third detective in the room. Her eyes, normally striking in their blue clarity, blinked through bloodshot cloudiness. She folded her hands, separated them again, clutched tufts of bed sheet at her sides, and finally crossed her arms over her midsection. "I'm better than I was yesterday."

"And long term--" Saunders started before he cleared his throat and said, "I apologize. That's none of my—"

"I've been told not to expect a long or difficult recovery," Ophelia answered matter-of-factly, waving away Saunders' apology with a smile. "Discharge in a couple days after they've 'observed' me to death and... and not a damn clue where to go from here!" She frowned and bit down on her lip again, this time drawing a trace of blood. Saunders whisked a handkerchief from his coat pocket and handed it over with a bright smile. She held out her hand, hesitated for a moment, and finally accepted it with her face averted from his kind expression. She dabbed at her mouth. "I can't say that around Aunt Em. She's a tough lady, but this ordeal has aged her. I can see it in the way she walks when she goes out to the nurses' station for a cup of coffee."

"Where's your aunt now?" Hutch asked, sitting down in the visitor's chair. Starsky propped immediately on its arm.

"I pitched a fit until she agreed to go have some breakfast." Ophelia laughed. "I reserve my fits for drastic times. Consequently, they always work. Especially with Aunt Em. I don't think the day nurse will ever treat me the same way again though."

Hutch smiled and Starsky nudged his arm with his thigh, his dark head tilted toward Saunders, whose entire face had relaxed. Hutch clenched and unclenched his fingers over his knees. "Ophelia, we're here—"

"To discuss Rebecca Kensington. Yes, I'm sure you've heard about her by now. Whatever you've heard is true. I—I killed her."

Saunders came dangerously close to toppling off the bed; Starsky let out a long whistle; and Hutch opened his mouth and choked out, "You—uh—you—"

Surprisingly, Saunders recovered first. Inching closer to the patient but careful to preserve the proprieties, he took a deep breath and said, "Why don't you start from the beginning?"

"'A very, very good place to start'," Ophelia quoted, eyes focused on her lap and the hospital gown's thin, pale blue material. "I—I should have told you yesterday morning that I danced with BC-squared. You just—just never asked and I—I don't talk about my dancing—with anyone!—since the accident."

"Your car accident?"

Ophelia looked up at Saunders. "No, I was never in a car accident."

Hutch lifted a hand and waved it back and forth. "Wait a minute. Frederic said you'd compress fractured your L1 vertebra. Edwards cut you from the Company—"

"That's the story Edwards told everyone. He couldn't cope with having a dancer quit on him because she kept seeing a dead girl's face every time she went on stage. I'd gone to spend a long weekend with my mother in Texas and ended up staying for two months so the cover story Edwards insisted on wasn't that difficult to maintain. I—I didn't care. It saved me from a lot of painful questions anyway. I—I never had to lie. Once Edwards has spoken, everyone accepts his word as Gospel. I never even told Aunt Em why I quit dancing—she was happy about me getting a degree so she didn't pry. Calvin knew the truth, but he chose to keep it to himself."

"So what accident—I'm...I'm confused," Saunders said, probing Ophelia's face with his deep brown eyes, his expression pleading eloquently if silently for her to redeem herself.

"Rebecca's. H-horrible one. She died. Sh-she slammed head-on into an overpass pylon—" Ophelia buried her face in her hands and shook.

"I thought...." Hutch forgot to maintain appearances for Ophelia's sake and stared unabashedly up into Starsky's equally troubled eyes. "Why do you say you killed her? Go back to the start, please. I know this is painful, but we need you to spell this out for us."

Saunders lifted a hand and moved to let it hover just above the blanket. He finally lowered it and patted awkwardly on what appeared to be Ophelia's knee. "Just take your time. We'll wait."

Ophelia tugged on her hair and tried to mat down some of the spiky patches. "Calvin, Alicia, Frederic, Rebecca and I were cast in the lead roles for BC-squared's big come-back performance, 'Midsomer'. It's a romantic tragedy set in seventeenth-century England. Alicia and I were two noblewomen vying for the intentions of Calvin's peasant farmer and Rebecca was the poor shepherdess in love with Frederic's aloof knight. Multiple triangles, tons of despair, love affairs doomed by class and society, fabulous costuming—perfect for the ballet. There was just one problem: Rebecca fell in love with Frederic off the stage too."

"Oh, no," Hutch said.

"Right. It's happened before. You dance in someone's arms long enough you can rationalize that those arms want to hold you in reality," Ophelia explained, and the sudden bitter edge in her voice instigated another knee patting. "It's never pleasant to desire someone who just doesn't have reciprocal romantic feelings for you, but Rebecca took it even worse that Frederic's sexual orientation 'prevented' him from responding to her. She lost sight of the difference between acting and feeling and eventually Frederic had to take notice. He handled himself well. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her feelings. But she started crowding him offstage and generally behaving like a fifteen-year old child in love with her teacher. One thing we could not have while developing such an important performance as 'Midsomer' was dancer friction. Alicia was furious! Her vote was to take Rebecca aside and give her the 'dancing facts of life' lecture in no uncertain terms. She wanted Rebecca to step down from the performance and wait for another role that didn't involve close contact with Frederic. I—I talked her o-out of that. I thought that might be too...."

"Abrupt? Confrontational?" Saunders supplied, earning him a brief but brilliant smile from the patient.

"Yes. I thought the situation could be tackled through a backdoor. So I went to Yves first...our choreographer at the time. Suggested Rebecca and I switch roles. I knew that wouldn't solve the problem, but at least lessening the contact between Frederic and her onstage might help us make it through the performance without a major explosion. He—he liked the idea but said his hands were tied. Edwards exerts control over every aspect of the company. I knew that, I just hoped...."

"You wouldn't have to bring Edwards into the equation," Hutch said, encouraging the narration's continuance. She nodded.

"But I went to him anyway. I knew not to tell him the real reason behind my request for role change, so I fed him a line about Rebecca looking more the part of the viscountess and said that I could bring across the shepherdess' youth and fragility. I was so damn naïve. I expected him to give blanket approval. Of course not! He did the worst possible thing: came to that day's practice. It would have been obvious to a six-year old that Rebecca was enamored with Frederic. You already know Edwards' warped views on the subject of—heck; he has warped views on every subject. Next thing we know, Rebecca's out the door. She just disappeared. Gail Dennis filled her part in 'Midsomer'. Then, a year later I got a package in the mail. One of those padded manila envelopes? I-it contained an obituary notice, newspaper articles about the wr-wreck, and this copy of—of what looked like a diary entry. Rebecca's.... She wrote about suicide...and other horrible things. That wreck was no accident, but it was ruled as one because of the weather conditions on the night it happened. Witness testimony, etc. But I—I know the truth."

"Ophelia—" Saunders' hand approached the blankets again but this time Ophelia shifted beneath the covers and shook her head vehemently.

"No! I'm telling you, that wreck was suicide, and the person—whoever it is—who sent me that envelope believed it was too."

"So you think you're responsible," Hutch said.

"As much as if she'd held the steering wheel," Starsky commented. "I know where's she coming from and you do too, Hutch. We've both been down that responsibility road before."

"Don't you understand? I put the success of a performance ahead of a human being's feelings. God, that's bad enough, but then that person ends up dead. Not just dead, but...."

"But what?" Saunders whispered, holding Ophelia's gaze with determination and gentleness evident in every facial movement.

Ophelia remained silent. Hutch stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. "All right. Why didn't you tell us this earlier—"

Ophelia's face clouded. "I told you. I don't talk about my dancing. I couldn't see how this would have anything to do with Alicia or—or C-Calvin. They aren't the ones who got her kicked out of the company. Anyway, she's dead! I just didn't—"

"What changed your mind? You obviously decided it was more relevant than you originally thought. Why?"

Saunders glanced up at Hutch and his silent order was to back off the interrogation act. Hutch shot him back a look that outlined clearly their need to get to the bottom of the matter at hand. Starsky snorted. "You two are getting good at the telepathy thing. 'Course, I caught every word of it. Cuss words and all."

Ophelia was oblivious to the byplay. She scooched down in the bed and looked all at once both tired and defeated. "When I realized I—I was sick—when I was in the ambulance...it hit me. Out of nowhere. I'd been too busy that morning to think about it, but—I n-never made myself tea. Normally, I do, but yesterday I was swamped with paperwork and preparation for the upcoming play...."

"Why would that set off an alarm? Wouldn't you assume Calvin came down and made it for you? Why would you think—"

"Because of the diary entry!" Ophelia shouted, voice hoarse from the exertion. "She—she wrote about wanting to poison me. 'And she will drink of the tea I have made her and sleep will come, and no more will she poison others against me'. I—I can quote the damn thing! God...."

"Did you keep the materials you received?" Saunders asked, his eyes dark with sympathy and the checked movement of his arms suggesting that he wanted to hold her against him but recognized the awkwardness of the gesture now that Ophelia was lucid and preferring her own strength to coddling.

"Yes. They're in the hidden drawer of my little secretary desk in my room at Aunt Em's. Could you—could you go there while she's here, please? I—I can't offer you a spare key, so I don't know how you'll—I just don't want her to know about that stuff. If she's there when you—"

"Shh," Hutch soothed. "It's okay. We'll figure something out. As long as we have your permission, that's what counts."

"Yes; take whatever you need." Ophelia closed her eyes and rested her head back against the pillow. "Thank you."

Hutch unobtrusively eyed Starsky, who nodded immediately, said, "Meet me there," and completing his ritual, promptly vanished.

"We should go now and let you get some rest," Saunders said, playing tag with Ophelia's eye contact. She finally smiled and looked him dead-on.

"Yes. I'm sleepy now and the wacky French chef is off the air so I think I can get some shut-eye."

"Good for you. Don't worry about anything, Ophelia. Your room is well guarded; we've made it clear that even a fellow cop can't be given access to this room unless one of us is with him."

"I'm fine. Now scram. Aunt Em will be back any minute."

"This case is going to land me in Cabrillo State yet," Hutch remarked as they traversed the hall bound for the elevators.

"Tell me about it. Why do I have the feeling our superhero isn't with us?"

"He's not," Hutch replied, smiling. "He's our key to Ms. Fairley's house."

"Ah, I knew there was a reason I took this job."

"What happened to running for the hills?" Hutch teased, nudging Saunders shoulder with his elbow. Saunders laughed.

"Let's just say I'm adjusting."

"Well, good because--" Hutch bit off the sentence and grabbed at Saunders' arm. "Saunders? Pal?"

"Stairs," Saunders spit through pursed lips. "Didn't we just pass the door to the stairs?"

"Why—"

But it was too late. The salt-and-pepper-haired man in a lab coat who waited at the elevators had turned and spotted their approach. He lifted a hand in a wave and said, "Detective Saunders."

Hutch recognized him as the man in the hallway with Bev. Doctor...what was it? Llewellen. After a muttered curse, he breathed, "Stay cool, pal."

No worry on that front: Saunders was already a block of ice. He nodded curtly at the doctor and stared at the lights indicating the elevator's movement between the floors.

"You're not here visiting a relative, I hope," the doctor continued, his British accent pleasant and unruffled.

Saunders didn't turn his head. "And just precisely how would that be your business?"

The doctor had the grace to look uncomfortable, but was not dissuaded from further speech. "I want to take this opportunity to tell you how much I respect you for letting Bev pursue her talent as a physician and scientist."

Hutch's hand gripped down hard on his partner's coat sleeve. Saunders yanked away from him and turned to face the doctor. "Let her? LET her? Listen to me, mate, if that's how you feel about women...especially a woman like Bev...you're gonna have a helluva hard time keeping her as long as I did. You got that, chap? Ole Boy?" The elevator door opened and Saunders dashed inside. He didn't even wait for Hutch. The door slid closed before either of the other men in the hall could move.

"I daresay—" the doctor began.

Hutch cut him off. "I daresay one day someone is going to explain, finally, to my satisfaction just why most doctors are out-and-out pricks."

Chapter Sixteen:
Patterns

"You know next time you want to disappear, maybe I can get Starsky to teach you the ins and outs of his nifty little trick."

Saunders watched as the body that accompanied the softly teasing voice slid into the Torino's driver seat. When Hutch was situated and reaching for the ignition, Saunders bit down on his clenched fist over the knuckles, the move obviously meant to substitute for banging said fist against Starsky's door or glove compartment. Fist sufficiently marked, Saunders lowered it to his lap and said evenly, "I thought disappearing was preferable to losing my badge over an assault charge."

"Yes; can't argue with that logic. You okay?"

"Okay? I'm pissed. Losing Bev is hard enough, but knowing that she's hung up on a guy like—like—Basil Rathbone in there—"

The car engine's noise couldn't drown out Hutch's responsive laughter. Saunders stared at him like he'd spontaneously morphed into a cockroach. Hutch sobered. "Sorry. It's just that you have him pegged perfectly. Basil Rathbone. I'd have never—"

"Old movies. What can I say?" Saunders smiled.

"I know we don't exactly have time for a buddy-buddy talk, but you sound like you've given up on her, pal. Isn't this break-up kind of sudden for you to accept your fate?"

Saunders' face solidified into a mask, but the vulnerable humanity inside shone through his eyes and his slumped posture. "It's—not that sudden."

"What?" Just as quickly as he started the engine, Hutch turned the key again and they sat in pregnant silence.

"Ah, hell, the things that went down after Mark's death hit us hard in a lot of ways. Bev really wanted me to tell the whole force to kiss my ass and go back to Emergency Management. My fighting to keep my badge put some—some distance between us. That's just another reason I should've wondered when she was so gung-ho about us moving here and my taking this job. Besides that, I don't get my kicks being a hypocrite. I talk about her wanting to have her cake and eat it, but if I tried to pressure her into keeping things going between us, I'd be guilty of the same practice."

"I don't understand," Hutch said, though he thought favorably of tongue-ectomy afterwards, remembering Starsky's revelations about soul mates from just hours earlier.

"Starsky's gonna be worried about us, don't you think? Or can ghosts feel worry?"

"This one can," Hutch laughed, noting the change in subject and going along with his partner's silent request for space. "Starsky would worry about me in whatever metaphysical state he happened to be at the time."

A few minutes of soothing Bay City 'quiet', replete with every mechanical noise known to man and the outraged yowling of a cat that stopped traffic in a busy intersection, seemed to soothe Saunders. He half-sprawled in the seat and the tension eased out of his shoulders. Another minute passed and he said quietly, "Ophelia neglected to tell us one small detail."

"Oh? What's that?"

"She would've taken a cut in stage time."

"Come again."

"If Edwards had let her switch roles with Rebecca. Remember how I read Midsomer's program last night cover-to-cover trying to figure out some connection? Well, I can tell you that Rebecca's part was much smaller than Ophelia's. She was willing to take a step down."

Hutch smiled at the sweet, thoughtful expression Saunders wore. "Not quite the villainess that Louise makes her out to be, hm?"

Saunders smiled. "No."

>>>>>>

"About damn time. What did you do? Stop for burgers and milkshakes?"

"At this time of morning? I think not. Let us in, Starsky."

The front door opened and Saunders shook his head in awe as Hutch just walked nonchalantly in the house. Saunders paused, eyeing the threshold warily.

