Chapter Seven

 

Grabbing the phone on the second ring, Hutch whispered, “Hutchinson.”

 

“Hutch, it’s Bob Jackson.  How’s Starsky doing?”

 

“Not bad, considering.  He’s got a headache and his arm and shoulder are sore, but he’s been resting most of the day.  What’s up with the investigation?”

 

“Well, I hate to tell you this, but it doesn’t look like this robbery’s related to the others.”

“What do you mean?”  Hutch’s voice rose in disbelief, but he instantly lowered it when he saw Starsky begin to stir.  “It’s the same MO as the last one, except they used knives instead of guns.”

 

“Looks that way, but besides using knives, it’s too amateurish.  We’ve lifted some fingerprints, and at the other robbery sites they were too smart to leave prints.  Of course, we’ll check them out, but I don’t think they’ll lead us anywhere.  Robberies occur every day, Hutch, and they aren’t all related.”

 

“I know that!” Hutch said angrily.  “You mean to tell me that Starsky and Mrs. Viviano were knifed as part of a random act, while half the police force was out there on the streets watching?”

 

“’Fraid so.  How long do you think your partner will be laid up?”

 

Hutch looked at the sleeping figure on the couch and predicted, “Not nearly long enough.  I’m sure he’ll want to jump right back in.  He wants the men who hurt Maria.”

 

Lieutenant Jackson sighed.  “I understand.  I’m going to stop by the hospital this evening and see if I can get a statement.  Did you get one from Starsky yet?”

 

“Sorry, he can’t help.  He was jumped from behind and knocked unconscious.”

 

“Okay.  Well, I’ll get back with you tomorrow.  Both of you get some rest.”

 

“Thanks, Bob.”

 

As Hutch hung up the phone, he saw Starsky starting to sit up.  “Hey, there, sleepyhead.  Feeling better?”

 

Running his fingers through his unruly hair, Starsky asked, “Who was that?”

 

“Bob Jackson.  Checking on how you were doing.”

 

“Nice of him.”  Starsky stretched his left arm carefully and then turned toward his partner.  “Go home and get some sleep.  I’m fine.”

 

“I’ll go as soon as you’re in bed,” Hutch said pointedly.

 

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a one-track mind?”

 

“Look who’s talking.”

 

“Okay, okay, you win.  I’m going to bed.  Besides, I’m getting a stiff neck from the arm of the couch.  Make you happy?”  Starsky headed into the bedroom and pulled back the covers of the bed. 

 

As he slid under them, Hutch asked, “Aren’t you going to get out of your clothes?”

 

Pulling the covers up to his shoulders, Starsky replied, “No.  Go home, Mother.”

“I will.”  Seeing that his partner was now comfortably in bed and almost instantly dozing, Hutch returned to the living room and sat down on the couch.  Pulling the blanket over him, he settled in the warm spot Starsky had vacated.  “Tomorrow.”

 

˜ ™

 

The smell of bacon cooking woke Starsky and he sat up.  A glass of water and his pain pills were lying on the nightstand next to him.  Smiling at Hutch being Hutch, he took them and then headed into the bathroom.

 

As he came out the door, he saw Hutch standing at the entrance to the bedroom, spatula in hand.  “Good, you’re up.  I was going to come in and wake you in a minute.  Breakfast is ready.”

 

“I can smell it.”

 

“Take your pills.”

 

“I already did.”

 

Hutch smiled.  “Okay, then, come and get it.”

 

As Starsky sat down at the table, he asked, “You gotta be this cheery so early in the morning?”

 

“Sure, buddy.  Why not?  It’s a great day.” It is a great day, Hutch couldn’t help thinking.  You’re sitting here eating, a little bruised and sore maybe, but here, nevertheless.  “While you shower, I’m going to head over to Metro and see what they turned up on the robbery and find out how Mrs. Viviano’s doing.”  A shadow crossed Starsky’s face, and Hutch offered, “Unless you’d rather I’d wait until you’re done.”

 

Starsky started to shake his head, and then thought better of it.  “No, go.  I’ll be fine.”  He took a few bites of egg and set his spoon down. 

 

“You’ve got to eat more than that.”  Hutch, suddenly suspicious, asked, “You feeling okay?”

 

“Stomach ain’t feelin’ so good.”

 

“Well, the doc said you might have some nausea.  Though, yesterday’s chili sure didn’t seem to bother you.”  Hutch watched the emotions play across his partner’s face.  “It’s more than that.”  As Starsky sat there silently playing with his food, Hutch prodded, “Talk to me.”

 

“My fault,” Starsky mumbled into his plate.

 

“What’s your fault?”

