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PART TWO
Angel's Flight - Part Three

By

Starsky's Sweet Angel

   Ordinarily Sergeant David Starsky knew where the lines were drawn when it came to adhering to the rules of his job. For his partner and himself there was always a fine line between the outright flouting of those rules and the bending of them to get a desired result. And the one hard and fast rule of any civil servant is, don't get personally involved in your cases. It sounds simple enough in principle, but in reality, it isn't always the easiest thing to do. Especially when real life gets in the way. There's always an internal struggle to keep things on a purely professional level.

   Even though he knew it probably wasn't a good idea to get involved with Angel Colchetti, he also knew something else; that she was a hugely attractive, funny and intelligent young woman who was as much attracted to him as he was to her. The problem was that there were too many things he didn't know about her yet. Such as how much truth there was to her story and how deeply she was involved. She was a stranger to him, and under normal circumstances he wouldn't be doing what he was doing, but for some strange reason these weren't 'normal' circumstances.

   "David?"

   "Yeah?"

   "I wanted to ask you something, before we go back to the house." She leaned in close to him as she spoke. Her skin and hair smelled of milled soap and earthy perfume.

   "Ask me what?" he asked innocently.

   "Remember the question I asked you on the bus?"

   He didn't look at her, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of him. He knew his already thready resolve would be done for if he let his eyes stray into those big brown eyes of hers. "What question?" he asked.

   "Would you please stop fudging and answer me?" He went silent. She folded her arms. "You don't remember, do you?"

   He glanced over at her once and then quickly redirected his eyes onto the road. "Oh, you mean the 'how do I like you' question?" She nodded succinctly and he tilted his head as if he were giving it some thought. "Oh-h, I guess I'd have to say I like you better than a sister, if I had one."

   "Really?"

   "Really."

   "How much better?"

   "Where are you going with this?"

   "Pull over and I'll tell you."

   He frowned and eased off the accelerator and pulled the car over to the side of the road. There was no indication of any apprehension or uncertainty in his movements, he just put the car in park and turned off the engine, and then rested his left hand on the steering wheel, with his right arm lying along the back of the seat behind her. "You're really serious about this."

   "Yes, I'm very serious about this." She leaned toward him and put her hands on his arms, turning his body to face her. "Could you please at least look at me?" He did. And as soon as he did he remembered the feeling he'd gotten back in Hutch's apartment, the picture of her with her mother, that burgundy dress, the smell of her perfume, and suddenly whatever was holding him back from acting on his impulses ceased to exist. He drew her close to him, closed his eyes and kissed her, hard and for a long time. Then once their lips had parted, he seemed to regain control of himself and he turned away. "I don't know what I was thinking, I shouldn't have done that."

   She inhaled. "I'm glad you did."

   "We should go back." His hand nervously went for the keys.

   She placed her hand over it. "Why, are you afraid of me?"

   Starsky shook his head. "I'm not…afraid of you. It's just I know there's gotta be somethin' wrong with this."

   "Why does there have to be anything wrong?" Her hand was still on his.

   "For one thing I'm a cop. It's better for both of us if I don't get involved with you while I'm trying to help you. The investigation's going to suffer, or one of us will."

   "That won't happen."

   "What makes you so sure about that?"

   "Look, I know I've only known you a few days, but believe it or not, I can tell a whole lot about you. It's all in your actions and your physical characteristics." His body language was distant; he didn't believe a word of it. "Okay, so like for instance right now, you're telling me a whole lot about yourself without saying a word. Your distance from me tells me that you don't take things at face value. Am I right?" He didn't respond. She took his hand in hers and then brushed the back of it against her cheek, he didn't pull his hand away. "This tells me you're not afraid to be touched by the love of another." She ran her free hand through the curls on the back of his head casually. "The texture of your hair tells me that you're an incredibly strong person with a healthy appetite for life. You've already shown me that you're caring and noble. What more do I need to know about you?"

   Starsky freed his hand from hers and rubbed his palms together, ridding them of the sweat that was building on them. "Okay, so let's say this thing works out, what then? Haven't you noticed there's a big age gap between us? I mean I'm thirty-four years old and you're, you're what, twenty or twenty-one? From where I sit that's a pretty big stretch."

   She didn't blink an eye. "I like older men. Always have. You can ask anybody who knows me."

   He shook his head and held his stomach with his left hand as a familiar sensation of fear rose in the pit of his stomach and traveled up into his chest. She wanted him to say something, anything. After a minute her hand went to his sleeve. "Just tell me one thing, when this is all over, after we've found out what really happened to my mother, do you think you'd be able to relax enough to at least find out if this is something you want to continue?"

   She was offering him an out. He jumped it. "Sure. I guess so."

   "Then why don't we do that? We'll go to my father's house today, right now."

   He restarted the car and pulled it back onto the main road, his head swimming with the possibilities her scenario presented. He wondered what he would do if he weren't able to follow through on his promise even after they found out what happened. He would probably end up doing exactly what he wanted to do the least. Break her heart. Right now it wasn't something he couldn't afford to think about. He turned to her. "What do I tell my partner?"

   "Call him and tell him where we're going, what we're doing, he'll understand."

   "Yeah, okay. Where's your father live?"

   "I'll show you. Just keep driving."

********

   When they pulled up to where Angel's father and his new wife lived, Starsky was noticeably impressed with what he saw. The Colchetti residence was located in one of the most exclusive sections of Philadelphia known as Ardmore. It was one of those enclaves where the affluent did things like dine on pheasant under glass and give expensive parties in their overpriced mansions beside their equally overpriced Bentleys, Jags and Rolls Royces. They walked up to the gate. After she pressed the buzzer, she caught him fidgeting anxiously.

   "Is there something the matter?"

   "Um, no, your father's got a really nice set up."

   She knew the look because they all got it sooner or later. "Yes, my father is loaded." She smiled. "But don't let that bother you. He's really just a commoner underneath all this grandeur."

   "You sure you don't mean he's just a wolf in sheep's clothing?"

   "No, I don't. He's really okay. And he doesn't have ESP and he will not somehow know that you kissed me, if that's what you're worried about. You'll be fine."

   She pressed the buzzer again and the intercom came to life.

   "Yes, who's there?" a haughty male voice answered.

   "It's Angela, please tell my father that I'm here to see him, and I have a guest."

   "Yes, miss," the filtered voice responded.

   Not so long after the intercom went quiet, a large wrought iron gate opened automatically and they walked through it. The grounds were spacious, well kept and expertly manicured. The actual residence was set well away from the entrance, so that it was a relatively long walk to the front door. When they finally reached it, the butler was waiting for them. Must be video monitors, Starsky thought. The butler addressed them both with perfunctory air. "Miss Colchetti."

   "Hello, Charles. Where's my father?"

   Charles was a stiff, wiry man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a starched gray butler's uniform, and buffed to gleaming navy blue shoes. His own dull blue eyes followed Starsky narrowly, as though he thought the man might have some sort of communicable disease. "Your father is in the reading room, Miss. Shall I show you in?"

   "No thank you, Charles. I'll find him myself."

   "Of course." He closed the front door, and then left them alone.

   "Follow me."

   Starsky followed her through the museum-like rooms until they reached a study. He felt like he was touring the inside of a mausoleum, not a place to live in and entertain people. When they came into the room, the only thing visible from their perspective was a plume of smoke that rose above an unidentified head. John Colchetti was sitting in a huge armchair, reading the Business Journal and smoking a pipe. As they rounded the corner and he came into view, Colchetti lowered his newspaper and pulled down his reading glasses, his lips sagging away slowly from the pipe as he removed it.

   "Angie?"

   She breathed out the breath she'd been holding in. "Yes, Dad. It's me."

   He rose immediately from his chair, slapping the newspaper down as if he were going over to embrace her. But when he saw the man who was with her, he stopped in the center of the room. "Who's this?" he asked, drawing back visibly. "Don't tell me you're in trouble with the authorities."