"Coming in, Saunders? Party can't get started until you arrive."

"Yeah, right," Saunders swatted at the air in the general direction from whence the voice came. "Keep your pants on, Starsky."

"And just how would you know if I didn't, Detective Saunders?"

"Hey!" Hutch laughed, whirling around. "No indiscriminate flirting, bad boy."

He and Starsky both laughed at the bright red seeping into Saunders' cheeks. Starsky strolled up to Hutch and breathed into his ear, "You know I'm wrapped around every one of your fingers."

It was Hutch's turn to blush, though more so from the warm breath in his ear than the words. Saunders laughed.

"I don't need to know. Let's just find Ophelia's room and—oh," he ceased speech as a manila envelope seemed to float in the thin air, whisked from a small table in the foyer.

"This makes for some interesting reading, gentlemen," Starsky said, divvying the contents, the obituary and diary entry going to Hutch and the newspaper articles finding their way into Saunders' hands.

"Post-marked in Delvert," Hutch commented, turning the envelope in Starsky's hand. "Isn't that—what, couple hours north of here?"

"Right. Two stoplight town good for one thing: eat your guts out Tex-Mex."

"You—" Hutch shook his head. "Like Saunders, I don't need to know."

"You were there, Hutch; you were just too drunk on a combination of their tequila and beer to form any memories. I even got you to eat a—"

"I don't need to know," Hutch repeated, looking decidedly queasy. "That must have been when I was young and stupid." He devoted his attention to the diary entry first.

"So this wreck happened close to Delvert," Saunders said, scanning the articles.

"Right, Saunders. Two miles from the Delvert exit."

"'Services for Rebecca Amelia Kensington, 21, will be held Tuesday at the Hope of Life Independent Church. Ms. Kensington died May 22. Her father was the late Robert Allan Kensington. She is survived by her mother, Caroline, two older brothers, Allan and Craig, and stepfather'." Hutch shoved the newspaper clipping back into the envelope. "Sounds legit to me. Easily checked. Now, the diary entry—"

"Is a piece of work," Starsky finished. "Made my hair stand on end and I've been around the block enough times to wear my sneakers out."

Hutch had already lost some color. "God—"

"Oh, yeah. You'd be hauling out the cuffs and tracking her down if she hadn't died in '75."

Hutch handed the copied page to Saunders. "Be glad it's still a few hours until lunch time." He wiped his hands on his pants in a gesture of disgust. "Wonder why Ophelia kept this stuff—why she never told anyone about it. Did you get the impression from her this morning that she confided in anyone? Calvin knew about Edwards' fabricating her out-of-town car accident, but do you think he knew about this?"

Starsky shook his head. "No. I think this just scared the bejesus out of Ophelia and fed her guilt about her handling of the situation between Rebecca and Frederic. She's not the type to run to anyone with this, but she's also not the type to blow it off and throw it away either."

"This is seriously twisted," Saunders spoke for the first time since accepting the copy. "I also get the impression that it's—" he wagged the copy in the air and shrugged.

"Incomplete?" Hutch suggested.

"Exactly!" Starsky snapped his fingers. "I knew something was off."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Hutch asked both men. Saunders nodded slowly.

"We've been looking for a pattern."

"Yeah, Saunders, but first thing we gotta do besides checking the obit notice is have an expert go over that diary entry. We need proof we're dealing with Rebecca's writing here. Would help if we had a sample of writing clearly identified as hers."

"Wait a minute." Saunders looked confused and then his face cleared, a small smile developing. "Oh, right. If this is the pattern we're looking for and we can prove that this diary entry is legit, we're looking for someone who had access to Rebecca Kensington's diary."

Hutch added, "I'd imagine the dance company would be a good place to start for a writing sample—some sort of paperwork stuck in an old file, perhaps."

"Then we go through the sealed papers pulled from Alicia and Calvin's apartments and contact Frederic," Saunders said, turning to lead the way toward the front door.

"We're getting closer. I can feel it!" Starsky slapped his hands together. "Good old legwork and brainwork will solve this one."

>>>>>>

"I know we should be throwing the book at him for withholding information, but I'll be damned if I can get my dander up over a guy who doesn't want to gossip about someone who tried her best to get him out of a sticky situation he couldn't solve on his own."

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a smile at Saunders' prolonged announcement as they left Lincoln Hospital two hours later.

"Fine. I know what you're doing. You're sharing one of those inside smiles. I'm getting used to them by now. Tell me you don't agree with me about Frederic."

"I agree, Saunders. It's also hard to throw the book at a fellow who's just been given the word that his significant other might actually live to make it out of the hospital." Starsky's left hand stroked a tender circle against Hutch's back as they walked side by side.

Saunders grinned. "Yes, he was deliriously happy, I'll give him that. My ribs are still sore from that bear hug."

Hutch nodded and stretched experimentally, warning Starsky with his eyes not to make a snide remark when a definite creak sounded. "You're lucky: he'd used up some of his exuberance on me before he got to you. I think he'd have grabbed Dobey if he'd been with us."

"Now I'd pay the price of admission to see that little scene unfold," Saunders chuckled.

"Can we please continue this discussion over an early lunch?" Starsky pleaded.

Hutch scratched playfully at the hairline of Starsky's neck and Saunders sighed at the sight of Hutch's fingers moving against thin air. "I'm adjusting, I'm definitely adjusting, but that's just weird."

"Do you really want to eat while we go over those diary entries, Starsk?"

Starsky rubbed Hutch's stomach and dazzled him with a smile. "No, I want you to eat and then I want you to show me why you shoulda been listed 'best kisser' in your high school senior yearbook."

"Let's cart our collected materials by Huggy's then," Hutch agreed calmly, trying hard not to respond openly to Starsky's suggestive imagery. "I guess we can make heads or tails of them over lunch as easily as we could at Metro."

>>>>>>>

The lunch crowd at Huggy's postponed immediate service so Hutch and Saunders spread out the evidence they'd gathered at Alicia and Calvin's apartments, handling each sheet of paper with infinite care to keep it as forensically pristine as possible.

"Can't blame the crime team for not picking up on this stuff when we missed it ourselves," Saunders muttered.

Hutch looked up from his and Starsky's joint study of the diary entry contained in the envelope addressed to Calvin Wesson. "We simply hadn't had time yet to go through every shred of paper in their possession, and both of them had these envelopes well-hidden. Without knowing about Ophelia's little package of joy, we wouldn't have automatically known to be suspicious of a plain envelope post-marked in Delvert."

"This is incredible. The murders of both Alicia and Calvin are detailed in this diary entry. Listen to this: 'And their passing will be signified with the black rose instead of the red, their legs made a proper sacrifice, beaten but not crushed. They shall be given a quick death, pierced through the heart—"

"Do I even wanna be hearin' this conversation, or should I just let you turkeys starve a while longer?" Huggy asked, interrupting Saunders' read-aloud voice.

Starsky winced at the bar owner's combination of bright green suede pants, orange polyester shirt and matching multi-colored scarf tied cheerfully around his neck. "That outfit hurts even my eyes."

Hutch snorted and finally surrendered to an outright chuckle. Huggy shot him a withering glance. "Let us all in on the joke, Blond One."

Hutch shrugged. "Busy day, Huggy?"

"This has been the lunch hour from the nether regions, my good Hutch. I have had four—count them, gents-- four complaints about my roast beef. I do not usually entertain complaints about my roast beef. People come from far and wide to sample Huggy Bear's old family recipe for roast beef. If either of you cats orders a roast beef sandwich and even thinks about voicin' your disapproval, you'd be better off hauling your carcass out of that booth now and taking your appetite elsewhere."

Saunders gulped. "I think I'll have one of your excellent roast beef sandwiches, Huggy."

"Good man. Good man. Hutch?"

Hutch sighed, resigned when he felt Starsky's fingers latching through his belt-loops. "Something spicy and fattening with meat," he replied.

Huggy tilted his head to the side and regarded him thoughtfully. After a lengthy shared glance, Huggy nodded and turned away. Saunders stared significantly at the empty space beside Hutch in the booth and said, "Wait a minute. What about—Uh...don't we have three appetites to fill here?"

Huggy jerked back around and even his scarf quivered in his shock. "Did he say—Does he—"

"Long story, Huggy," Hutch answered quickly. "Not now. Later, I promise. Just fill our orders when you have a chance, thanks."

Huggy took a few backward steps, still staring at Saunders, and then shook his head and rushed off toward the kitchen. Saunders flushed. "Sorry, I just—" he leaned over the table and whispered, "Don't you get to eat, Starsky?"

Starsky laughed. "Oh, yeah, Saunders. I'm gonna eat; don't you worry. I'm having what he's having." His fingers tugged on Hutch's belt loops as his other hand slid gently down Hutch's thigh. Hutch rolled his eyes.

"So, how does that work? Eating, I mean. What's it like being—uh—like you are?"

"No comment," Hutch said firmly.

Starsky grinned. "See, Saunders, it's really not all bad—"

"No comment," Hutch repeated, louder still.

"Oh, come on, Hutchinson. Don't I get to learn something out of all this?"

"If you two insist on having this conversation, I'm eating in the car."

Saunders raised his hands and sat back against the booth. "Fine. Sorry I asked. Back to black roses and pierced hearts."

"Right." Hutch smiled. "Here's our pattern: roughly ten months after 'Midsomer' debuts, Rebecca Kensington dies in what might have been a suicidal car accident. Shortly following her death, Ophelia, Calvin, and Alicia receive packets containing the obituary notice, newspaper articles regarding the wreck, and diary entries that mention their planned deaths. From what we know, not a single one of them confided in anyone else about receiving such disturbing mail. Frederic receives a different packet: obituary notice and newspaper articles, but no diary entry detailing a planned death for him. Now, four years later, Alicia and Calvin are murdered precisely as described in the diary entries and Ophelia nearly meets the same fate. Frederic is unharmed except for the scare involving the pictures and graffiti on his wall. How's that so far?"

"Like you're writing a book," Starsky said fondly. "Someone's fulfilling her wishes."

Hutch stared at his lover. He cleared his throat and turned to Saunders. "Starsky says someone's fulfilling her wishes."

Saunders tapped fingers on the table. "Yes! Yes...I don't think this is about revenge. This is something else. Something's still missing."

"Like why now? Why four years after these packets were sent? Why isn't Frederic included in this since he's the main reason behind the turmoil with Rebecca in the first place? Or even more to the point, why does she let Edwards off the hook?" Hutch rifled through the notes in his flip-pad.

Saunders ceased the finger tapping. "Well, you have to remember how these dancers view that man. He's practically a god, lording it over that dance company. Maybe she thought he was—I don't know—somehow untouchable? Now, why Frederic is exempt, I have no idea—"

Huggy arrived at that point with a tray and the tantalizing aromas distracted all three detectives from case details. Saunders salivated at the enormous roast beef sandwich and mound of chips on his plate, but Hutch observed his entrée with less enthusiasm. "Smells good, but what is it?"

Starsky sighed with rapture. "Who the hell cares? Eat it quick, gorgeous."

"That is what you ordered, Blondie. Meaty, fattening, and spicy. It's a chili puff."

"A chili puff ?"

"Hutch, quit talking and feed your face." Starsky leaned over and drank in the aromatic steam rolling off the meal in question.

Huggy's hands latched onto his hips. "Yes, picky, a chili puff. Meaty chili encased in a puffy pastry. Like a cream puff only with chili."

"I'm in Heaven," Starsky moaned.

"I'm gonna be sick," Hutch groaned.

"The roast beef's good, Huggy," Saunders said through a mouthful.

"Thank you, my fine friend. I knew the moment I met you that you were a culinary connoisseur. Unlike your blond side-kick here who thinks food ain't worth his time unless half the population can't spell the damn name of it."

"Huggy—"

"I'm gone. I'm gone. Too busy to hang around and shoot the breeze anyway."

"Now, where were we?" Hutch asked, poking at his chili puff with a mixture of fear and fascination.

"You were asking some valid questions about the timing of these murders."

"Something else is nagging at me." Hutch chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and his entire face changed.

Starsky stared. "Wow, Hutch, normally I'm responsible for putting that look on your face."

Hutch attacked the chili puff fervently. "This is good."

That revelation effectively tabled the crime discussion until later. Hutch polished off the chili puff while Saunders was still engaged with the second half of his roast beef sandwich. Murmuring 'I'll be right back', Hutch left the table with Starsky in tow and made a beeline for the restroom.

Starsky grabbed Hutch the moment his partner sounded the 'All Clear'.

"I love you," Starsky said and lifted his chin to open his mouth under the eager one already parted in a smile. The kiss was meant to be solely for culinary purposes, but Hutch had other plans. He intensified the oral contact, crushed Starsky against him, and pushed his personal angel against the back bathroom wall. Starsky squirmed and tried to take control of the encounter, but Hutch refused to relinquish the steering wheel, rubbing himself frantically against his mate. After a moment of heated silence, Starsky jerked in Hutch's arms and shrieked blissfully into the mouth still covering his own.

That broke Hutch's spell. He stepped back, his entire body trembling, and whispered, "You—"

Starsky smiled softly. "You should tell Huggy his chili puff is orgasmic."

Hutch rushed forward again and buried his hands in Starsky's hair, his lips caressing the skin beneath the curls on his forehead. "Lost control for a minute there."

"You're not hearing me griping."

Hutch wagged a finger at him. "You make it very hard for me to be professional."

Starsky laughed. "Will you get off the professionalism stuff already, Hutch? What we've got works...on the job and off. Conventional isn't always right. If you think I'm not gonna take advantage of the freedoms this miracle gives me, you don't know me very well. And I know how well you know me...."

After a final caress of his cheek, Hutch moved away from Starsky. "I'm so grateful to have you."

"You think I don't know that's what this little scene was all about? You're watching Bev and Saunders fall apart at the seams so the back of your mind's getting busy churning out a bunch of negative scenarios for us. Don't. We're Love and we can't be broken. Remember?"

"I'll let you remind me later," Hutch whispered.

"Fine." Starsky smiled. "Back to business?"

"Back to business."

Chapter Seventeen:
Clarity

Saunders hung up the phone and stretched, kicking the chair back on two legs. He had lost the whispered argument with Hutch about letting Starsky have his chair but had insisted on surreptitiously clearing a space on the table for Starsky to perch. A couple officers had watched the activity with strange looks and regarded the odd square of desk showing amidst a clutter of files and other papers with raised eyebrows, but Saunders ignored them. Hutch could only smile as Starsky glowed under all the attention and sat in the cleared square as if it were a diamond-studded throne.

"Well, Saunders?" Starsky tapped his knees and bounced his ankles against each other. "What's the verdict?"

"We're striking out with the digoxin as a lead. Definitely pharmaceutical grade rather than plant extract and none of the area pharmacies or hospitals appear a likely candidate for an illegal source. So we're looking at someone who has or had legitimate access to the drug or—"

"Black market, but if none of the hospitals or pharmacies are reporting deficits in supply.... Digoxin isn't a narcotic. It's not high on the list of desirable black market drugs." Hutch matched Saunders lounging posture and turned his head as the squad room doors opened. Captain Dobey marched through them looking distinctly perturbed. He paused as he neared Hutch's chair and the entire room fell silent. Shaking his head, he opened the door to his office and slammed it shut behind him. Hutch took a deep breath. Busy chatter commenced among the other officers. Not for long. The office door swung open again.

