Icarus Drowned

By Rebelcat

Chapter 1

Wednesday, July 15, 1970

"Mm…" Starsky stretched luxuriously, arching his back and folding his hands behind his head. When that failed to elicit an admiring comment, he rolled over onto his side. "That was…" he paused, waiting for Kathy to glance back at him. "Not bad." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Kathy laughed without looking at him. "Yes, I'd say that was at least average," she agreed. A small frown creased her forehead, and she leaned over to look under the bed. "Have you seen my bra?"

Starsky sighed, disappointed. Wasn't it the guy who was supposed to be guilty of 'wham, bam, thank you ma'am'? "I think it's over there somewhere." He waved vaguely at the other end of the room. When she leaned over the edge of his bed to look underneath, his eyes fixed appreciatively on the assets she was displaying. "We can still be friends?"

She slid off the bed and stood up, still searching. "I thought being friends was what it was all about. If we don't have friendship, then what have we got?"

This was dangerous territory. Pushing it further would almost certainly mean no more lazy afternoons like this one. And Kathy was one of the best girls he'd ever managed to get into his bed. The last one had been a chain smoker – kissing her had been like diving head first into an ashtray. And she had left his pillows smelling like smoke.

Kathy, on the other hand, left behind only the mingled scents of perfume and sex.

Starsky sat up, and discovered the missing article of clothing under his hip. Tossing it to her, he suggested, "Raw animal lust?"

She smiled. "Oh well, if you put it that way…"

Opening his closet, Kathy pulled out the garment bag she'd placed there the night before, opened it and began to dress. Starsky rolled over onto his stomach and propped his chin up on his hand. Her flight attendant's uniform was cut high, exposing a generous amount of leg, while the tailoring of the jacket served to enhance what was already a very nicely curved figure.

"I wish you didn't have to leave," he said, with genuine regret. "I could easily do this for another forty-eight hour layover. And another after that, and then another…"

She wrinkled her nose. "You know it wouldn't be much fun after awhile. It would get routine."

Starsky's eyes narrowed. "You mean like, if you work at McDonalds long enough, you pretty soon find out that you don't want to eat burgers anymore?"

Cautiously, Kathy said, "I suppose…"

Starsky smirked. Imitating the bored tones of a teenaged counter jockey, he said, "You wan' fries with that? Oh… it's just another Big Mac…"

She froze. "You did not just compare me to a Big Mac!"

Starsky arranged his features into an expression of innocence. "What? Would it be better if I said you're like a Filet-O-Fish?"

She grabbed a pillow. He ducked, covering his head as she smacked him with it. "You're awful!"

Starsky scrambled off the bed. "Okay, how about apple pie? You know, All-American and… sweet?"

That last hopeful adjective was uttered about two octaves higher than his normal range as he ducked a flying shoe.


The stairs up to Starsky's apartment were at the back of the southwestern style building, weathered gray wood standing out in stark contrast to the painted stucco. Hutch paused and wrinkled his nose. There was an odd smell in the air, as if something was burning, but vaguely sweet as well. There was only thing he could think of that smelled like that…

A door slammed open above him and Hutch stepped back off the stairs, making room for a young woman in a flight attendant's uniform. Starsky, wearing only a sheet clutched around his waist, appeared on the landing above her. "Hey!" he bellowed, "You're the one who said it would get routine!"

She turned, and Hutch hopped backwards as her overnight bag swung dangerously close to his knees. "Trust me, I'm not worried about that anymore!"

Starsky waved a high heeled shoe at her, one-handed. "But I've still got your shoe!"

She pivoted, forcing Hutch back against the garbage cans. "Give me my shoe. Now!"

Starsky tossed the shoe at her. "You know if Cinderella had been as mean as you –." The shoe bounced on the stairs and landed with a clatter among the cans. "I didn't do that on purpose!"

Hutch retrieved the shoe and handed it to the woman.

She gave him an approving nod. "Now you are a real prince. Not like him!" Shoe in hand, she strode away with her back straight and her head high.

Starsky leaned against the railing and watched her go, a chagrined expression on his face. Then he shook himself and grinned at Hutch. "Hi! You're early."

