Beautiful Souls

by wuemsel

An undercover assignment at an escort service... Sounds like we know the perfect team for that, doesn't it?

Hey gang! I know, I know, again, it's been a lifetime since I posted something, but, uh... Well, I just hope you'll like this read. It's more of a whodunnit than my usual psycho-babble-stuff, but there is some Starsky h/c in it, so... shrug Hope you'll have fun.

I wanna thank my Muse Eli, without whom I'd never have written this, and whom I won't see but talk to soon. :) Take care, partner!

Also, special thanks to my beta-buddy Tamminy for taking the trouble to read through and listen to this. Jenny still likes ya, babe. :)

I don't own Dobey and the guys, but I do own all the other folks, including Starsky's girl, a fact that might come in handy one day, blackmailing-wise... heh, heh...

Beautiful Souls

by wuemsel

Bright morning light danced on the green--greeting Hutch's tired eyes--when he stepped into his greenhouse to serve breakfast to his dozen roomies.

"Mornin' plants," he mumbled around a wide yawn that he didn't bother covering. "Have a good night's sleep?" He picked up the watering can. "Well, that's some of us."

As he wandered through the room, giving each plant what it needed, he occasionally sipped at the too-hot coffee in his other hand.

Another yawn broke free, just as he came to a halt in front of the newest addition to his jungle: a half-green, half-yellow, tree-like little something he'd bought at his favorite flower shop a few weeks ago. At the shop, Hutch seemed to recall, yellow hadn't been part of its makeup. But ever since it'd been under his care, the yellow had started to spread like a rash.

Studying it, Hutch frowned in frustration. Using the watering can, he lifted one large, completely dark-yellow leaf, and shook his head at the sad sight.

"Y'know," he told it, as he poured water into its pot, "I've been working double-shifts for two weeks without getting any sleep in between. What's your excuse, Pal?"

As if listening to an answer, he looked at it, then shrugged and added his coffee to the water in its pot. "See if that'll help," he muttered and went on with a yawn. 'Sure doesn't help me.'

He was just finished with the morning feeding when loud noises from the hallway outside could be heard. With a smile, Hutch stepped into his kitchen to get two more coffee mugs.

"I wasn't insulting the ugly can, Dave," a female voice, said. "I merely suggested that maybe it's just not made for California weather."

Hutch chuckled, pouring coffee into the three mugs.

"Why d'you say that?" the second voice asked. "Of course it is! It's a Californian car!"

"There are no such things as Californian cars," the first voice corrected.

The second voice dropped into a snort. "I wish you'd stop making suggestions about stuff you have no clue about."

Hutch leaned against the breakfast counter, coffee in hands, and watched the door.

"Well, you know," voice #1 replied matter-of-factly, "if your Californian car hadn't broken down because of the Californian weather outside, you wouldn't have to listen to me, clueless thing, stating the obvious."

There was a short pause -- one of those wordy silences that required eye-contact only -- then the male voice stated: "This discussion is over."

Hutch grinned into his coffee mug.

The woman didn't say anything to that, though Hutch could picture her non-verbal reaction to it. "What're you doing?" she asked instead.

"Getting in," her companion answered, his frustration from their conversation evident in his tone.

"You can't just get in like that," she chided. "At least knock!"

"Ally..." he sighed, but she wouldn't let him finish.

"Seriously, David."

It was followed by a knocking so sudden and so violent that Hutch jumped, almost spilling his coffee.

"Ken! It's us!"

"Yeah..." Hutch answered absently, checking his t-shirt for spots. "Come in."

The door opened, revealing a very annoyed Dave Starsky and his smiling girlfriend, Allison Pacero. She closed the door behind them as her boyfriend went straight for the coffee.

"Hey, Blintz," he greeted Hutch, who nodded at him, unnecessarily wiping at his t-shirt.

Only after the first gulp of coffee did Starsky cast his friend a real look, which quickly turned into a frown. "Sleep last night?"

"Um... not much." Hutch shrugged in a 'you know how it is' gesture, turning to smile at Allison, as she tossed her purse on the couch and joined the men in the kitchen. "Hi, Al. Coffee's fresh."

"Great. Thanks," she said and accepted the mug he handed her. "That's what I need after ten minutes of watching your partner here crawling through the insides of whatever it is he's misusing as a vehicle."

The emphasis on the 'your' in 'your partner' made Hutch's lips twitch in a repressed grin. "Oh?" he asked innocently.

"It was five minutes," Starsky muttered, only to be ignored.

"I hope your car's not as sensitive," Allison continued, "or the city's safety lays in the hands of two pedestrians."

"My car would run on the sun," Hutch let her know.

Next to him, Starsky let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling. "Someone shoot me, please."

Taking pity on him--largely due to the enormous fatigue that made teasing look like a tiresome task--Hutch patted Starsky's shoulder comfortingly. "Cheer up, Buddy. Look at it this way: that means it's your turn to choose the lunch place."