"HUTCHINSON!!! In my office now!"

The combined surprise of the earth-vibrating shout just behind his ear and the precarious perch of his chair were too much for Hutch's balance. He ended up on the floor, half under the desk, the chair draped over his back like a wooden cloak. Starsky rose up to peer over the table. "Hutch? You okay, partner?"

Hutch's crimson and pained face dared him to ask again. He declined Dobey's assistance with removing the chair and rose to his feet with dignity. His face resumed its normal coloring and one could only tell by his flashing eyes that he was still mortified and steaming. Saunders jumped to his feet.

"Alone," Dobey snapped.

Saunders frowned. "But—"

"I said 'alone', Detective. One English word that should not require any further explanation."

Starsky stopped on his way around the table and leaned down to say close to Saunders' ear, "Don't worry, Saunders. This is where I come in. I've been in on 98% percent of his Dobey tongue-lashings from day one."

Saunders barely managed to swallow the ensuing smile under the captain's severe scrutiny. Starsky's arm slid around Hutch's waist and Hutch said under his breath, "You caused 98% of them, you mean."

"What was that, Hutchinson?"

"Nothing, Cap." He hurried into the office and broke away from Starsky's comforting contact to sit down in the nearest chair. "What's up?"

Dobey closed the door and stomped over to the desk. He propped against the front of the desk and folded his sizeable arms across his pea-green dress shirt. "I just got back from grabbing a quick at-home lunch with Edith. Am I going blind or hallucinating? I could have sworn I saw the Torino in the parking lot!?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I'm hallucinating, or yes you were careless enough to drive that car into work in the current climate?"

"Now, just a minute, Cap'n," Starsky burst out, frowning as Dobey's non-reaction reminded him that he could no longer be heard jumping to his partner's defense.

"Current climate? I don't understand." Had Hutch been able to see his own vacant expression, he would have understood Dobey's uncomfortable sigh and less belligerent posture. His arms dangling at his sides and head slightly bowed, the captain walked around the desk and lowered himself slowly into a protesting chair.

"Hutch, we had a conversation yesterday in Calvin Wesson's apartment—"

"Oh, that...." Hutch relaxed in the seat, but Starsky still took up position behind him, kneading the seated detective's shoulders in an impromptu massage. "The situation with Phillips was a complete misunderstanding." He watched as Dobey rubbed his eyes, leaned forward over the desk, tilted his head to the side, and rubbed his eyes yet again. "What, Captain?"

Dobey shook his head. "I think I need my eyes checked. Damned if I want to admit I'm aging, but I—your shirt looks like it's moving—"

Hutch jerked forward out of Starsky's grasp and, realizing that only made the gaffe worse, settled back again nonchalantly. He tugged on the loose shirt's material. "Oh, it's just the material, Captain, it...it billows."

"Billows?" Starsky snorted. "Good, Hutch. Real good."

Captain Dobey held up a hand at Hutch's explanation and then let it fall listlessly onto the desk. "Hutch, Phillips isn't the only concern."

"What are you talking about? You said at Wesson's that the people who count, the people here at Metro are fine with my staying on the job and—" Hutch lapsed into silence at the expression on the captain's face.

"Oh, crap. He's got that 'Hutch, son' look."

"Hutch, son," Captain Dobey began, stopping immediately when his detective looked in immediate danger of choking. "You'd better not be laughing. I don't see a damn thing in this discussion that merits laughter!"

"No, sir," Hutch said quietly. "Swallowed wrong. You were saying?"

"I'm going to be harsh, Hutchinson, for your own good. Have you even stopped to think what Starsky's death has meant to the criminal element in this city? Your partnership was hated and feared as much as you were respected. Then, one of you got 'taken down a peg' in pretty dramatic fashion. Now the surviving partner is out cavorting in the very damn symbol of that partnership. Can't you see how some people—the wrong people!—might take that as a challenge?"

Hutch could feel Starsky swaying behind him. He didn't have to turn around to see the shock and dismay he knew characterized the rugged features. He felt anger and adrenaline shoot through his veins. He shot out of the chair. "No!"

"Hutchinson, think! You've already got one nutcase spray-painting strange epitaphs in your partner's name at a crime scene—"

"Lover, I didn't think—" Starsky whispered.

"No!" Hutch shouted again, and the fury was dual directed. At his captain for inspiring fear in the man he long thought fearless and at Starsky for giving into the paranoia. "I will not let a wacko—or wackos—dictate to me what I can and cannot do to respect and honor Starsky's memory!"

"Be reasonable, Hutchinson. It's just a car."

"Just a car!" Hutch shouted again. He thrust his chin out, stretched to his full height, and fairly towered over the captain's desk. One hand came up that he held at an ominous angle, a blade of flesh slicing as sharply as his words. "I gave Starsky hell about that car. Sure, a lot of it was teasing, but I can admit that I could act like a spoiled ass brat when I wanted. Let me tell you the truth: there were times that car was the single most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Like when I was clinging to the top of a fence in an alley—yeah, I remember that. I wasn't so far gone I didn’t know what I felt when I heard that siren and saw that red-and-white hunk of metal pulling into the alley. So if it helps me to drive that car all over this city, I will!! And if I want to start wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and buy a damn pair of blue Adidas, I will!! No one is going to stop me! Are you and I on the same page? Good. Spread the news around the precinct so I won't have to."

Without another look at either his captain or his stunned partner, Hutch swiveled and stormed out of the office. Starsky snapped to attention and followed him out. The captain's bellow drifted into the squad room. "Dammit, Hutchinson, I used to be able to reason with you!! And shut my door!"

Hutch turned and pushed the door shut. Starsky stroked lightly at his right arm with both hands. "Easy, baby. You're breathin' like a horse at the end of the race. You made your point. Dobey's just a bit shell-shocked. And I'm here. Right here with you."

Starsky's words were calming but nothing quite compared to the affirmation Hutch received when the entire squad room broke into a round of applause, Saunders sharing the enthusiasm of the other clappers. The solemn but approving looks he fielded told Hutch his argument with the captain had been overheard. Hutch saw via peripheral vision that Starsky's jaw trembled and he knew his own emotions were responsible. He nodded gratefully at the group of officers and personnel and said, "He will NOT be forgotten."

The applause climbed yet another notch in volume.

Starsky's Adam's apple bobbed in tandem with his jaw's quaver and he put an unsteady hand against the blond hair. "God, I love you, Ken Hutchinson."

Hutch's smile said what he couldn't verbalize as he reclaimed his seat at the desk. Saunders looked like he'd swallowed a light bulb. "Now that you've single-handedly lifted the morale of the entire 9^th Precinct, are you ready for the case update?"

"Bring it on," Hutch said, catching Starsky's bright grin and sparkling eyes.

"I just checked in on the handwriting analysis. We've got a match. The diary entries and the paperwork we pulled from BCBC were written by the same person. Chances of forgery are negligible. So we're looking for someone with access to Rebecca Kensington's diary and a motive for making her twisted fantasies come to life."

"Yes, but that's just a part of it," Hutch said thoughtfully, steepling his two index fingers and tapping the point against his chin. "The motive is double-layered. Think about it. We're dealing with both Rebecca's motive for wanting these people dead and someone else's motive for accomplishing what she couldn't."

"I still think none of it has to do with revenge. Not for its own sake," Starsky pointed out. "I can't shake these weird memories of Nadasy."

"We're not dealing with a vampire."

Saunders' wide eyes made both of his teammates chuckle. "Long story, Saunders. And no, Hutch, I'm not saying we're dealing with Count Dracula. I'm saying...something about the way these murders are so targeted. Precise. The 'instructions' in the diary followed to the letter."

"Nadasy was killing those dancers for some hocus-pocus blood ritual he thought would bring his dead wife back." Hutch frowned.

"Yeah, well, my pet peeve in this whole thing is the set of footprints in the flower garden under Wesson's fire escape."

"Yes!" Hutch shouted in his satisfaction at finally grasping the niggling shadow thought at the back of his mind. "Something about them doesn't fit... They're just too convenient. Something about the three crime scenes doesn't fit together at all!"

"Different points of entry, for one thing," Saunders mused.

"Right!" Hutch nodded at the 'empty' square of desk and said softly, "He's being bombarded by Nadasy memories and I'm stuck thinking about...about...."

"Abby," Starsky said, equally soft though not for fear of being overheard.

"Yes, Abby," Hutch agreed without a trace of surprise that his partner had followed his unspoken logic.

Saunders shook his head and rubbed the tip of his pen behind his right ear. "I'm sorry; you've lost me again."

But Hutch was lost in thought. Starsky sighed. "A lady friend of Hutch's, Saunders. A few years ago we were tracking this kid who'd been abused and brainwashed into doing some massive damage with a baseball bat. He was sent over to Hutch's apartment to inflict some of that on Hutch, and Abby opened the door to him. She'd been fixing dinner and thought Hutch had come home. She came out of it with some bruises and bad memories, but she's all right. I think Hutch is equating that with Alicia's killer gaining entrance."

"Not just at Alicia's," Hutch spoke up finally, out of his trance. "Wesson's apartment too. Remember where the body was? God, this should've been evident to us from the start!"

"Right...and it's still not evident to one of us."

"Yes, it is, Saunders, you're just not carrying the thought all the way through. The point of entry at Wesson's, if you base it on the footprints beneath the fire escape, doesn't match the position of the body. I think both Alicia and Calvin opened the door to their killer. So why is there mud on the floor in the spare bedroom and footprints below the fire escape—as if someone wanted us to draw conclusions based on...but that doesn't make sense either...."

"Someone they both knew? Or were expecting?" Saunders asked, now rubbing the pen tip over his eyebrow.

"I...I'm not sure." Hutch kicked back in the chair again. "Anyway, all this conjecture is academic. What we need is to know who could've gained access to Rebecca's diary following her death. For that information, next-of-kin is the likeliest source."

"Got her mother's home number in Delvert right here." Saunders waved the piece of paper.

"Detective Hutchinson?"

Hutch narrowly averted a repeat of the squad room belly flop. He cautiously eased his chair back onto four legs and shifted in his seat. The soft, subdued voice could have belonged to Ophelia instead of the brassy young woman Hutch had encountered first in the grand lobby at BCBC. Gail Dennis had undergone a dramatic transformation, and not a pleasant one. Her face was ashen; eyes skittish and watery. She'd barely pulled a brush through her hair and her jogging suit had seen better days.

"Ms. Dennis—Gail, can I help you? This is my partner, Detective Saunders. Saunders, this is Gail Dennis, formerly with BCBC."

Saunders nodded at the dancer with a polite smile and then gestured at the phone. Hutch agreed with a slight hand wave and redirected his attention. Gail was throwing frightened bird looks around the room despite the proximity to multiple armed policemen.

"She's spooked, Hutch. Let's get her some place quiet and calm her down before she goes into hysterics."

With a sign language conveyance of their destination to the already chatting Saunders, Hutch ushered Gail out of the squad room and Starsky trailed right behind them. They took advantage of the nearest empty interrogation room and Gail seemed especially grateful for the table and chair. She tossed her large handbag onto the table, propped her elbows close beside it, and cradled her head in her hands.

"Y-you told me to call you if I—I got any w-weird phone calls or st-stuff like that. I—I slept in today and I just got my mail. Th-thought I—should bring this right to you."

With two hands that competed with each other for shakiest, she extracted a familiar manila envelope. Hutch snagged a shared glance with his partner during their visitor's distraction. One word passed silently between them: Delvert.

Hutch produced a handkerchief and accepted the envelope carefully. They were mistaken. This envelope bore a Bay City postmark. The contents partially upheld the pattern, however: several copied pages of the dancer's diary slowly came to light through Hutch's cautious handling.

Hutch spread them on the table so his partner could read with ease. After a brief moment of silence punctuated in Hutch's hearing only by Starsky's disgusted grunts, Hutch reached out and gently clasped Gail's wrist, patting her hand with his free one. "You were right to bring us this, Gail. The material doesn't point blank threaten you, so I don't see the necessity in placing you under protective custody, but I'd still feel better if you could spend the next few days with a family member or a friend, preferably out of town. Do you have someone you can count on?"

Gail sniffed and nodded. "My fiancé has a couple days off work. We can visit my grandmother. Is fifty miles far enough away?"

"Yes; that's fine. Did you drive yourself?"

"No, I came in a cab."

"All right. Why don't I send you home with a couple officers so you can pack what you need and meet up with your fiancé?"

"Y-you'll make sure that—" she indicated the diary pages with a nod— "doesn't

h-happen? I'm s-scared for Freddy and O-Ophelia."

"Don't worry. Frederic and Ophelia will both be under constant supervision."

They'd traveled half the distance to the squad room when Saunders intercepted them. His expression made Gail's seem unperturbed by comparison. Hutch instinctively reached out and gripped the younger detective's shoulder. "Saunders?"

"He's a cop!" Saunders burst out, ignoring the bustling hallway in his agitation. "He's—It makes sense. It really all makes sense."

"One word at a time if you have to, Saunders," Starsky said, voice even and reassuring.

"This sicko. The guy we're after—He's a cop!"

Chapter Eighteen:
The Secret Weapon

"Dammit, Hutchinson, I told you I wanted this case solved so I'd have Pritchen off my back. Now you're telling me you want to put cuffs on one of Pritchen's men?"

Saunders sat forward in the other chair and folded his arms over his knees. "Rebecca Kensington was Marty Strauss' stepdaughter."

Dobey waved his pen in the air. "That's supposed to mean something?"

Starsky rolled his eyes. "What did Edith feed him this afternoon? Forget-me-not pie?"

"The diary entries, Captain," Hutch explained, pointing at the sheets of paper in front of their superior officer. "Rebecca Kensington's diary. Four years ago she wrote the blueprints for these murders shortly before her fatal car accident which may have been suicide."

"And you connect this to Strauss how?"

"Her mother divorced him while Rebecca was a sophomore in high school. She moved back to Delvert. When Rebecca joined BCBC, she moved back in with her stepfather. Apparently, they had a strong bond. Nothing unhealthy: just a very close father-daughter relationship. Rebecca's biological father died when she was only five. When Rebecca was kicked out of the company, she couldn't stand to remain in Bay City, so she rejoined her mother in Delvert. That was hard for Strauss, according to Rebecca's mother. Rebecca was on her way home from visiting him for a weekend when she had the 'accident'. Strauss attended the funeral along with his partner Phillips. Afterward, he insisted on helping his ex-wife box up Rebecca's belongings. He kept an entire box of Rebecca's personal papers, childhood stuffed animals, and the like. Among those would have been her diary."

"You don't think anyone else had access to that diary?"

"Captain, someone else may have, but no one else who also conveniently had access to digoxin, the drug used to poison Ophelia Hampton." Hutch nodded at Saunders to continue the explanation.

"Something else Rebecca's mother mentioned in passing. For the last four months, Strauss has been caring for his father. He died a couple weeks ago."

"One of his conditions required digoxin," Hutch added.

Dobey was back to tapping his pen on top of the diary entries. "And why now? Why not four years ago when the girl died?"