   She scowled, and turned on her heels to leave, but Starsky grabbed her before she could go very far. "It's not like that, sir. Your daughter asked me to come with her and talk to you." He offered his hand. "I'm David Starsky. I'm a detective with the Bay City Police Department in California."

   "Bay City? I don't understand," Colchetti replied. "Talk to me about what?" He shook the hand offered him somewhat apprehensively and released it. He was a tall, handsome man with a dark Mediterranean cast to his skin. At first glance, he might be described as intimidating, but the coolness of his manner contradicted the seriousness of his outward appearance.

   "About Mother's accident," Angel answered him roughly.

   "A few days ago your daughter approached my partner and me about some concerns she had about the circumstances of her mother's death. I'm interested in helping her out, and I was hoping you could shed some light on a few things."

   Colchetti remained pleasant, if only the slightest bit offended. "What'd you say you were? A cop?"

   "I'm a detective, actually, if you want to get specific." The dark-haired detective came forward and put his hand lightly on Colchetti's forearm. "Why don't you sit down, Mr. Colchetti?" He turned to Angel. "You too."

   Colchetti lowered himself back into his armchair and his daughter reluctantly sat down in one of the chairs that was furthest away from him.

   Starsky sat in an identical chair beside her and deliberated the tack he was going to take. This would be the hardest part, questioning a man about the death of his estranged wife without turning the situation into a screaming match between father and daughter. There was also the possibility of being thrown off the property to think about. He laid out the questions in his head and then began. "Why don't you start by telling me everything you know about your ex-wife's accident?"

   "Well, I…"

   Before he could answer, the sound of a woman's high heels echoing on the hardwood floors in the hallway interrupted him. The footfalls continued until they reached the study entrance, then stopped. When the three of them looked up, the owner of those high heels was standing in the doorway. She smiled at them. "Oh, John, you have company. I didn't mean to interrupt."

   "It's all right, Jess. Come on in, we were just talking."

   Both men stood as she entered the room. 'Jess' was a very attractive woman, maybe mid to late thirties, medium height, auburn-haired, porcelain-skinned. If she'd been a little taller, she might have passed for a high fashion model. Angel's father made the introductions.

   "Detective Starsky, this is Jessie, my new wife."

   She offered a hand to him and smiled fetchingly. "Detective."

   "Mrs. Colchetti, it's a pleasure." He watched her as she smiled and directed a silent greeting to the younger woman that she ignored. The lack of a reply didn't seem to cause her any great concern, leading Starsky to believe that it was a response she was used to getting from the young woman. She stood beside her husband's chair and made no further gestures or comments in the younger woman's direction.

   "So," Mr. Colchetti sat down and began again. "You wanted to know what I know about the accident. Is that right?"

   Starsky reseated himself, keeping his eyes on both of them at the same time that he answered. "Yes, sir. Just tell me what you know." He paid very subtle attention to Mrs. Colchetti's facial expressions to see if they changed during the questioning. They did not. She retained the same ingratiating, hostessy smile on her face the entire time she stood there. She did however, temporarily distract her husband by bumping his shoulder with her hip, once. He smiled appreciatively at her and then turned his attention back to the detective.

   "Sorry. As I'm sure you've heard by now, my late wife and I were not on speaking terms. She'd made plans to go out of town for a few months and was on her way to do just that when the car she driving in was hit by an unidentified truck driver. The car spun into a ditch and turned over and she was killed instantly. A sad and unfortunate turn of events." He shrugged. "But one that I can assure you I had no part in bringing about."

   "That's not true! You know that's not true! It wasn't an accident!" Angel shouted at him accusatorily.

   "Angela, I know nothing of the sort. Forgive me, Detective Starsky, but ever since this happened my daughter has had this idea in her head that I meant to do her mother harm, which I assure you I did not. To tell you the truth, I've been trying to get past the whole thing and get on with my life. It really doesn't make any sense to dwell on it. I find it impossible to comprehend that she was able to find someone who actually believed these ridiculous accusations."

   Mrs. Colchetti bent towards the girl as if to console her. "Now, now, John. I don't blame her for feeling the way she does. After all, Elaine was her mother. It is all right to feel this way, you know."

   Angel simmered on that for a moment, then leapt from her chair and ran toward the front door again, this time making it as far as the hallway. Starsky got up and raced after her, grabbing her by her shoulders and subduing her, like capturing a bird in flight. He spun her around to face him. His voice was calm and affirming as he willed her to look into his eyes. "Look sweetheart, we're not going get anywhere here if you're gonna outright accuse people of stuff we're not even sure happened. We're here to find out what we can, so you've gotta calm down. If not I'm gonna haveta ask you to go and sit in the car. What's it gonna be?"

   She hung her head. "I'll stay."

   "Good. Now let's go back and sit down."

   Angel walked with him back to the study and sat down wearily. Meanwhile, Colchetti and his wife were looking at each other with questioning eyes, waiting for the detective to return to his chair. He sat down and smiled at them. "Sorry about that. So now, Mr. Colchetti, when was the first time you were made aware of your estranged wife's fate?"

   He thought for a moment, tapped his pipe on the wooden portion of his armchair and then tamped down the tobacco, then he said, "If I recall correctly, it was later on that same afternoon. An officer came to my door and reported it."

   "What about you, Mrs. Colchetti?"

   "I found out the same day John did. I was here with him."

   Starsky caught Angel flashing a disapproving glance at the woman, and she looked away, to his relief she stayed in her seat. He continued, "What was your immediate reaction when you first learned about her death?"

   "I was quite understandably upset. I mean I couldn't believe it happened at first. As I said, Elaine and I weren't on the best of terms, but she was the mother of my only daughter. I felt I did owe her at least that much respect."

   "What did she do? Did she work outside the home? Have any hobbies?"

   "No, she wasn't working. There was no need for her to. Maybe that was part of her problem. As for hobbies, mostly she shopped and traveled."

   "Uh huh. If you don't mind me asking, what do you do for a living?"

   "I own a couple of car dealerships," he chuckled softly. "A few, actually. Perhaps you've heard of them, Colchetti Motors?"

   Starsky nodded that he was aware of the name. "How about you, Ms. Colchetti? Do you still work outside the home?"

   "Not anymore." She was still smiling that overly solicitous smile. Starsky nodded and wondered how long it would stay that way. "What about a life insurance policy on the family, would there have been one in effect for your wife?"

   "Yes, as a matter of fact, there was," he answered indignantly. "I'm sorry, but just where is all this leading?"

   "Nowhere, yet. Maybe it won't lead anywhere. I'm just checking things out."

   Colchetti took a pull off his pipe and blew out the smoke. "You'll pardon my insolence, but I guess I'm still having trouble grasping why you thought my daughter's unsubstantiated accusations warranted a trip out here. This was quite obviously a jaunt for you."

   "Well, it's this way, sir, your daughter asked me for help and I was willing to help her out. To be honest, if I were her father, and my wife had just been killed, and my only daughter had ended contact with me, I'd be curious to find out where she was and why she left. There'd be nothing that could stop me."

   "Detective Starsky, it's painfully obvious to me that my daughter is old enough to make her own decisions about where she lives and with whom she lives. I haven't been making those decisions for her for some time. There was so much animosity between us about my remarrying when she left, that I just let her go, sometimes you just have to set them free."

   "Like you set Mother free?" Her eyes bore into him, brimming. "She loved you, for Pete's sake."

   "Um, would anyone like something to drink? I could have the butler bring in something," Mrs. Colchetti asked, apparently trying to diffuse the tension of the situation.

   Starsky put up his hand. "No, no, thank you. I think that's all the questions I have, at least for now."

   Mr. Colchetti stood up and grabbed onto his wife by her waist with an arm, the pipe held in the corner of his mouth. Angel gave Starsky a pained and surprised look at as he rose too, extending his hand to help her out of her chair. "Come on, babe. I don't think there's anything else to find out here." She unwillingly took his hand and walked out with him to the front entrance. Once they were there the butler appeared to escort them out. Both were quiet until they reached the car.

