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Threads: Bad Penny - Part 1

Sue David and Valerie Wells
© 12-2001

   "I'll just be a few minutes," Hutch said, gathering up his savings account passbook and various papers scattered around the front seat of the Torino.

   "Take your time," Starsky said, deadpan. "I'll wait for you here, Mr. Hutchinson."

   "Aw, stuff it," Hutch said with a grin, getting out and heading for the bank's front door. Starsky slid down in the seat and closed his eyes.

   It was busy inside the bank, with several people in each line. Hutch sighed, looked at his watch and eyed the lines, trying to choose the one that seemed to be moving the fastest. None of them were, if the truth was told, so he simply joined the closest one. Starsky had tried to talk him out of what he was there to do – withdraw a substantial amount from his savings in order to upgrade his greenhouse – but Hutch was determined. His greenhouse was part of what kept him sane in this crazy job, and he'd never been one to worry much about stockpiling money. The greenhouse was more important to him than having lots of money in the bank.

   Sooner than he'd have thought possible, it was his turn. He pushed his passbook and a withdrawal slip, along with his driver's license, across the counter to the teller. After a wooden smile and a stiff "How are you today, sir?" she didn't speak again, simply completed the transaction and pushed everything back across to Hutch. "Thank you, Mr. Hutchinson," she said, not even managing a smile this time. He smiled at her, however, realizing she was having a long, hard day, and turned to go, only to be confronted with a familiar face.

   "Ken?"

   Hutch froze mid-step. He hadn't seen Cassandra Davenport since before his divorce from Vanessa. Hadn't wanted to, either. They'd never gotten along, and her husband – Hutch didn't even remember his name now – had been even more of a snob than she was.

   Cassandra smiled. "Don't tell me you don't remember me, brother-in-law. Ex brother-in-law, perhaps I should say."

   "I remember you," he managed to say, stepping out of the line he was in to allow the next person access to the bored teller. He moved over to stand next to Cassandra in her line. "What are you doing here?"

   "I moved out to Bay City a few months ago," she said, lifting one hand to smooth back the side of her perfectly coiffed auburn hair. That was new – it used to be brunette, like Vanessa's. Her eyes were the same startling aqua shade as her sister's, and it disturbed Hutch a little to realize how much the sisters looked alike – had looked alike. "After I divorced Allen, I put out some feelers and got a marvelous job offer from a firm here. So I took it."

   "What do you do?" Hutch asked.

   She gave a tinkling laugh. "You don't remember, do you? Well, I don't blame you. It was never as important as Allen's work, was it? I'm a fashion buyer for Bainbridge’s."

   He remembered now. She'd studied fashion design in college, and at the time, he assumed it was just an excuse to be at college to snag a rich husband. That's why Vanessa went to college, a nasty voice whispered inside his head. Well, Vanessa had failed, hadn't she? She'd hitched her horse to the wrong wagon, assuming Ken Hutchinson would follow his father into law. He had, but not in the way she'd envisioned.

   "That's terrific," he said. "So you're divorced now? I'm sorry to hear that."

   "Don't be," she said with a laugh. "It was doomed from the start, I think. Allen was just so – well, he couldn't play with his own toys, let's put it like that."

   Hutch felt his face grow hot.

   "I'm sorry, I've embarrassed you," she said, reaching out a cool hand to place it on his. "Listen, are you busy tonight? I'd love to have dinner with you and catch up."

   "Well, I, uh -" God, he hated it when he stammered. "That is, my partner and I were going to -"

   "Your partner?" Her lovely brow creased, then cleared. "Oh, yes, David, isn't it? You're still a cop, then?"

   He nodded.

   "I'd love to have him, too," she said, then laughed. "I mean, he's welcome, too. Do you know Chez Helene's?"

   This time, Hutch laughed. "I live in the apartment above it."

   Something passed over her face and was gone too quickly for him to identify it. "That's lovely," she said. "I'll meet you both there at seven, shall I? Marie is a friend of mine and will save us a table, I'm sure. Do say yes. I hate to eat alone, and I'll have to tonight if you don't accept."

   "I'm sure that's a rare occurrence," Hutch said, summoning up the gallant good manners his mother had tried so hard to teach him.

   "Silly," she said, giggling. "So, seven?"

   "Sure," he said, hoping Starsky wouldn't kill him. His partner's opinion of Vanessa had been lower than low and he wouldn't be likely to feel much friendlier toward her sister, especially since they'd planned to have a steak at Huggy's and take it easy tonight.

   "That's wonderful." Cassandra was next to be waited on, so she patted his hand again in farewell. "I'll look forward to it."

   Starsky was half asleep when Hutch got back in the car, but he pried one blue eye open and slid upright to start the car. A glance at Hutch's face halted him. "What happened?"

   "What are you talking about?" Hutch attempted an innocent expression.

   Starsky wasn't buying it. "I know that look, buddy. What happened in there? You look like you saw a ghost."

   That bad? Hutch gave a rueful grin. "Ran into an old ... friend. Cass. Van's sister."

   Starsky stared. "What the hell is she doing here?"

   "Moved here. Got a job here. Got divorced and started over, I guess." He gave a shrug. "Wants to take us to dinner."

   "Us? Both of us?"

   Hutch nodded. "Tonight. Chez Helene's. I said we'd go."

   The blank astonishment on Starsky's face would have been funny if Hutch hadn't felt so strange about the whole encounter.

   "I hope that's okay," Hutch added. "I know we had plans, but -"

   "That's okay," Starsky said, seeing more in Hutch's face than Hutch wanted him to. "You sure I won't be a third wheel?"

   "Fifth wheel," Hutch corrected automatically. "She told me to bring you, too."

   Starsky studied him for another moment or two. "Hey, I like the food there," he said with forced casualness. "Guess we better get to work then, so we'll be on time, right?"

   "Right."

   Starsky even consented to put on a tie and sport coat for Chez Helene's. Hutch, on the other hand, felt a contrary compulsion to wear jeans and a t-shirt, but he also put on a tie. The restaurant wasn't all that elite, but it wasn't Huggy's, either.

   He heard the sound of the Torino pulling up in the street and a few moments later the sound of Starsky's sneakered feet pounding up the stairs. The door opened and Starsky called, "You decent, Blintz?"

   "More or less," Hutch called back, finishing with his tie and stepping back to check the effect. He supposed he would do. Starsky appeared behind him. Bless him, he was wearing jeans with his tie and sport coat, and the inevitable Adidas.

   "Don't you look purty," Starsky said with a grin, turning Hutch around and straightening his tie for him.

   "Thanks, darling," Hutch returned good-naturedly. "Want a beer before we go?"

   "Nah. I'll have one with dinner. I'm starvin', too."

   Cassandra was waiting in the foyer and Hutch heard Starsky draw a sharp breath behind him.

   "She's a knockout," he hissed into Hutch's ear.

   "I know," Hutch said softly, raising his voice to greet Cassandra and introduce her to Starsky.

   "I remember hearing about you when Vanessa and Ken were married," Cassandra said, taking Starsky's hand as if to shake it, but simply holding it instead. "I'm so glad you came, too."