"Captain, there are a lot of unanswered questions. Why did he feel the need to—to spray paint Starsky's name all over Frederic's wall? Why did he send the diary entries detailing Frederic's fate to Gail Dennis, and why now instead of four years ago?"

"What's his motive might be another good question to answer, Hutchinson, before you Mirandize a decorated homicide detective."

"Aw, this is nuts!" Starsky growled, pacing the office. "He had less than this on you, Hutch, when he sent me over to your apartment with a damn warrant."

"Captain, the motive in the diaries is simple: Rebecca Kensington had developed this irrational fantasy that if all the primary dancers who participated in 'Midsomer' were killed in this precise fashion culminating in Rebecca's suicide, then they would be trapped in their roles for eternity...meaning that she would be reunited with Frederic and bound to him forever." Hutch tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, but Starsky read his thoughts with ease and obligingly ceased pacing, propping instead against Hutch's chair arm.

"This explains the 'you will be reunited' we found scrawled over Frederic's picture on his wall," Saunders said.

Dobey shifted his gaze to Hutch. "And this other dancer...Gail...she's safe?"

Hutch nodded. "She should be on her way to her grandmother's house as we speak, but I don't think she would've been targeted had she stayed here in Bay City. Gail was exempt because she was never supposed to be involved beyond a chorus dancer. Frederic was supposed to die last—before Rebecca herself-- and on the anniversary of the debut performance, tomorrow night in fact. That would partially explain the timing of these events although not the four year gap."

"Either fate or Rebecca herself took her out of the equation before she could accomplish what she'd outlined in her diary. Hell, a psychologist might say she never really intended to follow through with her plans, that the diary was just a means of expressing her feelings, her pain. Not a healthy means, if you ask me, but...." Saunders shrugged.

Captain Dobey rubbed his forehead. "I just—I have a hard time accepting—"

"Captain, I don't like the situation either, but when you plug Strauss in with the other numbers and do the math, the sum comes out right. For instance, he knew his victims' habits; that we can say for a fact. And who better at the surveillance required for that than someone trained in the art? We don't have all the answers, but we do have enough for a warrant to get him off the streets and in here for questioning—"

Captain Dobey brought a fist down on the table. "Then get the hell out there and bring him in. Sweet heaven, the day I live to see a cop under Pritchen's command turn into a mass murderer—"

"Uh, Cap, we've already ascertained that he hasn't been seen round his precinct all day and he's not at home. Nor can we reach his partner, Detective Phillips."

Dobey stared at Hutch, leaned over the desk and looked around the blond to stare at Saunders. "You two've been pretty busy." He rested back in the chair and shooed Hutch's hands off his desk. "How in the name of creation have you put all this together since you were in my office, Hutchinson?"

Hutch's mouth opened and closed spasmodically. Starsky covered his eyes and shook with laughter. Phone calls to Strauss' precinct were easily explained, but Starsky's reconnaissance of Strauss' apartment was an entirely different ball game. Fortunately, the harsh jangling of the phone distracted the captain. Dobey growled into the receiver but his tone immediately softened. He lowered the phone, covered the mouthpiece with his hand, and said, "Saunders, Bev's on the line."

Saunders' face took on the characteristics of panic. He massaged his jaw with his right hand and shook his head. "I—I..." He made it to the phone in one gliding stride and snatched it from Dobey's grasp. "Bev? I'm sorry; I'm right in the middle of—What? When...? I see...yes, thanks. Put her on.... Ophelia?"

Starsky stroked Hutch's back just beneath his shoulder blades and whispered in the left ear, "Oh, now this is interesting."

".... Right. No, you did the right thing. I'm sorry, Ophelia. I'm so sorry. You stay there with Bev. Don't move a muscle. Okay? Can I count on you to stay right where you are? No.... No, don't think like that. No, you've probably saved both your lives by playing it smart. Ophelia, listen. Shh, it's okay. I want you to trust me. Good. That's a girl. Good. I'm going to discuss this with my partner—yes, with Hutchinson—and then I'll call you right back. All right? Thanks. Put Bev on the line.... Bev? Listen, you have to keep Ophelia there with you until I get back to you, okay? Thanks." Saunders appeared to lose the strength in his arm. His hand fell open and the phone dangled. He seized control of himself quickly, slamming the phone down on the receiver. "This guy's laying it all on the line."

"Want to translate that into English for all of us, Saunders?" Dobey demanded.

"Ophelia's aunt has been kidnapped from Memorial."

"Damn!" Starsky shouted, kicking angrily at thin air.

"How in Hell's blazes did that happen?" Dobey sprang from his chair with more agility and speed than he'd exhibited in several years.

"Only too easily, Cap'n," Hutch replied, facial expression rigidly controlled. Too controlled. Starsky knew that look. He rushed up behind Hutch again and grasped the back of his arms lightly. "Something as simple as...'Ms. Fairley, I'm Detective Strauss. I work with Detectives Saunders and Hutchinson. I need you to come with me and fill out some paper work, if you don't mind. Ophelia's resting peacefully...'. The old lady's been wandering between Ophelia's room and the chapel and canteen. Too, too easy!"

Starsky flexed his hands on the back of Hutch's arms and breathed into his neck, "Hutch, babe, take a deep breath. You're about to crush your jaw, for Chris'sakes. We didn't even know we were dealing with a badge until a little while ago. We alerted the cops on guard soon's we could. He must've beaten us to the punch. Telling yourself over and over what a lousy cop you are isn't going to help us win this round. Okay?"

"The note came with a floral delivery," Saunders said wearily, sinking down into his chair. "Nurse brought it in with med pass. Ophelia decided she didn't even trust the uniform outside her door. She called down to the ER for Bev, knowing Bev would be able to get in touch with me without too many go-betweens."

"And the note?" Hutch asked, exhaling deeply.

"He's thorough. She's to find a way off her floor undetected and down to the ER receiving entrance where a cab—he even put money for the fare in with the note-- will pick her up at precisely 4 p.m. and take her to a payphone for further instructions. Any word to the cops and her aunt dies...slowly and unpleasantly—you know, the standard line. Ophelia's already doing guilt flips over calling me."

"He's covering his ass in layers," Starsky snarled. "A tail on that cab from the hospital and the game's up, but I bet you could do a sweep of the area and still not find him! And he must have someone at Memorial feeding him info on her condition because he obviously knows he's not sending the note to an unconscious patient."

"He has to get her away from the hospital to complete the diary's ritual because he knows everything she consumes while in Memorial will be thoroughly screened," Hutch said.

"He's going to be expecting any move we can make," Dobey sighed.

"Not any move," Hutch said slowly. He glanced at his watch. "Captain, I have an idea, but you're really going to have to play it on faith with me. It's against three regulations just off the top of my head."

"Since when have you been afraid to spell things out to me, Hutchinson, as many times as I've backed your wild-haired stunts?"

"Captain, please! Would you—uh—give Saunders and me the office for a few minutes?"

Captain Dobey gaped at his senior detective. "Are you suggesting—" He flung down the pen and wagged a fist. "Hutchinson, if you and Starsky hadn't saved my own bacon once upon a time, I'd be hard-pressed not to resent this. Five minutes. I'm coming back in when five minutes are up. Not a second more. Decide what you have to decide before then or it goes out on the table for my approval." He exited the office with dignified nonchalance, playing the captain merely en route to the cafeteria for an afternoon snack to perfection. Hutch smiled.

As soon as the door closed, Saunders shifted in the chair and stared at Hutch, brown eyes simmering. "Give me some answers. Right now."

"We let Ophelia make her escape and complete the trip to the payphone—"

Saunders' departure from his chair resembled ejection from a fighter jet. "No! Don't even think about it, Hutchinson! No friggin' way!" He crisscrossed his arms emphatically in a gesture of refusal.

"With an escort," Hutch finished.

Saunders closed his mouth. When he opened it again, his tone was much softer. "You mean Starsky."

Hutch nodded. "We take an unmarked job from the motor pool and wait for Starsky to give us the play-by-play of their route to the payphone and then the next destination."

"How?" Saunders asked, his skepticism evident in his stance, hands on his hips and head cocked to the side.

Starsky looked deep in Hutch's eyes. "Baby, it may have happened a few times accidentally, but I don't think I can control it...or direct it like that."

"Try," Hutch encouraged, packing all the force of his trust, respect, and admiration for his spouse into the one word. Starsky's eyes sparkled at him.

"How?" Saunders repeated. "You two aren't alone in this room, you know. Talk to me. How?"

Starsky grinned, closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw. Saunders' eyes widened and he clutched at his forehead. "I see."

Hutch brushed a large hand across Starsky's back, "And we used to think our telepathy was something."

Saunders tossed his head as though to clear the cobwebs. "No! No way am I signing off on this. She's in the hospital because she needs to be there. She almost died yesterday. Police officers are trained to keep innocent civilians out of danger—"

"Granted, Saunders, and nine out of ten times, I'd agree with you, but we're not dealing with an amateur here. He's one very determined man and he knows the ropes. We're not gonna nail this guy playing by the book because he's read the same book. This way, he gets the impression we're playing by his rules, but we can protect her in the process. He has no way of knowing about our secret weapon."

Saunders stared at the empty air where he'd approximated Starsky's location by Hutch's movements. "No offense, Starsky. I have total faith in you as a cop. If you said you could walk on water, I'd believe you in a heartbeat. But this is still a risky plan, and Ophelia's gonna think we're sending her out naked."

"It's a test of inner strength," Hutch agreed. "Personally, I think she's up to the challenge."

Saunders ran a hand over his hair and swallowed hard. "I—"

Starsky smiled. "Listen, Saunders. We'll have her well out of danger before the real action goes down. I can make sure she has a nice, safe little cab ride to a payphone. You watch my Hutch's back and I'll take good care of your Ophelia. Deal? "

The words were light, the meaning anything but flippant. Saunders heard both. "She's not my—" He flushed and smiled. "Deal. Shake on it?" His eyes bulged again when his hand moved up and down of its own accord. "I'm seeing it, but I'm not feeling it and I'm not sure I'm believing it."

"Five minutes almost up. It's show time," Hutch said.

Starsky stood in front of Hutch and cupped his chin. "You take care of yourself, lover. And watch out for our partner."

Hutch smiled. "Me and thee, and Saunders makes three."

Starsky laughed out loud, stepped back and bowed his head, folding his hands over his chest.

"Make the call, Saunders."

"You mean, he's already—"

"Make the call."

>>>>>>>

Starsky lounged on free space at the end of the hospital bed and watched as Ophelia handed the phone to Bev, who had been listening in on the conversation. Bev hung up the phone and shook her head. "I don't like it."

"I'm doing it." Ophelia pulled back the covers and wobbled as she tried to swing her legs over the bedside.

"There are a multitude of things that could turn disastrous with a stunt like this. I can't believe it's even being suggested. If you'd said 'no', they would have had to consider other options. As one of your physicians, I have to--"

"I'm going whether you give consent or not," Ophelia said firmly. Starsky smiled and respectfully covered his eyes as the young woman eased out of her hospital gown.

"Why? There are other ways, I'm sure. You shouldn't even be out of bed except for trips to the bathroom."

Starsky spread his fingers and peeked through them just as Ophelia zipped up the same short suede skirt she'd been wearing the day she was brought into the ER. Leaving her blouse un-tucked as usual, she shook one of her funky-heeled boots at Bev. "I'm going because some nut-job out there has my aunt Em, who's been a second Mom to me, and if I'd thought to open my mouth about my dancing from the start, that same nut-job might already be behind bars instead of snatching innocent elderly women from hospitals. I'm tired of making mistakes. I'm not going to make another one by cowering in this damn hospital room." She slipped into the second boot and started looking around the room. "Where's my purse...didn't I have it with me when—when—" she sat down on the bed and took a deep breath.

"Ophelia, I understand about your aunt. Really, I do. But she wouldn't want you putting yourself in harm's way just because Ray—"

Ophelia looked up and Starsky whistled at the 'back off' glint in her blue eyes. "Quite frankly, Dr. Augustano, 'Ray' has nothing to do with this. Though, now that you mention it, yes, I trust your—your fiancé implicitly. If he says this is the way to go, then it's the way to go. Now where's my purse.... I have to be downstairs in less than ten minutes."

Bev stared at her. Her beautiful aquiline features darkened with suspicion.

Starsky sat up straight. "Uh-oh, here we go."

"I've never known Ray to inspire this form of hero-worship."

Ophelia jumped up. "To hell with my purse. If you don't know the difference between good old-fashioned trust and hero-worship, I don't have time to explain it to you now."

Bev stepped forward and placed light hands on the shorter woman's shoulders. "Ophelia, please see reason and stay in that bed where you belong. Don't go through with this just because you have a crush on my—on Ray."

Starsky rose to his feet and winced at the condescension in Bev's tone. "Ouch."

Ophelia just smiled. A bitter smile: a window into past defeat and buried pain. "I may be younger than you and I'm no brilliant surgeon, but give me a little credit, huh? And don't you even talk about my feelings. You have no idea about my feelings, but don't worry: it's one of my idiosyncrasies to want men I can't ever have. Now are you going to help me get this little charade started, or do I have to do that on my own too?"

Bev sighed. "I could lose my license over this."

"Call me weird," Ophelia commented wryly, "but I'm more concerned about my aunt's life."

That halted Bev's protests. She slipped to the other side of the closed hospital door and motioned for Ophelia to do her part. Ophelia nodded and commenced screaming.

Chapter Nineteen:
Denouement

Saunders looked over the beige mid-seventies Chevy sedan with in disgust. "Jeez, the person who owned this eyesore had even worse taste in cars than you do." He held out a hand, palm up. "Keys, Hutchinson."

Hutch held the keys high in the air and shook his head. "Nope. I'm behind the wheel; you're the navigator, remember?"

Saunders gritted his teeth and thrust the hand forward. "I can do both."

Hutch sealed the keys in a tight fist. "Saunders, you can be just as good a knight-in-shining-armor for her in the passenger seat."

A very flushed and embarrassed Saunders got in the car. "Ophelia's got plenty guts of her own. I don't think she needs a 'knight-in-shining-armor'." He stared out the passenger window and Hutch couldn't get a fix on his expression, though his profile was tensed.

Hutch shut the car door and cranked the engine. Backing out of the parking spot, he said, "Doesn't mean the protective instinct is wrong. I'm in a relationship with a guy who could bench press a semi even when he was fully mortal, and I still want to keep him safe and happy. I wanted that when we were just partners on the job."

"I wish Starsky would send out a signal that all systems are go. I just can't see Bev assaulting a police officer. She won't even stomp on a bug in the apartment."

Hutch heard the pain in the last few words and drove left-handed so he could nudge Saunders in the arm with a comforting elbow. "She won't have to assault him, pal, just distract and overpower him long enough for Ophelia to make a good dash for the elevators. I told you, this is all about realism. We have to play this as close to Strauss' book as we can until we flush him out in the open. Don't worry: Bev won't stay in hot water for long. We'll clear up any misunderstandings."

Saunders managed a laugh despite the tension of the situation. "I can't imagine Bev overpowering Officer Brewer without beating him over the head."