   "Is that all we can do?" she asked plaintively.

   "Nope. We're gonna do one more thing."

   "What's that?"

   "We're going to find the officer who reported the accident to them and see whether his story jives with theirs."

   "Good. I mean, at least that's something."

   They got into the car and drove down to the Philadelphia Police Department, both hoping against hope that the two stories would contradict each other.

**********

   Hutch held the phone away from his ear and let Captain Harold Dobey release the head of steam he'd been building up since he and his partner had been away from the station. Even though the man had been their supervisor for sometime, it was still remarkable to him how far the man's voice could travel when he was pushed hard enough. When the captain paused to take a breath, Hutch put the phone back to his ear. "Yeah, Cap'n. I hear you. We'll wrap up our vacation as soon as possible…Um, no, Starsky's not here right at the moment, but I'll tell him you said hello." He pulled the phone away from his ear once more as Dobey gruffly and loudly reacted to his last statement. "Okay, right, Cap'n. We'll talk to you later…. Yeah, ten-four, over and out." He hung up the phone and rolled his eyes. This was definitely the last time he was letting Starsky talk him into doing something this impulsive again. He checked his watch for the time: four o' clock, and still no sign of him.

   Where in the hell are you, Starsky?

   Then as if in answer to his question, the curly-haired detective walked in, his female charge trailing not far behind him. The blond man wasted no time marching over to reprimand him. "What took you so long? I was just on the phone to Dobey and he's fit to be tied."

   Starsky walked past him without seeing him; ignoring the wagging index finger pointed in his direction. He dropped defeatedly onto the couch. Angel stayed leaning against the arched doorway that led into the parlor. She was trembling and the whites of her eyes were veiny and red, as though she'd been crying. Hutch slowly lowered the finger he'd been holding up and sat down on the couch beside his partner. It didn't take a crystal ball to see that their plan wasn't working.

   "Didn't go over too well, huh, buddy?"

   "How'd you guess?"

   "I'm a detective, dummy, I get paid to know these things. What happened over at Colchetti's place?"

   Starsky looked up and over at Angel with a doleful smile. "Both of them have a verifiable alibi. I talked to one of the officers at the police department who worked the accident. They were both at home when the whole thing happened."

   Angel walked over to the sofa and dropped down beside him, her head finding his shoulder, her left arm slipping into his right. "What am I supposed to do now?"

   He leaned toward her. "Don't worry, something else will turn up."

   "Yeah, who knows, with any luck somebody will get antsy and do something stupid."

   Starsky stared at his partner disapprovingly. "You know, sometimes you're about as useless as a pulled tooth."

   "Yeah, well, I do my best."

   He patted Hutch's knee and smiled weakly, signifying that he understood the intention of the statement. It wasn't Hutch's fault that questioning the parents hadn't led to anything they could use. It was just that there was nothing for them to go on and it was getting frustrating. Starsky got up and reached his hand out to her and she took it. "Hey Hutch, I'm gonna make sure she gets upstairs okay."

   "Good idea, Starsk. I'll right here."

   Hutch watched his partner and the young woman until they disappeared upstairs. He already knew that would take a lot more than some unfocused nosing around by the two of them to figure out if anything out of the ordinary had happened to her mother. What they needed was a break, a big break.

**********

   Mrs. Jessie Colchetti lounged stylishly beneath a flowered canopy set up beside the main swimming pool, her eyes were closed, and her shapely legs were crossed at the ankles, the canopy lending just enough shade to keep her fair skin from burning under the sun's unrelenting rays. The Olympic-sized pool was a masterfully executed merging of imported masonry and exotic flora that sparkled with crystal blue water that lapped rhythmically against its sides, inviting those who desired to enter. As beautiful as it was, the pool was second in attractiveness to the woman lying beside it; she fairly glowed wearing a white two-piece swimsuit that boasted a matching swimming cap. A pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses shielded her eyes from the sun, and expensive-looking white heels shod her feet. Another butler, a black man named Henry, brought out a sterling silver-serving tray that bore two half-filled glasses of liquor and an antique phone set. He put the tray down on a table well within her reach and departed. She picked up the receiver.

   "Hello, Bruce."

   "Hello, Sharon," a man's voice answered.

   She checked her surroundings. "Jessie, please. We don't know who might be listening."

   "Right. So how's it going, doll? How's it feel to be Mrs. John Colchetti?"

   "It feels all right. I mean it's not very hard to get used to all this. But I'm worried. There was a cop nosing around here yesterday."

   "Aha. I don't suppose it was a social visit?"

   "No, Colchetti's kid brought him around to ask us questions. His name was Starsky or something like that. The little smart aleck seems to think her mother's accident wasn't an accident after all." She picked up one of the drinks and took a sip, closing her eyes.

   "So she's a smart kid. How's she looking these days?"

   She opened her eyes. "I hadn't really noticed." There was a significant pause after she said it. "I still don't understand why you thought it was necessary to do what you did to her, that you couldn't have done it any other way?"

   "I did it the way I knew how. But whatever I did it was always in deference to you, my sweet. Besides it's to your credit that she's still around. I would have…" He stopped cold. That was too much information. "Anyway, she's out of the way, and she doesn't know a thing, so don't worry about her."

   "All right. So how does the story end? What's the next step?"

   "I'll let you know when you need to know. Like you said, we don't know who might be listening in, so the less said the better."

   She held the phone to her ear with her shoulder and leaned forward in time to see John Colchetti standing in the foyer handing off his hat and coat to Henry. "Look, Bruce, I've got to get off the phone now. The master's home."

   "All right. I'll be in touch. Remember, stay cool until you hear from me."

   "I will." She gracefully ended the call just as Colchetti was making his way toward her. She put on a smile and stood up, pulling the bathing cap off and shaking out her auburn mane seductively as he approached. He greeted her warmly and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her waist. When he drew back from her, she sighed enthusiastically.

   "Hmm, that was nice. You must have been thinking about me."

   "All day long," he answered. "Did you have a nice swim?"

   "Wonderful," she answered, sitting down and patting the end of the lounge chair, indicating that he should sit. He glanced at the serving tray on the table and noticed the second drink.

   "That for me?"

   "But of course."

   He reached over and took the glass off its coaster, drinking the contents down and savoring the cooling sensation it gave as it ran down his throat. He dabbed at his lower lip with one finger and returned the glass to the tray. She trailed her hand sensuously across the fabric of his trouser leg. "So what did you think about the visit we got yesterday?"

   "What? Oh that. I hadn't really thought about it."

   "Oh, please. Your only daughter, whom you haven't seen in almost four months, drops by for a visit and brings a policeman around with her who asks us strange questions about your dead wife, and you say you haven't given it much thought."

   "Well, okay, maybe I have." A hint of worry marred his face. "How did she seem to you?"

   She shrugged. "Grown up. Life's hard out there; the stress can age a person quickly, you know that."

   "But she's only seventeen. I guess my marrying you so soon after her mother died really did have an affect on her."

   "Don't worry, she'll get over it." She brushed her fingertips over his lips. "Children have a rare and unique ability to adapt to all situations." Her eyes caught his seductively. "Now what, if anything, did you have in mind for tonight?"

   "I thought we could watch the 76ers play the Lakers in the playroom. Dr. J's in rare form tonight."

   "Sounds like fun," she said, hugging him tightly, as if there were no one more interesting and nothing else in the world she'd rather be doing for the evening.

********

   Bruce Emerson sat in his private office smoking a cigar and talking on the telephone, his feet elevated on his desk, the smoke enveloping his blond head like a wispy cloud. He was a big man, solidly built, with hair cropped military short, he wore a neat beard that enhanced his well-chiseled features. When he smiled, his eyes twinkled and made him look much younger than his thirty-two years. He was reclining in a leather chair, a pencil in his left hand tapping out a nonsensical rhythm. When he was finished with the call, he stood up and stretched, his upper body expanding into his suit, he looked like a college quarterback, very lean and muscular. The muscles in his neck were significantly thicker than the average man's, adding to his bulk and size.