   "I'm sorry about Vanessa's death," Starsky said.

   Cassandra nodded. "Thanks, David. It was pretty hard on all of us," she paused and glanced up at Hutch, "but let's not let it ruin our evening together. I hope you're both hungry. I have an expense account, and I love to abuse it." She laughed.

   They were seated almost immediately and all three ordered drinks. Starsky and Hutch both had beer; Cassandra ordered white wine.

   She took a delicate sip from her glass before leaning across the table to smile winningly at Hutch. "I know we weren't the best of friends when you and Van were together," she said. "Let's put it behind us and start fresh, okay, Ken?"

   "Sure, Cassie," he said. "No hard feelings."

   She giggled. "Nobody ever called me ‘Cassie' except Ken," she told Starsky. "Not even my parents. I've missed that, and you," she added to Hutch. "Tell me all about what you do. You're a detective now, aren't you?"

   Hutch couldn't help feeling suspicious – she was being far too friendly compared to the way she'd always treated him – but lately Starsky had been telling him he was getting bitter and cynical and he was determined to prove him wrong. He told her about some of their cases, leaving out the worst details. She talked about her job. Starsky was unnaturally silent, answering when spoken to but otherwise just listening to them.

   When their food came, conversation died for a while as they ate, but Cassandra started it up again by asking him to tell her about Vanessa's death.

   "Oh, Cassie, you don't want to hear -"

   "But I do," she said soberly. "I hadn't seen Van for three or four months before she died. She was always traveling and hadn't been home for a visit. We kind of grew apart, Ken. And that bothers me. You were here. I need to know. Please?"

   Hutch glanced at Starsky. How much should I tell her?

   No more than you have to. No sense upsetting her.

   "That's amazing," Cassandra said, her eyes twinkling.

   "What is?" Hutch asked.

   "That silent conversation you two just had. I don't know what you said, but it was plain you were making a joint decision and you never opened your mouths."

   Hutch reddened. "Well, partners, you know. We spend a lot of time together -" he trailed off uncertainly.

   "I'm not offended," she said. "I think it's nice. Now, about Vanessa?"

   So Hutch told her about it, leaving out the worst details again, and also leaving out how he and Starsky had bent the rules when Dryden and Starsky had come to arrest him. Starsky contributed more to this conversation, even making Cassandra laugh with the story of Huggy hiding in the casket at the funeral home to tape Wheeler's confession. When they finished, she shook her head and finished her wine before speaking.

   "Van always was a little wild," she said. "No offense, Ken, but I think that's part of why she married you. She wanted to do something our parents wouldn't necessarily approve of."

   "She wound up regretting that," Hutch said, not even realizing he sounded bitter until Starsky gave him a little nudge.

   "It could have worked, though," Cassandra said. "If she'd only given it a chance. If she'd accepted you for who you are. But she was Daddy's girl, deep down, even though she fought it all her life."

   "I guess," Hutch said. Vanessa had been a lot like her father.

   "I wish she'd have had the baby," Cassandra said. "It might have saved the marriage."

   Hutch felt as though he'd just climbed off a carnival ride. He was dizzy and lightheaded and his stomach was queasy. "What did you say?"

   "The baby," Cassandra said. "If she'd had the baby, maybe you and she would have stayed together. A baby might have drawn you together. Instead, you -"

   "What baby?"

   Starsky put a hand on his arm and gave it a little squeeze. He was alarmed by the way the color had drained from Hutch's face.

   Cassandra covered her mouth with her hand. "You mean you didn't know about the baby?"

   "What baby?" Hutch repeated, and Starsky could feel the tension in the muscles of Hutch's arm.

   "Oh, God. Oh, Ken, I'm sorry. I thought you knew. Van was pregnant -" She stopped and her eyes grew moist. "You really didn't know?"

   "When was she pregnant? And what happened to the baby?" Hutch's voice shook, try as he might to steady it.

   Cassandra reached for her wine glass, but it was empty. She signaled the waiter, who brought another one, and she didn't speak until it arrived. Hutch waited, but his face was still too pale, and it was taking every ounce of self-control he had not to shake her and force her to give him the information. Finally, she took a big gulp of her wine and reached across the table to take his hand. "She had just found out a few weeks before she left you," she said gently. "She – she had an abortion."

   "When did she have this abortion?" Hutch felt his eyes beginning to burn and he had to work hard not to let Cassandra see it. Starsky unobtrusively slid his arm around the back of Hutch's chair. He was close enough that Hutch could smell his aftershave, and though he didn't say a word, he didn't have to. Just having him there helped.

   "In July of ‘73," Cassandra said. "She was about three months along, maybe a little less. I can't believe she didn't tell you -"

   "I can," Hutch said bitterly, and didn't care if he sounded bitter. "She knew I'd try to talk her out of it. She also knew it would affect the divorce. All she wanted was to be rid of me and anything to do with me, including my child!"

   "Hutch," Starsky said quietly, and that one word brought Hutch's emotions back under control.

   He glanced at Starsky. Thanks. I'm okay now.

   No, you're not, but I ain't goin' anywhere.

   There were tears in Cassandra's eyes and one slid down her cheek. "Oh, Ken, I am so sorry. I thought you knew. I thought it was a mutual decision -"

   "I would never have agreed to that," he said shortly.

   "She didn't even tell me until it was all over and she'd moved back to Duluth," Cassandra said. "She never told our parents at all. They'd have been horrified, not just about the abortion, but that she got it at one of those -" She stopped. "It wasn't a regular clinic," she finished lamely.

   "A back-alley butcher, in other words?"

   She nodded. "I think so. She didn't really go into details. And I'm not sure, but I think something went wrong and she probably wouldn't have been able to have children afterwards. I remember when she told me about it she said, ‘I'll never have to go through that again.'"

   "Wasn’t that the same year it was legalized?" Starsky asked.

   Hutch answered, still sounding bitter, "I’m not sure, but what difference does it make? She wouldn’t have wanted there to a record anywhere."

   How could Vanessa have done that and he'd never known? Hutch searched his memory, but knowing how Vanessa could manage to present a perfect appearance to the world even when she was deathly ill, he wasn't really surprised. And right after she'd left him, there had been weeks they hadn't seen each other. They'd communicated only through their lawyers...

   "Cassandra," Starsky said, "no offense, but I think we oughta call it a night. Hutch has had a bad shock and -"

   "Of course." She signaled the waiter again and asked for the check, removing a Diner's Club card from her wallet. While they waited for the waiter to come back, she slid a business card out of a gold case and wrote on the back of it. She held it out to Hutch. "Call me at home or at work if you need me," she said. "Anytime at all. I can't tell you how sorry I am -"

   Hutch made no move to take the card, so Starsky did and slid it into his shirt pocket. The waiter came back and handed the slip and the card to Cassandra. She signed it quickly, returned the card to her wallet, and stood.

   "I am sorry," she said again, looking down at Hutch. He didn't raise his eyes.

   "Thanks for dinner, Cassandra," Starsky said for both of them. He stood, too, and prodded his partner to his feet. "We'll see ya later, huh? Come on, partner."

