Disclaimer: Starsky and Hutch still do not belong to me. Drat! I have great respect for their rightful owners and wish only to borrow their heroes for creative enjoyment and no monetary gain whatsoever.

Author Note: No offense is intended for any veteran of World War II. I have great and abiding respect for the men and women who served our country and lost their lives during this enormous world conflict. However, war is Hell, to borrow a phrase, and often has dire consequences on the individual. Also, no offense intended for any Japanese readers. Tragically, Americans and Japanese were enemies between 1941 and 1945 and I continue to hope for healing of some of the difficult memories associated with those years. Finally, this is not an AU story. It takes place post-Sweet Revenge in Bay City. Has a bit of fairly graphic implied violence through case files. Again, not a story for small children. Thanks so much to Sue, my wonderful beta-reader! Thank you all for reading!—Anna M.

Comments about this story can be sent to: torinoluv@yahoo.com

Mirror Images - Part One
A Starsky and Hutch Novella

by Detective Sergeant David M. Starsky

Editor: Kenneth R. Hutchinson
Ghost Written by: Anna M.

   Here goes. Now anyone in Metro Division will tell you that I’m not the first person who comes to mind when you say the word "author." I’m not illiterate. If I’m interested in a subject I can read thousands of pages on it. And if I do say so myself, I’ve done some background research in some of our cases—i.e.; the history of Vampirism believe it or not—that staggered Hutch. But Hutch is usually the textbook type, not me. So when we started talking about Holmes and Watson one evening recently, and the dare got put on the table that we should write out a really memorable case the way Watson always did, I thought it only logical that Hutch do the honors. But no. Blondie was determined to be hard to live with. He reminded me…repeatedly and over my howls of protest…that I am Watson in this partnership. Hmmph. And therefore, according to the all-knowing Hutch, I should do the writing. Now I remember just a few years ago, Captain Dobey accused my writing style of sounding like a comic book gone bad, so the only way I agreed to this caper was if Hutch promised to proofread. That’s what’s happening here, ladies and gents. I’m writing it from my point of view—also Hutch’s idea—and he’s playing editor. So if there are places I sound like Blintz it’s because of his overactive editor complex. Sometimes I get really carried away and forget to show him a section—and then I’ll have to hope you can understand Starskyese.

   Now personally I think all this Watson stuff out of Hutch is bunk. I think the real reason he wants me to write is that I’m the one who had the first dream. Can’t really explain it. I didn’t consume half a pizza at 1 AM or have a gut-wrenching day out in the trenches. But I woke up halfway through the night sweating, chest pounding and seriously running through a mental list of heart attack symptoms just to be sure I wasn’t having one. When I finally calmed down enough to think straight, I remembered nothing but fragments.

   The next morning when I swung by to grab Hutch since he’d left his precious rust-bucket at Merle’s for some ridiculous elective surgery—I say elective because his car is past any real help-- I greeted him with, "You ever had a dream that sticks with you no matter how much ya try an’ think of something else?"

   He shut the passenger door, turned in the seat and folded his hands in his lap. "You mean other than the fervent fantasy that you’ll quit nagging me about that surf-and-turf dinner I supposedly owe you?"

   "Come on, Hutch, it’s been almost a week since I beat you at one-on-one--"

   "Only because you hogged the water bottle. I was dehydrated by the end of the game," Hutch sniffed.

   "I won, sucker, wiped the court with your blond butt, and I don’t forget free food. You don’t start payin’ up better on your debts, I’m gonna quit placing bets with you."

   "Heaven forbid," Hutch cringed with mock horror before he donned that utterly-pleased-with-himself grin and slipped on his shades. I growled at him as I started the engine and then he adopted that fake pity voice. The same one he used on me when I just about gave myself a lobotomy in the fireplace at Pine Lake. "Ah, Starsky, you should thank me. I just did you a favor."

   "Yeah, what?" I griped. "I know your favors. Fake amnesia, let me get drunk on potentially poisonous moonshine…."

   Hutch looked like a cat with a corner on the market of canaries. "You’re not thinking about your dream anymore, are you?"

   "I—Smart ass." But I couldn’t help laughing because Hutch was flashing me that grin, the one that’s always made me wonder if the universe having a sun isn’t overkill.

   My laughter didn’t last long. We had just laid fingertips on coffee cups when Dobey’s voice upset the Richter Scale. "Ya know, people all the way in Frisco must get tired of hearing our names yelled out this early in the mornin’," I grumbled as I held the door open for Blondie. But his hand on my arm restrained any further joking comment. Dobey was not alone. A middle-aged woman sat in one of the chairs crying. A tall, broad-shouldered man stroked her arms and murmured soothing words. Not just any middle-aged couple. Commissioner and Mrs. Riley.

   "Starsky, Hutchinson, glad you could join us," Dobey said in that soft, we’ve all got to tread lightly voice. At his words, the couple turned and acknowledged our arrival. The commissioner tried to offer us a smile, but his wife was beyond any niceties. And for Mrs. Riley that spoke volumes about her distress. She’s one of the kindest ladies I know.

   "Has something happened?" Hutch asked kinda lamely but with concern in his voice. In that tone he could say dogs are blue and people would feel comforted. The tone worked on Mrs. Riley. She snuffled, choked off her tears, and lifted her eyes.

   "S-something aw-awful, Detective Hutchinson."

   "Annie," he and I said at the same time, both assuming the worst, that these waterworks were connected to the Rileys’ fifteen-year old daughter.

   "No," Commissioner Riley answered, relief flooding his face. He turned to the desk. "Dobey, could you fill them in—This has been a great shock for Margo and perhaps I should take her--"

   "Don’t be silly, Robert. The boys may need to ask me questions," Mrs. Riley sat up straighter in the chair and wiped her eyes. "Captain Dobey can relate the facts and I’ll sit here and listen until I’m needed."

   "Mrs. Riley has been auditing a World War II history class at Jameson College. She’s become friends with the professor, a young woman of 31 named Kim Grace--"

   "Young enough to have been my daughter if Robert and I hadn’t started our family so late. That’s—that’s the way I thought of her… like a-another d-aughter…"

   Hutch and I noted the past tense in her statements and I swear both our bodies stiffened on cue. This conversation wasn’t going anywhere good. Dobey cleared his throat and continued, "Dr. Grace did not show up for class yesterday. Mrs. Riley says this is highly unusual--"

   "She came to teach one day when she was still recovering from a bout of pneumonia. She never ever missed a class without posting a note with a reason on her office door--- Oh, sorry, Captain."

   Captain Dobey waved off the apology with a slight smile, yet another sign that we were in the presence of "police royalty." "This morning Mrs. Riley went by Dr. Grace’s office to see if she had come to campus. She found the office door closed, but not locked, and when she opened it, she found blood on and around Kim’s desk chair. A substantial amount of blood."

   I flung a look at my stone-faced partner. Dobey was already classifying this mentally as a homicide. "Crime team?" Hutch asked.

   "Already in place," Cap’n answered. "Now, officially, gentlemen, we’ve got to tackle this like a missing person’s case, but--"

   "But I want you two leading the investigation," Commissioner Riley broke in, piercing us with his steely gray gaze. Also silently telling us he thought she was dead and wanted a suspect in her murder.

