by Detective Sergeant David M. Starsky

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

   I woke the next morning with the afghan tangled between my ankles and half my body off the couch. I should be used to Hutch’s couch by now but I sleep like an octopus on a high and always have. Consequently I felt the sudden onslaught of about a million kinks that needed stretching. I was in the process of performing these necessary contortions when Hutch stumbled through to the kitchen, scratching his orange terry robed back and yawning wide enough to swallow a cat. He stopped in mid-stride, turned his head, and blinked at me. Then he burst out laughing.

   "Holy Jeez, Starsk, there are better ways to get out of facing Dobey this morning than requiring traction in an ER."

   "Ah, whaddya know, Mr. Always-Has-a-Beautiful-Girl-to-Massage-the-Sore-Back?"

   My characteristic morning grump only put a smile on his face as he gathered the ingredients for his nutritious glass of goop. I was grateful that he had returned to his healthy routine over the last year. He exercised fiercely, watched what he ate again, and generally looked very much like the Hutch of early in our partnership except for the mustache he wouldn’t part with even though I told him it made him look older. Still, a far cry from the worn out, disillusioned, and depressed man he’d been the last few months before the attempted hit. He might need all that vim and vigor before the end of this ordeal.

   Hutch pushed open the squad room door and said something about wanting those files from Hawaii. I snagged a donut and gulped it down. Dobey bellowed for us a minute later. I slapped Hutch on the back, "Looks like you got your wish, partner. That’s definitely Dobey hating to deal with something nasty in the morning."

   When we entered his office, Dobey sat at his desk with his head in his hands. Hutch and I stood rigidly still and stared. I think we’d never seen our captain look so defeated. Hutch stepped forward first. "Uh, Cap’n?"

   Dobey glanced up, sighed, and pushed back in his chair, for once not even frowning when the furniture creaked its protest. "Got those files."

   I sat down and propped my feet on his desk. He did not even notice. Now I knew something was horribly wrong. Hutch and I shared a look, eyebrows raised. "Not very pleasant reading material, huh, Cap’n?"

   "That’s an understatement, Starsky. McGarrett’s description doesn’t even begin to cover it." He shoved the files in my direction first. I flipped through them until I came to the homicide crime scene photos.

   "God in Heaven!" I heard myself gasp before I swallowed hard and cupped my mouth in my hands, suddenly unsure about the donut remaining where it ought to. Hutch grabbed the files out of my lap before I could stop him. Seeing the pictures hit me much worse than McGarrett’s description.

   "Damn!" He jumped up and paced the room. "God, what a sicko."

   "I want this Neanderthal behind bars, gentlemen. As soon as yesterday, you understand? Tell me you have some leads."

   "One kinda important lead, Cap," I spoke up, glancing at Hutch with concern. He looked like he’d spent a night in Hell’s hottest corner. "We’re trying to trace the photographs in Kim’s study. Goldman’s put us in contact with an expert in San Diego. We have an appointment with him this morning."

   "In fact," Hutch continued, "we should probably grab those photos from Evidence and be on our way. Something tells me you don’t keep this guy waiting."

   "Well, then, move! What are you still sitting around for?"

   We moved.

   The drive to San Diego was quiet. Hutch had snapped at me the moment I brought up the crime scene photos and hadn’t opened his mouth since, except to tell me with that cutting sarcasm that we’d be later than we already were if we got pulled over by the Highway Patrol. Normally that would have instigated my smoothing Hutch’s ruffled blond feathers, but something about his clenched jaw and twitching hands told me to leave well enough alone. I hoped Goldman’s directions were as clear as they sounded because we had precious little time to go tooling around the city looking for this guy’s pad.

   The address led us to a crumbling section of the business district. Sandwiched between a barber shop and a liquor store, the painted sign on the window of the run-down storefront announced, "Billy’s Military Surplus." I looked over and realized that Hutch had fallen asleep. I watched him for a minute. His face looked almost peaceful. Anyone who didn’t know him as well as I do would have thought he hadn’t a care in the world. I knew better, because the lines in his forehead revealed that he hadn’t let himself truly relax even in sleep. I clasped his shoulder and shook gently. "Hutch…buddy, wake up. We’re here."

   He groaned as his upper body jerked and his eyes popped open. "Wha’ oh Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep after that venture into the twilight zone last night."

   "You needed a break. ‘Sokay."

   He looked at me, his eyes suddenly deeper than I’d seen them in a long time. He had looked at me like that before, I remembered, transported suddenly to a rooftop on the night I thought would be my last on earth. After I’d discharged my Beretta with only the thought that Bellamy wouldn’t win out over both of us if I could help it.

   "You’d carry it all, wouldn’t you?"

   "What, are you still asleep, Blintz?"

   "All the problems," he answered. "Every burden, even me…no matter how heavy it gets. I shouldn’t have ripped you a new one just because of the crime scene photos. You’re not the enemy."

   I smiled but I was secretly astonished. Outright apologies are not Hutch’s specialty. "What does that song say… ‘he’s my brother’." I watched as guilt drooped the corners of Hutch’s answering smile. "Hutch, it’s equal. You’ve saved my butt, kicked it when you had to, and generally done for me all I ever done for you. Now let’s go in there and solve this case… and maybe even, God help us, end up finding Kim."

   "Yes, sir!" Hutch grinned.

   We were only fifteen minutes late but Billy, driving his wheelchair around the narrow store like an experienced stock car champion, let us hold it with a wide grin that didn’t quite match the string of four-letter words and insults about lazy cops and bums who had no military discipline. The cheerfulness of his face took the sting out of his dressing down but I could still have kicked Hutch when he spoke proudly that I’m a veteran.

   "’Nam?" Billy eyed me with a new light in his gaze. "Nothing to be ashamed of, son." Billy raised an eyebrow and I suddenly felt like we were treading on sacred ground.

   "Not ashamed of serving my country. But there’s a lot about ‘Nam in general to be ashamed of. I saw stuff I’m never gonna be proud of no matter what country was responsible."

   "Can’t argue with that, soldier. Shame I didn’t know I’d be entertaining a fellow freedom-fighter or I’d have had something proper around to toast you with. My missus won’t let me keep the hard stuff around the store anymore because too many vets still live around the area and I end up coming home half-sloshed because they all drop in for a spell."

   Ever the conscience in our partnership, Hutch said nicely, "No problem. We’re on duty anyway."

   Billy snorted. "Like who would have told on you?" He looked at me and jerked a thumb in Hutch’s direction. "He always this goody-goody?"

   "A perfect saint," I responded with just the right bite in my voice. Hutch shot me a drop-dead glare and I felt avenged for his bringing up my military past without my permission.

   "All right, enough friendly chatter. You got the pictures, we’ll move to the back room."

   The back room was even more cluttered than the front of the store. The only space not filled with military-issue uniforms, helmets, knives, and other memorabilia was a corner table where four folding chairs waited. Billy moved two of them out of his way with the ease of much practice and gestured for us to take advantage of the other two. We settled down and Hutch extended the manila envelope. Billy ran his hands over the outside, seemed to be thinking of something, and then looked at us with his eyes full of concern.

   "The only reason--" His voice cracked. "The only reason I’m sittin’ here smilin’ and straight-thinkin’ enough to even look at these is I’m sure--- I’m sure, you two’re gonna bring my Kim-girl home--"

   I watched intense pain flicker over my partner’s face. "Mr. Walker, we’re going to do everything in our--"

   "In your power, yeah yeah, blah blah. Spare me the disclaimer, sonny. I can read between the lines of cop talk. My son’s a cop. Detective First Class SDPD. I called him at work when my wife told me you were coming and believe it or not, he knows who you are. Gave me the whole song and dance about your being super-cops. I think he would have been here with a pen and pad begging for an autograph if his lieutenant had spared him the time. So, I have faith, boys. You’re gonna bring her home. All right enough of that, both of you are beet red and look in danger of swallowing your tongues. Lemme at these pictures."

   He tore into the envelope and spread the pictures out on the table. Despite his battle experience he uttered a grunt of disgust and fiddled in his shirt pocket for the bulge that was his cigarette pack. He fished a lighter out of his pants pocket and lit a smoke, dumping the pack on the table invitingly for us. We shook our heads in unison and waited for him to study our evidence. Suddenly, he pushed back in the wheelchair and snapped his fingers. Hutch and I sat forward, both of us hoping and praying this was our break.

   "I’ll be damned." Billy waved a hand at the scattered pictures and then folded his arms across his chest, puffing at the cigarette like his life depended on it. He removed the smoke and said quietly, eyes locked on ours, "That’s gotta be Matt Moriarty’s work."

   Neither of us was quite ready to accept such a quick answer but Hutch voiced our concern, "How sure are you?"

   The question obviously rubbed Billy wrong. "As sure as I am I’d be wasting my money if I paid for dance lessons, sonny." The words dripped acid.