Hutch decided he'd obviously made a mistake dropping by unannounced. "Um…"

But Starsky was now smiling as happily as if he'd been expecting Hutch all along. "Come on up!" He tossed the tail of his sheet over his shoulder, turning it into a toga.

"I hope this isn't a bad time..." started Hutch, as he climbed the rickety wooden stairs.

"This is great!" Starsky backed up into his hallway. "I'm glad you're here. I'll show you around Parker Center, get you your locker, introduce you to all the guys, and the girls, except we won't let Nancy know about those…"

Hutch closed the door. "Nance… I mean, Vanessa's not that bad. She just gets insecure sometimes." He looked at Starsky's cluttered apartment, and thought that he definitely didn't miss his bachelor days. Van wasn't much of a housekeeper, but at least she kept things tidy.

Starsky shrugged noncommittally. "I suppose there's something to be said for predictability," he said, as he disappeared into the bedroom.

Hutch pushed a pair of blue jeans off the couch and sat down. He could hear Starsky rummaging around inside his closet on the other side of wall. A moment later Starsky reappeared, tugging on the zipper of his worn jeans and hopping on one foot as he crossed the living room on his way to the bathroom.

"You're going to love Parker Center, Hutch! Did you know we had to scrape a mugger off the road the other day? There was this little old lady – I swear, she looked like Aunt Jemima. Anyway this moron stood right in front of her car and pointed a gun at her, and what did she do? She hit the gas. Ran right over him! Like I always say, don't mess with little old ladies."

Hutch watched pensively as Starsky ricocheted off the walls, keeping up a running monologue as he dressed. They'd been friends when they'd attended the Academy together. But now they'd be spending hours together every day. Working together, eating together, shoulder to shoulder in a police car...

If he tried to spend that much time with Van – whom he loved – it would probably end in someone's homicide, and he'd take even odds as to who'd snap first.

Shoving the uneasy speculation aside, Hutch commented, "Your girl seemed a little put out this morning."

Starsky's answer was muffled by a mouthful of toothbrush. "Ah, I jus' compared her to fast food. She'll be back..." He paused and spat into the sink. "In a month or two. Depending on her flight schedule."

Hutch wondered if he'd heard Starsky correctly. "Did you just say fast food?"

The sound of running water covered the sound of Starsky's answer. All Hutch could make out was something about, "...liberated woman..."

With idle curiosity, Hutch took a look around the small apartment. An odd clay statue squatted between a scale model of a red sports car and a brass menorah. A copy of Masters' and Johnston's 'Human Sexual Response' was sandwiched between 'Bigfoot: Fact or Fiction?' and 'Happiness is a Warm Puppy'. And an old baseball appeared to have been placed with peculiar care exactly in the center of the coffee table, next to a sliding stack of True Crime comic books.

Leaning forward, Hutch picked the ball up and turned it over in his hands, expecting to see an autograph, something to explain the significance of the artifact. There was nothing. It was simply an ordinary leather ball, the stitching a little worn on one side.

He had just replaced it when Starsky emerged from the bedroom, snagging an army jacket off the back of a chair.

"I have to drop off my rent, okay?" He extracted a crumpled check from his pocket and held it up.

"Sure," said Hutch, climbing to his feet. They weren't expected to report in for a good hour yet.

Starsky waited until they were both outside on the stairs and then closed the outside door.

"You don't lock it?" Hutch was surprised. In this part of town he would have expected to find every door not only locked, but bolted and barred as well.

Starsky gave him a lopsided grin. "Just look at the frame, buddy. One good kick and that whole thing will cave right in. If it's locked, I'll be out whatever they stole and I won't have a front door left either. But if my door's already open…"

Bemused, Hutch trailed after Starsky as he clattered down the stairs. This whole area of town was as confusing a warren of streets and alleys as he'd ever seen. It was very different from the quiet suburb where he'd been working these last two years.

A skinny yellow cat hopped up onto a garbage can and glared at the two of them. It jumped down as Starsky banged on a door set into the side of the building.