   He was staring out his office window when he heard a cautious knock at his door. He responded to it from his chair and his secretary came in with a cup of coffee. She was an older woman with a tight, put-upon expression on her face, apparently unhappy with her lot in life. She sat the coffee cup down on his desk and left without waiting for a "thank you" from him, not that he was going to offer one. He picked up the coffee and looked out the window again, blowing on the surface and sipping with care. He appeared preoccupied, glancing at his watch more than once, as if he were waiting for something or someone to arrive.

   An abrupt knock that was noticeably different from the secretary's timid one made him jump. He put down the cup quickly and laid his cigar on an ashtray nearby. "Just a minute," he called out.

   When he opened the door, a gaunt man stepped into his office and stood between himself and the desk. He shut the door and observed the visitor from where he was standing. The man was wearing a beige service uniform that bore no identifying marks and a beige and white baseball cap that was pulled low across his forehead. He wore dark sunglasses to cover his eyes and didn't speak. Emerson walked back to his desk, picked up the coffee cup and took a sip, letting his eyes rest on the man's blank face. "Would you like some coffee?" he asked.

   "No. Thanks."

   "Did my secretary see you come in?"

   "No, I waited until she stepped away before I knocked."

   "Good. You might want to have a seat." He motioned to one of the visitor chairs in front of his desk.

   "I'd rather stand, if you don't mind."

   "Suit yourself."

   The man folded his arms, remaining standing, the glasses and the cap staying on. "When can I expect payment?"

   "When the job is finished, that's when."

   Emerson got his cigar into his mouth and tried to pull off it, but the flame had gone out. He laid the dead stogie across the ashtray and set his coffee cup down once more. He turned towards the dark man and tensed. What he could see of the man's face was nothing more than a scarred and pockmarked network of lines and wrinkles. Dangerous, he thought. Through the dark glasses, Emerson could barely make out a pair of cold and vacant eyes staring back at him. But he was as blithe about his fear as he was about how he got his money, and he didn't flinch a muscle.

   "I have one more job for you. And I believe I've made it clear to you before that I don't want to know how you do it, when you do it or where. I just want it done. After that, you'll get your entire fee."

   "Sounds like a renegotiation of the terms to me, Emerson."

   Emerson suddenly snapped and slammed the palm of his hand down on top of the desk, with enough force to ruffle the papers on top of it. "There will be no renegotiations! I told you that on the phone before you came over. The fee stays the same!"

   Before he knew it, the gaunt man was in on him, slamming his own hand down firmly over Emerson's flattened one. The man's bony but strong fingers clamped down on it unwaveringly, inflicting considerable discomfort. Emerson tried to relax his hand underneath it, which seemed to lessen the pressure. He was in pain and wanted to fight back, but he didn't see any reason to anger the guy any more than necessary. Which was probably wise, since this man killed people for a living.

   "Emerson, this is a business deal," he snarled. "When the stakes rise, so does the fee. I'm warning you--don't try to stiff me."

   Emerson swallowed almost imperceptibly. "Okay. Okay, you win. Name your price."

   The dark man lifted his skeleton-like hand and returned himself to the spot where he'd been standing before, and he did so so swiftly that it was almost as if he hadn't ever moved from the spot. "The fee was a hundred and fifty thousand before. It goes up to one sixty."

   Emerson scowled a bit and rubbed his hands together. At the same time his mind was racing. If he'd figured correctly, he stood to gain much more than a hundred and sixty thousand dollars if his scenario played out. Additionally, he would only have to share the fortune with one other person. Seen in that light, the answer was obvious. Give the man the money. They shook hands, summarily agreeing to the mercenary's terms, and he watched with trepidation until the man left. After the door shut Emerson snipped off and relit the end of his cigar, settling back into his chair to take a much-needed pause. The remainder of his plan was in motion. There was nothing left to do now but wait.

********

   The dark man had parked not far from the main road. He was sitting in a military jeep, a bland green model with a camouflage motif, obscured behind a high wall of untrimmed shrubs. The dark sunglasses and the plain cap from the day before remained, and a nearly spent cigarette hung from his lip at an angle, the last dying embers threatening to singe the skin holding it there. At the last minute, he released it and watched it do a freefall from the jeep and land on the ground, the ashes dispersing in the arid wind. He was looking through a pair of Bushnell's at the entrance of the building that served as the main headquarters for Colchetti Motor Company.

   As soon as his target was out of the building, his attention became focused. He watched closely as two well-dressed men, perhaps salesmen or clientele -he didn't know which - made what appeared to be small talk with his subject. What they were conversing about was of no importance. What was important was that he observe for himself the day-to-day activities of this person so that he could accurately plan his next move. It was not an easy job to make murder look adventitious, but he was nothing if not good at what he did. If that hadn't been the case for the last fifteen years, he and his employers might have ended up doing hard time long ago, or worse, sitting on death row in some penitentiary somewhere. He didn't intend on letting either of those things happen anytime soon.

   After the men had departed, the dark man watched the subject drive one of his own cars off the lot. He followed; keeping a safe distance away from the brand new Jaguar as it sped down the road. It was always necessary for him to verify the information he received from his clients about a subject's daily routine so that he could keep on schedule. This man's routine was a simple one: for three successive mornings in a row, he ate breakfast, a boiled egg, buttered toast, a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee, with almost no variation. Then a mixed drink, maybe two, followed by some time in his Jacuzzi and finally a visit to the office. After work, he would either stop at his favorite tobacco shop, or grab a sandwich at a nearby deli, depending on his mood for the evening, always ending up at his place of residence. The dark man usually needed several days to stake out his target and implement a satisfactory strategy of elimination, but if the legwork had been done for him ahead of time, he was able to do his job more quickly and effectively. He sought a method that would be precise and clean, leaving no indication of foul play. In this case, he would take his target out in familiar surroundings, under entirely plausible circumstances. Who would suspect the accidental death of a man who drowns in his own pool after imbibing too much liquor one morning?

**********

   Angel sat by herself in the backseat of the Dodge, her knees drawn up to her chest and plenty on her mind. It was early and no one else was awake except for herself and a few birds positioning themselves in the trees outside. Dull light from the climbing sun filtered in through the wooden slats that made up the walls of the garage warming the inside of the car. The sound of skittering claws on the dirt flooring beneath it alerted her to the fact that she wasn't entirely alone there. But meeting up with some small creature indigenous to the area was the least of her concerns; she had more pressing matters on her young mind. She lowered her head onto her arms and fought off the ever-present urge to cry. After a few minutes of relative silence, she thought she heard someone calling out her name. The voice was muffled, but it sounded like it was nearby. She picked her head up and saw a face peering at hers through the car window.

   "David?"

   She opened the door for him and he slid into the seat beside her, the worried look slowly disappearing from his face. "Yeah, last time I looked in the mirror. What're you doin' out here?"

   "I needed someplace to think."

   "And your room just wasn't big enough for ya, huh?" He looked well rested, much better than he had the day before.

   "Something like that," she answered. Trying to tell him how she felt about him before had been painful, and his rebuffs stung. She didn't think she would be able to handle anymore of that so she hadn't said anymore to him about it. But now with him sitting so close, her connection to him seemed so palpable and immediate that she didn't know how he couldn't know how she felt. She hoped the dispassionate smile she'd greeted him with would disguise it somewhat, yet at the same time she wanted to lay bare the extent of her emotions. She smiled at him again, this time more warmly. "What are you doing out here?"

   "Looking for you. I knocked on your door to take you for a walk before breakfast, but you didn't answer."

   "I'm sorry, this whole thing has been really got me down."

   "It's okay, don't be sorry." He intuitively pulled her close to him so that her head was lying against his shoulder and his arms were around hers. There was a beat. "You know, I had a dream about you last night."

   "You did?" She turned to face him a little. Interested.

   "Yeah, I thought it was kinda strange, 'cause normally I don't remember my dreams. I mean all the little details, you know, like what I dreamed, who I dreamed about, how it ended. But this was one I couldn't seem to shake."