   They climbed the stairs to Hutch's apartment in silence, with Starsky keeping in physical contact with Hutch all the way. He was the one who opened the door and prodded Hutch through it, steered him to the couch and sat him down. He went to the refrigerator and brought back a beer. Hutch took it without a word and drained half of it in one swallow. Starsky sat down next to him and put his arm around his back, rubbing in soft, soothing circles as he felt the tension. Hutch's muscles were stiff and his face was white, with dark circles forming under his eyes. Long minutes passed before Hutch, staring down at his beer bottle, said in a soft, hoarse whisper, "She killed my baby, Starsk. Vanessa killed my baby."

   Starsky's throat closed at the raw pain in those quiet words, and he pulled Hutch a little closer. He didn't know what to say. He couldn’t help thinking terrible thoughts about Vanessa. Thoughts he was trying to keep from showing on his face. Of all the ways that woman could have chosen to hurt his partner, this one had to be one of the worst. This was worse than cheating on him, but Starsky thought Vanessa was above that. When she bored of her time with Hutch, she simply dumped him.

   Sitting next to his partner, his arm around his shoulders in supportive silence, Starsky let his mind wander to Hutch and Vanessa’s breakup. The two men had known each other a long time when it happened, and they had been plainclothes partners for a year.

   Starsky would never forget how upset Hutch was that night. Van had decided if he wasn’t going back to law school, she was finished with him. She needed to set her gold digging sights on someone who hadn’t pissed off his wealthy parents with his career choice. The phone call he’d made to tell Starsky she was gone was burned into Starsky’s memory.

   Starsky had raced to Hutch’s apartment, unsure of what he might find. What he found nearly broke his heart. Hutch was sitting in the middle of his bare living room. The only things the Wicked Witch of Duluth had left him were his guitar, his clothing, his plants, a lava lamp, and the telephone. He found out later, she’d even taken the coffee pot. Not to mention having cleared out his bank accounts. The ones she could get to, anyway. Hutch had a sizeable trust fund that she was legally barred from touching. Mr. Hutchinson had seen to that. Even Starsky hadn’t known about it for years.

   The only other thing Vanessa left in her vapor trail was a cruel note that drove Hutch to thoughts of suicide. Starsky worried about him constantly for a couple of months, rarely leaving him alone. Taking the Magnum away from him wasn’t an option as long as Hutch was on active duty, but his having it scared Starsky to death. Hutch was so depressed; Starsky thought he was taking chances on the street. Not with Starsky’s life, never that. He was always there to back up his partner, but Hutch was taking chances with his own life. One night, they’d been separated and Hutch had gotten himself cornered in an alley. He’d been severely beaten before Starsky came along to rescue him.

   Picking up the pieces of his friend’s broken heart had been a difficult task. Starsky never wanted to see Hutch in such pain again. He thought that Vanessa’s death had at least assured that she could never hurt Hutch again. Now, Starsky got a chill from the realization that the woman had reached out from beyond the grave and grabbed his partner with her icy hand – wrapped around Hutch’s heart.

   Hutch felt Starsky shiver and said, "What?"

   "Sorry, Blintz. I was just thinking."

   "About Van?"

   "What else? Aw, Hutch, I don’t know what to say. I know this hurts you. I can feel how much it hurts you."

   Hutch was crying now. Silent tears that made Starsky’s heart ache for him. "How could she, Starsk?" He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands.

   Starsky rubbed Hutch’s back and said, "I don’t know, buddy. It’s a terrible thing to do. To not even ask you...." He stopped speaking because Hutch was shaking his head.

   "No, no, you don’t understand. I want to know how she could hate me so much."

   That simple statement marked the end of Starsky’s composure. The tears he’d been trying to hold back so he could be strong for Hutch started to slide down his face. Hutch was starting to lean toward him and he slowly collapsed into Starsky’s lap.

   "I would have kept the baby, Starsky. She had to know I’d want it."

   Starsky didn’t have it in him to speak platitudes about Vanessa’s possible motivation. He didn’t believe that she had anything other than selfishness in mind when she had the abortion. No doubt she hated Hutch then, but the fact that she kept it a secret was telling. Short of killing Hutch or, worse yet, killing Starsky, Vanessa couldn’t have done anything more hurtful to his friend, but she’d have had to tell him about it for it to be effective.

   Starsky was angry. Angrier than he’d been in a long time. "It wasn’t that she hated you, Hutch. That’s not it at all. What good did it do if she never told you? She didn’t want any ‘complications’ in her life, buddy. Her motivation was simple. She was a spoiled, selfish bitch who wanted her own life, without hindrances. A baby would have tied her to you in some way forever and she couldn’t have that."

   Hutch wrapped an arm around Starsky’s leg and held on tightly while he cried. Starsky knew this was going to be a long haul. They had to work in the morning and he was worried that Hutch wasn’t going to be in any shape.

   "Buddy, I’m gonna call Dobey in the morning and tell him we’re not comin’ in."

   "No. We’re going in."

   "Hutch...."

   "I can’t just lay around here all day tomorrow and wallow in the pain. I can’t. Work’s what I need."

   "Buddy, you need to give yourself some space to grieve. This is a big deal."

   "I mean it, Starsk. I need to work."

   Starsky considered it. Maybe he could arrange for them to work in the precinct for their whole shift the next day. The mounds of paperwork they always seemed to be behind on could probably be counted on to see to that.

   "All right," he said while gently patting Hutch on the back. "We’ll play this your way. If you can’t handle it, though, you tell me."

   Hutch nodded on Starsky’s lap.

   "Promise me."

   "I promise."

   They sat that way for a long while. Both of them cried and Hutch poured his heart out to Starsky about all of the feelings he was being flooded with since Cassandra had dropped the bomb on him.

   "What if she’d kept the baby, Starsky? He’d be about five and a half now."

   "Hutch, don’t do this, buddy."

   "He’d be in kindergarten. Old enough for T-ball."

   "Stop it, now. The only thing this is going to do for you is make you more upset."

   "I know. I just can’t help wondering. I might never have a child. What would it have been like? Would he have looked like me, or would she? Would I be a good dad?"

   "You’d have been the best dad ever, Hutch. Don’t think like that. You might still get that chance, buddy. You’re still young. Besides, I thought the ‘What If’ game was my department. You tryin’ to horn in on my act?"

   At least that got an abbreviated laugh out of the troubled man. Starsky spent the best part of the next two hours getting his partner calmed down enough to go to sleep. He wished that Hutch would get angry, vent, throw things. That would be better than the state he was in at the moment. When Hutch crumbled this way, quietly sobbing his pain out, Starsky knew how deeply hurt he was. This was not Hutch’s, "I’m angry but I’ll let off some steam and feel better" pain. This was deep, in his soul, shattered heart pain. Starsky knew he’d have to work hard to help his best friend find his equilibrium again.