"C'mon Weezie," hollered Starsky. "I know you're in there! If you don't take this money off my hands, I'm gonna count this month as a freebie!"

Yellow flakes of peeling paint drifted down to the ground as Starsky banged again. Finally the door opened. A pungent cloud of smoke hit Hutch in the face as a voice mumbled, "Okay, okay man, jus' mellow out there. You're all uptight and tense, you need…"

The smell was unmistakable. Hutch started to say, "Hey," but was cut off by an urgent tingling sensation in the back of his nose. He had barely enough time to cover his face before he was rocked by a resounding sneeze. Two more nasal explosions followed the first, and by the time he pried his watering eyes open, Starsky had shoved the envelope into his landlord's hands, straight-armed him back into the interior of his apartment, and slammed the door shut.

Hutch grabbed Starsky arm. "Just a minute!"

"Don't say it," pleaded Starsky.

"He's smoking marijuana in there!"

Starsky's shoulders slumped. "Aw, Hutch. Why'd you have to say that? Now I'll have to bust my landlord, and then where will I live?" He grimaced. "It's just a couple of joints."

Hutch pushed Starsky back a step. "That was a lot of smoke for 'just a couple of joints'. How can you ignore something like that? You're a cop!"

Instead of answering, Starsky grabbed Hutch's elbow and steered him out onto the street. They stopped by Hutch's two year old Ford Escort. Starsky hopped up onto the hood and gestured at his nose, saying nasally, "I god a code, see? Can't smell a thing!" He gave Hutch a hopeful smile, the backs of his heels bouncing against the front tire.

"Right," said Hutch, sarcastically. "And you've had this cold how long? For the whole three months you've lived here?"

"About that," admitted Starsky. "Do you know how long it took me to find a place I could afford? Besides, Weezie ain't a bad guy! He's strictly small time. He's an independent. He grows it all himself and gives most of the stuff away for free."

Hutch sighed and dropped his head to rub the bridge of his nose. After a moment he looked up and said, "You know, I bet you could afford a better place if you weren't always sinking all your money into that car of yours."

Relief was swiftly replaced by incredulity. "What's wrong with my car?" Starsky glanced over at his yellow Camaro as if expecting to discover that it had morphed into something else overnight.

"It's very… bright," said Hutch, carefully.

"It's the color of sunshine!"

"Or lemons."

Starsky crossed his arms over his chest, frowning indignantly. "Says the man driving a car the color of puke."

"It's avocado!"

"Don't matter what you call it, it's the ugliest shade of green I've ever seen." Starsky glanced at his watch. "Hey, if we don't get down to the precinct soon, I won't have any time to show you around."

He slid off the hood of Hutch's car and jogged down the sidewalk. "Just follow me, and you won't get lost!"

Hutch shouted after him, "Just remember, we're not done with this conversation!"

"Yeah, yeah," Starsky waved a hand at him, without looking back.

Friend... and partner, Hutch reminded himself. Overlooking one little dope peddler didn't make Starsky corrupt, or even a bad cop. He was probably a lot more conscientious when he was on the job. After all, he'd been a good guy in the Academy.

Hutch blew out a worried breath, and opened the door of his car.


The smog hung low and heavy over the city, turning the sun into a sickly smear on the horizon. The radiant heat of the day was still reflecting up off of the surface of the road.

Starsky shifted uncomfortably, the polyester blend of his dark blue uniform shirt sticking to his skin as the sweat trickled down his lower back. Short sleeves were small consolation in weather like this. As he brought the east bound traffic to a halt and waved the pedestrians across, he found himself envying the city workers in their summer shorts.

Maybe I'm in the wrong career, thought Starsky, eyeing the guy at the top of the cherry picker, well above the heat of the street. I bet I could fix traffic lights.

Days like these always made Starsky wonder what insanity had inspired him to trade one uniform for another, after the army. But that was before he had faced the prospect of spending his whole life driving cabs. Starsky gave a sweating cabby a nod and reminded himself that there were worse things than being a cop. And even cops didn't have to spend their whole careers in uniform.