   "What was it about?"

   "You and me."

   "Really?" She listened to him, choosing not to focus on his face directly, in case she was making the wrong assumptions about what he was saying. She concentrated only on the delightful rumble of his chest as he spoke. It was a comforting, soothing sound.

   "Really. And you know what else?

   "What?"

   "The dream had a happy ending."

   There was something different about his voice. He didn't sound tense or unsure like he had before in the car, he sounded relaxed and confident, like he knew exactly what he was doing. She looked up and found his eyes, which were a very intense blue right now, and just about melted into them. The next thing she knew his strong but gentle hands were cupping her cheeks and drawing her face close to his, and then their lips were touching. He planted several kisses on her lips, not those wishy-washy 'I like you' kisses, but passionate, grownup 'I love you' kisses, the kind that made you turn all warm and squishy inside. As his kisses intensified and grew more urgent, she closed her eyes, the sexual tension between them increasing tenfold, until neither he nor she felt they'd be able to contain themselves.

   The cramped confines of the car made the decision for them however, and they reluctantly parted ways, slumping down into the back seat together, their faces close, breathing heavy. A patina of perspiration glistened on her skin and upper lip and the mixture of his cologne and her perfume filled the interior of the Dodge like an aphrodisiac. She altered her position beside him ever so slightly, just enough to catch her arms around his waist and lean against him at the same time. When their breathing evened out, she blew lightly into his ear and he flinched.

   "Hey. You're treading on dangerous ground doin' that."

   "I'm not afraid," she said boldly, resting her left hand on his chest, watching it rise and fall as he breathed. "Tell me something. Have you ever done the deed outdoors?"

   "You've gotta be kidding me. If that's not a loaded question, I don't know what is." He kissed her on her forehead. "I plead the Fifth."

   She sucked her teeth. "Aw, you're just a 'fraidy cat."

   "Naw, I just don't like answerin' loaded questions. If I say yes, then I'm kinky, if I say no, then I'm afraid. How's that fair?"

   She laughed. "Who's trying to be fair?" She looked down at his hands holding hers and kissed the back of one of them. Then she put her forehead next to his. "Well, what are we going to do now?" That was another loaded question.

   "Hmm, well, if you talkin' about what we're going to do about the investigation. I've got a theory, and my theory is…well…I got no theory. Like Hutch said, somebody's gotta make a move. It's like playin' chess. The player who makes the most right moves, wins, the player who make the most wrong, loses. I just hope whoever it is makes one before we're due to leave."

   She lightly poked him on the arm and gave him a "that's not what I meant and you know it" look. He took the hint.

   "Um, on the other hand, if you're talkin' about the two of us and what's gonna happen, I gotta a little theory on that, too." She poked him in his stomach again and he grunted, and then turned serious. "Okay, okay, look, all kidding aside, we both know where this is going. And I'd be a fool to sit here and tell you that I don't feel something for you. But I'd be also be kiddin' myself if I pretended that just because this is what we want to do it automatically makes it right. Life just ain't cut and dried that way."

   "Is life always so difficult for you?"

   "A lot of the time." He glanced at her sideways and pursed his upper lip. "But when you look at me like that you make it awfully hard, ah, difficult for me to stick to my principles, you know?"

   "Uh, huh. And I like a man with principles…sometimes." She got lost in a thought for a moment. "Hey, you know what? I just thought of something, there's this great place I know of not far from here. It's really peaceful and quiet and there's a lake nearby. I used to go there when I wanted to commune with nature. Would you like to go and see it?"

   "Hold on a minute. Are you trying to seduce me?"

   "Without a doubt, Detective."

   He grinned, opened the car door and they got out. They left the closed off space of the garage and walked out into the open air, both stealing glances in the direction of the house.

   "Do you think they'll miss us?" she asked him.

   "Probably. And it's safe bet that Hutch'll come lookin' for me. He has this rare talent for showin' up or callin' me at the worst times, if you know what I mean."

   Angel's cheeks tinged a little red and she put her arm around his waist. "Is that so? Then we'd better hurry before he gets started looking, hadn't we?"

   They laughed and he laid an arm languidly across her shoulders as they made their way down a hedged pathway that he assumed led to the spot she'd described to him. He wasn't exactly sure how all this had happened so quickly. Maybe it was the devil on his shoulder whispering in his ear urging him on, or maybe, just maybe, he was really in love. Love affected a man in strange ways, changed his thought processes, affected his decisions and made him take chances that he would never take ordinarily. It sometimes made him do things that a man not in its throes would never contemplate. He had no doubt that Hutch would try to convince him to wait it out. But David Starsky had never been a man who liked to wait.

********

   The automatic sprinklers had switched on in front of Colchetti's residence, leaving the spacious lawn sparkling. The dark man was sitting in his jeep again, but this time in front of the estate. He was wearing a blue uniform in place of the brown one now. Working with little effort, he jerked a long handled pool net and a bottle of chlorine from the rear of the jeep. He put both next to him on the front seat and exchanged the standard brown cap he usually wore for a light blue one to match the uniform. To his chest, he applied a fabric logo that had "Sunclean Pool Cleaners," stitched in blue letters on a white background. He also applied a similar logo to the bill of the cap he was wearing. With the supplies in his arms he got out of the jeep and made his way to the front gate, announced himself and was let onto the grounds without difficulty.

   He'd taken great care to note the actual schedule of the pool cleaning service and so as not to overlap with them, he came one day earlier, explaining that there had been a change in scheduling. Once inside, he looked around the interior, seemingly unaffected by its grandeur and opulence. Turning his head, he saw his subject, who was mixing his early morning drink at the bar. Not far from him were the glass doors leading out to the patio and the pool. After assuring the butler that he was fine on his own, he was left to do his job.

   He started with the large pool and saved the Jacuzzi for last, mentally and visually keeping track of his man from outside. The only critical thing to do before he left was to make sure the guy intended to actually use one of the pools. When he was finished cleaning both, he put the empty bottle of cleaner into a sack and went back into the house with the pool net in his hand, leaning it against his chest and the side of his neck as he walked in. Colchetti looked up from his drink when he entered the room.

   "Hey, you all finished out there?"

   "Sure am. You're clean as a whistle."

   "Good, I was just thinking about going in."

   A slight, but barely noticeable smile crossed the dark man's lips. "Great morning for it, sir. Wouldn't mind trying it out myself, if I had one. Good for relaxing the muscles, you know?"

   "Sure is. Too bad you have to work or I'd invite you in."

   "Yeah, just my luck. Well, I've got to go on to my next job. See you next time."

   "See you. Have a good day."

   The pool man nodded goodbye and adjusted the net, then disappeared into the foyer.

   Colchetti took a sip of the scotch and soda and went outside. The warm air hit him like a slap in the face as he left the air-conditioned room for the brace of heat outside. He went into the changing room and slipped into a pair of swim trunks, bringing his drink out with him. He set the glass down on the tile and sniffed at the pool water. The smell of chlorine was faint, but not overpowering. He flicked on the switch and the Jacuzzi came to life. Another sip of his drink and he stepped into the pool.

   The undulating water and the liquor worked together like a depressant, lulling him into a state of drowsiness. He was not aware of the hand that slipped the deadly toxin into what remained of his drink, nor did he notice when his assassin departed, but in his last waking moments he did startle awake as the patio door slid almost quietly shut behind him. Momentarily alert, he looked around, and seeing no one, he reached for and drank the last of the scotch. Before long the toxin took hold of him, his arms and his legs getting heavy as unconsciousness enveloped him. After his heart stopped, he slipped under the surging water. His demise was quick and quiet--there had been no chance to scream.