   Hutch looked about to implode and I knew I had to take control before we re-enacted Hiroshima. "Could you please tell us why you think this is…Moriarty’s work?"

   "For one thing, he was in the right places at the right time to take these. Then there’s the fact that I’ve seen some of his other footage. Powerful, gripping stuff. Moriarty once told me in a drunken haze that he most wanted to record the indignities our boys had to suffer so people back home would understand that GIs sacrificed more than just their lives to preserve the American Way. He brought in a sample of his work when I had some buddies back here and let me tell you, I watched those combat vets cry like teething infants and those photos were nothing like this…not by half. He told us then he had some stuff they’d never print in high school history books. The pictures suitable for general consumption had already gone to magazines and newspapers during and immediately after the war. But Moriarty had a special collection that never saw the light of day when he got back from the Pacific. He came in here awhile back and after about six shotsof Bourbon announced in a fit of tears that he was going to sell that collection. Fell on hard times, you understand, and his wife was dying of something and needed hospitalization and some such. Anyway, he was going to sell it all. I think he was trying to offer me a crack at it, but hell, look at this place. I didn’t have a prayer of raising the sum he was obviously looking for."

   "So you think he would have sold this special collection to an individual rather than a museum?" Hutch questioned. Billy frowned.

   "Like I told you, he was selling to the highest bidder. His wife’s health meant more to him than his damn pictures. But I can tell you this: I know Matt. He wouldn’t have sold to just anyone. The guy would have to put up some credentials as well as dough."

   "Credentials?" I asked, confused. Hutch looked at me and said, "Combat experience." Billy nodded his approval.

   "You wouldn’t be a total hero and have a current address for this Moriarty?" I grinned at Billy who ground his cigarette in the nearby ashtray and laughed.

   "’Course I do. That’s why Goldman sent you to me. He knew there were academic fuddy-duddies closer by who could hem and haw and give you a list of names but that I would actually give you something useful. Hold on a sec." He wheeled around the back room directing a stream of profanity at an address book that had the gall to get itself lost. He finally found it and hunted about for pen and paper. When he wheeled back over to us, he offered me the slip of paper and I read the address.

   "Back in our neck of the woods," I informed Hutch.

   Hutch shifted in his seat and waited for eye contact with Billy, "What would you know about Moriarty’s emotional state?"

   "You mean, is he responsible for what has you driving all the way here to consult me? I highly doubt it. Sure, he came back from the war with some issues. Who didn’t? He’d give way occasionally to this cryin’ jag about being a yellow Non-Com when there were good men dying around him…never mind that he was in as much danger as they were and no legal right to protect himself. But he’s been focused on his wife since she took ill and from what I hear through the grapevine, there’s actually a chance of her pulling through. So, no, I don’t think he’s your man."

   "Billy, you’ve been a gold mine," I offered my hand and winced at his bone-crushing handshake. Billy grinned.

   "Would you let us buy you lunch? We can grab some take-out, bring it back here…" Hutch smiled widely, his happiness at having a lead washing over us both. Billy seized his hand and shook it too.

   "Lemme take a rain check on that lunch, fellows. I need to mind the store. Never know when I’ll have a rush." The words held not a trace of bitterness. Hutch and I shared an intense silent consultation.

   When we stepped out into the sunlight, I slapped Hutch on the back. "You are an absolute pushover, Blintz."

   Hutch looked at the parcels in his arms. He’d forked over hard cash for a Navy issue overcoat, a WWII era canteen, and a horribly ominous knife large enough to slice through the trunk of my car. "Yeah, well, we’ll owe him big time if his information leads to us nailing this asshole."

   "Get in the car before the sun overheats all that armor you wear around—"

   "Starsky, I swear, if you make one more White Knight crack--"

   I fired up the engine and flung my arm across the back of his seat as I backed out. "Oh, I’m sorry, Blondie, I forgot about your huge collection of dime-a-dozen World War II memorabilia…."

   To my surprise Hutch didn’t growl or snipe at my turning the sarcastic tables on him. He merely grinned and settled back in the seat.

   If I thought the ride to San Diego was quiet, it was a screaming laugh-riot compared to the drive home. I think we both wanted to talk about our ‘visions’ but couldn’t be the one to broach the subject. On the way, when we were in range of Metro, Hutch picked up the mic and put a call through requesting a check on Matthew Moriarty. Not even an unpaid parking ticket. We both knew that didn’t necessarily mean a thing.

   The Moriarty residence kept company with a row of other middle-class houses. Brick and wood split-level ranch with a basketball goal in the driveway and a station wagon visible in the open garage. I pulled up at the curb and sighed. "How you wanna play it?"

   Hutch jumped slightly at the sound of my voice. "At this point as an innocent source of information. I don’t know about you, but I’d trust Billy blindfolded. The man’s got his head screwed on straight.

   "Yeah, I agree. Okay. Here goes."

   The man who came to the door answered to the name Matthew Moriarty. He was taller and even thinner than Hutch and despite his age had a head of shockingly red hair not even touched by gray. Deep purple bags hung under his eyes and his pale skin was almost sick looking. Not hard to understand if he’d been coping with a seriously ill spouse for some time. He didn’t even flinch when we flashed our badges, identified ourselves, and asked to come in. He stepped aside calmly and waved us inside.

   He situated us in a messy living room. Looking around, he sighed heavily. "Sorry about the clutter, gentlemen. My wife’s at dialysis today and I just haven’t felt like keeping up appearances. Could I offer you something to drink? Tea, lemonade, something stronger?"

   "No, thank you," Hutch spoke softly. When Moriarty sank down in a wing chair across from the sofa we occupied, Hutch glanced at me and then extended the manila envelope to our host. "Would you take a look at these and tell us if you recognize them?"

   Moriarty accepted the envelope with visibly shaking hands and investigated its contents with a choking gasp and a pained expression. At first he shook his head violently as though compelled to deny recognition, but the shaking turned to a forced, slow nod. "Yes… they’re my photos. I was a war photographer." He seemed for a moment lost in another day and time. And not pleasantly so. Then he jumped back to the present and hurriedly shoved the photos back into the envelope and surrendered the envelope to Hutch. "Where did you get these?"

   I sat back and let Hutch tackle him. "Mr. Moriarty, before we answer that, we need to ask you a few questions. Have you been in Hawaii recently?"

   Moriarty’s eyelids drooped and he looked away for a fraction of a second before he glanced back and replied that he had not. "My wife’s been too ill for me to leave home."

   I wasn’t satisfied. I’ve been a cop too long not to recognize someone struggling to put on a brave front. I didn’t get a sense of guilt but something brewed in those strange, pale eyes having a difficult time focusing on us. "Could ya give us an exact account of your activities on September 4^th?"

   Moriarty gaped at us. For a moment his lips moved like they had been inflicted with a tremor. Then he rose to his feet. "I—I’ll need to consult my day calendar, but I think I had a doctor’s appointment that day. Annual physical, you know." He left the room and returned a few minutes later with a small appointment book clasped tightly in his right hand. "Yes, I was at Dr. Herndon’s office for a four o’clock appointment that day. I remember their office was packed… I was there quite awhile. Other than that I probably spent the rest of the day piddling around here. Do you need Dr. Herndon’s number?"

   I took down the necessary information and Hutch gestured for Mr. Moriarty to sit down so we could tackle the important question. Again, I let that task fall to Hutch so I could sit back and read Moriarty’s face. "We’ve spoken to a reliable source who says that you decided to sell your private collection of World War II footage?"

   "Yes…my wife’s sickness forced my hand."

   "Would you tell us who purchased the collection?"

   Moriarty groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. "I think I know who your source is. You talked to Billy, didn’t you? Oh, God… what he’ll think of me."

   "Mr. Moriarty," I said, trying to adopt Hutch’s reassuring tone. "We have no plan to share this info with Billy Walker."

   "The whole collection went to Dr. Iko Tanaka of Honolulu."

   My mouth fell open and Hutch parted his lips, then raised a hand, gesturing vaguely in the air, a sure sign he was stunned. "Dr. Tanaka…Professor Tanaka?"

   "Y-yes. H-he made me the best offer. Still, I’d always promised myself I would either sell to a museum or to a combat vet who’d truly appreciate the photos. But Dr. Tanaka told me about his brother and Pearl Harbor and he seemed so desperate to have the pictures."

   "When did you turn over the photos?"

   "That was kind of strange, actually. He made a point of coming over here from Hawaii and accepting them on a specific day. August 14^th."

   Two months ago. I noticed that Hutch had a funny look on his face but my mind was headed in another direction. "By the best offer… how much are we talking about?" I didn’t care how abrupt the question sounded. I wanted answers, like Dobey had said, as soon as yesterday.