Hutch pulled into traffic and turned in the direction of Memorial. "You have a point. If she and Ophelia won't tell us how they managed it, we can always pump our own personal spy for information."

Saunders snapped out of his slumped posture. "Hey! He'll be in the room when

Ophelia—" He broke off, looking even more embarrassed than before, and slouched back down in the seat.

Hutch turned a smile of sympathy out his window. Poor Saunders: mourning Bev and possessive of Ophelia at the same time. Hutch experienced a rush of gratitude that Starsky had virtually erased the memories of the last time he'd been that mixed up in the relationship department. Sudden movement at his side distracted him. Saunders held his forehead, a grimace of discomfort hardening his features.

"She's in the cab...it's a Metro Cab...has a 'Arizona Born and Bred' bumper sticker...crack in the left tail light...everything looks on the up-and-up...."

"That's my Starsky." Hutch grinned. "Eye for detail."

"They're...headed...north."

Hutch slammed his foot on the gas. "All right. Here's where we play catch up."

"He says.... Don't drive like a granny, Blintz."

Hutch's foot fell heavier on the gas pedal and he swerved crazily as he stared in shock at his passenger. Saunders threw his hands up. "Hey, I'm just the messenger!"

"When I get my hands on that—"

"I don't need to know," Saunders hastened to interrupt. Hutch felt his cheeks heat but he caught Saunders' teasing smile and he laughed as he surfed the lanes of traffic.

"They're turning onto Winthrop Avenue...."

Hutch glanced in his rear view mirror and his gaze lingered. "Ah, how the hell—"

"What?"

"We have a tail. Looks like Phillips' car."

"Should we try and lose him?" Saunders turned in the seat to look out the rear window.

Hutch gave a head toss. "No. We stick with the plan. This is a touchy situation already without adding another variable. If he's good enough to keep up with me on my turf, then so be it." Hutch emphasized the point by jerking into a sharp right turn down what looked like a blind alley but instead ended in another ninety-degree turn onto a busy highway. Saunders clutched the door handle and glanced back for signs of their tail.

"Thought you weren't trying to lose him."

"I'm not; I'm taking a short cut."

"You're doing 80 in the middle of the city—"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Personally I've always liked the number 85," Saunders urged.

>>>>>>

Starsky felt an uneasiness growing within him. Something was not right with this entire situation. His instincts screamed at him. Hutch had always praised his sixth sense; his current metaphysical state only enhanced that talent. Right now he felt the presence of overwhelming hatred and despair. The young woman beside him was oblivious. She shivered frequently, clutched and released her hands in an attempt to steady her nerves, but she was still a vastly different girl than the one who'd been under the influence of digoxin.

"Not from around here?" the cabby asked. He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-to-late twenties, and Starsky had noted immediately that he'd paid no attention to Ophelia's short skirt and fairly thin blouse. Not even a passing glance.

"No," Ophelia whispered, staring alternately between her lap and the rear window.

Starsky slid closer and wished fervently he could communicate with Ophelia and advise her to stop looking out the back window. Without any clue what they were dealing with, giving the impression that someone would be tailing the cab could prove disastrous.

"I'm not from here either," the cabby said, glancing back in the rear view mirror. Starsky caught a glimpse of his eyes and scooted even closer to Ophelia. What was going down?

Those eyes were the wrong kind of appraising.

"Where are you from?" Ophelia asked politely, moving her hands to clench the edge of the seat.

"Oh, small town couple hours north of here. Doubt you've heard of it."

Oh, shit! Starsky shouted mentally. Coincidence? Not a chance. He closed his eyes, ground his teeth and tried to telegraph, "Mayday! Trouble!" He felt he was drowning in misery.

"Following my sister's footsteps," the cabby said mechanically.

"She's here in Bay City too?" Ophelia seemed determined to maintain the small talk. Starsky was simultaneously running through a list of options and trying to transmit a warning to Saunders.

"Was. She's dead."

"I'm very sorry," Ophelia responded, voice trembling, the pain of her own recent losses flooding her face.

"Oh, don't worry. You'll have a chance to make it up to her. You and that little fairy she was foolish enough to break her heart over. You'll have a long time to dance your best roles."

Ophelia went rigid. Light blue eyes suddenly brilliant with tears, one unsteady hand raking through her hair, she curled her legs up in the seat. "W-what have y-you done to my aunt?"

"Don't worry about her either. My personal robot is taking good care of her. She won't have to live without you, I promise."

Ophelia's hands went back to gripping the seat. "Saunders...." she breathed, closing her eyes.

Starsky railed at his inability to lend comfort and support to the terrified young woman, but he placed his left hand over her right one anyway and murmured, "Keep him talking. Keep him talking. I know it's not easy, but if I'm gonna do anything, I need him distracted."

Ophelia of course gave no indication that she even sensed the detective's presence, but she suddenly threw her head back and defiance crept into her eyes. "Robot?" Her eyes drilled holes in the back of the cabby's cowboy hat.

The cabby laughed and the sound was as mechanical as his speech. "Yes. You'd be amazed at how easy it is to brainwash a human being when he's already ripe for burnout."

Starsky was shocked to find himself seized with something resembling nausea at the hate in the cabby's soulless words. He tried once more to communicate with Saunders, but found his mind reeling under the onslaught of images he thought never to re-live this vividly in his current state....

>>>>>>

Saunders bent over in the seat and clutched his head with both hands. "Oh, God...."

Hutch turned a concerned look on the other detective, who was massaging his temples with his fingertips. "You okay, pal?"

"I feel like someone put my head in a junkyard car crusher, but I'll live," Saunders replied, straightening. "Something's wrong."

"What?"

"He's—he's trying to get a message to me, but something—something's blocking it."

"What do you mean, blocking it?" Hutch let his eyes stray from traffic for a look at Saunders' face. Saunders grabbed at his head and his eyes rolled back.

"It hurts, Hutch. Oh, God, it hurts...."

Hearing the shortened version of his name in Saunders' voice and feeling a rush of déjà vu at the words, Hutch glanced over at the passenger seat again. Saunders was folded in on himself, but though his face was a mixture of emotions, his eyes were blank and staring. "What...you wanna hit me again...? You're the best friend I got in this world...you think I like sayin' things like this to you...? You wanted to straighten things out, huh? Clear up the problem...."

"STOP!" Hutch yelled, the depths of his chest hurting at the attack of memories. "Snap out of it, Saunders!"

"See how she feels? How did she feel, huh? How did she feel!?"

"Starsky, what's happening?" Hutch shouted. Torn between navigating the busy streets at his high rate of speed and concern for both his lover and partner, Hutch had to swerve to miss a pickup truck pulling out of a liquor store parking lot and taking a left turn across traffic.

Suddenly Saunders flung his arms out to the side and his entire upper body jerked as though pinned by automatic weapon fire.

That was all Hutch could take. He swung into the outer lane with mere inches to spare and pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned Texas Premium gas station.

>>>>>>

"...Years. Years I put into developing this plan. He'll have nothing left. I just had to wait for the perfect set of circumstances. I've stripped his mind, twisted him in-and-out, and he'll go down for multiple murders. A homicide detective! Deliciously perfect poetic justice, don't you think?"

"Why!!" Ophelia shouted as she tried to melt into the seat.

"Because he abandoned my sister! She needed him...trusted him above anyone—even Mom. He knew that. All she needed was someone to take her away and help her get back on her feet...help her over that stupid infatuation with that queer...but his cases were too damn important. His damn precious badge. So she left and on the way home...on the way...."

"I know, I know," Ophelia said. Tears streamed down her face. "I've lived with what happened to her every...every day since I got...that package...."

"At least you lived!!" the cabby shouted, miraculously preserving the metallic quality of his voice.

"I know!" Ophelia screamed, gripping her hair with both hands.

Starsky curled up in the seat, wrestling with another array of images....

>>>>>>

"....God, Hutch, he was sixteen years old.... How many more cops've gotta die before I become expendable..."

"Saunders!" Hutch clutched fistfuls of the light gray jacket and shook his partner by the shoulders. "Snap out of this, dammit!"

"Fact of the matter is, I made that girl blind...."

Hutch was fresh out of ideas. Traffic whizzed by unnoticed. The sun poured through the windshield, its warmth ignored. He shook Saunders fiercely. "I love you, Starsky!! Do you hear me? I love you!"

>>>>>>

Starsky unfolded and wanted to shout in exultation at the strength coursing through him.

Ophelia huddled against the car door.

The cabby delivered a monotone treatise on his flawless plan.

Starsky barely heard the words. He'd noticed in the front passenger seat of the cab the handle of a gun peeking out from beneath a folded newspaper. A standard police issue service revolver, it was most likely Marty Strauss' weapon.

>>>>>>

Saunders struggled out of Hutch's hold and thrashed for a second like a dog fresh out of the bath. "Unnggh...why the hell are we sitting here at a gas station with the engine idling?"

Hutch couldn't form words right away. After a deep breath, he put the car back in gear and turned it toward the road. "You—you just shaved about five years off my life, pal. We're in one hell of a mess. God knows where the cab is and I'm scared to ask you to focus on another message from Starsky. Phillips seems to have disappeared too."

"Last thing I got was...something about...'keep him talking...'."

Hutch pulled into the road and headed in the direction they'd been traveling before the break in communication. "Keep who talking?"

"He wouldn't have been telling me to keep you talking," Saunders reasoned. "I got the sense he was...trying to communicate with Ophelia."

Hutch frowned. "That sounds like...but Strauss couldn't be driving the cab: Starsky would have recognized him and tipped us off. He'd have found some way to abort the whole plan—"

"Disguise, maybe?"

"I doubt a disguise would get past Starsky's enhanced powers of observation...."

Saunders clutched at his head and Hutch braced for another emotional typhoon, but Saunders snapped back immediately and sprawled haphazardly across the seat. "Jesus God, it's one of Rebecca's brothers—"

"We ruled them out—" Hutch said lamely in his surprise.

"Yeah? Rule one of 'em back in," Saunders retorted, sitting up straight, his tone harsh with worry. His mouth twisted in pain as he lowered his head, closing his eyes. "He says...situation deteriorating...needs to be dealt with now...nearing old dumping ground where he drove the car...with the dynamite in the trunk...."

"Yes, I know where that is. We're not that far behind them then. With any luck, we could be there within minutes."

"Good...because he's going to try to maneuver the guy safely off the road into the dumping ground—"

"What!? He can't exert that kind of influence—"

"Tell him that!" Saunders snapped. "He's trying to save her life."

Hutch gripped the steering wheel painfully hard and turned his right foot into a lead weight. Funny how some things never changed. He still had to worry about losing Starsky...not to guns or poison or cult followers but to a Power he didn't even understand, whose rules Starsky seemed determined to break.

"There's a Metro cab!" Saunders gestured wildly a couple minutes later at a flash of yellow seven or eight cars ahead of them in the outside lane.

"Yes, one of fifty-five in the entire city, Saunders. Hang on and I'll try to get us close enough to pick out details."

Saunders briefly shielded his eyes as Hutch hopscotched through spaces between cars not intended for vehicles even half the size of the Chevy sedan. "I've never seen you drive like this."

"Don't usually. Starsky would be proud of me. The last time he drove like this, I put him through a stint of faked amnesia."

"Excuse me?"

"I thought—at the time--that he deserved it for driving us into a construction shack."

"Oh, that clears up matters beautifully, thank you."

"Don't worry: I'm sure he'll regale you with the whole story someday. We can actually laugh about it now."

"Whoa, that's our guy—he's starting to lose control of the car—"

Hutch vied with a lime green VW Bug for a spot in the outside lane. "Fudging this scenario in our report will be a barrel of laughs.... God, let us get Ophelia out of this in one piece."

"Damn!" Saunders yelled, grabbing hold of the dashboard and stretching to see over the cars ahead. "The cab just disappeared—"

"No, it didn't. There's a huge dip into the dumping ground. Hang tight, here we go. Where the hell's Phillips when we could actually use some backup?"

Hutch barely tapped his brakes as he plummeted down the wide dirt 'road' into which Starsky had driven the '63 Chevy car bomb a few years back. Saunders had his gun out and jumped from the car the moment the speedometer dropped under 30. He rolled on the ground and came up gun aimed just as Ophelia exited the cab. She didn't get far. The cabby burst from the car and grabbed her from behind, pulling her back against him and pressing the barrel of his gun against her temple. She froze and turned the full force of her blue eyes on Saunders.

Starsky appeared next and Hutch's heart sank. Something wasn't right. His superhuman lover wasn't unfazed by the events. As the curly-haired detective went down on one knee, head lowered, Hutch had to fight the instinct to fly to his side. He pointed the Magnum at the cabby with a new ferocity in his gaze. "Police! Drop it, punk. You're not getting out of this in one piece unless you lose the gun now!"

The gunman was undaunted. He tightened his hold on Ophelia and ground the gun against the side of her face. "You take one more step and she'll be dancing for the angels."

Starsky remained immobile, but his voice was strong. "The gun's—unloaded, Hutch...I unloaded it myself without him...noticing...."

Saunders' tensed stance as he leveled his gun on the cabby spoke to his inability to hear Starsky now that the ghostly detective was no longer directing his thoughts. "Come on, man. Step away from her and you can keep breathing. You pull that trigger and you're going down, but it won't be quick. We'll make sure you suffer on your way out."

"Yeah, right, cop! Not with the precious codes you live by."

Saunders' eyes were brown laser beams, his face granite. "You don't want to test me, mister. You hurt her and I'll forget I'm a cop. Ever seen a bullet rip through a kneecap? You'll learn about it firsthand."

Hutch was taking advantage of Saunders' verbal diversion to inch closer to the gunman and his hostage. The cabby finally took note. "I said, not another step, cop, or I'll blow her head off."

"No, you won't," Hutch said calmly, stepping closer.

"Are you crazy, man?" The young man demanded. Ophelia never let her eyes stray from Saunders' face.

"Hutchinson?" Saunders' voice reached a desperate pitch.

"Gun's unloaded, Saunders," Starsky said, still half-kneeling on the ground.

"You're not going to win this one, Kensington. Let her go and drop the gun on the ground." Hutch never slowed his approach.

"Have you been dropping acid, cop?"

"Your gun's unloaded," Hutch pointed out as though telling someone his shoe was untied.

The cabby laughed, the metallic, brittle sound that didn't belong to the human race. "Oh, you have a sense of humor, I'll give you that."

Hutch smiled. He knelt and placed the Magnum on the ground. "Saunders, lose your weapon. Show moron here we're not jerking his chain."

Saunders dropped his gun immediately and stepped away from it. The cabby leered at him. "Great—let's see how pretty boy likes losing one of his kneecaps."

"Saunders, no!" Ophelia screamed as the gunman turned the gun on Saunders and pulled the trigger. The empty click sounded like a clap of thunder. As the cabby stared in disbelief at his weapon, Hutch and Saunders rushed him in perfect unison.

Saunders pulled Ophelia away while Hutch handled the task of cuffing their suspect, who put up less than a token fight, defeated by the inexplicable failure of the gun. Ophelia declined Saunders' helpful hand and attempted to stand on her own, but she swayed on her high boot heels, not made for the uneven ground, and Saunders gathered her into his arms. He held her tight up against him, cupping the back of her head and pressing her face softly into his chest. "I'm—I'm okay," she said quietly, inhaling deeply, fingertips reverently tracing the lapel of his jacket. "You—you can let go."