   "I’ve got to tell them, Robert…."

   "Are you up to this, Margo?" Love flowed through the words like rose-scented perfume.

   Instead of answering him she shifted in her seat and made the preposterous statement, "This is all my fault, you see."

   "Margo--"

   "No, Robert, it is! Five days ago Kim’s office was vandalized. Desk overturned, papers everywhere, books thrown off the shelves. She reported it to university security but you know how they are. Then three days ago she told me, laughing, about this phone call she’d received from someone with a faked Japanese accent telling her she’d better not ‘make it public’ or her life would be forfeit. I suggested she go to the police, but she just chuckled and said she’d seen too many Bela Lugosi movies to be worried about some fraternity pledge using her as an initiation stunt."

   I think I felt my eyebrows crawl an inch up my forehead. Hutch couldn’t suppress a startled cough. Mrs. Riley wrung her hands. "If I’d just pushed her or refused to respect her wishes and come to you all anyway, she might still be…." She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘alive.’ She finished with, "…unharmed."

   Hutch stared Mrs. Riley down with unadulterated compassion. "This is not your fault, Mrs. Riley. Dr. Grace should have listened to your advice. You can’t force someone to be careful. Can you tell us something about her? A description to begin with?"

   Then came the next shock. Mrs. Riley smiled despite her tears and pointed at me. Hutch and I paused a few beats and then I said, "Excuse me?"

   "It’s true. I often teased her about being secretly related to a famous police detective and not even knowing it. She could be your sister, David. Very petite, short dark curls, blue eyes, strong profile…."

   I felt a chill crawl up my back starting in my toes. "About five feet even maybe?" Hutch stared at me like I had spontaneously generated a third ear on my forehead. Mrs. Riley nodded, surprised. Great, salvage the situation, Watson. "Did she have any known enemies…besides the caller, I mean?"

   "Not that I know of. She treated us all like colleagues more than students. Always in her office with the door open and coffee brewing. She joked about not being able to bake and cook to save her life but she always bought fresh donuts and had them sitting around…I’m sorry th-this isn’t r-relevant… I just miss her already." The tears started again.

   "We can go through official channels, but you’d give us a jump-start if you could give us an idea about friends and family." Hutch steered the conversation gently back to business.

   "She’s been divorced a year now. Ex-husband Michael Alexander is a cellist with the Philharmonic. Th-they were only married six months. Her brother and his wife live in Alaska. Parents have moved back East. She’s originally from Maryland, but her father’s company transferred him out here when Kim was 13. As for friends…."

   "Yes?" I prompted.

   Margo Riley sighed expressively. "Kim was—is—a very friendly person. But I think she doesn’t have a really close friend. Let me rephrase that. I think—I think she had a very close friend at one point in her life who hasn’t been around for quite some time. Nothing she ever said, but I can read between the lines. Having learned from an expert," Margo beamed at her husband, who’d remained quiet throughout the exchange of information.

   We took down some vital statistics: addresses, phone numbers, etc. Then Margo stood shakily, thanked us both, and left the room. The commissioner sat down in the chair his wife vacated and folded his hands. "When you see the crime scene, you’ll know what I mean when I say I don’t hold out much hope. I can’t say that around Margo even though I think she knows the score, too. I want answers, detectives. As soon as possible." He flashed us a grave smile and went to join his wife. I let out a soft groan.

   Dobey nodded, "These missing person cases that are probably homicides never sit well. Get out to the college and see what you scrounge up. The commissioner wants answers. Give him answers. Don’t let me see your faces again till you have some."

   On the way to Jameson, Hutch said softly, "What the hell was that about?"

   Didn’t even have to ask to know that he meant my guessing her correct height. "You’re not gonna believe this, Hutch, but I think I was havin’ a Joe Collandra moment."

   "A—a what!? Damn straight I don’t believe it. You? A Collandra moment! You’d rather go vegan. Who are you and where have you stashed my partner?"

   "My dream, Hutch. I think she’s the girl in my dream."

   Hutch sat back against the seat and threw his hands in the air. "I don’t believe this. Dobey and the commissioner are breathing down our necks and you’re having psychic dreams. Wonderful. Why don’t you turn around and head back?"

   "Huh?" The question had come out in Hutch’s serious tone.

   "Because I want to turn in my resignation before they have a chance to fire me."

   "Ah, gee, Hutch, thanks for the vote of confidence. You believed Collandra. Why not me?"

   Hutch smiled softly and patted my shoulder. "Sorry, buddy. Bad joke. I just think this case is gonna get sticky enough without introducing elements we can’t control."

   "Didn’t ask to have the dream, Hutch. Woke up like I’d been drenched with half an ocean. Scariest damn thing—Oh, hell. Never mind."

   Yes, we did see what the commissioner meant. Kim’s desk chair looked like it had been the site of a ritual animal slaughter. While we were contemplating exactly what the hell happened to produce that much blood, someone knocked on the door.

   "Detective Sergeants?" He was a short, round man with balding red hair and Santa Claus cheeks. "I’m Dean Wilshire. I was told you might want to see me."

   "Yes. Come on in." Hutch went into respectful mode. I decided to let him tackle the dean while I walked around the room soaking in the atmosphere. Posters of naval battles on the walls, shelves of books, rolled up maps. Not a very feminine office, but then maybe I’m being old fashioned when I say that.

   "When did you last see Dr. Grace?"

   "Two days ago. We had a faculty meeting; she was there, enthusiastic about a new class idea she’d developed."

   "What exactly is her concentration? Pacific Theater?" Hutch sounded like he’d been an academic all his life. I felt a rush of pride in my blond genius and continued to scan the walls.

   "Yes. Well, a little more general than that officially. She did her doctorate in modern war period 1914-1945. But her specialty is Pacific Theater, 1941-45. Pearl Harbor to Hiroshima, she did it all. Prolific research."

   "Do you know if she was working on anything special? Perhaps controversial. Something that might have been embarrassing to someone if publicized?"

   I turned around at that question to get a good look at the dean’s face. No sign of surprise or concern. Just a matter-of-fact toss of the head. "Not that I know of. Her last book she co-authored through correspondence two years ago with Dr. Tanaka of the University of Hawaii. It was a re-examination of the Great Marianas Turkey Shoot. Impressive, thorough, but nothing to incite a riot. Last I heard she was putting together an article on the Navajo speakers who helped us send coded messages that could evade Japanese deciphers. Again, nothing that should rock anyone’s boat."

   I broke the sudden silence. "Any complaints about students? Any complaints about her from students?"

   "No to both, Detective. Kim was known to be a lenient professor who developed good working relationships with others, both colleagues and students. We’re none of us perfect, but Kim gave us no anxiety on any issue. I can’t imagine why—why--…." He caught sight of the desk chair and turned quickly away from the spectacle.

   "Rather unusual career for a—I mean…this particular part of…." I was floundering and felt my face heat when Hutch turned his oh-for-crying-out-loud,-Starsky expression on me.