   Moriarty flushed vividly and shook his head. "What possible good can that information do you? Please may I maintain some dignity? I mean, you haven’t even told me why you’re asking me all these questions…or where you got the pictures."

   "These photos have been present at multiple violent crime scenes. Murder, Mr. Moriarty. Two professors in Hawaii and a young lady professor is missing here in Bay City. These were pulled from her vandalized study." Hutch used his don’t-even-try-to-evade tone.

   The red disappeared in a flash to be replaced by ashen white. I’ve never seen such a rapid change in facial coloring. For a minute I thought Moriarty was going to sway out of the wing chair and slip to the carpet in a dead faint. He collected himself and said softly, "Tanaka’s gone?"

   Hutch swung startled eyes in my direction and I shrugged slightly at my partner. How you wanna play it indeed, buddy? How much is saying too much when we don’t know what this guy’s game is? But Moriarty didn’t press us. He seemed to take our silent conversation as an affirmation. When we looked at him again he appeared utterly defeated. He didn’t even seem to have any bones left in his body. "Seventy-five thousand dollars."

   Hutch coughed trying to cover up the fact that he’d almost strangled at the answer. I felt a similar sensation. But Hutch recovered first and asked, "Did he give you any reason why he was desperate enough to offer you that much money? Or why the special date and extra trouble… I mean, surely you could have sent the materials to him special post."

   "H—he said something about wanting to improve Japanese-American relations. I- I didn’t want to pry."

   "You’ve held this deep-seated conviction about only selling to a combat vet and you didn’t want to pry?" Hutch’s voice didn’t conceal the hint of accusation. Moriarty’s head flashed up and his eyes burned bright.

   "Look, keeping my wife alive until that new drug came on the market and my being able to quit work to be with her meant more to me than who bought the damn footage, all right? I didn’t want to scare off a potential buyer by pressing him with personal questions. Haven’t you ever had someone you’d put everything on hold for no matter what the cost?"

   I felt Hutch glancing at me through the corner of his eye and I swallowed hard. Friendship, brotherhood, togetherness, partnership, a common cause, united souls…does he know if he hadn’t come back through those hospital doors I wouldn’t be alive right now?

   "Mr. Moriarty, you’ve answered all our questions for right now but we may be back again." Hutch rose and I followed, my mind slowly crawling back to the task at hand.

   Back in the car, I tossed the keys back and forth in my hands and waited for the explosion I knew was coming. 1,2,3,4….

   "Something decidedly stinks here! And I’ll be damned if I… Since when is a group of photographs worth seventy-five thousand dollars?" Hutch’s voice shifted gears slowly from furious to frustrated. I sighed.

   "Ask another. Notice how Moriarty didn’t even ask us for details? You tell him his own pictures for God’s sake have been found at murder scenes, and he doesn’t even ask the basics. Just turns all white and shakes."

   Hutch shifted in his seat and slapped my shoulder in that manner that tells me he’s pleased with my detective’s skills. "Yeah, now that you mention it, he just jumped to the conclusion that Tanaka was the victim. Sure it could be a logical deduction. He sold the pictures to Tanaka, two professors in Hawaii are dead, and suddenly we have the pictures, but it doesn’t have to necessarily follow that Tanaka was one of the victims. And that crap about not prying. Starsk, something about that August 14^th date is nagging at me."

   "I can’t see Moriarty as the guilty party, though, Hutch. I know we gotta check the doctor’s appointment…but with a sick wife he’s obviously nuts about, I don’t see him prowlin’ around Hawaii slashin’ the professors’ tires, ransacking their offices, and all. He could always have had an accomplice but I--"

   "You think this is a one man job," Hutch said. "I agree with you. On all counts. But I still think there’s something Moriarty’s not telling us."

   I stuck the keys in the ignition and slammed a hand against the steering wheel. "Yeah, and tell me, Hutch, how a history professor racks up that kinda pocket change. I know some of ‘em make more’n we do…not that that’s hard to do. But still, 75 G’s a lot of money to invest in a thirty-five year old scrapbook."

   "I don’t know about you, buddy, but I’ve got some questions I’d like to run by McGarrett." Hutch stared at his hands.

   I grinned at him. "Right with you, partner." Always. No matter what. No matter where you want to take me.

   That afternoon I think we broke a world record for frustration. Moriarty’s information checked out and even in the jet age he’d have to be omnipresent ( a Hutch word, ladies and gents) to be guilty of Tanaka’s murder. So if we linked the murders as serial and assumed a singular suspect…

   Hutch slammed down the phone. "McGarret says bank records indicate a wire transfer of precisely seventy-five thousand dollars to a Mr. Matthew Moriarty. Funny thing is, those same records indicate a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars into Tanaka’s account just two weeks prior from a Society for Improved Historical Japanese-American Relations."

   I perched on the back of my chair flipping through books. "Ah hah! August 14^th. The Japanese surrendered to the US on August 14^th. The official ceremonies weren’t held on the USS Missouri until September 2^nd, but August 14^th was declared V-J Day."

   "For someone who’s supposed to be so damn pro-Japanese, he seems to have been trying hard to mend fences on both sides."

   "And Kim and Ronald… What about the three of them stirred up this guy’s blood?"

   "That thing about publication is still eating me, Starsk. Couldn’t be the pictures he wanted to prevent reaching the light of day, not leaving them smeared all over the crime scenes--"

   "No, Hutch, I think Goldman’s right. This is a personal vendetta of some sort--"

   The phone’s shrill ring almost knocked me off the back of my chair. Hutch grabbed the receiver while I clung to the chair with the last amount of my balance.

   He opened his mouth and didn’t get a word out. Then he hung up, grabbed his jacket and blinked at me. "Well, come on, lazy."

   "Where? Or are you gonna put a blindfold on me too?"

   "What? You wouldn’t trust me blindfolded?" Something in that smile threatened to be a challenge. A challenge I’d never seen in those eyes. I pushed by him and said, "Nope. You might get me back for lettin’ you fall down my stairs." His laughter followed me out to the car.

   Our destination turned out to be an art studio owned by an older version of one of the other girls in the photo on Kim’s mantel. Natalie Carstairs greeted us wearing a cross between a robe, lingerie, and evening dress and clinked away on high heels back up the stairs to the loft apartment above the gallery portion of the studio. She lit a slender cigarette and turned around to face us.

   "I want him dead." She said calmly.

   "Mind clarifying that?" Hutch narrowed his eyes. "You said something on the phone about knowing who hates Kim."

   "Andrew Paulson. I want him to suffer for this atrocity."

   The name ran through me like high-voltage. I felt Hutch’s form shiver beside me.

   "Why would he… Who is he?" I thought I knew the answer but I couldn’t very well tell her I had it revealed to me in a dream.

   She clinked over to a curio cabinet and plucked a frame from the third shelf. She thrust it forward. "This is why. His son Wade and Kim in 1969."

   A tall blond, blue-eyed young man dressed in a university baseball uniform held a miniature female with long dark curls up in his arms as though she only weighed an ounce. She was waving her legs and arms and grinning stupidly at the photographer. Although he held her in a parody of a groom carrying his bride over the threshold, I had the sense there was no sexual intimacy in the pose. Staring more closely I noticed the strong resemblance on the features of the blond to the person I know better than myself. At a distance and not knowing every line in Hutch’s face the way I do, you’d be hard pressed not to think this was Hutch in 1969 minus the police academy sweat-suit. I looked to the side and saw tears pooling in Hutch’s crystal eyes.

   Natalie puffed for a minute and then waved her hand dramatically. "Kim met him when she first moved out here as a seventh-grader. He was in the ninth. I was a recent transplant too from the UK so she and I got to be chums. But those two… their souls fused. Did everything together. Shared a baseball card collection, she taught him to roller skate, he taught her to swim… She watched every baseball game he played in from little league through college. They went to the prom together. But I don’t think they ever even kissed. Some malicious little shits in high school started the rumor that he kept her around just as smokescreen. He was artistic as well as atheletic. Could play the piano and leave a room in tears. Didn’t go out with any girls but Kim. So that made him gay. Kim knew better. She confided in tears to me one day that she thought he just didn’t want to be like his father. Emotionally abusive, sexually controlling, mean-hearted bastard, made his mom’s life a living ninth level of Hell. I think Wade was afraid to start something with Kim that might bring out some latent inherent tendencies. Sheer, shrieking lunacy if you ask me. Wade was one of the gentlest creatures to walk the earth. Didn’t have that in him. May of ’69 Wade showed up one night at Kim’s dorm room at 3 AM. His father and mum had been arguing and she’d called Wade at the university just before she collapsed with a heart attack. After the funeral, he told Kim he’d volunteered to go to Vietnam. I think mostly Wade wanted to do the exact last thing his father wanted. Left right after graduation. Threw away a chance at the Major League baseball draft. That’s the last she saw him alive.