 

“I acted like a rookie and let those guys jump me.  Because of that, Mrs. Viviano’s lyin’ in a hospital bed.  She could’ve been killed.”  Angry with himself, Starsky stood up and started pacing.

“You could have been killed, too, buddy,” Hutch added softly.  “Look, I don’t know what to say, except it’s not your fault.  You never saw it coming—”

 

“But I should have, and that’s the point.  I should’ve double checked behind that door first.”

 

“And they probably would have jumped you anyway, and, instead of taking it in the shoulder, it would have been in your gut.  It’s a good thing you didn’t try taking ’em on.  It was two against one.  I couldn’t have helped.  I was responding to a two-eleven call that turned out to be a false alarm.”   

 

Starsky looked at Hutch in surprise.  “You think it could’ve been a set-up?”

 

Hutch shook his head, “Nah, I don’t think so.  Bob says this robbery isn’t even related to the others.”

 

“Oh, great, now we have two sets of creeps to find.”

 

Hutch chuckled at Starsky’s choice of words.  “And you’re going to need some muscle power if you want to take them on.  So eat your breakfast.”

 

“Think my cover’s been blown?”

 

Hutch shrugged, “I don’t think so.  We’ll see, but you certainly aren’t going back undercover until the doc gives the all clear.”  Hutch shook his finger in warning at his partner.  “Which reminds me, when you’ve finished your shower, you’d better call your doctor to set up an appointment.”

 

“Yes, Mom.”  Starsky grinned at the blond before taking a bite out of a strip of bacon.

 

˜ ™

 

Hutch entered Metro and, lost in thought, automatically headed toward the squadroom.

 

Captain Dobey spotted him coming down the hall and hurried toward the blond detective. “How’s Starsky doing?”

 

“Fine, Captain.  Hurting a little, but he’ll bounce back.”

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“Checkin’ in with Jackson.”

 

“Any leads yet?”

 

Hutch shook his head. 

 

“Tell Starsky I said to take care of himself,” Dobey advised, and then quickly cleared his throat, embarrassed at letting his concern show. 

 

“Will do, Captain.  Say hi to Edith and the kids for us.”

 

At Dobey’s nod, Hutch continued down the hall and then turned to take the flight of stairs up to Robbery.  Captain Dobey stood there a minute, watching him walk away, and then spotting Sergeant Tomlinson, yelled down the hall, “Tomlinson, my office.  Now.”

 

˜ ™

 

“Detective Hutchinson.  There’s a phone call for you.”  Lieutenant Jackson’s secretary poked her head in the door, trying to get Hutch’s attention.

 

Hutch stood and indicated to Jackson that he’d take the call in the outer office.  At Jackson’s nod, Hutch left the room, leaving the remaining four men to continue their discussion.

 

“Who is it?” Hutch asked.

 

“Detective Starsky.”

 

“Starsky?”  Concerned, Hutch grabbed the receiver.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“What day is it?”

 

Confused, Hutch repeated, “What day is it?  You pull me out of a meeting to ask me what day it is?  Maybe I’d better take you back to the hospital to have that head of yours examined again.”

 

Plaintively, Starsky said, “Just tell me what day it is.”

 

“It’s the twelfth.  Why?”

 

“I was afraid of that,” Starsky said, clearly distressed.

 

“Why do you care what day it is?”

 

“Because, Hutch…” Starsky continued, as though stating the obvious, “...because, I forgot all about it.”

 

“Forgot all about what, Starsk?  You aren’t making any sense.”

 

“On the eleventh, yesterday,” he added with emphasis, “I was supposed to go to the IRS for the audit, and I missed it.  They’re going to throw me in jail,” he whined.

 

“Starsk, calm down.  Nothing’s going to happen.  You had a valid reason—”

 

“No reason’s good enough for the IRS.  I’m in big trouble.  What’s Dobey going—”

 

“Starsky, you were in the hospital getting stitched up.  I think they’ll accept that.”

“You think so?” Starsky asked, his voice brightening at the possibility.

 

“Is there a phone number on that letter?  Just give them a call and explain.”

 

“You think that will work?”

 

“Well, it’s worth a shot.”  Hutch rolled his eyes at the secretary, before continuing, “And when you find out something, don’t pull me out of the meeting.  I’ll call you when I get done.  Understood?”

 

˜ ™

 

Humming on the way home, Hutch was pleased that he’d be able to tell his partner that Mrs. Viviano was doing much better.  The fact that she was going to be released from the hospital in a few days was good news, but the fact that she couldn’t identify either of the men that had stabbed and robbed them was not good.  Both men had worn masks on their faces, and, while she thought one of the voices was familiar, she hadn’t been able to positively identify it.   