   "You’re right, Detective Starsky," Dean Wilshire surprised us both. "There are not a lot of female historians who tackle World War II naval strategy. Kim’s father was a veteran who fought under General Patton in Sicily. Apparently Kim’s brother didn’t care much for the stories, but Kim did and grew up listening to her father spin tales of ‘the last great, righteous war.’ They made a large impression on Kim. And she has a wide multicultural streak. A lot of scholars don’t want to work with Tanaka even though he’s a world-renowned expert because his position on that war is said to be somewhat pro-Japanese. Kim liked him. Called him Uncle Iko. She told me with pride about his brother, Shiro, a young naval doctor who died at Pearl Harbor trying to shield a nurse from strafing Zero bullets. Despite his brother’s heroism, Iko and his entire family ended up in a Japanese internment camp. Left a mark on him, no doubt. Anyway, Kim had this innate sense of fair play…always wanted to be able to see more than one side to the coin."

   "Sounds like someone else I know," Hutch said quietly, smiling over his shoulder at me. I know my cheeks had to be sporting a pretty pink so I turned my back on them and concentrated on an impressive model aircraft carrier. "The USS Hornet," I read on the plaque beneath it. I wondered briefly if Kim had put it together. All at once the room seemed to spin.

   She was much younger, longer hair. Stomping around a tiny room…dorm? Waving a stack of papers. A young blond man lounged nearby at a desk, working on a model of an aircraft carrier. "Angel," he said. "What’re you getting worked up about now?"

   "Starsky!!" Hutch was shaking me. I blinked. "Are you okay?" I realized Dean Wilshire and one of the crime lab boys were staring over his shoulder at me.

   "Slept late and skipped breakfast," I murmured. "Sorry."

   Hutch looked like he could throttle me and hug me and couldn’t figure out which to do first. He finally resorted to a frustrated sigh and swiveled. "Dean Wilshire, we’ll need to talk to the rest of your history faculty."

   "Of course. I’ll see what I can do about arranging interviews."

   The various professors, secretaries, and student assistants all said about the same thing. She’d been seen around the department two days ago, happy and bouncing about her article and new class idea. No idea why anyone would want to hurt her. Didn’t know a whole lot about her personal life. Very friendly but closemouthed about herself. No one heard any kind of struggle or witnessed anything unusual.

   "Next step her house," I said, flooring the gas pedal in my lingering embarrassment from the odd experience in Kim’s office.

   "Yeah." Hutch’s baby blues were fixated on my profile, and for once the weight of his stare was more heavy than comforting.

   Kim’s little house was situated on a nice, quiet, tree-shaded street with large driveways, basketball goals, and treehouses. We were halfway to her door when a shrill feminine voice assaulted us from next door. "Hey now…what are you doing at Kim’s there?"

   Hutch had his badge out first, flashing it for the benefit of the tall, brassy housewife who stared us down like unwashed dogs. Her demeanor changed immediately. Guardian at the Gate was replaced by shock and fear. "Something—something has—hasn’t happened to her?"

   "When did you see Dr. Grace last?"

   "Couple days ago. Took her a home-cooked meal. Poor kid practically lives off Italian take-out when she’s working on an article. I keep telling her she needs to learn to cook for herself, but she says she likes it because her family lived close to this great Italian restaurant when she was a kid— What, did I say something wrong? You both look white as a christening gown. Did she h-have an a-accident?"

   I relocated my tongue and tried it out for size. "We’re uncertain about Kim’s whereabouts. Didn’t you worry when you didn’t see her car in the driveway for over a day?"

   "Nope. Thought she was gone to a history conference. She attends a lot of ‘em--" The sounds of whining, barking, and scuffling on the other side of Kim’s door interrupted us and it was the neighborhood watchdog’s time to go pale. "Oh, my God. Something has happened to her!"

   "What makes you think that?" Hutch asked, obviously confused. I seconded the emotion.

   "Because that’s Mac," she said cryptically, gesturing at the doggie door while fumbling about in her pockets. "Where’s my spare key… ah here it is."

   "You have a spare key to Kim’s house," Hutch said significantly. The woman looked at him like he was three years old and snotty-nosed.

   "Of course I do. I’m her next-door neighbor. When she’s gone for an extended trip, I look after her place." She hastily opened the door and a bundle of wiggling, salivating, and clawing white fur greeted us. She scooped the vibrating bundle into her arms, murmuring, "Hey, now, easy, Mac, these are friends." We stood in the foyer until the small dog quieted in the capable arms. "Kim loves Macbeth more than herself I think. She’d never go away and leave him here by himself. He’s a West Highland terrier and needs lots of attention. See how frightened he is? She hasn’t been here for awhile, that’s for sure." She set the dog down and as if to illustrate her point, he dashed into the living room and under the sofa.

   "How long has Kim lived here?" I asked, glancing around.

   "A year now. Since her divorce."

   "Did she ever say anything to you about that?" Hutch asked.

   "Not much. One day when she was kinda sad and we were having coffee, she said, ‘Maggie, it was my fault. Should have known I couldn’t make a go of it with anyone else.’ Didn’t explain her comment. Just sat there and passed judgement on herself and then got quiet. That was about six months ago. Look, I’ve got to get back…my seven year old is over there alone with her baby brother. How ‘bout I take Mac with me?"

   "Yes, thank you, that would be helpful." Hutch watched Maggie descend on the sofa and extricate the terrified critter. Mac plunged and writhed and then relaxed and let Maggie cart him out of the house. She turned in the doorway. "If you find out anything, will you please let me know? Even if it’s bad, I wanna know."

   We reassured her and she left, Mac’s mournful whines trailing back to us from across the front yard. I closed the door and stood still, my brain whirling. Why did I feel like I was investigatin’ my own… nope, not even gonna dignify that thought by writing it down. But Hutch looked almost green.

   "I feel—strange," he said. Then he straightened, rolled his shoulders in typical Hutch fashion and gestured with his hands. "I’ll take the bedroom…you start in here. Meet in the study. I’m sure she has one. What professor doesn’t?"

   But I didn’t hear him. I’d moved over to the fireplace mantel—yes even in Bay City some houses have fireplaces—and frozen in my tracks. A picture in a frame of four young girls with the panorama of what looked like Yosemite behind them. Four college girls, judging by the university sweatshirts two of them wore, but the two women in the middle interested me most. Kim, looking a lot like she did in that—whatever I experienced in her office—and…and Terry. My Terry. I felt the floor under me before I realized I sat down. Maybe I didn’t sit. Maybe I fell. Anyway, I got that spinning sensation again….

   "Starsky, for God’s sake, answer me dammit!"

   "Huh… Terry?"

   "T—Terry!!?" Hutch’s voice climbed the scale from annoyed to alarmed. "Buddy, look at me. Come on… There you go. What in the hell’s wrong with you? You’re acting like you missed three meals instead of one."

   I realized I had tears streaming down my face, dripping onto my jeans. Terry had been so real… I felt I could reach out and touch her. A younger version of my beautiful… I handed the picture to my partner. "Kim knew her. Must have been at the university with her."

   Hutch traced reverent fingertips around the border of the frame. Then he sat down beside me and draped an arm around my shoulders. "Lots of memories came back, huh, buddy…." His infinitely gentle voice cradled me like a baby blanket.