"I don't think I can," Saunders breathed, lowering his face to rest his lips against the soft blonde hair.

"You will eventually; might as well be now." Ophelia broke free of the embrace and nervously smoothed her blouse. "W-what a-about Aunt Em?"

"That's my first question for Genius here," Hutch snarled, shoving the cuffed cabby against the car. "Where is she?"

Saunders turned back to the Chevy. "I'll call for a black-and-white."

"How...I don't understand...I made sure no one tailed me from the hospital...you didn't have time to get a wire on her—"

"That what your spy at the hospital told you?" Hutch demanded. "You just have all kinds of secrets to spill, don't you?"

"I'm not telling you shit!" Kensington shrieked.

Ophelia snapped. She launched herself at Kensington and banged fists against his chest. "Where's my aunt, you lowlife?"

Hutch seized Ophelia gently by the shoulders and pulled her back. Starsky finally overpowered whatever had bound him in the kneeling position in the background and joined his lover. "Hutch, Kensington's not alone in this. From the sound of it, he's brainwashed Strauss into being some sort of accomplice. I'm fuzzy on the details."

Saunders returned to the cab. "They're on their way. Did he give you any idea where Ms. Fairley is?"

Hutch stroked his chin and stared at Kensington. "No, but I don't think we need him, Saunders. I'd say Jason Phillips has already found her."

"What are you talking about?" Kensington scoffed, lips drawn back in a sneer.

"You think—" Saunders tried to read the thought process in Hutch's eyes.

"He wasn't tailing us or he'd have caught up to us easily at that gas station. He was on his way to a specific location. I'll lay you money down that Strauss got tired of being an overgrown puppet and called him. So smart ass might as well open up and tell us."

Kensington lost his defiant will at that point. Head hanging, he slumped against the rear fender of the car and said, "A run-down shack on Taylor Street. 1410 Taylor."

Starsky drummed his fingers against the cab's roof. "Cuff Ugly to the cab and then you two take Ophelia and split. I'll watch this trash until the uniforms show and then I'll join you."

Hutch reeled under the desire to pat his lover's stomach, look into his eyes, and ask him what had temporarily drained his strength and vitality. With Ophelia and Kensington present, he could do none of the above. He threw a brief glance to the side, and Starsky smiled under the potent love in the flash of crystal blue. "I'm okay, lover. Go on. Get outta here." He offered Hutch one of his sideways grins and repeated words from another time. "I don't go down so easy...."

>>>>>>

The sight that greeted them at 1410 Taylor would linger with Hutch for years to come.

Ms. Fairley still sat in the chair where she'd obviously been bound and gagged. The duct tape used for her gag still clung to one side of her chin. She was sobbing silently but her gaze told them her grief was not for her own condition but for that of the sandy-haired man who was being rocked softly in the arms of his partner on the shack's dusty, trash littered floor.

"He—He saved your little girl, Jason...why...why couldn't he save Rebecca? Saved your little girl...you told me...remember? You talked about it all the time. Saved your daughter, but he couldn't save mine...."

"Shh, Marty. Shh, buddy. It's all right. I'm here now. It's gonna be okay, partner."

Chapter Twenty:
Victory

"Quiet!! I can't hear myself think if you all talk at once!!" Captain Dobey hollered. The chatter in the room silenced immediately and soft laughter sounded in its place. The responsible party, Lieutenant Pritchen, leaned forward in his chair and rapped his knuckles on Dobey's desk.

"Haven't lost your touch, Harold. No one knows how to quiet down a room full of grown men quite like you."

Dobey smiled and pushed his chair back from the desk. "I've had a lot of practice keeping Star—" he coughed against a plump fist and stared at Hutch, who sat alone in one of the chairs. Pritchen sat back and lowered his head respectfully for a moment, glancing discreetly over at Hutch.

But Hutch wasn't alone. Starsky sat in his lap, blue-jeaned bowed legs draped over the arm of Hutch's chair. His head found refuge against Hutch's shoulder. Hutch didn't mind his lover curling up against him like an adorable, oversized lapdog, especially since the blond detective could tell the closeness was sought for more reasons than one. Starsky was still not the effervescent, sturdy presence that characterized Metro's prize detective.

Hutch battled the desire to whisk him into the Men's room and demand an explanation for the change in his demeanor since the cab ride.

"First things first," Dobey said once he had everyone's attention. "The girl and her aunt have been taken care of?"

"Yes, sir," Saunders replied as all eyes turned to him at the captain's question. His smile showed he didn't mind being the spokesman regarding Ophelia and her family. "Ms. Hampton is once more under observation at Memorial. She's been moved into a semi-private room so her aunt, who is also being held for observation, can rest easier with her nearby. Ms. Fairley is shaken, of course, but relatively unharmed. Thank God."

Dobey turned his intense stare on Detective Phillips, who sat close to his captain. "You okay with Detective Strauss being admitted to the psych ward at Memorial?"

Detective Phillips sighed deeply and ran a fist across his eyes. "It's where he needs to be right now. I just have such a hard time believing I—I let him get into this shape. Some partner I am."

"Jason, you've been on medical leave. You've been facing some tough health issues and you have a family to consider. You couldn't baby-sit Marty every minute." Pritchen's soft blue eyes were warm with concern and sympathy. Although slightly younger than Dobey, Pritchen boasted whitening hair and rosy cheeks that lent him an oddly calming grandfatherly appearance. "We none of us knew he was this close to dropping over the edge."

"Explain to me exactly what we're dealing with here," Dobey requested of the room at large. "One at a time."

All eyes settled on Hutch and he cleared his throat. "After being asked to leave Bay City Ballet in 1974, Rebecca Kensington was a disgruntled young woman. During the year before her death, her diary was an outlet for a lot of pain and violent thoughts. Apparently, she realized that she needed to find a healthier outlet, so she came to visit her step-father and asked him to take some time off work so the two of them could go away somewhere and talk, make some plans for her future. He was in the middle of several cases at the moment and put her off, telling her he would take the leave as soon as he had a break in workload. She left and on the way home she was killed in the car accident. Now, her diary contained suicidal thoughts, but the more I learn about this case, the more I'm in agreement with the Delvert authorities that her wreck was accidental. I don't think she intended to end it all then. How's that so far, Phillips?"

Jason Phillips nodded at Hutch. "Yeah, after the funeral, I was with Marty when he read through her diary—just broke him down all that suffering she'd been doing and he—he was just overwhelmed with guilt for not dropping everything while she was here that last time."

"Which is why Craig Kensington chose to put his plan into effect after you took medical leave. He knew you were privy to some of the details in that diary and if you were one of the investigating officers in the case, his game would be up before it got started good," Saunders added. "With you on leave and Strauss on desk duty, he had room to breathe."

"Hold it!" Dobey held up a silencing hand. "I'm lost again. What's the connection between Kensington and Strauss? Who's responsible for what here?"

Starsky shifted in Hutch's lap, careful to do so without disturbing Hutch's arms and drawing attention to his lover. "Yeah, who's responsible for what? In this case, you need a roadmap to understand the answer to that damn question."

Saunders stood and crossed to the water cooler. He filled the paper cup, drained its contents, crushed it and tossed it in the trashcan before he addressed the group of police officers. "We were wrong when we thought that revenge wasn't involved in these crimes. Kensington had a dual goal. He wanted to fulfill what he believed were Rebecca's wishes and he wanted to frame Strauss for the crimes so Strauss could 'pay for abandoning his sister to her death'. Kensington also had a chance to read through her diary after the funeral, and he's the one who sent the packets containing the copies of the diary entries and the obituary material. He sent them conveniently while Strauss was still Delvert, shortly before Strauss packed the diary, some papers, and stuffed animals into a box and brought it back to Bay City with him."

"Remember the Artie Solkin case, Cap'n?" Hutch asked. "We're dealing with a similar situation here. Craig Kensington has a remarkable talent for psychological manipulation. He kept tabs on Marty Strauss' career and life events through his mother and when he thought Strauss was about to break down from losing his ailing father and watching his partnership come to an end, he moved to Bay City, took a job with Metro Cab, and latched onto Strauss. Pretending to be concerned and a friend during the hard times, he was really slowly but surely brainwashing the man—"

"I—I could kill the sonuvabitch for playing on Marty's guilt about Rebecca. I'd talked a lot in the past of how Detective Starsky saved my little girl's life, turned her whole world around, in fact, and Marty must have told his ex-wife about it. Kensington got wind of it and used it in his little psych game."

"That's why Starsky's—" Hutch paused, his voice breaking. The curly-headed charmer in his lap twisted to look up into his face with a broad, encouraging smile. "That's why Starsky's name was spray-painted all over Frederic's wall. Kensington had talked Marty into some twisted belief that Starsky could have saved Rebecca too if he'd wanted. Ludicrous, of course: Starsky didn't even know Rebecca Kensington, never crossed paths with her. He didn't even know he was saving Phillips' daughter that day in the alley. She was just a young girl in trouble."

Dobey frowned and rubbed at his forehead. "So you're saying Kensington brainwashed Strauss into committing these murders?"

"No!" Phillips said emphatically, jumping up from his seat and pacing in front of his chair, arms folded across his chest. "No, Marty didn't kill anyone." He sank back down in his chair and leaned over, elbows propped on knees, head in his hands.

"No, Captain, that's where this case differs from the Solkin thing. Artie could talk a scared, abused, disturbed kid into whacking people with baseball bats, but Kensington wasn't quite powerful enough to get Strauss to wield deadly force against a human being. He did manage to get his cooperation, though, or at least, his silence. Strauss used his badge to gain entrance at Alicia's, but I don't think he really believed Kensington would kill her. When Kensington followed through with the murder, Strauss had something else to contend with: fear."

"What? After all Strauss has seen in his years in homicide, you're telling me this...this youngster brainwashed and scared him into letting these murders happen?" Pritchen's face paled in his incredulity.

"That youngster," Hutch gestured with his hands in the direction of the interrogation rooms, "is frightening as hell, let me tell you. Just spending time questioning him—with Saunders and a uniformed officer present—has left me chilled to the bone. For someone like Strauss, already suffering, burnt-out, with family ties to this guy, Kensington posed a serious threat. Kensington called him his 'personal robot'. That's not far off the mark. Kensington dragged him around with him while he perpetrated these acts, and all the time, Kensington was attempting to leave a trail of evidence against Strauss."

"How, specifically?" Dobey asked.

"A search of Strauss' apartment produced a pair of work boots coated in mud. They belong to Strauss, but Kensington wore them the morning of Calvin's murder, and used them to plant some forensic evidence. Hutchinson and I were uneasy about those footprints and the mud under the window. That was their exit rather than point of entry, but Kensington muddied the boots and walked back up the fire escape to leave traces of mud on the floor underneath the window. That was actually a mistake on his part: the evidence didn't match the position of the body in situ. He should have just left well enough alone, but he wanted us to concentrate on those footprints. Those boots in combination with the diary entries, the digoxin, and a spray-painted epitaph to Starsky on Marty's bedroom wall would have been pretty damning. Yeah, if Kensington hadn't been a little too clever for his own good, his plan just might have worked."

"Why didn't it work, that's what I want to know," Pritchen commented, squeezing Phillips' shoulder.

"Because Strauss had moments of lucidity despite Kensington's efforts," Hutch answered. "When Phillips called him the night of Alicia's murder, Strauss showed up at the crime scene panicking over his partner's distress. He was also worried that Phillips would get a good look at the body and recognize the MO from Rebecca's diary. He wasted no time getting Phillips out of the room."

"He was the same old Marty, though," Phillips said. "I didn't get a look at the body; I was too busy climbing Hutchinson's ass like a damned fool. Marty walked me to my car, fussing over me the whole way...I never would've thought—I never did think Marty was involved in any of this. Even when Hutchinson and Saunders came to my house and questioned me about the case, I didn't make a connection between these murders and the mess with Rebecca. Didn't even think about it. God!"

"That wasn't his only moment of Strauss' rebellion. Kensington talked Strauss into mailing the last packet to Frederic with the diary entries intended for him, but in the end Strauss couldn't send that stuff to someone Rebecca had loved as much as she did Frederic. He sent them to Gail instead, knowing with his cop's instincts that we'd probably warned her to turn over anything suspicious to the police." Saunders shook his head. "Just goes to show, you can't exert complete control over a human being all the time. Kensington was over-confident. We can't get any answer out of Kensington as to why he didn’t send the diary entries to Frederic four years ago when he sent the others."

"The final straw for Strauss was kidnapping Ms. Fairley," Hutch said. "He went through with it, but shortly after getting her situated, he snapped back to himself and called Phillips."

"He didn't warn me about Kensington, though, or I'd have called you guys right away." Phillips hung his head and stared at his knees. "He just told me he'd done something awful and that he needed me. You don't ignore a cry for help from your partner. Ever."

"Kensington was nothing if not thorough," Hutch continued, trying to conceal his smile at Starsky's hanging on his every word, the dark blue eyes lingering on Hutch's lips. "When Saunders talked to Craig's mother, Mrs. Kensington told him that her two sons were both living out of state. One was Army, stationed in Germany. The other was supposedly working a delivery route for a furniture company in Oregon. When we contacted the furniture company just to rule out all the possibilities, they confirmed Kensington's employment and told us he'd just left to deliver a couch a few minutes before we called. What Kensington had done was talk an old college pal here in Bay City into 'switching identities' with him for a few weeks. Told his pal he had a five-thousand-dollar bet with someone on not getting caught and would split the money with him. Flat out lie, of course, but Kensington's a master manipulator. Kensington's an average looking guy, not really any distinguishing features. He and his friend share a remarkable resemblance. Baseball caps, cowboy hats, scruffier than usual beard to cover the lower face, and they pulled off the switch without a problem. Kensington moved here to Bay City and took over Brad Stewart's job at Metro Cab. Stewart went to Oregon and took over Kensington's delivery route. That was Kensington's way of being two places at the same time."

"How does someone that damn screwed in the head manage to stay out in the real world without anyone realizing he poses an imminent threat to society?" Dobey's question was posed in a rhetorical tone of voice and no one rushed to answer it. While psychologists offered theories on individuals capable of multiple murders, the police stood by and mourned the bodies that resulted.

"What'll happen to Marty?" Phillips asked in a whisper, swinging a stare between Pritchen and Dobey. The senior officers in the room shared a silent conversation between them before they sighed almost in unison.

Dobey ended up fielding the question. "There's no getting around his complicity in the acts, Phillips. You know that. But I think the DA will take into account the circumstances, his past record as a police officer, Kensington's influence, and his attempts to right his actions. His mental and emotional state will also come into play."

Phillips responded first with a sickly smile. "I can hear what you're not saying, Captain, but that's okay. My days as a street cop are over, and I know it. I'm gonna spend whatever retirement I have and however much time this bum ticker of mine gives me standing by Marty...no matter what happens. I'd be—I'd be disrespecting one of the finest police officers I've ever met—" Phillips nodded at Hutch, "--if I didn't appreciate that I still have my partner. No offense, Detective Saunders."

"None taken," Saunders said, smiling. "I'm not here to replace Detective Starsky."