 

Pulling to a stop behind the Torino, Hutch hurried inside.  When he’d tried calling Starsky back earlier, there’d been no answer.  Assuming he had been in the shower, Hutch decided to head to Starsky’s place as soon as the meeting was finished, to tell him in person about Maria and to check on how his friend was doing.

 

Hutch opened the door and was surprised to see Starsky sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, papers and receipts all over the floor and table.  “What are you doing, Starsk?”

 

“I’m going back through my records.  Trying to find the tax information,” Starsky replied, intent on the contents of a torn grocery bag.

 

“What’s in that bag?”

 

Starsky looked up.  “Huh…my receipts,” he said, as though stating the obvious.

 

“I take it the phone call went all right?”

 

Starsky’s face lit up.  “That was a great idea, Hutch.  I explained what happened, even told them I’d bring in the hospital bills to prove it, and they just let me reschedule.”

 

“What date?  You don’t want to miss another one,” Hutch said, bending down to look in a bag stuffed with papers.

 

Starsky grabbed the bag back.  “Three weeks.  The lady said it’s a good thing I called; otherwise, they were going to send me a big bill.”

 

“Those were her words?  ‘Big bill’?”

 

Starsky grinned, “Well, I added the word ‘big,’ but it still would’ve been a bill.”

“Starsk, you do realize, don’t you, that you could still end up with a very big bill?  Who knows what Lester put on your return?”

 

Looking a little green, Starsky hastened to add, “I told him only to put down legit stuff.  Not to make anything up.”

 

“Let’s hope that’s all he did,” Hutch cautioned.  “And that he didn’t use any creative accounting.”

 

˜ ™

 

“You going on surveillance tonight?” Starsky asked, as he ate the last bite of his spaghetti.

 

“’Course.  You’re the one laid up, not me.”

 

“But I thought it was ‘me and thee’; you can’t go out without the ‘me’.”

 

Hutch laughed at the disappointed little boy look on his partner’s face.  “I’ve been riding around without you for the past week while you were busy filling coolers.”

 

Starsky shrugged.  “What am I gonna do?”

 

“Watch TV and get some rest.”

 

Clearly unhappy, Starsky said, “I’m tired of resting.  See I can even move my arm a little.”

 

Willing to demonstrate, Starsky moved his right arm slowly, but when a few beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, Hutch cautioned, “Tear those stitches, and you’ll have to go back for more.”

 

Starsky frowned, not only out of frustration at his limited mobility, but because he knew his partner was right.  Picking up his empty dishes, he walked into the kitchen and put them in the sink.

 

Hutch followed him in, placed his hand on Starsky’s shoulder and said sympathetically, “Look, it’s only a few more days before you see your doctor.  Don’t push it.”  The location of Starsky’s injury had dredged up memories Hutch had thought were long buried.  Memories—unwanted memories—of the night at Giovanni’s when Starsky had been shot by two hired killers.  The night he’d been scared—scared that he wouldn’t be able to save his partner’s life.

 

“It’ll be fine, Hutch,” Starsky said softly, as though sharing the same memories.  He looked at his partner and smiled.  “You’d better get going or someone’s going to issue an APB on you.”

 

Hutch patted him on the back, offering instead, “Leave the dishes; I’ll do them when I get back.”

 

Starsky nodded, but as soon as Hutch left, he started filling the sink with hot water.  Wincing, as he removed the sling so that it wouldn’t get wet, Starsky realized even completing this simple task was going to be more tiring than he thought.

 

˜ ™

 

Hutch unlocked the front door and opened it slowly.  He was surprised to find Starsky already in bed and not asleep in front of the TV with some old horror flick playing.  Going over to the sink to set a bag of groceries down and grab a glass of water, he smiled when he noticed the dishes washed and put away.  His partner never ceased to amaze him.  He might whine and complain about the silliest of things, but he could always find a subtle way to show his thanks.  Hutch walked to the bedroom and, glancing in, saw Starsky sprawled across the bed, the covers lying askew.  Reaching down to pull them up, he was pleased to finally see a peaceful and pain-free expression on the brunet’s face. 

 

Hutch went to the couch and gratefully sank down.  He didn’t want to admit to his partner how much he missed having him by his side.  It would only mean he’d be in for hours of pleading and whining.  Tonight had been a long, boring night.  One that got them no closer to identifying and locating the suspects.  It was beginning to look like the case was really going to drag on.  Something none of them wanted.  Dobey was already asking when they’d be returning to Homicide.  Luckily, they hadn’t been pulled back in on the Samuelson case.  The DA had called to say that the attorneys were presenting their closing arguments tomorrow, and then it was up to the jury.  Maybe one thing will go our way, Starsk, maybe one thing.

 

˜ ™