Starsky glanced over to see Hutch crossing the road toward him. When he was close enough, Starsky said, "If we were detectives, we wouldn't have to do this ever again. I bet, you an' me, we could make sergeant inside of two years, easy. And then we could go plainclothes!"

There, thought Starsky, very pleased with the startled look Hutch gave him. That should give him something else to chew on, besides my hippie landlord.

Starsky made his way back to the squad car and helped himself to some water from the flask on the front seat. He was relieved to see that it was more than three-quarters empty. Hutch needed to keep hydrated. Blonds were never any good in the heat. Watching his partner direct traffic, Starsky nodded to himself, confirming his own conclusion. Under the dark uniform cap, Hutch was already turning bright red, and his hair was clinging damply to the back of his neck. Even his forearms were beginning to look sunburned.

Starsky abruptly straightened, still holding the water. Hutch had just brought the eastbound lane to a halt, and was turning to signal to the west. Behind his back, the third vehicle in the lane he'd just stopped suddenly swerved out of line. It was a battered blue Chevy pickup truck.

Accelerating around the two cars in the front, the truck hit the edge of the sidewalk, popped up onto two wheels, and veered into the center of the intersection.

"Hutch!"

Starsky had a brief glimpse of Hutch's startled expression, and then the truck was across the road and sliding sideways at the squad car, tires screeching as the driver tried to regain control.

Starsky dropped the water and rolled over the hood of his cruiser. He hit the cement as the truck barreled towards him. He heard brakes squeal, and then the grinding crunch of metal impacting metal. He squeezed his eyes shut in horrified anticipation, only to snap them back open immediately as he realized that, while the truck had clearly hit something, it hadn't been the squad car. Or himself.

Lifting his head cautiously, Starsky peeked over the hood of the squad car. The rear of the truck had swung to a stop a few inches short of the driver side door. The nose had crumpled, and there was steam issuing from under the hood.

It took him a moment to sort out the tangled knot of vehicles. The pickup truck had hit an older series tan Oldsmobile, causing it to ricochet into the side of the hydro truck in a domino-like chain reaction. The worker at the top of the swaying cherry picker was cursing loudly.

Absurdly, Starsky found himself impressed by how little damage the bumper of the Oldsmobile had taken, compared to the newer Chevy truck. He wondered what year the Oldsmobile had been manufactured – based on the style and chrome trim, he'd have to guess sometime in the thirties.

Shaking off that brief moment of distraction, Starsky scrambled over the hood of the squad car.

"Hutch!"

Hutch was on the far side of the hydro truck, picking himself up off the concrete. He waved.

Satisfied that Hutch was uninjured, Starsky turned back.

The driver's side door of the pickup truck flew open with a bang, and first one work boot hit the cement, followed shortly by the other. Starsky stared, alarmed, as the occupant of the truck unfolded himself. He had an impression of workman's dungarees, topped by a white undershirt with a pack of smokes rolled into the left sleeve. Perched atop a set of broadly muscled shoulders, apparently without the mediating influence of a neck, was an alarmingly red face.

Starsky took a deep breath and drew his shoulders back, preparing himself for a confrontation. They can smell fear, he thought. And right on the heels of that thought came the realization that the only thing he could smell was beer. Lots of it.

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak a furious blur of motion shot past him. Starsky watched astonished as the driver of the Oldsmobile suddenly laid into the truck driver, shrieking furiously at the top of her lungs.

In Spanish.

The man staggered as her large brightly crocheted satchel swung directly up above her head to impact with his nose. He covered his face with both hands, and backpedaled swiftly until he was trapped against the side of his truck. "Goddammit, lady!"

"Vigila tu lenguaje, jovencito!" shouted the old woman, her flowered hat tipping precariously to the side, tendrils of grey hair escaping her bun. In her right hand she brandished a yellow umbrella.

Starsky quickly inserted himself between them, his hands up, one palm facing the driver of the truck, the other the old woman.

"Ma'am, please!" Starsky said, urgently. "I know he hit your car, but--."

"Crazy old bat!" shouted the truck driver, his voice muffled, as he continued to clutch his nose with both hands.