"Definitely not with your taste in threads, Saunders." Starsky teased, laughing at the pink tinge his words brought to Saunders' cheeks.

Dobey glanced at his watch. "It's verging on nine, men. I say we break this meeting up and call it a night."

Pritchen rose slowly and reached out to shake Dobey's hand. "Thank you for everything, Harold. I never would've believed we could get this case to bed this quickly."

Dobey gestured for Hutch and Saunders to remain after Pritchen and Phillips filed out of the office. Once again both detectives stood in front of Dobey's desk, Starsky between them with an arm flung over each man's shoulders. The captain favored his men with a rare full smile of approval. "You've tackled two sticky cases back to back in record time, boys. I know you're both whipped so I don't want to see either of you until Monday. Enjoy the rest of the week and weekend."

"Thanks, Captain." Saunders grinned.

"I can go for that assignment, Cap." Hutch agreed, also smiling.

"Then get the hell out of here so I can go home and get some of Edith's pot roast."

"Yessir!" All three men saluted the captain simultaneously.

Dobey frowned. "I swear, there are times when I think I hear—"

Saunders eyed Hutch and at a small nod from the blond, he turned and rushed toward the door. As Hutch and Starsky prepared to follow, Dobey said, "Hutchinson, hold up a minute."

"Yes, Captain?"

"Shut the door."

Hutch did so and turned, propping against it.

"Hutchinson, I know your report's going to read like verbal Swiss cheese. You got the results we need; I'm not going to push for you to write me 'War and Peace'. But one of these days, I hope you'll trust me enough to tell me the truth about how you pulled off this stunt with Kensington."

"What do you mean, Captain? We've explained—"

"Stow it, Hutch. If you think I'm too stupid to recognize the earmarks of my most unorthodox detective, you don't know me very well."

Hutch paled. "Um...what can I say, Cap? Starsky rubbed off on me." At Dobey's raised eyebrows, Hutch flushed and Starsky burst out in raucous laughter. "Er, so to speak. You have a nice night, Cap." He flung open the door and dashed out of the office.

"Whew, I feel we've just been through one of Bev's Morbidity and Mortality meetings. So, what did Dobey want with you?" Saunders asked from his perch on their desks.

"Uh, nothing. Wanna head to Huggy's for a celebratory brew?"

Saunders' eyes sought the floor and he spent a moment seemingly counting the dust specks before he glanced back up. "I—uh—snagged a moment of conversation with Bev at Memorial. I promised I'd have dinner with her tonight so we could—talk. So if you'll give me a lift over to Dispatch to pick up my car--"

"Sure. Dinner with Bev's probably a good idea. Still, you might want some company later. Since we have tomorrow off why don't we agree to meet at Huggy's after hours?"

Saunders smiled. "Yeah, that sounds nice." He studied the empty space directly on either side of Hutch and lowered his voice to a whisper, "Are you feeling better, Starsky?"

Starsky grinned. "I'm brand-new, Saunders. Don't you worry 'bout me. I'll whip your ass at pool later tonight. Hey, this is great. We can do teams again. Hutch and me'll rob you and Huggy of your life savings."

"He's ruthless, isn't he?" Saunders laughed.

Hutch grinned. "Always."

>>>>>>>>

"Okay, I admit it, I suck at pool," Saunders declared, pretending to crack his cue stick over bended knee. "I even have on my lucky Angels jersey and we still lost."

Huggy chuckled and draped an arm over Saunders' shoulders. "It's hard not to be distracted by a cue stick floating through the air and making better shots than you do, my man."

"Thanks, Huggy, you're making me feel even better."

"I am the King," Starsky announced, content that Hutch was the only one who heard him.

"Since you just won me fifty bucks, I'll agree with you," Hutch said, winking at his lover.

"Don't you get weirded out when they do that?" Huggy asked Saunders. Saunders grinned.

"What? Talk in front of me or wink at each other?"

Huggy swatted Saunders on the back of the head. "Go sit down before I make you do the chicken dance as recompense for losing some of my hard-earned money. Those who get beat still must eat."

Saunders rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. The rhyming thing."

"He's a poet and he knows it," Hutch smiled.

"This is getting better and better," Saunders mock growled as he took a seat in the booth. "Hutchinson Humor on top of it."

"Why's he in a cranky mood tonight, Blondie? You solved the case; Dobey's been generous with handing out play time...."

Taking advantage of Saunders' trudge to the booth, Hutch shook his head at Huggy and run a hand under his neck in an 'Ix-Nay on the questions' gesture. Huggy raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side. Finally, he cleared his throat and adjusted his multi-colored French beret. "I think I'll go scare up some refreshments from the nights' leftovers. Back in a sec."

Hutch and Starsky settled down into the booth opposite Saunders. Starsky ran one hand up and down Hutch's thigh and rested the other on the table. "Saunders, get it off your chest. Is it really quits?"

Saunders sighed. "Yeah. It's over. Finito. I'm in the market for a new place to stay. She told me this has been building for a while now...even before Mark. She'd decided she wanted to pursue research, do a lot of traveling, perhaps even settle in a foreign country for a large portion of her career. She knows that's not what I want. I don't want a housewife and kids—not that I'm averse to having kids-- but I definitely do want to find one place to lay down roots. She was getting ready to broach the subject when Mark died and after that, she felt she couldn't just abandon me. Said she wanted me to get back on my feet again before she hit me with this."

"Ugh...sorry, pal, that's got to sting," Hutch said with sincerity, his eyes flashing concern. Starsky nodded and caressed Hutch's knee.

"Yes, exactly," Saunders said, wincing. "It's not easy to find out that you've been getting sympathy loving for at least a couple months. What scares me is I couldn't tell the difference."

"He'll know the difference when he makes love to a soul mate," Starsky said gently and brushed his lips across Hutch's cheek.

Huggy appeared at the table bearing a tray laden with goodies. "Hey, no long faces allowed in this bar after hours. I have all manner of culinary delights here and the finest brew you can scrounge in this fair city. Eat, drink, and be merry, gents or hang out somewhere else."

"You've convinced us, Hug," Hutch smiled as Huggy deposited the tray on the table and scooted into the booth beside Saunders.

"Are those...mini chili puffs?" Starsky asked, bending low over the tray to sniff the bite-sized pastries in question. "They are! Oh, God, Hutch—"

"I get the picture, Starsk," Hutch reached for one of the puffs and popped it into his mouth. Starsky made a passionate sound and squeezed into the space between Hutch and the table, straddling his lover as best he could and kissing the sides of his mouth.

"Ooomph," Hutch said as Starsky's weight registered on his legs. Huggy and Saunders shared a glance.

"What the hell's going on over there?" Huggy asked, suspicion ringing in his voice.

Hutch took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth. "What makes you think something's going on?" His mouth was immediately confiscated by Starsky's insistent lips. Hutch pulled back. "Starsky, will you just hold on—"

Starsky reached behind him and grabbed a chili puff, which he popped into Hutch's mouth.

Saunders roared, his laughter visibly releasing his tension. "Jeez, I get it now. No wonder you were so quiet on Starsky's new eating method, Hutchinson."

"Will somebody please fill me in? Considering that I'm responsible for the chili puffs, don't I deserve to know how they're being eaten?"

"Think Mama birds and baby birds, Huggy, just a little less disgusting."

Hutch's mouth twisted in distaste. "That's a lovely image, Saunders. I think I've lost my appetite."

Starsky looked over his shoulder. "Hey, no grossing him out, Saunders. He doesn't eat; I don't eat." He went back to nibbling on Hutch's lower lip. Hutch turned bright red and tried valiantly not to squirm.

"Starsk, will you please—"

"Umm...you taste so good and I'm so hungry," Starsky purred, hands holding Hutch's face in place so he could launch another oral attack. Hutch remained rigidly still, arms at his sides, until Starsky ran his tongue under his upper lip. With a soft moan, Hutch's arms came up around Starsky, crossing behind his back.

Saunders and Huggy reached into the basket of French fries and flung some at the 'couple'. "You two ever heard the saying 'get a room'?" Saunders asked.

Starsky drew away from his 'meal' long enough to say over his shoulder, "Ain't a hotel room in the city could handle the two of us, Saunders."

Saunders covered his eyes and shook with laughter. Huggy nudged him. "Hey, translate, please. I'm the one still left out in the cold, remember?"

"Never mind, Huggy. I think you should label your chili puffs as an aphrodisiac."

Huggy scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Must be the cayenne pepper."

After perhaps half-an-hour of teasing, munching, and unwinding, Starsky spotted a young woman in white across the bar. She leaned casually against the pinball machine. Her soft brown curls curled around her shoulders and her smile lit the room. Starsky grinned. "You three hold down the fort; I'm gonna check out the pinball action."

"How's it going, Carla?" Starsky whispered as he began pulling the knob and working the levers on the game. Carla Froman ran a hand through his curls and patted him on the back.

"Just fine, David."

"How's life with Huggy?"

"He takes lo-o-o-ng showers," she answered, her smile even brighter.

Starsky's eyes widened. "And how do you know that, Missy?"

"I don't melt when I get wet, David," Carla shot back, flushing prettily.

Starsky's mouth fell open. "You naughty little angel...did you know your halo's on crooked?"

Carla laughed. "I prefer it that way."

"Good girl. Still no contact, though?"

"No. He doesn't see me or hear me, but I'm hoping...I'm holding out for a miracle like yours, David."

"Carla—"

"It's possible!" she insisted, running her fingers along the edge of the machine. "I know it's not a given like you and Hutch. Half the planet would have fallen apart if they'd kept you and Hutch separated. But I'm still hoping for a shadow of what you've managed to have. I know he loves me now. I've caught him looking at one of the pictures I gave him when I was...alive." Her soft brown eyes dimmed. "Oh, I know I sound selfish. I should want him to find some nice living girl and be—be happy."

Starsky covered her hand with his and forced her to make eye contact. "No, darlin'. I know exactly where you're coming from. You hold out for your miracle. Say, you wouldn't happen to know what makes us lose—um...lose strength temporarily?"

Carla smiled. "You're talking about the cab incident."

"How do you know—"

"I'm pretty gifted at this angel stuff, turns out. You weren't tapping into your source."

"Run that by me again."

"Your source for your soul, your spirit, love and vitality. Hutch, dummy. He's your source: the completion of your soul. You were depending on a psychic connection with Saunders and he's the source for Ophelia, so he was already strained because of what she was enduring in the cab. You were faced with great evil and you were separated from Hutch. Add that onto tapping into the wrong source and you ended up shorting some of your circuits for a while. You're nicely recovered now, though, aren't you? After all that cuddling in the booth?"

Starsky grinned. "Yeah, I've been stuck like glue to Hutch ever since we nailed Kensington and found Ophelia's aunt."

"See? You've tapped back into your source."

"Are you saying I'm not supposed to talk to Saunders? How's he hearing me if I'm not supposed to—"

"No, no. You can talk to him. Saunders has been allowed to hear you because the three of you are a powerful weapon in the hands of Good, David, but you should have been communicating with Hutch while you were in the cab."

"I can't—I haven't been able to do that with Hutch," Starsky said, hoping he didn't sound like a whiny brat.

"You haven't tried."

"What?"

"You haven't tried, David. He can see and hear you just as he always did, so you haven't bothered to explore your connection beyond the normal telepathy you two had when you were alive."

"You mean—"

"Close your eyes and concentrate on a thought."

Starsky did so.

Carla giggled. "I don't know what you were thinking, but Hutch just turned three shades of red."

Starsky grinned. "I reminded him of a bet I made with him. He lost the bet. It's time for him to pay up."

"I'm not even going to ask," Carla declared, raising both hands.

Starsky leaned over the pinball machine and planted a kiss on her cheek. "You keep wishing for your miracle, honey. Huggy'd be a lucky man if he could have your love."

>>>>>>

"What was that little stunt you pulled on me in Huggy's?" Hutch asked as they pulled away from the curb outside the Pits. Starsky lay down in the Torino's spacious front seat and let his head rest in Hutch's lap.

"I was tapping into my source."

"I suppose I should understand what you mean."

"I should have been sending you messages from the cab instead of trying to communicate with Saunders. I was practicing my long-distance communication with you."

"And how did you find this out?"

"Ghost wisdom. We learn all kinds of things from pinball machines."

"Idiot," Hutch said affectionately.

"So?"

"So, what?"

"Turn this buggy toward Metro."

"Starsky, I am not bending over Simonetti's desk for you."

"Hutch, you shook on that bet. If you won, I was gonna go to that damn meditative poetry thing with you. If you lost—"

"No!" Hutch yelled. "No way!"

"Come on, Hutch. You're the one who gave me the idea. Remember when we first got together, you told me in one of our long talks that society would eventually come to grips with all forms of love and we could be caught screwing on Simonetti's desk and still keep our badges?"

"I was speaking hypothetically!" Hutch protested loudly, utterly distracted by the feel of Starsky turning his head side to side in his lap.

"Aw, Hutch, if you don't make good on your bets, how'm I gonna trust you?"

"Don't you even play that game with me—"

"Coward."

"Starsky, someone could catch us—or...um...catch me in one helluva tough position to explain...."

"At three-thirty a.m. in the I.A. offices? I don't think so, Hutch. You don't wanna make love to me, just say so." Starsky assumed his best lost puppy expression and batted his eyelashes. Hutch had to screech to a halt at a red light.

"If you look at me like that.... Damn you, Starsky!"

>>>>>>

"I...can't believe we're doing this...."

"Believe it, sexy man. You comfortable?"

"What do you think, Starsky? I'm sprawled half-naked over a desk with you trying to climb down my throat from the other end."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Do you want me to go on a hunger strike for a month?"

"Aw, God, I'm glad, Blondie...because...man, you're something...."

"Let go, Starsk...."

"Can't, lover...you get real loud when it's too good...."

"Kitten, the way you make me feel, I don't give a friggin' damn if they hear me in Pritchen's precinct...."

"Oh, OH, you're so good...so good!"

"Yes!"

"Now, Hutch!!"

"Now, Kitten!"

>>>>>>

Officer Hanson poured a cup of coffee and handed it to his partner. "Did you hear something?"

"What?" Officer Jenkins asked, sipping at the coffee. "God, I hate the graveyard shift."

"I could've sworn I heard someone scream."

"Hanson, sounds like you need the coffee more than I do."

"No, I'm serious...I heard a scream...upstairs, maybe?"

"Hah! Simonetti's probably up there mutilating small animals in his spare time. Wouldn't put it past him."

"Well, the animal sounded mighty happy."

Epilogue:

Not Ready for the Big Leagues

ONE MONTH LATER

"Hutch, why are we on the roof?" Starsky looked out over Venice and then back to his life-mate, who stood at his side.

"I have something for you," Hutch replied, snaking an arm around Starsky's waist and pulling him close.

"Oh, yeah? What's the occasion for presents?"

"I've been thinking, this last year...all those rough times...I was losing my grip, Starsk, and fast. I'm not so sure—I'm not sure I might not have ended up as out in leftfield as Marty Strauss if it hadn't been for you. You've always been my—my emotional rescue, my anchor."