   "I know, Hutch… I know now why she understood us so well…ya know, you and me. Wasn’t jealous of us…ever."

   "What? Starsky, you’re not making a bit of sense. Do you need to see a doctor? No, wait a minute, what am I asking? If I took you to a doctor every time you didn’t make sense, your insurance company would declare Chapter 11." The laugh and teasing jab were intended to snap me out of my funk, but I failed to rise to the occasion. I squeezed out a grunt and then Hutch pulled me to my feet and pierced my eyes with his, hands on my shoulders clamping down hard. "Starsky, tell me the truth. Were you hallucinating a minute ago?"

   "It—It was Collandra in reverse, Hutch. Memories. So vivid."

   "You didn’t really skip breakfast this morning." Matter-of-fact. "You haven’t had a cold…tried to drown yourself with over-the-counter stuff, right?"

   "Hutch, when have I ever been sick that you didn’t know about it?"

   "Good point." Hutch pressed a hand against my forehead just to quiet his mother-hen impulse. I must not have been burning up with fever because he sighed and let his hand drop. "I’m all ears."

   "Nah. Don’t wanna talk about it yet. Let’s get back to work."

   "Work it is, buddy. I found the study and you’re not gonna like it."

   He nailed that guess. The room resembled the ground-zero of a tornado strike. But the walls—God! Pictures haphazardly tacked all around the room depicting scenes of warfare so brutal that I had to hold my stomach to keep my intestines from jumping up and runnin’ away. But even more scary were the Japanese characters scrawled around the pictures in…. "Also blood," I confirmed. Suddenly, the Satanic symbol painted on the cabin door at Pine Lake seemed a tame memory.

   "I’m calling the crime team. We need pictures. Someone who actually knows about this stuff’s gotta help us out." Hutch gave one more shudder at the horror in the room.

   "Right. Last I checked I wasn’t fluent in Japanese either. I’m glad we got Maggie out of here before she saw this."

   "Starsky, I think even Mac would have been affected by this." Hutch disappeared and I felt a momentary qualm about being left alone in a room that simply radiated hatred. Who hated Kim this much? Her ex-husband?

   Hutch picked up the other half of my brainwave because he suggested we head by the Civic Center when we’d sealed up the room in Kim’s house. "I want a look at this Michael Alexander."

   I disliked Michael Alexander after thirty seconds in the same room with him. That’s the full out truth. He dressed like something out of one of those society magazines and he had perfect hair. Now Hutch dresses nicer than I do, sure, and he’s… well, hey I’m masculinely secure enough to say he’s a good-looking guy. But he doesn’t let on that he knows it. Sometimes I wonder if he really does know what that combination of blond, porcelain, and baby blue can do to people. But this Alexander dude! He oozed "I’m hot crap" out of every pore. Worse than that, he didn’t even seem to care why we were there asking him questions in the first place.

   "I have to say, gentlemen, I haven’t corresponded with Kim except through my lawyer since the day she asked for a divorce. I think she preferred it that way too. And with my schedule and travel itinerary it only made sense not to drag things out worrying over the possibility of reconciliation. We knew two months into the marriage that we had just made a mistake."

   "Pardon my asking, but then why did you stay together four more months after that?"

   "Kim’s damn sense of ‘give it your best shot.’ She could be a like a kid sometimes, you know, who just had to prove she could skip-rope 100 times in a row. But I knew two months after the wedding that she was in love with someone else. And I…frankly, I loved my music too much to care. I’ll admit that."

   "Someone else?" I heard my voice come out in a squeak. Hutch’s head whipped around, his eyes signalling me to hold it together whatever had me in a snit. "Ya sayin’ she was havin’ an affair?"

   "Oh, no! No. Kim wasn’t like that. No… this sounds odd…but I think the person she loved is dead. Has been a long time. Whoever he was, she never talked about him. But a couple times I found her staring out the window at the sky on a really fair day and she’d have been crying. One time I heard her say out loud, ‘I never thought I’d hate the color of the sky. Sky-blue.’"

   I had to turn away for a minute. Thankfully, Hutch continued the interview. "How long did you know Kim, Mr. Alexander?"

   "Not very long. Quick courtship, about three months. Married for six."

   "Do you know anyone who actively disliked her? Would have wanted to hurt her?"

   Michael did flinch a little at that. So he had a shred of humanity in him. "God… so something really has happened to her?"

   "She’s missing, Mr. Alexander, and there is evidence of foul play involved." Hutch sounded like he was talking to the President of the United States. The cold, impersonal but respectful tone got through to Mr. Better-Than-You more than a slap in the face.

   "And you think--- you think I--" He laughed out loud. I wanted to smack him with the back of my hand. "I’m this close to an invitation to join the London Philharmonic. Do you think I’d really risk that by exacting revenge on my ex-wife for setting me free to concentrate on my career?"

   I had had enough. "No, Mr. Alexander. Revenge takes emotion. ‘Fraid you don’t qualify."

   "What the hell does he mean by that?" Michael demanded of Hutch, the he spat out like it was a virus he didn’t want to catch. Hutch smiled.

   "You’ll have to forgive my partner. He gets worked up about possibly brutal homicide cases. One of his quirks I guess." The sarcasm was solely for Alexander, not for me. I heard the underlying compliment and wanted to give Hutch a tap on the back of the head for thanks. "One last question, Mr. Alexander. Do you read or write Japanese?"

   Alexander shook his head. "Only a snatch from a few musical selections."

   "Thank you." Hutch indicated the conclusion of the interview and we made the trek back to the Torino in silence. The minute we closed the doors, the radio squawked at us.

   "Zebra-3."

   Hutch snatched the mic and barked, "Zebra-3. Hutchinson."

   "Zebra-3, switch to Tac-2 for Captain Dobey."

   Hutch caught my eyes and that right blond eyebrow slid up an inch.

   "Hutch?" Dobey’s voice sounded gruffer than usual.

   "Yeah, Cap’n, go ahead."

   "I know I said I didn’t want to see you down here but something’s come up. Get back here pronto. No stopping for a snack on the way, Starsky."

   I glared at the radio and Hutch laughed before he signed off. He squeezed my shoulder. "Big dinner tonight, Starsky. You can pick the where, what, and when. Promise. In fact, how about that surf-and-turf I supposedly owe you?"

   I could tell that my outlook must have brightened immediately because Hutch’s smile widened into a grin of epic proportion and I knew if I didn’t get the show on the road he’d make a crack about my being so predictable. It felt good. Good to smile, laugh, and know what he was thinking…good to have him here with me. Where did that come from? I pushed the key in the ignition and we sped off with a roar.

   When we plowed through Dobey’s doorway, having taken all of thirty seconds in the hallway for me to snag a candy bar out of the machine—no snacks, be damned!—our captain greeted us with hollow eyes and none of the Dobey bluster. That’s when we knew something major had gone south.

   "Something came over the wire a little while ago. Not good. Seems Kim isn’t the first."

   We plopped down in our usual position, me in the chair and Hutch propped on the arm. In his sudden distraction, Hutch confiscated my candy bar for a nibble and then dropped it haphazardly back into my lap. "You mean…."