********

   Later that morning, about a half a dozen police units and the city coroner's wagon had arrived to take up both sides of the tree-lined street outside Colchetti's lavish mansion. Parked not far away was Frankie Brown's pale green Dodge Dart. The two out of state detectives, Starsky and Hutchinson, stood poolside with Captain Benjamin Kraft inside the estate. Mrs. Colchetti, her body convulsing and straining as she wept uncontrollably, sat not far away from them. Her stepdaughter blankly stood waiting just inside the patio entrance, watching silently as a team of policemen went about their grisly work. Kraft regarded the detectives' reappearance into his affairs with a level of amused interest.

   "Didn't think I would see you two again."

   Starsky winked. "Good thing we stuck around, huh?"

   "Yes, well. All I can say is, things were quiet before you two showed up."

   "So what happened? Who found him?" Hutch asked.

   Kraft took his sunglasses off and began cleaning them with a handkerchief from his breast pocket of his jacket. "It appears to be an accidental death by drowning. He'd been drinking. According to his wife, he has one or two each morning before he goes to work. She's the one who found him." He pointed to the redhead sitting on a chaise with her head in her hands, the picture of an anguished widow.

   Hutch looked over at the woman and Starsky patted him on the arm to get his attention. "Wanna go see a dead body?" he asked with childlike glee. Hutch frowned, but followed him. They went over to the stretcher, lifted a corner of the sheet, and looked under it. Colchetti's body lay there pale and wrinkled, his mouth frozen open with a fine line of white foam oozing from his nose and lips. They quickly covered the body. Both men shuddered and stepped back.

   "All I can say is this is one helluva way to go."

   "You're telling me."

   A man wearing a white coat and carrying a black leather bag approached the two men and the body. He was a short man, a little on the heavy side and kind of balding. Judging by the permanent scowl on his face, he didn't appear to enjoy his work a great deal. Midwestern-bred Hutchinson soon left his partner's side to attend to less morbid tasks, knowing the sight of dead bodies didn't bother the city-bred Starsky as much as they did him. Indeed, Starsky watched with almost clinical coldness as the fat man opened his bag, took out a few tools of his trade and began swabbing the bottom of the dead man's drinking glass. He deposited the glass and the swabs into two small plastic bags with care, and then sealed them off and proceeded on to uncovering and examining the body.

   "Hello there." Starsky took out and flashed his badge as the examiner continued to study the body. The man stepped back, took a quick look at it, and nodded a greeting to him without looking up. Starsky jammed the badge back into his jeans pocket and folded his arms. After a few minutes, he said, "Anything?"

   "Nothing yet, the glass appears to have been drained of any fluid. I'm hoping to pick up more when I get it to the lab."

   "Got a guess on the time of death?"

   "The skin's fairly wrinkled. My guess is sometime between eight and eleven this morning. Like I said, I'll know more after I get them to the lab."

   "So he was in about three hours," he said, more to himself than to the examiner. "That's good to know, thanks."

   "Welcome."

   Starsky put both hands in his pockets and left the examiner to resume his examination uninterrupted. On his way back to where his partner was standing, he caught sight of Angel. She was still standing in the doorway of the patio on the other side of the glass; her arms folded neatly across her chest. She looked sad, but he noticed that her eyes were curiously dry. No tears were being shed for her dead father. Maybe she thinks he deserved what had happened to him, he thought. When he got back to his partner, the blond man had just started to write down something on a notepad he was holding. He stopped writing when he got there.

   "The M.E. able to tell you anything?"

   "Not much. Says there might be something in the lab results when they get them back later, but the glass was clean, not a drop of liquid left in it." He thoughtfully jerked his head in Mrs. Colchetti's direction. "Anybody talk to her?"

   Kraft coughed into his handkerchief, folded it and put it back in his breast pocket. "Sure have. She says she came home from a shopping trip and found him like that. Called us immediately. She was fairly calm when we got here. Didn't lose it until we fished him out of the pool."

   "Delayed reaction, huh?"

   "You might say that. Anyway she's clean…for now. So, you gentlemen want to wait around for us to finish up? Or you want to try talking to her yourselves?"

   "If you've already got a statement from her, we'd like to take a look at that later, if that's all right. We don't want to upset her anymore than we have to, at least not today. Anybody question the butler about any unusual visitors?"

   "He told us there were just a couple of delivery people, the gardener, the pool man. You know, the usual people. But they left before anything happened. The butler even saw Colchetti going out to change his clothes to get into the pool after the last service guy left."

   "So, Cap'n, now do you believe there's something strange going on here?"

   "Frankly, Detective Hutchinson, the whole situation serves to give me pause."

   "Ah, I'm Starsky." He jerked a thumb toward his partner. "He's Hutchinson."

   "Oh, yeah. Sorry about that," he said apologetically.

   "That's okay," The blond man smiled, the sunlight bouncing off his fair hair. "We're used to it. Ah, we'd be grateful if you'd let us know when the lab test results come in, Captain. You know where to reach us, don't you?"

   "Roger that."

   "Okay, we'll see you later then."

   The captain shook both their hands and left them to ponder the ramifications of the most recent developments. Starsky blinked up at the sun and then over at the body.

   "So, you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

   "That depends…"

   "On what?"

   "On what, if anything, the PPD's lab man finds in that glass."

   "You read my mind. I'm starving, let's take her home."

   "Right."

**********

   Hutch woke up to what sounded like someone being sick nearby. Concerned, he sat up and looked for his partner, who was sound asleep across from him. Judging from the huge grin on his face, he was probably dreaming about making the moves on some beautiful female. He smiled and checked his pocket watch in the semi-darkness. It was two o'clock in the morning. He got up and opened the door to the room as quietly as he could, then peeked out into the dark hallway. He noticed that the bathroom light was on. Then he heard coughing and the sound of the toilet being flushed. Then the faucet was turned on and then off again. In a few seconds the chain on the door unhitched, and he watched as Angel made her way out of the bathroom. She looked drawn and pale, her hair was damp, and the neck of her gown was wet. She was blotting at her face with a white cotton towel.

   "You okay?" he asked, startling her.

   "What?"

   "I said, are you okay?"

   "Oh, yeah, I guess something I ate didn't agree with me."

   He came out of the room and put his hand on her forehead. "Are you sure?"

   She laughed nervously and brushed his hand away. "I'm positive."

   Before she could get further away he took hold of her arm and tried studying her face, hoping he might be able to figure her out. Had she really eaten something that disagreed with her, or was she some sort of a druggie? Besides the poor pallor, he noticed something else-- her appearance had changed since the first time they'd met her. Over the course of a few days, her face and figure had become fuller, more rounded.

   She squirmed out of his hold and turned away from him, walking back towards her room. "I'm going back to bed. I'm sorry if I woke you."

   "'S okay," he answered thoughtfully. She went into her room without another word and closed the door. Hutch slipped back into his, sat on top of the bed and stretched his body across it. Linking his hands behind his neck, he lay there in the dark, grappling with finding a reason for her transformation. After a minute or so, he freed one hand and snapped his fingers softly in the air. He turned toward his partner and considered waking him up to share his epiphany, but the guy looked so peaceful lying there that he didn't want to disturb him. Instead, he settled back onto his pillow and closed his eyes.

   To his way of thinking, a person who comes wanting, is wanting--for something. Young women don't as a matter of rote collapse at your doorstep and come to with stories of murder to tell. He felt then as he did now that she was handing them her hard luck story for a reason. Not because she was running away from something bad, but because she had a hidden agenda. He'd known enough women in his lifetime to know that the possibility existed. Women like his ex-wife Vanessa, who'd tried most of their married life to plot his career to meet the needs of her own self enhancement, using methods that were often to the detriment of his own happiness.

   The idea of Starsky taking up Angel's cause without questioning her motives or thoroughly checking out her background first was very disquieting. To know that this stranger had enough emotional pull on his partner to where he was willing to drop everything to help her was disheartening. Ironically, it was his partner's uncharacteristic behavior that triggered the first seeds of doubt. Starsky hardly ever got emotionally attached to someone he didn't know well, let alone allowed himself to become viscerally or emotionally moved enough to aid them in their causes. Between the two of them, it was probably more something he might do himself. It was a White Knight move. With that in mind, he felt duty bound to making sure that his partner wasn't being emotionally used for her self-aggrandizement. He hoped to be able to do that without alienating their friendship. When he closed his eyes, he was still thinking about it, and before he knew it he was asleep again.