"Hutch—"

"No, I mean it. You don't really have a clue what your love does for me. You may act like a braggart, but you're not. You're modest under that bravado. It's time someone showed you what you're worth. Your love and loyalty deserve a reward. That's why we're up here...any minute now." Hutch extracted his pocket watch and nodded. "Yep. Not long now."

"What is it?"

"You'll see."

"Hutch!" Starsky's twelve-year-old rushed to the surface.

"Keep your pants on."

Starsky turned and embraced his lover, attaching his lips to the most sensitive spot on Hutch's neck. As soon as he had Hutch gasping, he pulled back and teased, "If you and Saunders keep saying that to me, I'm going to retaliate by walking around naked from the waist down."

Hutch laughed. "I don't know about Saunders, but that's my motivation for saying it."

"Saunders is a great guy, but he's not interested in my ass—even if he could see it."

Hutch ruffled Starsky's hair. "Probably because you're not short, blonde, and adorable in toe shoes."

"You think she's adorable in toe shoes? Wait just a minute here, Blondie—"

"I didn't mean it like that—"

"I know about you and blonde ballerinas, buddy—"

"Are you gonna pitch another jealous snit?"

"Hey, making up after the last one was pretty fantastic—"

Hutch felt his whole body flame at the memory of that explosive lovemaking. "Agreed, but before you start worrying about me having roving eyes, take a look at that—"

The hum of an airplane broke the hazy late afternoon stillness. Starsky's eyes widened. "You didn't—"

"Oh, yes, I did."

Starsky clung to Hutch as the airplane approached and his jaw hit the concrete of the roof when the large banner trailed into his line of sight. Bright red letters read:

I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU, STARSKY--- HUTCH

"I—I—" Starsky gave up on speech.

"It's true."

"H-Hutch...no one's ever done something like that for me—"

"Yeah, well, what do you give the man who kicked death in the ass for you? Has to be something larger than life—" His mouth was attacked by eager lips, his hips seized and groin stroked by Starsky's talented lower body. Hutch surrendered to the impassioned kiss for a few moments and then signaled with his hands on Starsky's face his need to come up for air. "Don't get me started now, Romeo, we have to meet Saunders and the crowd at Taste of Italy in an hour."

Hand possessively on the bulge in Hutch's cords, Starsky licked his lips and said firmly, "We'll be fashionably late."

>>>>>>

"That has to be the finest Carbonara sauce I've ever tasted," Hutch said devoutly, wiping at the corners of his mouth with his natural gentility. He folded the dainty lace napkin and half-tucked it beneath the gold-embossed charger holding the china plate that boasted meticulously hand-painted tiny olive trees. "A Taste of Italy indeed."

Sitting in one of the chairs conveniently left vacant in honor of Calvin and Alicia, Starsky stroked Hutch's back with two fingertips and smiled as Hutch shivered slightly under the contact easily felt through the silk dress shirt. "I'll give you my opinion of it as soon as you can spare me your lips," he whispered in the vicinity of Hutch's ear.

"Personally, I'm grateful for my low-salt, herb-seasoned chicken broth over brown rice." Paul Barnett's broad, gleaming smile removed any hint of whine from the words. His voice was soft and his movements still slower than normal, but the slim and attractive dark-haired man gave no other indication that he'd recently been a coronary patient near death.

Frederic cupped the back of his lover's head and leaned to the side to rub his nose gently above the older man's ear. "Was delicious, wasn't it?"

"Freddy, you could've ordered something else," Paul laughed, turning to place a large hand against Frederic's cheek.

"What's good for you is good for me," Frederic said simply.

"I'll thumb-wrestle you for the last shrimp," Ophelia taunted Saunders, holding her fork over the defenseless shellfish, the sole remaining bite in their shared Italian Seafood Boil.

Saunders nudged her fork with the tines of his and glanced over at Hutch. "Didn't you warn me about arm-wrestling ballerinas? Does thumb-wrestling count?"

Hutch grinned and Starsky laughed. "Betcha ten bucks she could rip your thumb off, Saunders."

Hutch nodded his agreement. "I'll bet Ophelia could take Anna Akhanatova in an arm-wrestling match, pal. I'd just surrender the shrimp gracefully if I were you."

"Of course thumb-wrestling would give me an excuse to hold her hand...sort of," Saunders debated as though weighing the options for ridding the world of famine. Ophelia's cheeks matched her ridiculously pink scalloped blouse.

"Does every pair of earrings she owns dangle down to her shoulders?" Starsky asked. "And I'm wondering if that blouse had only one sleeve when she bought it."

Hutch choked on his sip of wine and was grateful that the thumb-wrestling match already in progress provided sufficient diversion that no one noticed. Ophelia and Saunders warred over the large ceramic serving bowl but in the end, Saunders did indeed concede defeat, his grin somewhat surprised. Ophelia laughed and speared the shrimp, lifting it and smiling as the morsel neared her mouth. At the last moment, she let her eyes flicker over Saunders' face and she quickly held out the fork, waving it slightly to indicate her intention. Saunders leaned over and allowed her to feed him the shrimp. Paul started a round of applause.

"They're sharing food. That's a good sign." Starsky beamed, clapping.

"So why isn't your aunt here, Ophelia?" Hutch asked, his hand using the cover of the table to squeeze and massage Starsky's knee without appearing that he had some strange twitch in his hand.

Ophelia radiated joy at the question. "You wouldn't believe it. She met this lovely old gentleman in the chapel while I was in the hospital. He's a widower and was in the chapel praying for his eldest son, who'd been in a car accident. The son is recovering nicely at home and invited his father to bring Aunt Em over for dinner this evening. I think it's the beginning of something special."

Saunders smiled and ran fingertips over Ophelia's right hand. "I wonder if that sort of thing runs in families."

Ophelia responded by tossing a crust of bread at him.

Frederic chose that moment to tap his fork gently against his crystal wine glass. "Before our friends get a food fight started in this classy establishment, I thought now might be a good time to make our announcement."

Saunders and Hutch exchanged a surprised look and Starsky murmured, "Hmm...I knew this was more than just an honorary dinner."

Frederic raised his wine glass to the two 'empty' chairs. "Thanks to two of the finest dancers and most wonderful people Ophelia and I've ever known, Bay City will have a new dance academy. Ophelia and I will be joint owners of the Holden-Wesson Academy of Dance."

Hutch sipped at his wine. "So it won't be the Workshop Theatre anymore?"

"Oh, yes," Ophelia answered quickly. "The actors currently involved in projects will see to it that the Workshop Theatre continues...the dance academy will just share building space. Frederic and I want to train dancers who don't have the hang-ups Edwards instills."

"Isn't that a step down in your career, Frederic, from performing lead male dancer in BCBC to an instructor of beginning level dancers? I'm assuming you won't be working with established dancers."

Frederic smiled at Hutch. "Don't miss much, do you? Yes, most would consider it a step down, just as Ophelia should really be onstage in San Francisco, New York, or London instead of working with beginners. For me, being out of the limelight will mean more time with Paul."

"Can't argue with that motivation," Starsky said, resting a hand lightly over the larger fair skinned one on the table.

"For me, this is a way of saying thanks." Ophelia toyed nervously with her napkin. "Frederic and I were both shocked to learn Alicia and Calvin had written a joint will, but to find out they'd chosen us to have the theater—to do whatever we wanted with it—should something h-happen—" her voice broke. She clutched at the napkin and Saunders' hand came to rest on her bare shoulder. "--happen to both of them.... Alicia and Calvin had a special style of dance that shouldn't be lost forever. If anyone can teach young dancers to follow in their footsteps, Frederic and I can—we danced with them, studied under them, were close to them.... This is the best way we can think of to preserve their—their memory."

"I'm just glad you're going to be dancing again," Saunders said softly, fingertips back on Ophelia's hand.

She smiled at him and nodded. "I've decided dancing again is the best way I can—can make it up to Rebecca too. She should have had a chance to turn her life back around and dance with another company. It's—it's wrong somehow for me to waste my health and—"

"Talent," Saunders finished, visually caressing her face.

"What do you think about all this—Frederic's career decision?" Hutch asked Paul.

Starsky scratched at the hairline on the base of Hutch's neck. "Jeez, Hutch, can't you tell how he feels? He's got a smile the size of Kansas plastered on his face."

"Truth? I think the dance academy is a great idea. I've always pushed for Frederic to be the next Nureyev, and I believe he has that talent, but it's hard for me to feel anything but blessed that he'd choose the less stressful, less time-consuming path out of love for me." Paul seized Frederic's hand and held the interlocked fingers against his chest.

"Hey, I'm not the only one making a drastic career change. Paul is giving up his legal practice. He's going to take over the public relations and business side of the theater and academy."

"What's the use in making gobs of money if you're not alive to do anything with it?" Paul shrugged.

Hutch raised his glass. "A toast! To life, love, and a good perspective on priorities!"

"Hear, hear!" Frederic seconded with enthusiasm.

Glasses clinked together above the center of the large round table and a warm silence ensued. Ophelia broke it. With a shy smile at Hutch, she fiddled with an earring, fingers jangling the silver linked triangles and hoops. "Am I still getting a police escort to the airport tomorrow morning? Aunt Em can't tolerate airports so she and I'll say our good-byes at home."

Saunders groaned. "Is tomorrow really the day you're leaving for Dallas?"

Ophelia turned to her right and squeezed his shoulder. "Yes, silly. The answer to that question is the same as when you asked me two hours ago."

"Smart alec," Saunders teased, running his hand through the longer, straight blonde hair. Ophelia had explained that 'short and spiky' wouldn't do for a performing dancer onstage. She had to return to a hairstyle conducive to pinning back in a simple bun.

"Goof," she retorted.

"Yep," Starsky grinned. "It's love—they just don't know it yet."

"You'll be in Dallas for twelve weeks? Surely the performance won't run that long...."

"No, Hutch. The twelve weeks include choreography, practice, and rehearsal. A lot work for seven or eight performances at the end, but it will be a great experience for me and I should come back all set to take over my duties as one of the academy's instructors."

"Gail Dennis will be working with us," Frederic said. "Edwards never did come to his senses. I feel almost sorry for him stuck with Louise as his 'primary attraction'." At Ophelia's amused, widened eyes and Paul's chuckles, Frederic laughed and amended, "Okay, not sorry for Edwards, but sorry for BC-squared. Gail will be helping me get things up and running while Ophelia's wowing the crowds in Dallas."

"While I'm trying not to make a fool of myself, you mean," Ophelia giggled. "Been a long time since I tied on a pair of toe shoes-- and the first person who says it's like riding a bicycle will get thwacked in the head with the bread basket."

"And she would too," Starsky laughed.

>>>>>>>

"Well, Ophelia, good luck in Dallas. I'd tell you to 'break a leg' but Saunders would kick me."

Ophelia laughed at the 'drop-dead' glare Saunders visited on Hutch. She shook the hand Hutch held out and smiled. "Take care of this guy for me."

Hutch returned the smile. "Don't worry: he's in good hands."

"More than one pair," Starsky added, arm across Saunders' shoulders.

Saunders took Ophelia's arm lightly and pulled her to the side, indicating his desire for privacy. "I don't need a mother, Hutchinson."

"Right. Sure, Saunders. I'll leave you two to your farewells."

Hutch turned and took up a discreet post behind a large display advertising the twin merits of child vaccination and staying in school. He realized he was alone in his study of the display and leaned to the side, peeking around the corner. "Starsky," he hissed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm enjoying the show, dummy."

"What show?"

"Right now, not much. They're just talking."

"Then get back here with me—"

"You kidding?"

Ophelia slung her carry-on bag's strap over her shoulder and held out her hand. "Saunders—"

Saunders touched a fingertip to the bridge of her nose. "Ophelia, you can call me Ray."

"I prefer Saunders."

"You know, Bev isn't the only woman who ever called me Ray."

"I'd imagine not, but I bet I'm the only woman who ever insisted on calling you Saunders."

Saunders laughed. "When you put it like that...you're a very hard woman to argue with."

"That's why we shouldn't ever argue," Ophelia pointed out in a tone of utter practicality. "If we have issues, we can just thumb-wrestle over 'em."

"What am I going to do with you, Ophelia?" Saunders cupped her chin and squeezed it gently. Ophelia's blue eyes turned serious.

"You'll have twelve-weeks to ponder that question."

"As proud as I am of your performance, I could ponder that question just as successfully with you here in Bay City. God, I'm gonna miss you."

"I'll miss you too, but, Saunders, we've talked about this. If—if anything's going to happen between us, I—I don't want it to be a rebound for you, and I—I need some time to deal with losing someone very—close to me. While I'm in Dallas, I'll have a chance to spend time with Mom. She always helps me over the rough spots."

"You were in love with him," Saunders said, and bit down hard on his lower lip. "Sorry; I can't believe I just said that...."

"It's okay. You're right: I loved Calvin...for a long time. By the time he married Alicia, I'd come to terms with not having a romantic relationship with him and I started to think of him as family just like Frederic and Alicia. That's what he was in the end, Saunders. Family. And losing family is a wound that takes time to heal." Ophelia reached up and put a tiny hand over Saunders' heart. "I know she left a hole here. I don't want to just be a salve for that wound."

"Come on and kiss her, stud," Starsky urged.

"What's going on?" Hutch whispered, keeping his eyes glued valiantly to the statistics regarding German measles and rubella.

"Saunders just pointed out that she was in love with Wesson."

"Aw, slick one, pal. Jesus."

"Nah, she took it pretty well."

"Dammit, Ophelia, your friendship's wonderful, but I know what I feel. It's hard to watch you fly halfway across the country without any hint or sign that you feel the sa—"

He didn't finish the sentence. Ophelia had risen up on tiptoe and, hands on his shoulders, touched her lips to his. When she made to draw back and turn toward the gate, Saunders wrapped her in a tight embrace and opened his mouth over hers. Ophelia resisted for a second and then went limp in his arms, her hands moving to grasp the sides of his face.

"Um um um! Man, oh, man she's gonna be feeling that all the way to Dallas...."

"What the hell—" Hutch peered around the corner of the display. "Starsk, get your extremely attractive rear end back here and give 'em a minute of privacy—"

"Why? They don't seem to care about the other five hundred people watching him perform throat surgery on her."

"You're terrible."

"What I am, Blondie, is in need of a kiss like that one...from you."

"You just might get one later if you get over here and behave yourself."

"Show's over. She's walking to the gate. Time for us to go rescue our partner."

Hutch sighed and stepped out from behind the display. He made his way over to Saunders and slapped him on the back. "Twelve weeks will go by lightning fast in our line of work, pal."

Saunders nodded, but his entire face drooped as Ophelia disappeared into the line of people having their tickets checked for boarding.

"Come on, Saunders," Starsky said, tugging on the dejected young man's denim jacket sleeve. "Let's take you home. You're not ready for the big leagues."

Saunders turned away from the gate and smacked a fist into his palm. "I know where I'll be spending any vacation time I can scrounge from Dobey in the next three months."

Starsky laughed. "In the immortal words of my grandmother, Saunders, you should live so long."

"What're you talking about? I feel...I feel like I could live forever." Saunders flung his arms out to the side and expanded his chest, breathing deep.

Hutch grinned across at Starsky. "You get the feeling we've done this before?"

IT NEVER ENDS....