   When Hutch was cried out, and his breathing was becoming slower and more even, Starsky knew he needed to get him to go to sleep. Hutch was as limp as a noodle, but somehow Starsky managed to get him on his feet and help him to bed. He pulled off Hutch’s shoes. He’d already divested him of his jacket and tie hours ago. He sat on the side of Hutch’s bed and rubbed his back, soothing him to sleep.

   Starsky stood to go out and crash on the couch when he heard Hutch quietly ask, "You’re not leaving, are you?"

   "Of course not, pal. I’m gonna stay here tonight."

   "Thanks, Starsk."

   "Good night, Hutch."

   "‘Night, Starsk."

   Starsky made a bed on the couch and proceeded to actively not sleep for hours. He was so angry HE wanted to throw things. How dare Vanessa do such a thing? He mentally smacked himself when he had the thought that it was a good thing she was already dead. He had definite homicidal thoughts toward her on this night. One thing was bothering him and he was going to check on it the next morning. Whatever his thoughts, he knew he’d better get them all out of his system so he could be there for Hutch.

********

   The next day, Hutch wasn’t up at the annoying hour he usually arose. Starsky woke up early for a change and realized his partner hadn’t budged all night. He was glad in a way – that probably meant Hutch’s dreams were not too distressing. He often had nightmares, but not last night. He must have been too wrung out to have nightmares.

   In the year since Vanessa’s murder, Hutch had become more cynical. He’d given up a lot of his healthy habits, he’d let his hair get a lot longer, grown a moustache, and lost his every morning jogging habit. Lately, he’d only gone a few times a week. Starsky went to the kitchen to make them something for breakfast, a little sad that he didn’t need to worry about how to make the blender produce one of Hutch’s morning shakes. He’d given them up, also.

   After breakfast, showers, and getting dressed for work, they went out of the apartment to the Torino. Hutch had barely touched his food and he looked rough around the edges.

   "You sure you’re up to this?"

   "I’m sure. Let’s just go."

   As they pulled away from the curb, Hutch stared at Chez Helene’s like it was new to him. He would always remember that it was where he’d heard about what Vanessa did.

   The morning was going better than Starsky had hoped. Focusing on their paperwork monster was giving Hutch something to do that was keeping his mind off of things. Starsky had found the time to slip in to see Dobey and explain things, and then he went out and told Hutch he had to run down to records for something.

   Starsky was on a mission. He wanted to see Vanessa’s autopsy record. He’d read enough autopsy reports to know that the ME often mentioned whether a woman had ever given birth. Maybe they could tell if she’d ever been pregnant and had recorded it.

   He took the file into a small conference room and reviewed it – paging past the reports, the records of Hutch being accused of her murder, the pictures of the crime scene, and the notes naming the real killer. Hutch had been exonerated. He finally came to the autopsy report and he read it with an odd sense of detached fascination. Hutch had never read the report. He couldn’t. A lot of people saw Hutch as cool and collected to the point of being icy. His Nordic stoicism was well known. Starsky, and Hutch’s other friends, knew the truth. Hutch was like an onion – a man of many layers. That calm demeanor was his exterior facade. Starsky sometimes wondered if the deadly accurate, dangerous man he partnered with on the street was a mask for the musical, sensitive, gentle soul that was his best friend. His recent bout of cynicism had Starsky worried, but he couldn’t think about that now. He needed to focus on the autopsy transcript.

   Starsky skipped through the more graphic parts of the autopsy. He didn’t care how much Vanessa’s liver weighed, or really need to read about the skin and blood found under her fingernails. Skin she’d scraped off of Hutch’s hand after he blocked her from slapping his face at The Pits. He finally came to the part he wanted to read.

   That was what Starsky wanted to know – if it was true that Vanessa had ever had an abortion. He was feeling a bit guilty about his attraction to Cassandra. She was a beautiful woman, but she was Hutch’s ex-sister-in-law. He almost felt disloyal. That’s why he had decided to try and check out her story. He didn’t want to take it on face value because she was a beautiful, sophisticated woman to whom he was tremendously attracted. This was Hutch’s heart she was playing with and Starsky wanted to be certain. His secondary reason was a natural caution brought on by the fact that Cassandra was Vanessa’s sister. She looked a lot like her sister. Maybe she WAS like her in more ways than one. Starsky knew he’d better tread lightly.

   He returned the file to the records room and went back upstairs. Hutch was just finishing up another report when he walked into the squad room. Starsky was getting pretty hungry and he was hoping he could coax Hutch into eating.

   "What’d’ya say we knock off for a while and grab some lunch?" he asked as he pulled out his chair and sat on the back of it, resting his feet on the seat.

   Hutch looked up from signing the report and said, "You go ahead. I’m not hungry."

   Starsky leaned closer to him and said, "Come on, go with me. Maybe you’ll find out you are hungry. Besides, the fresh air will do you good. Come on, we’ll grab some sandwiches and run down to the park to eat ‘em. Okay?"

   Hutch could rarely resist Starsky when he was like this – concerned only for Hutch. He decided to give in with little argument. Maybe his partner was right.

   Just as they were exiting the squad room, Simmons and Babcock were walking toward them. They were laughing about something. Starsky stopped them to say a quick hello and Simmons explained. "Man, they’ve got about eight brand new bikes downstairs for that new group of motorcycle jockeys."

   Starsky’s eyes lit up at the news. "They’re here?"

   "Yeah," Babcock said. "They let us take one around the block. You should go down there and ask ‘em."

   "Come on, Hutch, let’s go," Starsky said, grabbing his partner’s arm excitedly.

   "Starsk, I don’t -"

   "Sure you do. It’ll be fun. Come on, please?"

   Hutch shook his head, resigned, and followed Starsky down to the garage, where a row of shiny new Harley-Davidson Super Glides was the center of an admiring throng of officers. Benny Barton, the officer in charge of the motor pool, was beaming as proudly as if he’d just given birth to the bikes.

   "Starsky! Hutch! I wondered how long it’d take you two to show," Benny said with a big grin. "Whattya think of ‘em? Ready to turn in the Tomato for a real set of wheels, Starsk?"

   Starsky laughed. "Naw, Benny, not permanently. Too hard to make out on a bike, y’know? But I’d sure love to take one of these babies for a spin. Can I, huh? Can I, please?" He folded his hands and pretended to plead.

   Benny’s grin got even wider and he tossed a set of keys toward Starsky. "Be my guest, Sarge. Don’t wreck it."

   Starsky caught the keys and strode toward the bike Benny indicated. "She’s a beauty," he said, walking around it and gently stroking the shiny fender. "Who’s gonna ride ‘em?"

   "The traffic guys," Benny said. "Department thought it’d be easier for ‘em to hide and spring speed traps with bikes than it is in squads."

   Starsky mounted the bike and experimentally stood it up off the kickstand to get the feel of it. Benny held out a helmet, which Starsky accepted and put on before he started the bike. "Hey, Hutch, come on. I’ll give ya a ride."

   "No," Hutch said, making no move to climb on. "You go ahead."

   "Aw, come on, buddy," Starsky begged. "I won’t do nothin’ crazy."

   "You can ride one yourself if you want," Benny offered.

   Hutch shook his head. "No, my concentration’s kind of off today. I wouldn’t feel safe."