********

   John Colchetti hadn't become important enough yet for his death to rate the front page of the daily newspapers (a quarter of a page in the obit section sufficed), but Emerson thought it best to wait a couple of days before he ventured phoning the widow and asking her over for dinner. After working so diligently to project an aura of self-confidence and composure to Sharon, he thought it was necessary that he continue to keep up the facade, even if it did mean borrowing outrageous sums of money from seedy sources to keep the cash flowing. It was very difficult to seem to live prosperously on an insurance agent's salary, but through their assistance, he managed it, albeit tenuously. He'd even gone so far as to have his condo refurbished to further the appearance of wealth. When friends and acquaintances arrived at his home, it was on expensive Natuzzi sofa that they sat; and they rested their feet on plush Indian or Oriental rugs, setting their drinks on imported Italian coffee tables. All of these trappings were well within view of a collection of some of the most exquisitely carved ivory pieces he could acquire at auction.

   He'd begun sensing a growing reluctance on Sharon's part to continue their intricate deception after the first killing, and now that the dark man was paid off and his plans were coming to fruition, it was not the time for her to begin losing faith. This was the time to bind together and be strong, and he hoped getting together with her tonight would assuage any fears she might have. He poured a glass of wine for himself and took a sip of it, then consulted his watch. It was six o' clock.

   At six fifteen, the doorbell rang and he checked the peephole. It was her. She had her chin slightly tilted and turned away from him, but there was no denying whom it was. He let her in and closed the door behind her. He watched her standing in the foyer, somberly taking note of the candlelit dinner setting and the ambience of the room. She was wearing a black silk scarf over her auburn hair and a light fur stole was draped tastefully over a black crepe evening suit that fit her like a glove. The color was too reserved for the occasion, he thought, but she looked wonderful just the same. He walked over and kissed her on her cheek and she responded by moving away from him. Standing just in front of the couch. Her reaction to him was foreign. He didn't understand it and he said so.

   "What's the matter with you? It's almost over. We're almost there."

   She laid her purse down on the couch. "I know, but there are two people dead because of us."

   "Wait a minute. Hold on just a second. What happened to the Sharon Milner who I met three years ago at my office? The one who said she'd had it with life? Had it with the nine to five? Had it with never going anyplace or doing anything? What happened to her?"

   She sighed and dropped down on the couch along with her purse. "It's been a long three years, Bruce, and I'm not the same woman. You had a man's wife killed, don't you remember? I married the rich widower. Have you any idea what it feels like to know the man I love is for all intents and purposes, a murderer?" She waited for him to answer the question, but he didn't. "Well, do you?"

   He went to the fireplace mantle and picked up a box of cigars, lifted the lid and pulled one out; he bit off the tip and lit it with the heavy antique lighter that set beside it. She looked up at him and watched him as he drew in and inhaled the aromatic smoke.

   "No, you wouldn't. How could you?' She shook her head. "How do you sleep at night?"

   "I think about the money, Sharon, it helps a lot. On those nights when I think about you in his arms, making love to him, I want to kill him. But the money helps me keep things in prospective. After all these years of struggling and practically signing away my life to get what I want, I'm finally accomplishing something. I mean, tell me the truth, it's not all sleepless nights and walking the floors for you up there on the hill, is it? It sounds like you enjoy living in the lap of luxury." He blew out some of the smoke.

   "How can you say that to me? I did what you said to do because I love you and you know that. John was…John was, well, he was rich, but he had no sense of the romantic. Even so, I think I could've gotten used to him, if the circumstances had been different. I think he was really in love with me."

   "That's all very cozy, but where would that have left me?" He pulled on his cigar again. "I'll tell you where. Out in the cold--you with him on the hill and me holding the bag for his wife's murder. That's where. No, my darling, we're in this for the long haul." He went over to the dining room table, refilled his wineglass and poured one for her, handing her the glass. "Sharon, toast with me, because after tonight, you won't remember a thing about being John Colchetti's wife, I promise you that."

   Sharon took the glass from him, her eyes focusing blankly on the Oriental rug beneath her feet. He raised his glass and clinked it against hers. "To us, Sharon, and to the fortune that will soon be ours. May we be the happiest we've ever been in our lives."

   She lifted an eyebrow along with her glass, but didn't join him in his toast. She was too sick to her stomach to be glibly toasting the situation. Her hands were trembling and bile rose to her throat at the thought. What the hell had she gotten herself into?

   Mrs. Brown had once again managed to prepare cuisine for her three guests that was fit enough for royalty. Starsky tucked a napkin under his chin and dug in rapturously, while Hutch approached his repast with a bit more aplomb. Angel took a few bites of food from her plate and tried to enjoy it, but her stomach revolted. Her face contorted and she dropped her fork onto her plate, and a napkin flew to her lip, she sat there for a moment struggling to push back the urge to retch. No longer able to fight it, she shot up from the table. All three of her table companions stared after her, and Starsky wiped his mouth and started to leave the table.

   Hutch stopped him with a hand on his forearm. "She's okay, Starsk. Let her go."

   "She didn't look too good."

   "Yeah, I noticed that."

   Frankie stood up, snatched her napkin from her lap and set it on the table. "I'm beginning to think there's a good reason for that."

   "Whaddya mean?"

   She started clearing away the dishes. "Haven't you noticed? She can't keep anything down; she's nauseous. She sleeps a lot." They were staring at her, not knowing what she was getting at. "Well, the two of you being bachelors you might not notice things like that, but I swear that girl's either got a bad case of stomach flu or she's expecting."

   Starsky's jaw dropped open. He sat back down in his chair hard and stared at his partner, cupping his hand over his mouth. "A baby?"

   Hutch's eyes were wide and innocent. "Don't look at me like that, Starsk. I'm not the father."

   "A baby," Starsky muttered again in disbelief, his hand coming down off his face.

   "One of you had better go up and have a talk with her."

   "One of us?" Starsky asked. "Wouldn't it be better…I mean, you're a woman, can't you do it?"

   "Yes, well, I am that, honey. But I'm also someone she just met and hasn't gotten to know very well, and it's likely that she won't open up to me. I've seen how she responds to you, David. She likes you. You should talk to her."

   "It's true, partner. She really has taken quite a liking to you."

   "But, I…I wouldn't know what to say to her."

   Hutch put a calming hand on Starsky's shoulder. "I hate to remind you of this old buddy, but while we sit here debating the issue of gender, the clock is ticking. And we, meaning you and I, have a very impatient captain waiting for us to get back to work in a week. But if you don't feel up to it…I'll…"

   "No, no, that's okay. I'll go up."

   Starsky pulled the napkin he had tucked under his chin away and tossed it on his empty plate. He could feel Hutch's eyes on him as he made his way up the stairs. No doubt his partner was wondering, as he was to himself, what he had gotten himself into. The bathroom door was closed when he got upstairs, he tried the knob, but it was locked. He knocked softly and put his lips close to the door. "Angel. It's me. Can I come in?"

   He didn't get a verbal response, but he heard the chain being unhitched. He opened the door slowly and saw her sitting down on the cold pink and black linoleum floor, one arm braced over the toilet, her head down, her face pale. He came in and sat down on the side of the tub across from her. "You okay?"

   "No."

   Her eyes started to well up. He slid down on the floor next to her, one hand smoothing her long dark hair away from her face and the other stroking her cheek. "You wanna tell me what's wrong?"

   She looked into his eyes. "I think I'm sick."

   He chuckled softly at the severity of her understatement. "I can see that. Any idea why that would be?"

   "I…I…don't know. Do you think it's something serious?"

   "You got me. I think we should take you to see a doctor and find out for sure."

   "Can we go right now?"

   "Sure. Come on, get yourself cleaned up and dressed and maybe Frankie can give us the name of a place and Hutch and I can take you."