   "Six months after he arrived in Vietnam his father received notification that Wade was MIA. I was with her when he called her. Drunk bastard said to her, ‘Just letting you know that queer son of mine got his fool self killed in that damn jungle.’ For a few minutes I was seriously afraid her heart stopped. I called the bugger back and told him where he could stick his drink—in that hollow cavity in his chest. It broke Kim. She went back east for her PhD after she graduated and called me one night from Yale sobbing that she’d realized she was in love with Wade.. had been in love with him all along. Didn’t know until he’d been ripped away from her, she said. Broke my shaggin’ heart, let me tell you that. She called that worthless cretin Paulson every month and asked for news of Wade. My one sin, boys, is that I introduced her to that walking prick Michael after she came back here for a faculty position. Thought he’d help her get over Wade. He couldn’t help a kitten across a street. She made the supreme error of calling Wade’s father one last time after her divorce. Somehow it came out in the conversation that she loved Wade. He blessed her off the map and said if she’d been hot for him why didn’t she jump his damn bones and get him away from his perverted lifestyle. Then he said she deserved whatever she got. I just about had a heart attack. I mean, I’d lost our chum Terry during the year I spent in England visiting family and here I thought I was going to watch Kim die right in front of my face. I could cheerfully have killed the bleedin’ wanker myself. Now I wish I had because I think, gentlemen, that he finally flipped his top and took out his twisted spleen on Kim."

   We sat in the Torino in strained silence. Finally Hutch slammed his fist against the car door and didn’t even flinch at my screech of disapproval. "Jesus God, Starsky, it’s like… it’s like I—I’m having to solve your murder!!" He flung his face around, tears streaking down his cheeks. "I—I don’t… I don’t think I can do this."

   I wiped the tears way with my thumb. "Sure ya can. You saved a whole restaurant full of people held hostage by hit men; you saved me from poison; you saved me from Marcus…you can do this."

   "Starsky, I—What Natalie said about…." Hutch shook himself, cradled his brow in his hand and swallowed. "Never mind. Let’s check out this lead."

   "Sure thing, partner," I said cheerfully, wondering why I felt like I’d have sold my Torino to hear him finish that sentence. "You know, this could be our break. We could be dealin’ with two different crimes here. I mean, what if Paulson got to her before our nutcase finished his pattern? She could still be alive."

   "There’s still an awful lot of blood missing out of her body for her to be alive, Starsky. She hasn’t turned up in any of the ERs, or clinics."

   Andrew Paulson reminded me immediately of one person so distinctly that I had to hold my gut to keep from spitting in his face. Wade must have gotten his personality, looks, and character from his mom because his father was as soulless as George Prudholm. By the time we left his house Hutch had to restrain me twice. Paulson had just arrived home from an extended business trip, unfortunately dashing our hopes of his being involved, but we did pick up one amazing piece of information. When I pushed him repeatedly that I wasn’t letting him out of my sight because he might have hired someone to do his dirty work and that his history with the missing girl showed evidence of a revenge motive, he broke out laughing.

   "You crazy cops. I’ve had my revenge. I’ve had it for years."

   "What?!" I think we screamed it at the same time.

   "Wade’s not dead."

   I sat down in the near vicinity of a chair arm and Hutch wavered on his feet. "H—how could Kim not know?"

   "Because I didn’t want her to know! They found Wade in 1971 several months after he went missing. He’s been in a private institution here since 1972, a worthless shell of a human being. Deep battle trauma or some nonsense. Hasn’t spoken a word, doesn’t give any indication he knows who he is. Oh, she knew all right… Had a feeling, she said, that he wasn’t dead, that he was out there somewhere if she could just find him…So she’d call me and call me and I’d give her the same tap dance. And she tried going through the military but they laughed her off because she’s not family, not even his girlfriend. So you see, why should I kill her? I’ve had the last laugh at her for almost a decade and enjoyed every damn minute of it."

   That time I had to restrain Hutch.

   "We need to go see him," Hutch said on the way to the station. "I—I can’t explain it… don’t want to go into it…but I know what kind of pain he’s in."

   I knew he meant the dream. "We’ve got to finish this with Kim first, Hutch."

   "Yeah."

   "Zebra-3."

   "Zebra-3. Go ahead."

   "Zebra-3, see the man named Huggy Bear at his place of business. Information deemed urgent."

   Hutch’s face lit up. "Zebra-3, 10-4. We’re on our way." He turned to me. "Huggy’d never page us urgent unless it has something to do with this case."

   Huggy was torn between a complaining waitress, a rude customer drenched in beer, and the man’s obviously jealous and outraged date when we arrived. I laughed out loud. "If this is how Huggy’s day is going, can you imagine what tonight’ll be like?" I motioned to distract Huggy and make him aware of our arrival and then sank down into a booth. Hutch plopped right down beside me. I smiled.

   Huggy placed both hands on the table and leaned on them shaking his head, "There are times, man, when I think humans ain’t the highest lifeform, dig? Jerk over there grabs Candy by the back of her pants—tight as they are, I shoulda asked him how he did it—and pulls her around and then wonders why she spills beer all over him. Never mind that his wife—yes, his old lady, gents—is sittin’ right there watchin’ all this and she chooses to get mad at Candy rather than her overgrown bully of a husband. Sheesh."

   Hutch bit back a smile and I covered my mouth and coughed. "Um, Huggy…we sympathize, but you got something for us?"

   "Starsky, bro’, I never let you down yet have I?" Huggy slid into the other seat and threw back his head, breathed deeply and sighed, "Business ownership sucks sometimes, you know. Oh, yeah. I ‘sume you two know Good Charlie."

   "Runs the homeless shelter over in the warehouse district, right?" Hutch rubbed his brow. Huggy nodded.

   "That’s the man himself. Anyway, he was in here earlier for a bite of lunch. Got him talkin’ and heard something mighty interestin’. He had this guy in his shelter last night that really got to him…which is why he wanted to talk t’me about it. Dude was obviously disturbed. Good Charlie said he thinks the guy may have been off some kinda medication. You know, the anti-psychotic kind. Old guy wearin’ military threads. Man kept thrashin’ around, screaming about Pele—Pel--"

   "Peleliu," Hutch contributed.

   "Exactly, Blond Genius. Good Charlie said the two words he kept shoutin’ to high heaven were Peleliu and Tanaka. Over and over. Talkin’ some violent jive apparently."

   Hutch and I spit out the same sentence, "Huggy, you said Tanaka. You sure about that?"

   "Sure as I am I have better taste in clothing than either of you."

   We drove lights and sirens over to Good Charlie’s place, a small, falling down warehouse he’d turned into a one-man mission of mercy for the homeless. Charlie, a friendly middle-aged black man, never minded the stench of unwashed bodies, drunks drying out, and various other difficulties that discouraged most people from working with those forced to live on the street. He was feeding a particularly weak and trembling older man from a bowl of soup when we walked into the shelter. He glanced up at our entrance and frowned suspiciously at us.

   "Lemme guess. Huggy sent you."

   "Is he still here, Good Charlie? The man you spoke to Huggy about?" Hutch scanned the cots lined in rows for signs of a man who fit Huggy’s description. Good Charlie set the bowl of soup down beside the old man’s cot and rose to face us, hands on his hips.

   "No."

   "When did he leave?"

   "He was gone when I got back. One of my guests said his brother came for him while I was at The Pits."

   "Why dincha call us, Charlie, if you had someone actin’ out?"

   "Starsky, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You know my motto in here: ‘He ain’t hurtin’ me, Let him be.’ I’d have men dying out on the streets if they knew I’d turn ‘em into you boys the minute they showed up a little worse for wear."

   I felt dutifully ashamed. I knew that. Hutch and I both allowed Good Charlie leeway because he’d turned some tough cases into good people before they ended up criminals and became our problem. Hutch was not satisfied. He glared at Good Charlie until the other man flinched.

   "Don’t look at me like that, Hutchinson. Just shut that blond fury down. Since when have you been into hounding old men who have more internal wounds than you have gunshot scars?"

   Did I mention that Good Charlie has a law degree? He faced Hutch down until my partner looked away. Then Good Charlie smiled, "I had to cut this fella some slack, boys. This guy was with the Old Breed."

   "The what?" Hutch demanded. Good Charlie smirked at him, feeling no doubt victorious that he knew something my partner did not.

   "Well, Hutch, if I have to answer that question, you wouldn’t understand."

   Hutch swung dangerous eyes in my direction and I knew in a minute we were going to have a white-hot and blue-blazing explosion if I didn’t step in. Time for the Starsky charm.

   "We might be ignorant, Good Charlie, but our intentions’re good. What do you mean by the Old Breed?" I laid a casual arm on the older man’s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye with all the respect I’d always had for him. It worked.