   "Then get on with me," Starsky said. "Just around the block, then we’ll go get some lunch."

   Hutch rolled his eyes, but gave in and climbed on behind Starsky, pulling his sunglasses out of his pocket and putting them on. "Once around the block," he said. "And only once."

   "I promise," Starsky said, revving the motor and giving a mock salute to Benny. "Be right back." Traffic was light this time of day, for a change, and Starsky, waiting for a break so he could pull out of the lot into the street, grinned over his shoulder at Hutch. "Almost makes a man want to go back to uniform, don’t it?"

   "Nope," Hutch said. "Traffic duty sucks almost as much as writing reports."

   Starsky chuckled, found his break, and pulled out into the street. The big bike responded almost like a living thing and even Hutch had to admit it was fun. Starsky stopped at the light and, just for fun, hit the siren.

   "Cut that out," Hutch said, laughing in spite of himself. He was holding onto the chrome luggage rack behind the seat, and he let go with one hand to poke his partner in the ribs. "Juvenile delinquent."

   Starsky snickered and turned right. What happened next happened so fast that neither of them could ever get the story the same. An alley cut the next street in half, a street lined with small businesses – a pawnshop, a couple of clothing stores and a mom-and-pop grocery. Starsky was going about thirty miles an hour when a car careened out of that alley and broadsided the motorcycle. Hutch saw it coming out of the corner of his eye and only had time to shout his partner’s name in warning before the impact, which threw him through the air to land with a sickening thud in the street about 10 feet away. Starsky desperately hung onto the bike as it skidded sideways and fell over, sliding into the curb and pinning his right knee to the sidewalk. The car kept going, and Starsky just caught a glimpse of white as it sped away. His ears were ringing and his knee was on fire, but he disentangled himself from the motorcycle and his helmet with the help of a pedestrian who had run over to help, and staggered over to Hutch. Another motorist had stopped her car just in time to keep from running over Hutch, and she was already out of her car and kneeling next to him.

   "H-Hutch?" Starsky’s heart was in his throat and he threw himself down next to the woman. She had produced a scarf from her jacket pocket and was using it to wipe blood from Hutch’s face. So much blood...it soaked into his hair and ran over his forehead and dripped onto the ground. "Oh, my God, Hutch!"

   Hutch’s face was white and he was out cold, but he was breathing. Starsky was afraid to move him or touch him.

   The man who had helped Starsky get off the bike said, "I sent my son to call an ambulance. Is he hurt bad?"

   Starsky couldn’t speak. He shook his head helplessly and gently touched Hutch’s cheek.

   "Looks like he took a nasty knock to the head," the woman said. "It probably looks worse than it is. Head wounds always bleed a lot."

   Starsky was shaking like a leaf, with tears standing in his eyes.

   The woman laid a hand on his shoulder. "It’s going to be all right," she said, very gently. "Are you hurt?"

   "I-I don’t know. I don’t think so," he said blankly, his whole attention focused on his partner, who still had not stirred.

   A squad car roared up and a traffic cop Starsky didn’t know got out. Simmons and Babcock were right behind him in their car. They had gone back downstairs to wait and see what their friends thought of the new bike, and they heard the dispatch to roll to a motorcycle accident right around the corner. Without a word, they’d run for their car to make sure it wasn’t Starsky and Hutch. Simmons got to Starsky first and knelt, putting his arm around him. "You okay, Starsk?"

   Babcock very carefully parted Hutch’s hair to see if he could tell how badly he was hurt.

   "Be careful!" Starsky barked at him. "Don’t move him!"

   "Easy, pal," Simmons said soothingly. "He’s not going to make it worse."

   The traffic cop was taking statements from the witnesses first and had just got to Starsky when the ambulance arrived. "All right, sir, I need you to tell me what happened."

   "Go to hell!" Starsky said, rising long enough to get out of the way for the paramedics, but not so far out of the way that he couldn’t watch what was happening.

   The traffic cop frowned fiercely. "Look here, sir, you can’t talk to an officer of the law that way, even if you are upset -"

   "You look," Simmons said angrily. "This is Detective Sergeant David Starsky and he outranks you! That’s his partner on the ground bleeding. Back the fuck off!"

   The cop obeyed, but he wasn’t happy.

   The paramedics fitted a cervical collar onto Hutch and one of them brought a backboard. They carefully turned him onto his back and put him on the board and it wasn’t until then that he finally opened his eyes.

   "Hutch? Hutch, are you all right?" Starsky broke away from Simmons and knelt at Hutch’s side.

   "Starsk?" Hutch blinked blearily and reached up a hand to touch his head. "God, my head hurts. What happened?"

   "We wrecked, buddy, but you’re gonna be okay. Just let these folks do their job, all right? Can ya do that for me?"

   Hutch couldn’t turn his head because of the collar, and the paramedics were busy strapping him onto the board. "Hey, wait a minute," he said.

   "Hutch, please," Starsky pleaded. "Let ‘em take care of ya. I’ll be right behind ya, I swear. Please, Hutch, you’re gonna be fine. I promise."

   "Can you tell me your name?" one paramedic asked conversationally as he finished strapping Hutch down.

   "Ken Hutchinson," Hutch answered automatically.

   "And what day is it, Ken?"

   "Uh...Thursday. I think."

   "What’s the president’s name?"

   Hutch blinked for a moment. "Um..."

   The paramedic waited a beat or two, then said cheerfully, "Never mind. I don’t even like the guy, myself. What’d you have for lunch, Ken?"

   The other paramedic had returned with the stretcher by now and the two of them, with Babcock’s help, lifted Hutch onto it and secured him to it.

   "Um...I don’t think I had any lunch," Hutch said, slowly and with a puzzled expression on his face.

   "And when’s your birthday, Ken?"

   "My birthday?"

   "Why’s he askin’ him all those questions?" Starsky hissed at Simmons.

   "To see if he’s alert," Simmons whispered back. "Hush."

   The two paramedics rolled the stretcher toward the ambulance. "That’s what I said," the first one said to Hutch, still cheerfully. "When’s your birthday?"

   "Ummm..." Hutch blinked a few more times, beginning to look upset. "Starsk?"

   "I want to know if you know, not if he does," the paramedic said, adding to Starsky and Simmons, "We’re going to Memorial."

   Simmons nodded, holding onto Starsky to help him stand, because he was pretty shaky and his knee was refusing to bear any weight.

   The paramedics finished loading Hutch into the back of the ambulance, and the one who’d been asking all the questions clambered in with him. The other hurried around to the driver’s door. In another moment, they were gone.

   "Sir, I’m afraid I have to insist you answer my questions," the traffic cop said doggedly.

   "What questions?" Starsky turned to him, frowning.

   "What happened?"

   "Some scum pulled out of the alley and tagged us!" Starsky said angrily. "And then the son of a bitch kept going! That’s what happened."

   "Did you get a look at the car, sir?"

   "I did," the woman said. "It was a -"

   "I asked him," the cop said sternly.

   "No," Starsky answered. "Just that it was white. I can’t even tell ya if it was a two door or a four door."