   "Okay."

   He stood up and helped her onto her feet. They hugged each other and he followed her out into the hallway. They split up in different directions, her into her room and him back downstairs. Frankie provided them with the information they needed and they left shortly afterwards.

********

   Sergeant Hutchinson had parked the Dodge in front of a place called the Women's Health Clinic. A quiet indistinct office located not far from where the boarding house was. Both men waited in the car for the young woman, Hutch fixing from time to time on the odd behavior of his curly-haired partner. Starsky had something on his mind and he wasn't telling. The blond checked his watch, by his estimation; it wouldn't be long before the guy finally blew his stack. And he was right, before long a deep breath escaped his partner's lips, and Mount St. Starsky looked like it was ready to erupt. Hutch put on his Ray Bans and stared ahead of him, preparing for the fallout that would inevitably follow.

   "Hutch?"

   "Yeah, Starsk?"

   "You think she's okay?"

   "I hope so, buddy."

   The darker man frowned and turned to him. "I probably should've gone in there with her."

   "She didn't want you to go in with her, remember?"

   "Oh, yeah. That's right. She didn't, did she? I forgot."

   "There are some days when I think you'd forget your head if it wasn't attached to your shoulders. Come to think of it, you've been acting awfully strangely lately, ever since the morning you and she disappeared. Is there something you're not telling me, partner?"

   Starsky face looked wan and helpless. "Hutch, what if…what if Frankie was right? What if Angel is expecting a baby?"

   "Then I guess it'd be a good thing for her, wouldn't it? Unless of course you happened to be the father, then we'd have a problem." He grinned. "But you're not, are you? So there's nothing to worry about, right?"

   Hutch was kidding, but Starsky was deadly serious. He turned and stared at the clinic entrance. Hutch lowered his sunglasses and peered over them. "Hey, Starsk." No response. "Hey, Starsky!" He waved his hand and snapped his fingers in front of his partner's face. "Starsky!"

   "Huh?"

   "Starsky, will you please tell me what's going on?" He waited, Starsky's silence speaking volumes. "Wait a minute, don't tell me you and she…" His long fingers did a back and forth motion in the air.

   Starsky closed his eyes and nodded slowly. The expression on his face changed from one of shock to childish embarrassment. He looked exactly like a kid who'd gotten his hand caught hand in a cookie jar. Hutch just shook his head.

   "I don't believe it. What the hell were you thinking?"

   "At the time, I guess I wasn't doin' much thinkin'."

   "Now, there's the understatement of the year. What do you plan to do about it if it turns out she is?"

   "I dunno. The right thing, I guess, whatever that is."

   "Starsky, you're a grown man. How could you let something like this happen?"

   "Oh, and I suppose you never had anything like this even remotely happen to you."

   "Oh, don't get me wrong, I've had some close calls. But nothing like this."

   "Okay, well then, that just proves everyone's entitled to a little indiscretion or two once in a while."

   "Yeah, just as long it doesn't cost them too much."

   A lengthy, awkward silence ensued between them that lasted until Angel stepped out of the clinic doors and made her way over to the car. When Starsky saw her, he bounded out of his seat and opened the door for her. He made a concerted effort to deduce the results of her visit by reading her facial expression, but it produced nothing. Hutch pushed his glasses up on his face and waited for him to ask her the sixty-four thousand-dollar question, but he never did. He sat down in the car like a man in a trance, an emotional car wreck. It looked like it would be up to Hutch to find out what the story was. His blue eyes found her brown ones in the rearview mirror.

   "So, young lady, what's the verdict? Will there be a baby shower in your future?"

   She had a tentative look in her eyes and didn't answer him right away. Tell the truth? Tell a lie? She already knew the answer. She had to lie. Hutch turned around and leaned his elbow on the back of the seat. He needed conscious thought and verbal communication now; telepathy wasn't going to do it. He raised his voice. "Excuse me, is anybody back there?"

   She blinked in immediately. "Yes?"

   "Remind me to get that hearing aid of yours fixed, I think the batteries are going."

   A quiet laugh escaped her lips and she smiled. "I'm sorry, Detective Hutchinson, I heard you. And the answer is yes, I am going to have a baby."

   Starsky looked up and stared at her face in the rearview mirror too. "You're kiddin'."

   Her eyes found his in the mirror and nodded. "No, really, I am." She was still smiling.

   "How far along are you?" Hutch asked, his heart sinking, but still amazingly calm.

   "The nurse says it's too early to tell. But I'm showing all the signs."

   Hutch turned back toward the steering wheel and started the car, regarded his partner with a sigh. "We'd better get back to Frankie's. I'm sure she'll be just thrilled to hear the news."

   "Great." Starsky stared out of his window, lost in his thoughts. Hutch started the car and pulled off, shaking his head for most of the way back.

********

   Frankie Brown didn't need the confirmation of a doctor to know that her hunch about the young woman's condition had been right on, but to her guests, it seemed as if it was more of a shock. She poured them each of them a cup of coffee, and then set the pot down on a hotplate to keep warm. None of them made any effort to drink their coffee or converse. What appeared to be various stages of mild shock and disbelief registered on their faces. She took a careful sip of her coffee and sat down. "Now I would think this would be a joyous occasion. Isn't anyone going to say anything about it?"

   Hutch spoke up. "Well, normally Frankie, it would be pretty great news. But in this case there happens to be a couple of hitches in the seam work that are cutting into our enthusiasm a bit."

   "And those would be?"

   Hutch looked at her, then at the girl and his partner. "Well, one hitch is, our mother-to-be isn't married. She doesn't have a direct support system, so things don't look too good there." Starsky looked up after Hutch finished his sentence, then dropped his head down. The blond man continued. "The other hitch is Starsky and I are due back in Bay City in a few days and we still haven't figured out what happened to Angel's mother yet." He left out the part about the possibility that his partner might have had something to do with putting the young lady in the family way.

   "I see. Well, that does sort of put a damper on things, I agree. But, I have no doubt the tide will turn. Just have faith."

   "Well, I hope so. From your mouth to God's ears."

   Hutch and Frankie now took note of the two silent occupants in the room. They were holding hands and Starsky looked miserable. The darker man glanced at the young woman next to him, got up, put his hand out, and she accepted it. He acknowledged his partner and their hostess with a nod and gestured with his head that they would be leaving out the back door. His face said, 'me and Angel have gotta have a little talk.'

   Hutch nodded that he understood, raised one eyebrow and blew out air from his chest as the two of them left. Frankie's eyes trained on his and she gave him a knowing smile. Without him ever mentioning it to her, he had a gut feeling from that look that she knew exactly what was going on. Exactly.

   Once they were outside, it didn't take the two of them long to find a quiet place to talk. They settled for an old sycamore tree not far from the back of the house. He fiddled with her hair, letting the strands fall into her face and then directing them away. She closed her eyes and lowered her head, pressing it against his chest. "I know what you're going to say, David, and it's okay. You don't have to do anything about this."

   "But I want do the right thing."

   She lifted her head. "What's the right thing? Marrying me?"

   "If that's what it takes."

   "What do you want to do?"

   "If it's mine, I want the kid to have a father. I don't want him or her growing up without one, like I had to."

   She opened her eyes to look into his and wondered if he really meant what he was saying. His face was a swelling sea of emotions. She saw fear, doubt, and yes, possibly even love in his eyes. But as much as she would love to have him for a husband and a father to her unborn child, she didn't know if she was prepared to have him sacrifice himself or his peace of mind to have it happen.

   "Look, I don't want you to do something that you'd be unhappy about later."

   "Let me worry about that," he said bending his head down to kiss her. "I just wanna know one thing. Do you love me, Angela?"

   She looked up into his eyes and smiled brightly, thrilling to the sound of her given name flowing from his lips. "I couldn't love you more."

   "That's all I need to hear. Don't you worry about a thing, I'll take care of this."

   She rested her head in the crook of his arm and began to cry softly into it as he held her.

PART FOUR