   "Two professors murdered in Hawaii over the course of the past two months. As of yesterday the State Homicide Hawaii 5-0 people had just gotten close enough in their investigation to realize that the killer may have slipped through the cracks and headed mainland. But the amount of time they believe he may have been gone matches the time frame with Kim…and judging from the pictures the crime boys just dropped in here, the MO is the same. Except in those cases, there was definitely a body to be found. I talked to a Dan Williams over there but he wants you two to call back and confer with Steve McGarrett."

   Hutch and I swiveled simultaneously and mouthed, "Steve McGarrett." McGarrett is a legend in the law enforcement community even if his territory is six hours away from the US Mainland. Hawaii 5-0 only deals with the big fish. Sharks, more like. If we were going after a guy who’d escaped McGarrett’s clutches…. "What tipped ‘em off?"

   Dobey retrieved a pencil from behind his ear and tapped it restlessly on the desk. "A lucky break in their investigation. A super in a run-down month-by-month apartment complex decided to break policy and show a prospective tenant an efficiency that was about to come available without asking the current tenant’s permission. The apartment was empty, but the walls had Japanese characters painted all over them in blood. Let’s just say the manager was scared enough to call the police. Not a single decent fingerprint in the place but the fairly rare blood type matched Tanaka, one of the victims. And one of the passages on the wall indicated Bay City as the end of some journey toward love’s redemption. Whatever that means. All the super and the neighbors could say is that the tenant kept pretty much to himself. Not much of a description: medium build, late fifties, Caucasian. Name on the apartment lease, Anthony Marshall, is an alias. When pulled up, the social revealed that Anthony Marshall has been dead since 1962. Died in some private sanitarium in Hawaii but that lead didn’t produce. The sanitarium officials reported no patients missing or any recent releases who would have known Anthony Marshall. Whoever this guy is, he’s a dangerous combination of cuckoo and clever. And the local FBI is backing off this one, boys. They’re neck-deep in some ongoing gangland crossfire and are leaving this one square in your laps."

   I shuddered at the mixture of brains and sickness and saw the lids come halfway down over Hutch’s eyes. Dobey noticed our expressions because his voice deepened a notch. "If Dr. Grace crossed paths with this guy, you’re gonna be glad you didn’t have a body. Finding it would have left Margo Riley in therapy the rest of her life."

   "Excuse me?" Hutch queried.

   "McGarret’ll be in his office in approximately five minutes. I’ll let you hear it from him, Hutchinson."

   True to his word, Dobey waited all of five minutes before snatching the phone receiver and dialing Honolulu. "Mr. Williams? Captain Dobey again. Has Mr. McGarrett arrived? Yes, I have two detectives anxious to speak to him. Okay; I’ll switch to speakerphone."

   We exchanged yet another paragraph of thought between our eyes before a strong, resonant voice broke the silence. "McGarrett here."

   I nudged Hutch, who leaned forward out of habit and said clearly, "Mr. McGarrett, this is Detective Hutchinson. I’m here with my partner, Detective Starsky. We’re told you might have some information for us regarding a killer targeting college professors."

   "Yes, detectives, I do, and not just college professors. No, these are experts in the field of World War II Pacific Theater. I’m not really surprised the pattern seems to have originated here, with Pearl Harbor being on the island. We’ve run the sketchy information we have through Interpol and have turned up no evidence that anything like this has happened elsewhere around the world recently. I’ve got Danny expressing you a complete file of our investigation, but I should probably hit the high points with you now. Save time."

   "Yes, we’ve got a young lady here who might be the third victim," I stated. McGarrett’s voice cracked through the long-distance telephone line, "Young lady?" I smiled at the surprise inherent in his voice. So I’m not the only one who doesn’t automatically connect a young woman with a doctorate in military strategy. Hutch and I quickly filled him in on our current situation. Then Hutch spoke up. "How did you know what you were dealing with?"

   A long sigh. "We didn’t until the second murder. The first victim, Dr. Iko Tanaka, never reported any of the more violent threats. The status of the body tipped us off that something unusual was in the air. His housekeeper found him in the garden room. His head was shaved, the Japanese rising sun painted across his forehead in his own blood, and death had resulted from assailant-afflicted Hari Kari."

   "The Japanese ritual suicide?" Hutch couldn’t force down a shiver so strong that I felt it echo in my body.

   "Correct. Upon investigation of the crime scene we discovered that his library had been locked for the past two weeks. The housekeeper had questioned the professor about cleaning it but he kept refusing her. We forced open the door and found a mirror image of the room you described to me, Detective Hutchinson. He had said something to her about not answering the phone while she cleaned. Told her he had received an unpleasant prank call and did not want her subjected to something similar. When we questioned his colleagues, we learned that his office had been ransacked almost three weeks before the murder. Dr. Tanaka refused to report the incident beyond the university security because he blamed it on a young student who was failing his course and had fallen below academic good standing. He told his dean that ‘slashing tires’ and a ‘trashed office’ were just mechanisms for letting off steam and insisted that he be allowed to follow up the situation at his own discretion. That decision cost him his life."

   Hutch and I traded looks with Dobey. Kim had fallen prey to the same line of reasoning. Some harmless prank…some initiation stunt…maybe a disgruntled student. Do people ever readily believe a murderer has targeted them?

   "Now the second killing… hand me that file will you, Dan-O? Thanks…."

   "Something cold to drink and our usual favorites, Hug," Hutch called over to the bar as we settled into a nearby booth. My mind was still reeling from the phone call with McGarrett and Hutch knew, as he always did with that Starsky-crystal-ball he carries around, that I’d think better on a full stomach. I clutched my head, feeling the beginnings of another headache, a side-effect from my brush with the hereafter. The doctor had given me a bunch of medical reasons why I’d get them occasionally for the rest of my life; all I care about is that I’m alive enough to feel pain anywhere. "Head, Starsk? Need some aspirin?"

   I extended a hand involuntarily and then looked up, "Yeah, like you have a bottle of—" My eyes widened as Hutch fiddled in the pockets of his cords and brought forth the lifeline I needed. I popped two back dry and then regarded him with a thankful smile. "Hutch, why do you have a bottle of aspirin in your pocket when I’m the one who gets the headaches?"

   Hutch grinned. "I wouldn’t want you to think now you’re all brand new and energized that I’m expendable."

   I almost choked on the sudden onslaught of emotion that comment encouraged.We no longer shied away from saying meaningful things to each other…not after my shooting. Death loosens your tongue more effectively than an entire case of scotch. But right now I knew I couldn’t respond with even close to the intensity I felt at the moment. So I sought refuge in humor, my old stand-by. "Well, gee, Hutch, not everyone has their own walkin’ pharmacy. What would I do without ya?"

   Huggy appeared then with his impeccable timing and deposited two plates and two ice cold sodas in deference to our still being officially on duty. Hands on hips, the creatively dressed in shades of red and purple proprietor of The Pits gave us a slight frown, "Heard you guys have a properly gruesome bodyless murder on your hands."