   The cop wrote that down and then looked at Starsky again. "Have you been drinking, sir? You seem to be having a little trouble keeping your balance."

   "Oh, for chrissake," Simmons said. "Who’s your commanding officer? Do you treat all accident victims like this? He’s hurt, you moron, that’s why he can’t stand up."

   "My commanding officer is Lieutenant Danson and yes, sir, I do have to ask accident victims the prescribed questions."

   "Holy shit, he’s a robot," Babcock remarked. "Can I prick you and see if you bleed, youngster?"

   "That was uncalled for, sir."

   "I gotta get to the hospital!" Starsky interrupted. "Hurry up, will ya, so I can go?"

   "I’m afraid I can’t let you go," the officer said. "You have to take a BAC test and I have to get a tow truck, and -" he broke off as he approached the motorcycle. "Sir, this is a police vehicle."

   "And he’s a police officer!" Simmons shouted, losing all patience.

   "Would you guys please take me to the hospital!" Starsky snapped. To the traffic cop, he said, "Get your damned tow truck and write me all the tickets you want for us getting hit by a damned car. But I am leaving now and I’m going to my partner and you ain’t gonna stop me. You got a problem, you tell it to my captain. Dobey. Harold Dobey. Homicide." He turned toward the car, and Simmons, with an ugly look at the traffic cop, helped him get there and got him into the passenger seat.

   "I’ll take care of things here," Babcock called to his partner. "You stick with him."

   Simmons nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgement.

********

   Hutch had been hurt many times in many different ways but he couldn’t remember ever having a headache like this one. It felt as if his head would simply explode any minute or as though someone had driven a spike through his head from front to back.

   The paramedic had given up on when Hutch’s birthday was – good thing, too, Hutch thought, because he couldn’t remember no matter how hard he tried and trying made his head hurt more – and had switched to "What do you do for a living, Ken?"

   "I’m a cop."

   "Which precinct?"

   Which precinct? Hutch had to think about that and was starting to get upset again when he finally remembered. "Ninth."

   All the time he was asking questions, the paramedic was making notations, taking Hutch’s blood pressure, sopping blood off his face and calling information to the driver. And his cheery demeanor never flagged once.

   "What’s your buddy’s name? The curly-haired guy with the limp?"

   "Limp? Was he limping?" Now Hutch really was upset.

   "I’m sure he’s fine," the paramedic said. "Hey, I’m Jim. What’s your friend’s name?"

   "Starsky," Hutch answered. "David Starsky. How bad was he limping?"

   "Just a little," Jim said. "Probably bumped his knee or twisted his ankle in the wreck. He was okay, honest, wasn’t he, Carl?" he called to the driver.

   "Oh, yeah, he was okay," Carl called back. "Don’t worry."

   "See there? So when is your birthday, Ken?"

   "I don’t know," Hutch said impatiently. "I mean, I know, but I just can’t -" He stopped.

   "Okay, okay. No problem. It’ll come to you." Jim peered at his face. "Head hurt much?"

   "Yes," Hutch said.

   They pulled up at the emergency room door and the two paramedics hustled him out of the ambulance and into a treatment room. Hutch wished they hadn’t moved quite so quickly, because watching the ceiling flash by and turn as they pushed the stretcher was making him very sick at his stomach. Closing his eyes made it worse, because then he could feel the room spinning even if he couldn’t see it.

   A doctor was waiting and started examining him and asking all the same questions Jim had asked him. A nurse and Jim worked on getting enough blood mopped up so the doctor could see the actual wound.

   "It’s not very deep," the doctor said, probing it and making Hutch cringe away from his touch. "Sorry. But it’s going to need stitches. Mop him up and we’ll shave a spot -"

   "You’re going to shave my head?"

   "Just a little spot about that big," the doctor said, holding up his fingers about two inches apart. "Can’t be helped. It’s gotta be stitched. It’ll grow back."

   Hutch shut his eyes.

   "Are you sick at your stomach?"

   "Yes."

   "Does your head hurt?"

   "Yes."

   "How bad? On a scale from one to ten, where ten is you want to die." The doctor smiled down at him.

   "Eight and three quarters," Hutch said with a grimace.

   "Ouch. I wish we could give you something for that, but with a head injury, we don’t dare. Not until we’re sure it’s not serious. Can you move your legs?"

   "Yeah." Hutch demonstrated.

   "Your arms?"

   "Yeah."

   "Anything hurt besides your head?"

   "I don’t think I’d notice if it did," Hutch said. "Head hurts pretty bad."

   The doctor told the paramedics to get him out of the collar and backboard, then told Hutch to try turning his head. He watched closely as Hutch obeyed.

   "I think you're okay," he said, bending over and peering at his face again. "We'll get you stitched up and send you home, but somebody has to stay with you and wake you up every couple of hours in case you have a concussion. I don't think you do, but we're not taking any chances. I'm sending you upstairs for a CT scan just to be safe."

   Hutch would have nodded, but it hurt too much. The next 15 minutes were very, very unpleasant. The doctor said he didn’t dare give him an anesthetic, so he had to stitch him up without it and Hutch, seasoned police officer or not, had tears in his eyes before it was all over. His knuckles were white as he clutched the edges of the treatment bed and tried not to cry out. But it was finally over.

   "I’m sorry," the doctor said, and he did sound genuinely sorry. "Don’t take anything today, but you can have some Tylenol tomorrow if the headache is still bothering you. Stay at home and rest for a couple of days. Don’t move around any more than you have to tomorrow. The day after, if you feel up to it, you can be a little more active. But don’t go back to work until Monday, okay?"

   "Okay."

********

   Starsky, in spite of his aching knee and limp, beat Simmons into the emergency room entrance and went straight to the information desk to ask about Hutch.

   The nurse sorted through her files. "I don't find him, sir, but if he arrived by ambulance, they might not have the paperwork up here yet. Have a seat and I'll see what I can find out."

   Starsky opened his mouth to protest, but Simmons had caught up and grabbed his arm. "You two are worse than a couple of old women," he said, but kindly. "Come on, pal, let's sit down and let the lady do her job, okay?"

   He didn't like it, but he let Simmons lead him to the waiting area a few feet away and perched on the edge of an uncomfortable orange vinyl couch, keeping his eyes trained on the desk. The nurse he'd spoken to hadn't reappeared. Another nurse was manning the desk, busily writing something on a chart. Long minutes passed and still the nurse hadn't come back.

   "Something's wrong," Starsky said, starting to rise.

   But Simmons reached up and snagged his arm and hauled him back down. "Starsky, for Pete’s sake. Sit down, wouldja?"

   Starsky sat back down, but he fidgeted and never looked away from the desk. After awhile, he couldn't take it any more and shot out of his seat, dodging Simmons' grab and making it to the desk.

   The second nurse looked up at his approach.

   "I don't mean to be a pest," Starsky said, ignoring the snort from Simmons, behind him. "But I asked the other lady about my partner and she said she'd go check but she never came back."

   "Your partner?"

   "Hutchinson. Ken Hutchinson. He came in an ambulance a little while ago. Motorcycle wreck."