"Tu eres el que está loco!" shouted the old woman, reaching past Starsky to jab the truck driver in the shin with her umbrella.

"Ow!" bellowed the man, hopping on one leg. Grabbing Starsky's shirt he said, "Goddammit, do something! Help me!"

"Ma'am…" said Starsky, again.

Hutch's voice cut through the confusion. "Por favor, señora, permítanos resolver esto a nosotros."

Starsky was astonished. "Hutch! You speak Spanish?"

Hutch shot him a quick grin, and then offered his arm to the old lady. She hesitated a moment, still glowering at the truck driver. Then reluctantly, she accepted Hutch's arm. Hutch led her back to her car, talking quietly.

Starsky turned to face the truck driver, who was now staring mournfully at a few drops of blood on his hands.

"What is your name, sir?"

The man sniffled and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Eddie Harmer," he said, nasally. "I tink dat ol'lady broke my node!"

Starsky didn't doubt it, but he wasn't feeling any sympathy for the unfortunate Eddie. "Mr. Harmer, turn around and place your hands on the truck."

"What?" Eddie exclaimed. "You're not arresting me!"

"I am," said Starsky, evenly. He let his hand drop down to rest on his sidearm. "Turn around and put your hands on the truck."

With a curse, Eddie turned and slapped both hands on either side of the driver's window. He dropped his head. "I can't believe this!"

Starsky grabbed one wrist. Eddie resisted a moment, and then let Starsky bring his hands behind him one at a time to cuff him. "You're under arrest for reckless driving, uttering threats, intimidation, disturbing the peace…" Starsky paused and craned his head to the side to get a better look at the dented nose of the truck. "Oh, and it looks like your left front signal light isn't working. I'll have to write you a ticket for that."

"Now just wait one dang minute!" Eddie turned to face Starsky, his arms pinned awkwardly behind him. "I'm the victim here. That crazy old bat broke my nose! Ain't you gonna arrest her, too?"

Starsky stepped forward and looked Eddie up and down, taking a pointed sniff. "I'm adding driving under the influence to the list of charges, as well. How many drinks did you have before hitting the road? Or before hitting that sweet little old lady's car, or before almost hitting my partner, while we're on the topic of hitting things?"

"I'm not drunk!" protested Eddie.

"Uh huh, you wanna prove it?" Starsky grinned nastily. "I could have you do a sobriety test, if you like. Extend both arms to the side, close your eyes and touch your nose…"

"You got me cuffed, and my nose is broken!"

"An' I'm sure the fellers down in lock-up will be real sympathetic when they hear how you got beat up by somebody's granny." Starsky's smile disappeared, and he shoved Eddie towards the squad car. "So shut up and get in the back!"

As Starsky called in a report on the situation, he could hear Hutch in the background continuing to talk to the old woman in Spanish, while simultaneously trying to direct traffic around the scene of the accident. He clearly had his hands full, but there was one more thing Starsky needed to do before he could go and help his partner.

Extracting a battered card from his rear pocket he squinted at it for a moment before carefully beginning to read aloud from it.

"You have the right to remain silent." Every six months it seemed the higher-ups had to mess with the wording. This latest card had been distributed only a few weeks ago, and the printing was annoyingly tiny. "If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you at no cost. During any questioning, you may decide at any time to exercise these rights, not answer any questions or make any statements." Starsky finished with a flourish and leaned down to look at Eddie. "Ya got all that?"

A subdued grumble answered him.

"You have to say 'Yes sir, I understand.'"

"Yes! I got it!" snapped Eddie.

Straightening, Starsky looked for Hutch. He appeared to have everything well in hand, and Starsky felt an unexpected rush of pride in his partner. Back at the precinct, he'd overheard the guys speculating openly on how long it would be before Hutch melted under the pressure. They figured because he'd transferred from a quiet suburban precinct, he didn't know anything about real policing.

Those guys didn't know anything about Hutch. It didn't matter, though. Starsky knew Hutch's quality, and the rest of them would figure it out for themselves soon enough.

"I want a cigarette," grumbled Hutch, as Starsky joined him in the intersection.

Of course, no partnership was completely conflict-free.

To be continued...