   "First Marine Division. Sent into that hellhole called Peleliu in the Pacific. I know that because the saint of a man who helped me buy this place, a white banker dude named Lance Austen, was actually one of ‘em. He and I’ve had many a drink together talkin’ over man’s indecency to man. Philosophical chit-chat, you know, but if any man’s got a right to be philosophical about that subject it’s a Peleliu veteran."

   "What did he say specifically?" Hutch had calmed down somewhat. His blue eyes still flashed but there was no longer any hint of explosion. I sighed and relaxed too.

   "Just kept thrashin’ around out of his mind and howling about Peleliu and… Tanaka, whatever that means."

   "We’ll need to talk to the guest who saw his brother pick him up," I stated. Good Charlie frowned again.

   "I don’t like having my boys questioned by cops, Starsky. You know that."

   Hutch promptly exploded. "Damn it, Good Charlie. I don’t care if this guy was one of Teddy Roosevelt’s original Rough Riders, he might well be a serial killer who’s abducted and/or killed a female college professor here. Now are you going to point out the guy who can help us?"

   "Easy, Hutchinson," Good Charlie waved a calming hand before I could jump in. "Fifth cot down on the left side. His name is Maurice. Go easy on him, fellows, he’s a really nice guy. Was apparently over here trying to talk with the soldier when his brother showed up."

   I patted Good Charlie’s shoulder again, "You’re good people, Charlie. Thanks."

   Charlie bent down to retrieve the bowl of soup. "Yeah, yeah. And if I didn’t know your partner here is too under all that cool exterior detachment, you’d both be standing here still begging for information."

   "That’s why I call him Blintz," I grinned, draping an arm over Hutch’s shoulders and leading him away before he could read Charlie another lecture. "Admit when you’ve been bested, Blue Eyes," I told him softly as we wove through the maze of cots. Hutch glared at me but then his expression softened.

   "Happens so rarely, I’m out of practice," he laughed.

   Maurice was engaged in the same activity as Good Charlie, helping his neighboring cot-mate down a bowl of soup. The poor fellow was suffering DTs and Maurice had his hands full. Without a word Hutch sat down behind the guy and held his shoulders gently to steady him. I sat at the foot of the bed and pulled the blanket back over the thrashing legs. Within a few minutes the bowl of soup was empty and Maurice wiped his brow, thanking us with his eyes.

   "He really wants to get clean so he can see his little girl, you know. And you gonna do it, aintcha Jimmy." Jimmy only groaned in response and turned his head, covering it with a pillow. Hutch rose and flashed his badge.

   "Maurice, will you tell us about that old soldier who was here last night? Good Charlie says you were with him this afternoon when his brother came to pick him up?"

   "Yeah, felt real bad for him, dig? I mean, man suffered like he done don’t need no more crap this side a’the war. Had all his parts together ‘cept his brain."

   "Could you give us a clear description? Would you mind going down to the station and helping someone draw up a composite sketch?" Hutch’s tone was soft, kind, everything it hadn’t been temporarily with Good Charlie. As everyone did, Maurice responded to it.

   "He done something?"

   "Possibly. Something really bad." I said.

   "Yeah, I’ll help. Good Charlie’ll take me. He can help out too."

   "Can you tell us something about his brother? When did he pick him up?"

   "Just after Good Charlie left for Huggy’s. That been…oh…’bout two hours ago."

   "What did the soldier’s brother look like?" I asked.

   "Tall, pale, even paler than you," Maurice directed at Hutch. "Thin. Almost skinny. Hair all covered up with a pull-down stocking cap. I didn’t like the looks of him, tell the truth, so I followed them out and watched the tall dude load the poor guy into a beat-up brown station wagon. When I saw the soldier go quiet-like, I figured everythin’ was on the up and up, so I come back in."

   After promising Maurice a steak dinner, and promising ourselves that we’d do more for him than buy a steak, we hurried out of the warehouse. Standing at the Torino, I glanced over the hood at Hutch.

   "Thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?"

   "Stocking cap to cover that shocking red hair?"

   "Yep, and no need to ask questions when you already got the answers."

   We called for back-up and ended pulling in behind the black-and-white. "Okay," Hutch told the uniformed driver. "We’re going to the door. Be prepared to back us up. There’s the possibility that our murder suspect is in that house."

   "You ready?" I asked him.

   Hutch smiled at me in that daredevil manner he gets just every once in awhile. Then he quirked his eyebrow. "What do you think?" The avenging hero. Good God. This was vintage Hutch, I thought suddenly, as I followed him across the street and to the door. I pulled my weapon and backed up away from the door against the side of the house. Hutch rapped sharply, with an outflung arm and his body away from the door in case bullets answered us instead of Moriarty. "Mr. Moriarty?" Hutch called. Nothing. Rang the doorbell. "Moriarty, are you home? It’s the police. Open up." Still nothing. Hutch wrinkled his nose showing his suspicion. He toggled the doorknob and jumped back when the door creaked open on its own. Something’s wrong, his blue eyes flashed into mine. "We have every reason to suspect he might be in danger…" He was asking me if I agreed with his instincts to go on in, legalities be damned. I nodded. Hutch eased his Magnum from its holster and gestured that he was going to lead the way.

   Suddenly, Vietnam spread before my mind and I saw trigger wires hidden beneath jungle foliage. I grabbed Hutch’s arm, yanked him back, and surveyed the open doorway carefully, running my fingers along the inside of the doorframe, down at the bottom. Hutch read my actions. "That’s not his game, Starsk."

   "Can’t hurt to be sure," I said, my voice still hoarse from my recollections. "Looks clear."

   Hutch took that as all the encouragement he needed and stepped quickly into the foyer, allowing me to follow in his path. "Holy Mother of God," Hutch breathed devoutly. I swung my gun around and my eyes took in what caused his outburst. In the middle of the living room Moriarty knelt, his body supported by the coffee table, but he was not praying. I wanted to clutch my stomach and gag, but I couldn’t waste any time. "He could still be here," I whispered and Hutch waved a hand at the nearest hallway. We covered every square inch of the house but the killer—Moriarty’s brother?—was nowhere in sight. Finally we returned to the living room and Hutch went outside to motion for the uniforms. We needed a forensics team, coroner’s wagon… how the blinkin’ hell were we gonna explain this to Moriarty’s poor sick wife? And where was she anyway? Did you have dialysis every day? I asked Hutch this. He shook his head.

   One of the uniforms told me the radio in the Torino was sounding off. I flew out the door. When I returned I quivered with a mixture of fury and sadness. Hutch took one look at my face and reached a hand out to pat my stomach. "He played us! That was Dobey, getting back to us with the background check on Moriarty’s family we’d requested. Doris Moriarty died three months ago. He played us from the get-go. All that stuff about putting stuff on hold no matter what the cost--" I felt my eyes widen. "His brother! He was talking about his brother."

   "Who is?"

   "James Moriarty, patient in residence at Hakaleia Rest and Convalescence Home since 1946."

   "Correction," Hutch breathed. "Patient there until say two months ago… wait a minute, Hakaleia? Isn’t that the sanitarium where Anthony Marshall died?"

   I snapped my fingers. "James must have used his identity to rent that dive apartment. He would have known him."

   "But didn’t Dobey say the sanitarium officials reported no one recently released who would have known Marshall?"

   "We gotta turn over every inch of this place. I have a feeling we’re not gonna find our guy or Kim’s… Kim…until we know more of the ‘why’ in all this. I’ve got Dobey on the look-out for Maurice. As soon as his sketch is complete, Dobey’s gonna get it out to all the units." I glanced back at the body and shuddered. Seeing it in person was much worse than the crime photos of Tanaka and Burkehalt. Hutch eased up to me and placed both hands on my shoulders. Looked me straight in the eye.

   "All right there, buddy? It’s gruesome, I know."

   "We shoulda known, Hutch. Somehow we shoulda been able to stop this."

   "I feel bad too, Starsk, but it’s not our fault. We had so little to go on and he was sitting there in front of us with all the answers. If he’d wanted our help, he could have asked us. Yes, he would have been turning in his own brother, but he’d probably be alive today."

   "He flipped, Cap’n. Matthew Moriarty, I mean." I stated knowledgeably, my feet propped up on his desk. This time Dobey glared at the soles of my sneakers but refrained from comment.

   "That has to be the saddest piece of non-fiction I’ve encountered," Hutch added, plopping the spiral notebook on Dobey’s desk beside my feet. Our search of Moriarty’s house had turned up the green, well-used notebook. Inside we found every other sheet began with the heading ‘Dearest Lord Jesus’. Officer Barkeley had come up behind us while we leafed through it and informed us that it was called a prayer journal. His mother’s church encouraged her to keep one too, he had said. Like a diary, Barkeley told us, it was his mother’s way of communicating her thoughts, wrong-doings, needs, with a higher power. The pages were dated and began with June 15, 1980, shortly after Doris Moriarty’s diagnosis.