   I had already chomped into my burger and found myself coughing with a mouth full of food. Astonished, I glanced at Hutch who looked at Huggy in awe. "I’m not even going to ask how you know that, Hug," my partner breathed. "This case isn’t even an afternoon old."

   Huggy slid into the booth beside Hutch, "Yeah, man, well, you know me. I gotta remind you super heroes every now and then that I know what I need to know when I need to know it." He winked at Hutch. "So you won’t ever think I’m expendable."

   That’s it, I decided. I’m in the twilight zone. Hutch dropped his Californian turkey sandwich as his eyebrows twisted into that glare of miffed dignity. "I’m surrounded. Starsky’s having pyshic dreams and hallucinations…and you must have our Torino bugged."

   The slender black man laughed. "Nah, Hutch. Calm down. I don’t know about Starsky’s brush with the paranormal, but I’ve got a good source. My newest waitress, Candy, is a part-time student at Jameson. It’s all over the campus now."

   "See, Starsky. Logical explanations. Gotta love ‘em."

   "Hey, you think I wanna be gettin’ visions of a dead girl before she got dead… I mean, a long time before she—aw, hell!"

   Huggy threw his head back, roared with good humor, and slapped his hands together. "Oh, but my batting average is sweet. Here just two minutes and I’ve initiated another lively discussion between the Dynamic Duo. Now that I’ve got the party started, I’d better get back to the bar." He tilted his head to the side, bounced his eyes between us with this incredibly knowing expression and said, "I’d ask when the two of you white boys are going to wise up, but you wouldn’t have a clue what I meant, and I’m savin’ that discussion for when I can participate freely."

   "What the hell did he mean by that?" Hutch demanded, his eyes following Huggy to the bar. I shrugged and said something about Huggy just being himself. Hutch grunted, attacked his sandwich again, and then sighed. "All right. We need a game plan."

   I suppressed an inner groan. Back to the case. Back to Kim. Back to this feeling of crushing grief I couldn’t wrap my mind around and understand. "Well, you heard McGarrett. He and Dan think putting the second victim under direct police protection only shortened the killer’s timetable. And the protection turned out to be crap. Here, he scrunched his threats into an even shorter timeframe. And we don’t have a mutilated body on our hands. Why?"

   "Can’t answer that one, I’m afraid. But the one I want answered is: what does he want? I think that phone call about something not being publicized is genuine."

   "Tanaka!" I slammed my glass down. "Uncle Iko. Kim wrote with him two years ago. Wonder if Burkehalt had any connection with him?"

   "Something to look into. Think our next stop should be Jameson for another chat with that other modern America expert?"

   "Yeah, maybe he can shed some light on those hieroglyphics all over Kim’s wall. And the pictures."

   Dr. Ted Goldman plied us with coffee and made horrified clucking noises over the photos from Kim’s study. "I’m sure you recognize at least one of the phrases. Tora, Tora, Tora: the Japanese code signal associated with Pearl Harbor. The other phrases are anti-GI sentiments affiliated with some of the more brutal Pacific battles. Bataan, Corregidor, Peleliu, Okinawa. The pictures are of actual atrocities commonly associated with the last two of those campaigns. Atrocities American marines had to watch their buddies suffer. Nineteen year old marines with ears, noses, and even more intimate parts removed after they’d been killed. Some of the Japanese soldiers wore the parts around their necks almost as war decorations. Now before you get all disgusted at the Emperor’s boys, let me tell you, some of our guys stooped to responding in like kind. Peleliu and Okinawa were hells on earth, gentlemen, no two ways about it."

   "Dr. Goldman, we’ll have to ask you to be very discreet about this information but we need your expert advice. What would you say to a possible Caucasian suspect despite all this Japanese fanfare?" Hutch had his I’m-gonna-figure-all-this-out-if-it-kills-me look squarely fixed on the professor’s face.

   Dr. Goldman trembled for a minute. "I’m sorry, gentlemen. I have to act very detached about this or I’ll break down. To think Kim may have been…subjected…." We both lowered our faces, feeling the same thing: regret at having to divulge some of the particulars of the murders in Hawaii. We needed a professional’s opinion about the symbols associated with the murders. "Whoever this guy is, he’s wallowing in pain and hatred. I’m no forensic psychologist, but the more I think about it, I see this as a personal vendetta of some sort. I think this guy has experienced World War II firsthand. Intimate knowledge of that era’s Japanese customs, symbols. It’s like he… was punishing those professors for some heinous crime he perceives they’ve committed. That he must think Kim committed too. Hari Kari is the ultimate—usually self-inflicted—punishment for dishonor. Having one’s head shorn is not necessarily a symbol of Japanese origin, but some cultures view it as a declaration of shame, guilt. Being branded by the Rising Sun… If he’s Caucasian, then he’s got a major gripe with Japanese World War II soldiers. So twisted that he’s acting out his hate through the actions of the people he despises." He took off his glasses, fidgeted with them, rubbed them with a handkerchief, and replaced them crooked on his nose. "Ronald Burkehalt was Dr. Tanaka’s student. Did his dissertation under him. A controversial dissertation, I might add. It attempted to re-analyze the idea that Japan would have been prepared to launch a full counterattack to a land invasion had we chosen that as an alternative to Hiroshima. Ronald’s stance is—was that atomic weaponry might not have been necessary to end the war. Some scholars terminally inflicted with tunnel vision accused Ronald of succumbing to his mentor’s pro-Japanese tendencies."

   Hutch emitted one of those soft whistles that told me he’d soaked in the information and expertly sifted the wheat from the chaff. "Okay. Kim wrote a book with Tanaka. Ronald was his student. Tanaka has a reputation for Japanese sympathy. Guilt by association to an unhinged brain? Do you know of a project involving all three of them?"

   "Nothing comes directly to mind."

   I suddenly experienced a flash of inspiration. "Photos can be very personalized, style and all. I mean, these didn’t just get cut out of an encyclopedia, right? Do you recognize any of the pictures?"

   Goldman gave me a nod of respect. "Astute question, Detective Starsky. I’ve done years of research in this field and I quite frankly don’t remember ever having seen these before. I—I do know of someone… how far are you willing to travel for information?"

   "We want to nail this guy," Hutch said emphatically. "Any help you can offer…."

   "His name’s Billy Walker and he lives in San Diego. He’s almost supernaturally gifted at photo recognition and is actually on a first-name basis with most of the surviving war photographers. If anyone can plunk down a name on those photos, it’s Billy."

   "Do you know if Billy is—stable emotionally?"

   Ted laughed shortly. "What you’re asking is do I think he’s involved in this. I highly doubt that, Detective Hutchinson. Shrapnel snipped his spinal cord in the last days of the Guadalcanal Campaign. He came home to his wife and baby son a paraplegic and has spent his post-war days in a wheelchair."

   Hutch and I gave a collected sigh of relief. This was no case of Bellamy in a fake leg cast. Over thirty-five years in a wheelchair put Billy effectively out of the running. "Okay, we’d like to show these photos to Billy."