   She looked through the charts and shook her head. "Not here. Hang on. Maybe Mattie couldn't find him, though we're not very busy this afternoon. I'll be right back. I promise," she added with a smile and a pat on his hand. She disappeared through the double doors and Starsky kept fidgeting.

   "Either one of you guys ever been in the hospital when the other one didn't drive the staff bats?" Simmons inquired, leaning against the desk.

   "When I was born," Starsky retorted, "and when Hutch had his tonsils out in 1955."

   "You know when he had his tonsils out? Or did you just make that up?"

   Starsky opened his mouth to reply, but the nurse came back through the doors at that moment and her face was so grave that Starsky's heart almost stopped. Simmons, too, went still at his side.

   "Sir, did your partner have blond hair?" she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

   Did? "Yeah," Starsky said. "Hutchinson. His police ID's in his left hip pocket."

   She wet her lips and came around the desk to take his hands in hers. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know anything about a police ID, but the ambulance that arrived a few minutes ago -" she paused and squeezed his hands gently. "The victim of the motorcycle accident passed away en route to the hospital."

   Starsky's face drained of color and he swayed. Simmons leaped forward and caught him before he fell; steering him back to the couch and helping him sit down. The nurse followed. "I'm so sorry...."

   The first nurse came back and saw them sitting there, took one look at Starsky's face and gently pushed the other nurse aside. "Put your head between your knees," she ordered, and he did, acting without thinking. His head slowly began to clear.

   "I found your friend," she said, her hand on the back of his head to keep it down. "He's being treated and Dr. Luka said he thought he'd be able to go home with you. It'll be about an hour, though. Do you need a doctor?"

   In spite of her restraining hand, Starsky raised his head. "He's not dead?" His voice shook so badly he didn't even recognize it.

   "No," she said. "Where on Earth..." She stopped and looked up at the other nurse. "Oh. The DOA. No, no, that's not your friend. That was a teen-ager. Awfully sad, but not your friend." She glared at the other nurse and jerked her head toward the desk, her meaning crystal clear. The other nurse crept away. "Your friend, in fact, is arguing with the doctor. He's fine. Really. Now, do you want some juice or something?"

   "No," Starsky said, managing a weak smile. "Thanks. We'll just wait here. You'll tell me when I can go see him?"

   "Yes. I promise. You'd better sit quiet now, though, until your color comes back." She patted his hand and went back to her station.

********

   "How much longer before you’re gonna let me back there?" Starsky’s voice came from somewhere outside the room. "Dammit, he’s my best friend and this is all my fault! Don’t you understand? I gotta see him!"

   "Can he come in now?" Hutch asked the doctor.

   "Oh, is he with you?" The doctor grinned. "He’s been giving them hell outside for twenty minutes or better. They finally told him he could come back here but they wouldn’t let him come in here until I was done sewing you back together. I’ll go tell him he can come in and wait with you while they get your paperwork together."

   "Thanks."

   Starsky ducked under the curtain separating Hutch from the next treatment room and stood there, pale and haggard, with the evidence of recent tears still on his cheeks, for several seconds before hurrying across the floor to Hutch and very tenderly touching his cheek. "You okay, buddy? How bad does it hurt? What’d they do to ya?"

   "I’m okay, Starsk." Hutch sat up and forced himself to act normal, though the room spun and his head hurt and his stomach threatened to erupt. "Really, it’s not that bad. Bump on the head, a few stitches. I’ll survive."

   "Stitches?" Starsky walked around behind him and looked at the back of his head. "Oh, babe," he said, low and trembling. "That musta hurt."

   "Still does," Hutch said, forcing a laugh.

   Starsky came back around in front of him and Hutch noticed the telltale pinching around his eyes that meant he was in pain.

   "How are you hurt, Starsk? They told me you hurt your knee."

   Starsky shrugged. "Nothin’. Bike fell on it. It’ll be okay. It’s you I’m worried about. You left a puddle of blood on the street back there, and I thought you were dead when you went flyin’ through the air and landed in the street and didn’t move."

   "Really? I flew through the air?" Hutch didn’t remember that.

   Starsky hitched himself up onto the table with his partner and put his arm around him. "Yeah. You don’t remember? You couldn’t have been knocked out then. Not till you hit the street."

   "I don’t remember that. Last thing I remember is yelling at you when I saw the car coming."

   Starsky, though it hadn’t seemed possible, went a shade paler. "Damn, buddy, that’s scary. Did you tell the doc that?"

   "No," Hutch said. "Look, Starsk, it’s not unusual to lose a couple of minutes when you take a knock on the head. It’s not a big deal, okay? I’m fine. Did you let somebody look at that knee?"

   Starsky shook his head. "Nah, I don’t need a sawbones. God, Hutch -" He gently pushed the blood-stiffened hair away from Hutch’s face. "You oughta see yourself."

   "I don’t want to have nightmares," Hutch said with a grin. "I’m sure it ain’t pretty."

   "I’m so sorry," Starsky said, his voice shaking. "It’s all my fault, I never dreamed something like this would happen and -"

   "Stop that right now," Hutch commanded. "It was an accident. You couldn’t have prevented it."

   "You weren’t wearin’ a helmet," Starsky said. "Why didn’t we wait for Benny to get you one? Why’d I have to insist you climb on that goddamn bike with me? Why -"

   "I said, stop," Hutch said, putting his hand over Starsky’s mouth. "Nobody forced me to go. And it wasn’t your fault I wasn’t wearing a helmet. We were only going around the block. How could we know this would happen? Don’t do this to yourself, buddy, I won’t allow it."

   The nurse appeared then with a clipboard and some papers for Hutch to sign, and a handful of directions for him to take home. "You can go," she said to him. "Need a wheelchair?"

   Hutch glanced at Starsky. "No. I can make it." He slid off the table and the room immediately started spinning. For a moment, he was afraid he would fall flat on his face if he took a single step. But Starsky wrapped his arm around him and got a good firm grip.

   "I got ya, Blintz. Let’s go. Simmons’ll give us a ride to your place and then take me back to the station to get the car."

   "You can’t help, you’ll hurt your knee even more."

   "My knee’s fine, buddy," Starsky said, lying through his teeth and determined to hide how much his knee actually hurt. "Come on, let’s go."

   Starsky managed to walk without limping long enough to get Hutch to Simmons, who smoothly took over on Hutch’s other side and actually took most of the weight in order to spare Starsky. At Venice Place, the narrow stairs gave Simmons an excellent excuse for insisting that he, and not Starsky, help Hutch while Starsky hung back and followed them up the stairs. Simmons was the one who got Hutch safely settled in bed and provided with a glass of orange juice and an ice bag for his aching head, then he and Starsky headed back to the station for the Torino and to report in to Dobey.

   "You aren’t going to be able to hide that bum knee forever, Starsky," Simmons said when they were on their way.

   "I can sure as hell try," Starsky said. "Hutch’s the one who’s important. I ain’t gonna have him worrying about me. He needs to concentrate on HIM."