   "We don’t have the finished puzzle yet, Cap, but a lot of the pieces are making much more sense," I smothered a yawn. Dobey chewed his lip.

   "Well, how about explaining them to me then so I’ll have something to talk about when the commissioner calls bending my ear for answers."

   Hutch frowned. I patted his arm. As much as he wanted to be respectful to our main ally and friend in Metro Division, Hutch was miffed at Dobey. The teams sent to tear the streets apart had so far uncovered neither hide nor hair of James Moriarty. Hutch couldn’t help but feel we would have more luck. Hanging around here telling Dobey a bedtime story wasn’t allowing us to get out on the streets.

   "Moriarty decides not long after Doris gets ill to sell his special reserve of photos. Goes to Billy and tells him about it and then comes home and gets blasted by his wife, who’s one tough lady and believes they can make it through without him hacking a piece of himself off at the neck. She dies less than a month later, July 13^th to be precise. Moriarty shuts himself off in a haze of grief. Has her cremated, casts her ashes over the Pacific, tells no one she’s died. Keeps writing in his journal though. Two weeks later he gets a phone call from his brother at the rest home in Hawaii." Hutch sighed and bent forward, propping his elbows on his knees and cradling his face in his palms. I decided to take over.

   "We’re gonna put a call into McGarrett to have him check on that place. From what’s in the journal, starting a coupla weeks before his brother phoned, some things’ve been goin’ down there that ain’t legit. Patients starved, over-drugged, molested maybe. Moriarty’s pretty fuzzy but he could tell his brother needed to get outta there. So he decides again to sell his stuff and raise enough to go get his brother, bring him home, and help him start a new life. Tanaka bites and makes an offer. Moriarty accepts: he feels he failed Doris so he’s not about to make the same mistake with James."

   Hutch rose and moved slowly to the coffee maker. "Tanaka flies out here on the 14^th of August, picks up the photos, returns to Hawaii. Moriarty calls the rest home but is told his brother is very ill and can’t be disturbed. Now, here, Cap, we’re speculating, but we think James made his escape from the sanitarium shortly before Matthew called. It makes sense because if there were illegal activities going on, the culprits wouldn’t want to encourage a relative finding their loved one and discovering the game. Nor would they announce James’ absence to the police. They probably figured that James wouldn’t make it long on his own out in the real world and end up dead in an alley somewhere. What they didn’t count on is: once a Marine, always a Marine… especially the kind that survived Peleliu. Even totally insane, he was strong and resourceful."

   "Probably the sudden brutal treatment at the home snapped James the rest of the way," I confiscated Hutch’s cup of coffee en route to his lips and took a sip before handing it back. "There’s a period in the prayer journal where Moriarty hears nothin’ from James but just sits worryin’ too grief-stricken over Doris to do anything about it. This fits the time frame of the murders in Hawaii. We think there are probably some robberies that could be tied to James too. He had to get money. It took some funds to get around and accomplish the killings. Also to pay for that dive apartment."

   Hutch downed the coffee and leaned back in the chair, resting his head and closing his eyes. His voice was tired. "We’re going to put 5-0 on the airline records to confirm it, but we think they’ll find Matthew Moriarty arrived in Honolulu just five days before the first threat made against Kim. He had received a phone call the day before from his brother who sounded in horrible shape. Kept screaming into the phone about getting rid of two but not finding what he needed. Moriarty figured at first it was the drug or whatever James was on doing the talking. But he must have packed and caught the first available flight. James had told him just where to find him." Hutch stood up, moved to the wall close to the door and leaned against it.

   "James didn’t have him come to the apartment. He called Matt from a bar and tells him he’s gonna wait right there until Matt shows up. Sure ‘nough Matthew finds him in an alley behind the bar. Bundles him into a cab and goes straight back to the airport. Never mind that by now James is ravin’ about the killings in detail. Moriarty doesn’t even think about takin’ him somewhere, notifyin’ the police, nothin’. He wants to get him home, believes he can take care of him."

   "Like Starsky said earlier, Matthew flipped. Right around this time he starts writing in his prayer journal like Doris never died. He starts to believe James is…I don’t know…somehow Doris come back to him so he could make up for not saving her. Since James has been here he’s disappeared for periods… Matthew didn’t even think when James came home one afternoon crowing about having found the third one, that he might be getting ready to kill again. But this morning when we mentioned a professor being missing, some of his lucid brain cells probably started clicking and he must have gone out looking for James. When he caught up with him at Good Charlie’s, he must have tried to convince James that he needed help. Suddenly Matthew is nothing more than a roadblock in James’ way. So no more Matthew." Hutch dropped back into his chair.

   I groaned, removed my leg from the desk and stood to stretch. "What we don’t know, Cap, is why. Why Tanaka, why the other professor, why Kim? Matthew didn’t know either or he jus’ chose not to write about it."

   Dobey cleared his throat and fiddled with his tie. "Been a long day." He said softly. We weren’t used to that tone.

   "Gonna get longer," I couldn’t fight the yawn. "We’ve got to nail this guy if we wanna shot at findin’ out what really happened in Kim’s office."

   "Got guys out poundin’ the pavement. You two can take your turn bright and early in the morning. Get some sleep. You’re no good to me in this condition."

   "We’ve pulled 14 hour days before, Cap—"

   "That was an order, Starsky. Still don’t recognize ‘em, do you?"

   Hutch took hold of my arm, nodded at Dobey, and dragged me from the office.

   I dropped a weary Hutch off at Venice Place and refused his offer of the couch. I wanted some distance, some space. Those thoughts attached to our partnership made me physically hurt. I’m not used to wanting to shut myself away from Hutch, even temporarily. But right then I did, I wanted to think clearly. When we’re around each other…and sometimes when we’re not…our brains function on the same plane and tend to get mushed together. I wanted my own brain tonight.

   Okay, that’s not the whole truth. I also wanted to go somewhere and not get into a long, involved argument with Hutch about it. I didn’t understand these visions, dreams, whatever, but I knew I’d had a particularly vivid one in both Kim’s office and her living room. And I wanted another one because I was desperate. Dobey’s actions tonight told me he still believed we’re looking for a body, not a missing person. I thought maybe, just maybe another trip into Vision Land might produce an answer. I did not want Mr. Pragmatic giving me grief or worse, insisting on coming with me. Another joint dream like last night might leave us both ready for Cabrillo State.

   So I drove to her place and let myself in with the key we’d confiscated from Maggie. I don’t know why but I made a beeline for her bedroom and opened her closet, running my hands along the hanging clothes. When my hand brushed over a long beige dress, I felt the floor sink beneath me….

   "David… David…David…."

   The sound of my first name broke my trance that time because of who said it. I opened my eyes in time to see Hutch go down on his knees in the doorway of the bedroom. I commanded my twin tubes of jello, otherwise known as legs, to lift me off the floor. Finally they cooperated and I made it over to my partner, who looked like he’d been kicked in the groin and run a marathon at the same time. I patted his shoulders, waving my hand in front of his eyes.

   "Hutch! Snap out of it!" I really did not want to slap him out of this. So I resorted to shaking him. He coughed, his eyes rolled back, and then he breathed deeply. "How’d you get here?"

   "Cab."

   "Why?"

   "Another dream… memory, whatever, of Wade’s. From ‘Nam. He was a medic, Starsky. He was holding this guy whose whole body had been on fire…cradling him like… and then suddenly the dream changed and I was holding you in the parking lot by the Torino that day…."

   Time for our little trick. We’d promised each other if we got the heeby-jeebies about that day we’d call the other one and talk about that ping-pong match, the last normal thing that happened that day, and turn that day into just another one out of our lives. Hey, may not be sound psychology but it helped us handle post-traumatic stress so why the hell not! "If the phone don’t ring, darlin’, you’ll know it’s me."

   He coughed again and then his shoulders quit trembling and he smirked. "I’d rather have a bottle in fronta me than a frontal lobotomy."

   "Don’t cry down my back, baby, you might rust my spurs."

   "Hey, that’s my line." He was smiling now.

   "All right now?"

   "Yeah, thanks."

   "Hutch, why did you come here?"

   "Told you already."

   "No, dummy. Told me why you wanted to see me. Why not go to my place?"

   "Oh."

   "Yes, light begins to dawn. Knew there was more between your ears than an endless supply o’sarcastic jokes."

   "Must be. I found you, didn’t I?" That offended dignity tone. I grinned and his scowl eased immediately into a soft smile. "Okay, I admit it. I had this feeling. All right, you happy?"

   "Yes. If I’m going bonkers the very least you can do is be my travelin’ companion." Then I looked right in his eyes. "Hutch, I think there’s a reason we’re both here right now." I closed my eyes and then opened them rapidly. "Give me your hand."