   "Fine by me, but I’d better give him a call and prepare him for your visit. He can be quite a character sometimes." Ted reached for his phone, dialed a number, and we all waited in silence. "Carol? Billy there? It’s Ted Goldman. You—oh, God. Oh, I didn’t realize…. Yes, it would have been. I’d forgotten…Carol, I have two detectives who really need Billy’s help. Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson. Yes, they’re looking into Kim’s situation. Yes, I’m sure they’ll understand. Certainly." He re-cradled the receiver and rubbed his eyes again just beneath the lenses. "That was Billy’s wife. Apparently his niece is a student assistant here in the Department. She called them earlier this afternoon about this mess with Kim. I’d forgotten but Billy’s been almost an adopted Father to her for years now. It was quite a shock and his wife had to give him something to make him sleep, but she said he would be back at the store tomorrow around 10 AM if you could come then."

   I frowned. "Just can’t keep things like this quiet for long. Makes our job harder."

   "I imagine," Ted said. Suddenly he let all the emotion flood his face. "Do you think—damn, this is hard. It’s hard enough hearing about Ronald and Dr. Tanaka… but Kim!"

   "Officially," I said quietly, "we’re still treating this like a missing person’s case--"

   "Yes, but I hope you’ll pardon me, everybody knows you two are homicide detectives…."

   "Normally, yes. But we were requested specifically."

   "Calling out the best and brightest, eh? Any pair who can bring down James Marshall Gunther can restore Kim to us."

   His quiet confidence shook us both. Hutch couldn’t sit there and let him develop false hope. "I don’t know about the best, Dr. Goldman. I think experienced is the operative word. But we can’t make promises. This killer, if he is involved in Kim’s case, does not have a pattern of leaving victims alive. I’m sorry."

   "I’m not a child, Detective Hutchinson. I know the odds. But there are some things in the Torah about the compassion of God that I can’t ignore."

   "I second that," I said with an answering smile.

   We spent the rest of our shift making several unpleasant phone calls. We had to cover the bases with Kim’s family as tactfully as possible. Carefully wording our questions to allow them maximum hope, we discovered that Kim had made her weekly calls on schedule at the beginning of the week. She did not sound distressed. She sounded pleased with herself, happy with the progress on her article. Laughing about some of her funnier conversations with the Native American interviewees she worked with. They told great stories apparently. Kim liked to laugh. Hutch and I finished the phone calls feeling like scraped and bloody heels. Then Margo Riley showed up.

   She sat down in a spare chair by our desks and said quietly, "I—I know she’s d-dead."

   Hutch all but wet himself with his coffee and I swallowed my gum, "Ya—you’ve heard—something?" Thinking of the irrational possibility that the killer contacted her, knowing her affiliation with the police….

   "No. I’m just facing facts. I’ve been eavesdropping. I know what Robert won’t tell me… about those tragedies in Hawaii. I want this animal to—I want him to pay. Do you want to know why?"

   We didn’t know how to answer. Even Mr. Strunk-and-White couldn’t find the words. She didn’t wait for us to untangle our tongues. "Kim loved to stir things up a bit. Keep the Department from getting stale and stuffy, she said. She hated those two words. Repeated them like the twin crimes of the world. Stale and Stuffy. About a month ago she whispered in my ear that she was going to shake her grad seminar up a little bit, so I brought my camera, not knowing what to expect. She showed up the next day rigged out in a full costume of one those cigarette girls wandering around the club in ‘Casablanca.’ Taught class in this ‘40s Hussy voice. Had the whole class in stitches. She smiled at me after class and said, ‘Toldya I’d knock ‘em out of their stuffiness, schweetheart.’ Here’s the picture I took." She handed it to Hutch. I waited patiently for him to hand it over. All at once his face went ashen and he jumped to his feet and ran out of the room.

   I found him in the hall outside the squad room bent over double, swallowing convulsively, almost retching. Other officers stared at him with concern and confusion. I waved them off impatiently and took Hutch by the shoulders. "Hey, buddy…want to get some fresh air outside?"

   "No, I—I’ll be fine. Just that picture. Damn it, Starsky, I can friggin’ see what she means by Kim being your sister. God…did you get a good look? That grin, those eyes… Seeing them on the face of a person who’s --" He shuddered again and shook my hands free.

   "Hutch, is this gonna—I mean…."

   "Starsky, I’m still a cop! First and foremost. Don’t you ever forget it." He strode past me into the squad room. I stood still in the hallway and rubbed a hand over my eyes before I followed.

   I pulled the Torino in front of Venice Place and let the engine idle for a minute. Then the aromas steadily seeping out of the bag carefully balanced between us got the better of me. We’d decided to save the surf-and-turf for when we weren’t chasing down a serial killer and settled for picking up Chinese. My stomach expressed its enthusiasm and I killed the engine, grabbed the bag, and bounced up the stairs behind Hutch. Following him into the apartment that was as much a home to me as my own, I felt a warmth settle over me that had nothing to do with an upcoming Chinese feast. Suddenly I wanted to put a name to the warmth. Friendship. Companionship. Closeness. Security. Hutch. He mouthed something about changing clothes and dashed into the other room.

   He emerged barely a minute later wearing his oldest pair of jeans, a cornflower blue shirt that screamed his eye color, and a smile to light the bottomless pit. I just about dropped the bag of Chinese en route to the table. I hadn’t seen that expression on his face since the early days of his relationship with Gillian. For a minute I thought the whole room was turned upside down. Then I commanded myself to walk calmly over to the table, deposit the bag of food, and remove its contents methodically. Praying that my voice sounded normal, I quipped, "Jeez, if shedding those cords can make you feel that good, ya oughta burn ‘em. Might be orgasmic."

   Hutch laughed and whisked behind the table into the kitchen. He rooted about in the fridge, suddenly tossing a root beer over his shoulder in my general vicinity. That is the extent of our ESP. He knew exactly how to gauge the throw so the bottle landed easily within my grasp instead of in fragments on the floor. When he turned, his face was a study in rapture. I tilted my head, slapped my hands on my hips, and batted my eyelashes at him. "Hey, d’ya want the food or can ya exist on euphoric sentimentalism alone?"

   Hutch grinned, "Where’d you get that?"

   "You taught it to me, Blintz. Where’s your memory? Remember when we first met Molly? The year you tried to turn into combination Grinch and Scrooge and failed miserably. You’re lookin’ all master of euphoric sentimentalism again. What gives?" I flung a fortune cookie at him with what I know had to be a sappy expression of affection on my face. Hutch’s care and concern for the orphaned little girl that Christmas only cemented my fervent belief that Kenneth Hutchinson is one of God’s more special creatures.

   Hutch opened his bottle and sat limply down in the chair. "Just glad to be here with you."

   "Picture really got to ya, huh?"

   The smile vanished as he sorted through the various white cardboard containers and I cursed myself to the nether pits of Hell for shattering his good mood. "I think she’s alive, Hutch."

   Hutch seized the chicken with cashews and pushed the Moo Goo Gai Pan my way. No response. "Spring rolls?" I delved once more into the bag and offered Hutch’s favorites with a longsuffering sigh.

   "Are you gonna be mono—mono--"

   "Monosyllabic."

   "Yeah, that… Can’t we at least hold out a shred of hope?"