   Simmons parked the car at the precinct, got out, and started toward the side entrance. By the time he got ten feet from the car, he realized he was alone. Turning back to look, he saw that Starsky was sitting in the passenger seat, with his legs out of the car and his head down between his knees. Simmons rushed back to the car and knelt on the ground in front of his friend.

   "You all right, Starsky?" he asked, trying to get a good look at the other man’s face.

   Starsky had a white-knuckle grip on the doorframe and he was breathing hard. Simmons could see that his knee was swollen and he was clearly not feeling well.

   "Oh, I feel sick," he answered.

   "Just breathe easy. I’m going in and see if the doc is in today." Simmons stood to go, but Starsky released his death grip on the doorframe and grabbed his friend by the wrist.

   "No. ‘M okay. Just gimme a minute. Must be the adrenaline."

   "That knee needs looking after, Starsk."

   "I don’t have time. Gotta get back to Hutch."

   Simmons couldn’t help thinking that Starsky must be one of the most stubborn men he’d ever met. Even more stubborn than his own partner, and that was really saying something.

   Starsky got his breathing back under control and his color was better. He put a hand up for Simmons to help him and he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Taking one tentative step, he knew he’d never make it inside without help, so he agreed to lean on his friend as they slowly made their way to the building. They were stopped by Benny, who’d seen them walking across the lot.

   "Starsky! You okay?" he asked as he jogged toward them.

   "I’m fine, Benny."

   "What about Hutch? They said he got a knock on the head."

   "He did, but he’s okay. Sorry about your new toy."

   Benny shook his head. "That wasn’t your fault, Starsk. All the witnesses said it was a hit and run. Said the guy was weaving as he pulled away, too. Probably drunk – and it was barely noon. Lucky thing he just clipped the back of the bike." He looked at Starsky’s obvious distress and asked, "Did you get looked at, too?"

   "NO!" Starsky shouted, tired of being reminded of what he didn’t need to be told. He was hurt. He was also feeling terrible about what happened, guilty as sin, and scared for his partner. The surprised look on Benny’s face caused Starsky to explain. "Sorry, Benny. I just want to get in there, see Dobey, and get back to Hutch."

   "Don’t worry about it, Starsky. Hope Hutch feels better." Benny smiled and patted Starsky on the shoulder, and then he turned and left the two men to their task of getting into the building, which looked about ten miles away to Starsky at that moment.

   Simmons got the ailing detective back up to the squad room. He knocked on Dobey’s door and took Starsky inside, settling him into one of the chairs.

   "How’s Hutch?" he asked right away.

   "Hurt, but home. I need to get back there."

   Dobey ran a critical eye over Starsky and said, "You don’t look too good yourself. Did the...."

   "I’m fine, Cap. I just wanted to check in and let you know I’ll be staying with Hutch for a few days until he’s better."

   While he was saying he was just fine, Simmons was behind him shaking his head in disagreement. Dobey spotted the gesture and kept a disciplined face. "All right, but I want you to go see the doc on the way out of here."

   "Why does everyone keep insisting that I see a doctor? Look, I’m sore and I want to go back to make sure my partner wakes up and doesn’t have a concussion. If the knee doesn’t get better after I’ve rested it, you know Hutch’ll make me go to the doc. I just want to concentrate on him, okay? Is that too much to ask?" His frustration was mounting. Starsky didn’t want any attention.

   Dobey sighed and said, "Go ahead. Call me later and let me know how you’re both doing. Oh, and, Starsky, this was NOT your fault. Did you hear me?"

   Starsky glared at him, but he said, "Yeah, Cap. I heard. Can I go?"

   "Get outta here."

   Simmons helped him back up and out the door. Starsky did his best to flex out his knee while they went back down to the garage. He’d have to be able to bend it enough to drive. By the time they got there, he was loose enough to make it.

   "Sure you’re okay by yourself?"

   "Yeah. Thanks for everything. Thank Babcock for me, will ya?"

   "I will. Finding out where he got to is next on my list. Call if you need any help, okay?"

   Starsky smiled at him and nodded. His knee was so stiff he could barely clear the brake pedal, but he was able to do it. As he drove away, he wished he had time to go get a change of clothes at his house, but two things stopped him. He didn’t want to leave his partner alone that long and he couldn’t face the thought of going up and down his stairs, then up the ones at Venice Place. He’d borrow something from Hutch instead.

********

   Cassandra had just left a meeting with an important designer. Having secured a commitment for a large number of high-priced handbags for the store, she felt satisfied by the win. Her boss had been trying to get that designer for several years without success. Cassandra knew she’d just earned some points.

   The business of her legitimate job being resolved for the day, Cassandra turned her attention to her more lucrative side business – the one that couldn’t be considered legitimate by anyone’s standards.

   Getting a job on the west coast had become an imperative when her sister died. Vanessa came through Bay City on her way to her death and she’d spent time with her ex-husband. In Cassandra’s mind, that couldn’t have been good.

   Vanessa was trying to double cross a stolen diamond merchant named Wheeler when his men killed her. Unfortunately, Vanessa also had certain important information in her head. Information she may have wanted to give to Hutch to warn him away from the ultimate crime boss, the man over the men over Wheeler. He was involved in everything from drug trafficking to the rackets to stolen gems – all successfully hidden beneath a veil of legitimate businesses. Vanessa had gotten wind that a lowly runner was thinking of turning snitch and she’d told Cassandra she planned to warn off her ex. Cassandra was angry, but Vanessa had put her in her place. Cassandra remembered the phone conversation they’d had the afternoon Vanessa boarded a plane for Bay City.

   Cassandra knew her sister had gotten in over her head, and that knowledge was proven when she turned up dead by Hutch’s gun. That Van was dead because of the big blond man was indisputable in her eyes. She blamed Hutch as much as if he’d pulled the trigger. If Van hadn’t been intent on warning him, she would have flown straight on to Europe and she might still be alive. Cassandra would hate Ken Hutchinson for the rest of her life.

   Telling Hutch about the abortion had been a pure pleasure. Her promise to never tell ended with Van’s death as far as she was concerned. The pathetic, painful look on Hutch’s face had made enduring his presence – and the company of his bouncy partner – bearable. No matter how handsome he was, she thought Starsky was completely unsophisticated. He’d even had the nerve to flirt with her, as if a streetwise cop had a chance in hell of ever getting a date with Cassandra Davenport.

   Making her ex brother-in-law vulnerable to her was an important part of the plan. She was determined to find out what Van had told him. Most importantly, even Cassandra didn’t know the identity of the person who was threatening to turn snitch. Vanessa never told her. Cassandra’s boss was hoping maybe she had told her ex-husband. Whoever it was still hadn’t surfaced in the year since Vanessa’s death. She pulled out her address book and dialed the number for Hutch’s precinct. Running into him at the bank had been an unbelievably fortuitous coincidence. She’d have to be more overt this time. Finding out what Vanessa told him that last night was her number one mission.

   The phone call revealed that Detective Hutchinson was not in and that had her curious. He and Starsky had said they had the day shift that day. Although the woman she spoke with didn’t give her any details, Cassandra thought she detected an odd note in her tone.

   PART TWO