   "You wanna hold hands with me, Starsk?" He had a full-teeth teasing grin on now. I rolled my eyes, realizing how silly we looked, both kneeling on Kim’s bedroom floor.

   "Don’t get cute with me, Hutchinson. I have an idea." He thrust out a hand and I took it, lacing our fingers together. "Now close your eyes."

   "Oh, this is getting good," a teasing snort.

   "Shaddup, motor mouth. Close your eyes and concentrate." I knew when he did because the room tilted and suddenly Hutch grabbed me, pulled me hard against him, and screamed, "ANGEL!"

   "Hu--…. Wade, let go."

   He let me go immediately. Then he shook his head, smushed his face between his hands and groaned loud and long. He opened his eyes again. "Starsky? She’s alive."

   "I know," I breathed. "Ranch house…out in the hills…orchard in the back…."

   "The mail."

   "Huh?"

   "That’s how we’re going to find out where. The mail."

   "You mean Kim’s mail?"

   "No, idiot. Kareem Abdul-Jabar’s. Of course, Kim’s. We didn’t check her mailbox today, did we?"

   Five minutes later we thanked the Force of Good that pushed Hutch to the mailbox. I tossed the academic journal, bills, and junk mail into his waiting hands and gripped the large manila envelope that had been folded to fit into the box. It was addressed to Dr. Kim Grace and had several post office re-direction notices on it. The sender was the clincher, though. Dr. Iko Tanaka. I knew then that I had to be holding at least part of the remaining puzzle in my hands…from beyond the grave. The facts slid into a neat list in my head. Dr. Tanaka and Kim had worked together before her divorce. He must have mistakenly used her old address. The postmark was two days before his death. It had taken this long for the post office to get its act together. But James Moriarty would not have known that. I knew then that we had in our possession what he wanted enough to kill three people for, including his own brother.

   I ripped through the envelope and extracted a thick manuscript and a cover letter. Hutch snatched the letter out of my hands and I glanced over the manuscript.

   "The Memoir of Lieutenant Marcia Roy: Navy Nurse and Beloved," I read softly.

   "Beloved of Dr. Shiro Tanaka, MD, stationed at Pearl Harbor," Hutch breathed, indicating the letter. "Professor Tanaka’s brother. Dean Wilshire told us about this, remember? Shiro died trying to protect a young nurse from Zero strafer bullets. According to this letter, they were secretly engaged. Professor Tanaka wanted this story told and got the permission of the lady involved along with her personal papers. He edited them together into this manuscript and was just about to submit it for publication when he received the threatening phone call. After the threats escalated, he decided to ship the manuscript away for its own protection. Decided on Kim because…" he read on silently for a minute, "because he saw her as having a heart for different cultures and for love." He snapped his fingers. "Publication. Making something public. Tanaka must have told Moriarty he sent the manuscript to Kim right before he died."

   "Yes," I grabbed the letter and handed him the manuscript. "But not exactly. Or she woulda been next. That Ronald guy came next. Tanaka must have told Moriarty he sent the manuscript to someone he’d written with in the past. So Moriarty puts together a list of possibles and Ronald musta been the closest geographically. Then Kim. If Kim’s not the last on that list, we’ve got a time bomb on our hands."

   "We don’t have time to scour the memoir, but how much money do you want to lay down that Marcia Roy is from around here and that she meant something to James Moriarty before she ended up in Hawaii. One of the blood-scrawled messages in Hawaii said something about a ‘journey to love’s redemption.’" Hutch’s grin outshone the light fixture in the room. It warmed me from head to toe.

   "I’d bet my Torino she lives in the ranch house in the hills."

   "It’s a long shot," Mr. Pragmatic cautioned me as he looked around in search of a phone.

   Forty-five minutes later we crouched behind the Torino and eyed the house while cursing the darkness. "Any ideas, boys?" Sheriff Carson asked us quietly. Officially we’d left BCPD jurisdiction a few miles back but this young sheriff made it clear that he had no problem with leaving this baby completely in our care.

   "We have no idea how many people are in there." I jerked a thumb off to the side, "The beat-up brown station wagon tells me we’re in the right place. But bustin’ in there unannounced is one way to get someone good and dead."

   "Got to split his attention," Hutch agreed. "We’ve got what he wants."

   "Off-the-cuff or by-the-book?"

   "Want it to go down quick. Best for us and them."

   "Yeah. Off-the-cuff it is."

   "Are you guys always like this?" Carson’s round, jovial face screamed confusion.

   "Huh?" I asked, slightly frowning.

   "You just had a whole conversation with each other and I haven’t got a clue what you decided."

   Hutch laughed, despite the tension in our situation. "My partner’s weird. I have to talk in a language he understands."

   "Speak for yourself, Blondie. My weirdness has kept your ass out of a sling in the past."

   "There you go again. Look, just translate this into Californian so I can understand."

   Hutch and I exchanged a final smile before I turned to Carson. "We’re gonna radio in and have dispatch patch us through to this phone number. Hopefully, we’ll get James to the phone. Then we’ll try to get him to let one of us in with the manuscript. That’ll be me. Unarmed, non-threatening. Meanwhile, my partner here will go around the back while I’ve got Moriarty’s attention."

   "Think you got that backwards, buddy," Hutch said quietly in that all business tone.

   "Nope, Blintz. Listen to me. You walk in there in plain sight of Kim and guess what’s gonna happen. Go look at yourself in the car window and tell me ya don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. Sudden hysterics. That’s not the kind of distraction we need."

   Hutch flushed straight to his scalp and Carson just shook his head and motioned for his deputy to bring over one of the bullet-proof vests. I left Hutch grumbling about stubborn, dark curly-haired cops and put the first part of the plan in action.

   I swear Hutch’s face fell six inches when I told him James was letting me in. "He sounds tired, Hutch. I think he just may be ready for all this crap to end." Hutch stared at the ground, dug his toe around in the dirt, and then cast his baby blues around the perimeter of the house, taking in the rolling meadows beyond the structure, the pond nearly invisible in the night, the fruit orchard, and the faint edge of the mountains rising in the distance. A lovely spot in general, peaceful for so close to the city, and the beauty of the nature even in darkness seemed to soothe Hutch’s pinned-in tension. Finally he sighed before swinging those expressive eyes back to me.

   "Starsk, tired or not, remember what McGarrett said. This man took out both the policemen guarding that second professor with a machete and they had guns."

   "Yeah, yeah, Mom, I’ll remember." I tilted my head and winked at him. He gave my shoulder a shove and turned to the nearest cop.

   "Give this lunatic a vest and let’s get this over with."

   I hurried into the vest and threw my shirt back on over it trying not to think about Moriarty’s handiwork. Hutch didn’t have to remind me what he was capable of doing. I shuddered and felt a warm hand against the back of my neck. Hutch and I started slowly toward the house, his hand pushing me forward.

   "We can do this another way, buddy," he said softly when we were out of others’ earshot.

   "We’re gettin’ them outta there, Hutch. Now. Jus’ had a momentary flashback. I’ve seen VC, Hutch, who couldn’a carved a man up like this nut does."

   "Well, here we part ways. Don’t want him spotting me out a window. See you on the inside," he turned to take an alternate path around the side of the house but he whirled before I had a chance to walk on ahead. "Starsk…."

   I nodded at the silent "Be careful." Then I smiled broadly, "We’ll be doing paperwork in an hour, Hutch." He nodded and I turned my attention to the front of the house so I wouldn’t have to watch him walk away. Believe it or not I just knocked on the door and waited, fingers tightening on the manuscript I held in my other hand. A loud masculine voice shouted permission to enter and I forced down another instinctive urge to walk away from the sound. A sound I associated with nastiness and violence. But there was no way in hell I’d let Hutch get through a back entrance before I was in there and had Moriarty’s undivided attention. The knob turned easily and I stepped inside the house, shutting the door behind me. The voice called out again to let me know where to find them. I chose a cautious pace and my body froze when I witnessed the scene in the great room.

   The woman haunting my mind knelt over a prone figure of an older, unconscious woman obviously suffering from a knife wound to the throat. James Moriarty stood over them waving a Japanese military-issue machete like a king’s scepter. At the sound of my footsteps, Kim looked over her shoulder and I just about cried at the sheer terror in her features. She was naked from the waist up and using her shirt to apply pressure to the other woman’s wound.

   Moriarty clapped his hands sharply, "You have it… the book?"

   I waited a few beats, sizing up the situation. Then I nodded slowly and extended the manuscript but remained rooted to the spot. He would have to approach to accept it. I did not want to make any sudden moves that might endanger the innocents. He grabbed Kim by the arm, pulled her up against him, the knife-edge against her throat as he approached me. Kim’s eyes widened and her face turned to chalk. He snatched the manuscript out of my hand and then backed off again, shoving Kim roughly in my direction. I caught her in mid-stumble and pulled her against my chest.