   "Starsky, I want to. Really, I do. But you have to admit… the blood all over her office chair matches Kim’s type. Her study perfectly fits the MO of a serial killer who has murdered twice. From the look of the pattern he’s developing, this nutcase has been getting increasingly aggressive. Where do you see any hope in all that?"

   I felt a knot of tension between my shoulder blades. Then I took a deep swig of root beer, cleared my throat and settled against the damn uncomfortable chair back. Since Gunther, I have some scars that just don’t like Hutch’s dining chairs. He rose wordlessly to his feet, grabbed one of the smaller cushions off the couch and with a strong hand on my shoulder, pushed me forward and arranged the cushion behind me at the perfect location. I sat back against it and smiled at the improvement in sensation. "Thanks, buddy."

   Hutch nodded and pounced on the cashew chicken. I folded my arms across my chest and asked, "Where’s the body?"

   "Huh?"

   "You wanted to know where I find the hope. That’s it. This sicko has been using the bodies of his victims to make a statement. Why not in this case?"

   "Maybe he moved her after he killed her. Would have been risky to…um…set about his mutilation activities right there in her office."

   "You think this fruitcake would be worried about that?"

   "He’s been displaying some higher brain function too, Starsk. Even if it’s twisted."

   "Okay, why didn’t he kill her at home like the first victim? Unlike Ronald, Kim wasn’t under police protection somewhere. And the ME couldn’t find any traces of tissue on the chair. With a wound that generated that kinda gore, wouldn’t you expect tissue fragments?"

   "Starsk, you’re not basing—this—I don’t know…on that dream you had?"

   I abandoned my chopsticks and glared at him. "Thanks, Hutch. I oughta smack ya. I tell you about one lousy dream and suddenly I’m no longer a sane and rational cop capable of reasoning through a murder investigation."

   Hutch smacked his lips with the gentility that only Hutch has and pushed his plate away. "All right. Point taken. But it wasn’t just the dream… that stuff this morning. You had me pretty scared, partner."

   "Hutch, whatever that was… they were like memories. If they were—I dunno—real, then they happened when she was in college, I think. Shouldn’t have any impact on my belief that she’s alive now." Then I fell silent because I felt dizzy….

   "Starsky!? Earth to Starsky!! Either you have X-ray vision or you really are psychic, pal, because you’re staring at that fortune cookie like it just solved all life’s mysteries. Only you haven’t cracked it open yet. Hey, buddy, what’s bouncing around in that hollow cranium of yours?"

   Hutch and I don’t lie to each other. Our honesty is one of the things that make the Me and Thee partnership work. I’ve told him things about me and my inner ticking that would make my ma’s hair fall out. And she’s a Jewish mother, the toughest and hardiest species of Mother to walk the earth. But right then I froze. Choices: speak your mind and let him think you’re insane or fib and keep him happy and save the battle for another day. At that point choice two was head and shoulders more appealing. "Uh, nothing, Hutch. Just trying to get all our case info straight in my head."

   Hutch wrinkled his brow at me and then studied his root beer with sudden disfavor. "Maybe I ought to switch to the real stuff. Join me?"

   "Yeah, sure."

   He offered me the beer with a blinding smile and then shifted our base of operations to the sofa. Curled up on one side, he draped an arm across the back and I sat a couple feet down from him, leaning back against the strong arm.

   "At least tomorrow we might very well get a lead on our psycho. And McGarrett’s using his clout to crack the nut of patient confidentiality in the Hawaii Veteran’s Association. We’re gonna get this guy for Margo, Starsk."

   I swirled the beer around in the can and grunted agreement. The hand attached to the arm I leaned against found its way to my shoulder and squeezed tightly. I relaxed in the warmth of the familiar, friendly sensation. Then my brain had to go and ruin it with a mental picture of Kim standing in front of a window hating the sky’s blueness. I had a feeling I knew why. That thought talked me out of finishing my drink and I started to stand. "Well, don’t know about you, buddy boy, but today’s events have taken their toll on this street veteran. If I don’t head on home and get my beauty sleep, Dobey’ll be screaming that I look like reheated death. Can’t afford that when I’ve got to be the poster boy for a miraculous, bionic physique."

   "Why don’t you just crash here?"

   I laughed. "One half of a beer does not a drunk Starsky make."

   "Didn’t say you were drunk. You’ve stayed over before when you were perfectly sober."

   "Drunkeness, illness, tragedy, or gunshot wounds. That’s our list of reasons to date."

   "How about friendship? How about my needing to remind myself that you’re really all right… really still here…. Sorry, I know that sounds—I just thought we might play a game of Monopoly or catch a movie on the tube. Hell, I’ll even spring for popcorn. Extra butter. I won’t accuse of you being cuckoo because you’re having visions."

   I swiveled quickly, "You can say anything to me, Hutch." I meant it. I was going to be his best friend no matter what weird kind of snit my brain was trying to throw. But despite those generous thoughts I must have turned again because a soft, determined word halted my steps.

   "Stay."

   I turned around again, "You wanna talk about it, Blondie?"

   "About what?"

   "What’s bothering you."

   Hutch set his empty can on the coffee table and leaned back against the sofa cushions. "I think this case is going to get ugly, Starsk, and I’d like to keep that ugliness at bay for just a little longer."

   I smiled slowly and plopped back down on the sofa, "Well, if you’re begging me to wipe the floor with you, I suppose we could break out the Monopoly. I’ll just relax here and think over my strategy."

   "Whatever, King-of-the-Utilities. ‘Sides, you don’t have a broken leg. You know where the board games are. I’ll tackle the popcorn."

   I laughed. Gruff, half-heartedly bossy Hutch was back in control.    

   The dream hit me in the middle of the night. I think I fell off the couch.

   "I’m not leaving you, Angel."

   The screaming woke me. Not my screaming. Bloodcurdling howls coming from the sleeping area. "Angel! ANGEL!! Oh, God, Angel!!!"

   I picked myself off the floor and tore a streak in the floor on my way to Hutch. I found him thrashing around in the sheets, soaked in sweat, face contorted with fear. I grabbed hold and shook him awake. "Hutch! Wake up, you’re dreaming!" His eyes flew open, connected with mine, and his hands grabbed the sides of my face. "Angel," he said softly. Then he seemed to wake the rest of the way up and he said, "Starsky?" and released me.

   "I see you’ve gotten acquainted with Wade Paulson," I said simply. "Bet ya didn’t know ya had a twin."

   Hutch cleared his throat and scooted into sitting position against the headboard. "I.. I was in this whitewashed room by a window. This guy who looked like…well, like a slightly younger brother if I had one…sat by the window mute. I could tell he was terrified. And I knew why. It was something to do with a girl named Angel. It was some kind of hospital room. His left arm was all burn-scarred."

   "Kim Grace, Hutch. Nickname Angel. Welcome to Vision Land. Same check-out policy as the Hotel California."

   "Are we both going insane?"

   "I don’t know what the hell’s happenin’. Why am I the paranormal expert?"

   "How can you ask me that, Mr. Friday Fright Nite on channel 10."

   "Think you can go back to sleep okay?"

   "I better. It’s a vastly more acceptable alternative than staying awake thinking about this."

PART TWO