   "Ma—Marcia n-needs help," she squeaked out, burrowing her face in my chest. I let my face wander down into her curls to press comfortingly against the top of her head, still watching Moriarty through my lashes as I shed my windbreaker and draped it over her. What I saw alarmed me. What the blazin’ hell was taking Hutch so long? Moriarty stared at the manuscript and then up at us. His face changed and I knew we were in trouble the split-second before the volcanic eruption.

   "You… had it…all along, little bitch. You gave it to him…instead of me…always will be another man, won’t it? Always betrayed… I’ll teach him!" The manuscript fell to the floor with a thud and Kim whirled just as I assessed the situation. Moriarty lunged, machete poised and ready, staring at me with death in his eyes.

   "Down, Kim!" I forced her to the side and braced myself for the onslaught. Then the shot rang out. Moriarty collapsed in a heap on the floor and I looked up across the room and into the panic-stricken blue eyes that were more constant to me than the sun rising.

   I pulled Kim back up and tried to assess her physical condition, searching desperately for the wound that could have produced the blood in her study. She swayed sickly in my grasp, "Ma- marcia needs he-help," she repeated. Then she looked behind her and I learned the meaning in all those corny books that talk about someone’s face draining of all color. "Wade…." And she turned into a rag doll in my arms. I swung her up and deposited her on the leather sofa before screaming at one of the suddenly milling uniforms to get the paramedic team. Then I watched Hutch stagger the rest of the way through the other door in the room and growled, "Took your sweet time." I abandoned Kim for the moment to check for a pulse on Moriarty’s other victim and keep the pressure on the wound. Hutch shook his right leg viciously and I glanced up from examining the older woman. I couldn’t help cracking up at the expression of sheer outrage on his pale features. A determined beagle clung to his right leg by the ankle. With a final shake and a bellowed curse, Hutch sighed as the dog let loose, howled plaintively and sat baying at Hutch like a scorned lover.

   Hutch sheathed the Magnum and took a deep breath, stepping away. The beagle howled louder. I covered my mouth with my other hand and just about choked with laughter.

   "Aw, Blintz, she’s in love."

   Hutch stabbed an index finger in my direction with that don’t-start-with-me expression. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be quick and stealthy with a damn dog attached to you? He’s been holding on since I made into the screened porch. I was afraid to do anything to make him bark…figured that would spook Moriarty." He collapsed on the sofa at Kim’s feet and leaned over to rub his hands up and down her arms. "She still alive?" I knew he referred to Marcia.

   "Barely, I think. She needs help pronto. Come on, Marcia, stay with us. Where’s the--"

   Oh, the paramedics were here. They pushed me out of the way and I turned my attention to Kim.

   "She fainted," Hutch said breathlessly as though I hadn’t been present when it happened.

   "Yeah, well, if you’d been through what she has and suddenly I made an appearance after having been dead ten years, how’d you take it?"

   "No kidding," Hutch shuddered. He looked up at the crowd of people. "Hey, can we get some medical attention over here?" He pulled Kim up and cradled her in his arms, massaging her back, another hand stroking her forehead. "She’s ice cold."

   "First paramedic team’s got their hands full with the other lady," one of the deputies informed us. Hutch frowned.

   "Then call in another squad. They can handle the rescue traffic this close to the city."

   As soon as she knew Marcia was out of surgery and expected to recover nicely, Kim refused to remain another second in the hospital for her own medical condition. She wanted to stay in Marcia’s room, but we all managed to talk her out of that one. Marcia would sleep the night away, sedated, and Kim could come back in the morning to visit. So the long and short of it is a crowd of people ended up in Dobey’s office. Kim huddled in a chair smothered in blankets and wolfing down a sandwich and coffee, Margo Riley draped over her shoulder like a compassionate stole. Commissioner Riley leaned against the file cabinet and I sat in the other chair simply because Kim would not let go of my hand. She could not bring herself to linger on Hutch’s face. Every now and then she’d flash him a stunned, shy smile and then quickly turn her eyes away again. Meanwhile Hutch kept scanning our faces as though comparing them and shook his head several times. Captain Dobey regarded us all like we’d been dropped out of heaven. I would love to have been a fly hanging around his ham sandwich when he got the call that Kim had been found alive and relatively unharmed.

   "I can talk about it now if you’d like," Kim said suddenly, gulping down her last bite of food, the first she’d had since her disappearance. Margo jumped in the fray wielding her compassion like a sword.

   "Nonsense, darling, you’ve been through an ordeal. You need to relax and unwind. I’m sure the police can wait until tomorrow morning."

   "By tomorrow morning I want this all to be a memory," Kim said quietly.

   Hutch and I crossed glances. We both knew that feeling. Margo squeezed her shoulders even harder. I thought Kim was liable to break under that onslaught of mothering.

   "What’s…today?" She asked in a stronger voice.

   "Friday night…well, early Saturday morning about 3 AM," Dobey answered with a kind smile.

   "Late Tuesday night then, I heard a sound down the hall from my bedroom. I thought Mac had gotten into my papers again so I just got up and walked into the study. I didn’t see him at first because I was distracted by the…oh, God, horrid stuff all over my walls. Then I… I think he must have hit me over the head from behind. When I woke up, I was bound hands and feet in a locked room. He kept saying something about making people believe I was dead like he’d been left for dead in that sanitarium. D-do you know what he meant—by that?"

   I cleared my throat but the commissioner took charge. "We discovered a substantial amount of human blood in your office at school, Kim. We won’t go into gory details but we believe Moriarty must have killed some homeless person for the source of that blood. Blood-type was a coincidence. Gave us all a scare."

   "Doesn’t surprise me. I have a very common type," Kim murmured, trembling like she’d been out in a rainstorm all night and put in deep freeze to dry off. "That must be what he meant about having an errand to run…he left me alone there most of that night. He was like that… he’d be there for awhile yelling obscenities at me and begging me to tell him where the… book…was… and then he’d be gone for hours on end. He had my car."

   "Yes, that’s been found not far from Good Charlie’s in the warehouse district. We think he kept leaving and going to Marcia’s nursing home to see if she was on duty. He did not know she was away on vacation. One of those times he must have collapsed with withdrawal symptoms from the drug he’d been taking at the home and called Matthew the next afternoon from Good Charlie’s when he was lucid again. This man was an unusual specimen. Lived three-quarters of his adult life in a sanitarium but functioned in 1980 like any one of us." Dobey’s voice registered grudging acknowledgement of the brains and determination required to pull off Moriarty’s crime spree.

   "Well…tonight he came back and walked in on Marcia untying me. She had arrived maybe five minutes before he walked in the door. She’d been in San Francisco visiting her sister. He went ballistic and started dredging up the past, shouting it at both of us. Apparently Marcia grew up close to James and they knew each other well. Perhaps dated a little but nothing serious. Then Marcia decided she wanted to serve as a nurse and ended up stationed at Pearl. She said she made James no promises and when she got to Pearl she met Shiro Tanaka who served as a naval doctor at the base. She said he was American all the way through. Patriotic but also not ashamed of his Japanese heritage like some of the other naval personnel thought he should be. She admired his dedication to both his blood and his nationality and fell in love with him. By the time December 7^th rolled around they were engaged. After—after Shiro was killed, Moriarty wrote to her and told her they could go back to where they left off. She refused him. Said something like ‘one love, one lifetime.’" Kim’s voice cracked and she jumped up. "She knew not to try and replace the other half of her soul. She—she’s never m-married." She flung a desperate glance at Hutch like she wanted to drink in his facial features and then swiveled on her heel and leaned her forehead against the door, her back to all of us. Margo started to stand but Commissioner Riley shushed her back down.

   "Anyway… James kept screaming about the hell he went through in Peleliu and knowing his Marcia had given herself to some Japanese. Oh, the words he used. God, I haven’t heard so many racial slurs in one stretch before in my life. He was institutionalized and he began to hate Marcia because she never came to see him. Marcia tried to tell him that she’d called his family and asked about word of him. Wanted to know he was okay. They wouldn’t speak to her. Apparently they blamed her for his ending up in the shape he did." Again, intense pain flickered across her features and I hung my head. Hutch and I had already decided we couldn’t broach the subject of Wade with Kim in her present condition. Mostly, we wanted a look at him first. From what his father had said…

   "Then he talked about how he’d seen Uncle Iko… um…Professor Tanaka on the TV in the sanitarium discussing an upcoming book about multicultural love and understanding even in time of war. When he realized Tanaka was talking about Marcia and his brother, James vowed he’d never let the book see the light of day. It was bad enough in his mind that she’d betrayed him but to have it read all over the country…. He ranted and raved a little more. Then he cut her. And then, the phone rang." Kim turned around and looked at me with such gratitude in her eyes that I felt a lump in my throat.

PART THREE