Starsky seemed about to cast him a glare, when his face lit up as the message suddenly reached him. "Hey! That's right, isn't it?"

Hutch smiled at him, when he suddenly felt a small, cool hand on his forehead and turned to look at one frowning Allison Pacero.

"You sure you're feeling all right?" she asked in faked worry. "You wanna eat what he eats?" As if on cue, her stomach rumbled, all three of them looking at it in surprise. With a shrug, Allison put down her coffee and headed for the fridge.

"Uh, Al, wait, I think I have some..." Hutch started, opening the cupboard that should contain the weird cereal that Starsky had talked him into buying.

But Allison had already let the 'fridge door fall closed again. She shook her head. "How can it be that all there is in the 'fridge of a guy, who reads the Tofutown News, is beer and a..." Suddenly frowning deeply, she opened the door again. "Ken, why is there a plant in your fridge?"

"It's sick," Starsky and Hutch replied in unison.

Allison looked up at them, then back, then shrugged. Once more, the door fell shut. "Right," she said in a tone of voice probably heard a lot in an asylum. "'Course it is. Why am I asking?"

"It does react to..." Hutch tried to explain, but one glance at Allison's face told him better. "I-I, uh, have some cereals here," he said, looking around, ineffectively. "Somewhere."

Allison waved. "Don't bother. I'll get something on my way." She checked her watch. "I should be going now, anyway. Thanks for the coffee."

Hutch nodded with a small smile, once more leaning against the counter.

"Now," Allison said, as she turned to her boyfriend, all but catching him in an embrace that forced him to look down into her face. "Don't forget about tonight, okay?" From one second to the next, her tone of casual irony changed into a plea.

Starsky smiled reassuringly. He put away his coffee to take her face in both hands. "Hey. I said I'll be there, didn't I? Don't worry." He kissed her, then smiled again. "Okay?"

Allison looked at him, her brows arched.

"Sweetheart," Starsky said and kissed her again. "I'll be there. I promise."

At last she let go of him. "You promise?" she repeated. The irony was back. "You promise you'll tell the bad guys you won't have time to chase them tonight, because your lady requires rescue from the House of Misery?"

Unseen, Hutch smiled wryly at that.

Starsky, on the other hand, shrugged, feigning a carefree attitude. "Sure," he said. Laying one arm around her shoulders, he drew her towards him and added, "Anyone draws a gun on me today, I'll tell 'em, 'Look, Pal, no can do. I've the most beautiful girl on this Earth relying on my rescue.'"

"Works every time," Hutch commented from the counter, outside the scene. As Allison struggled to suppress a chuckle, he nodded importantly.

"A'right, a'right," she said, turning to her boyfriend again. "I know you'll try."

Starsky nodded.

"'Cause you know better than not to," she added.

Starsky nodded some more, a look of mock-dread now on his face.

With a snorted smile, Allison lightly punched his shoulder, then quickly kissed his cheek and turned to grab her bag. "Well, okay then. You boys be careful." Over her shoulder, she cast them her usual half-stern, half-serious gaze.

"Will do," they replied in unison.

Her hand already on the doorknob, Allison turned once more, as if there was something she had forgotten. "Oh, and Honey?"

"Hmm?"

"When you pick me up tonight?"

"Yeah?"

In the low, conspiratorial tone that women use when they want to be direct, but not insulting, Allison almost whispered, "Um... wear something nice."

Hutch grinned into his coffee while Starsky frowned down at his faded red t-shirt and blue jeans. Finishing his perusal of his own outerwear, his confused eyes met Allison's gaze.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asked, almost hurt.

Allison tilted her head to one side. "Well, for one thing there's a blood stain on that t-shirt that's at least a hundred years old, and as for the rest..." Letting her gaze wander down his appearance, she trailed off with a sigh. "Just do it, all right? For me?"

"Thought I was already going there for you," Starsky grumbled.

"Then just consider the favor a two-part piece," Allison told him. When he didn't answer, her fine dark brows once more climbed up to frame her powerful, kicked-kitten look.

Starsky rolled his eyes, a man aware of his defeat. "For you, I'll even wear a tie," he said, sounding as loving as a high school kid accepting his lunch at the cafeteria.

Allison smiled sweetly. "I love you."

"Yeah," Starsky grumbled, lifting his coffee for a sip.

"See ya, Ken." Allison waved, without looking, and left.

"Bye, Al. So," Hutch said, gazing questioningly at his partner, "tie-time for the boss again, huh?"

"Yeah." Starsky nodded and poured himself the rest of the coffee, then wandered over to hop up onto his favorite spot on Hutch's breakfast counter. "You know how she gets before those dinner meetings," he added as if needing to apologize for his girlfriend.

The truth was that Hutch was more aware of that feeling than anyone knew, but he kept his silence.

"I just wonder why," Starsky continued. "I mean, he is a nice guy."

Hutch smiled dryly. "Well..." His hands lifted in a small gesture. "Maybe the fact that he's not your dad has something to do with his niceness to you."

Starsky gazed away, obviously aware he'd just entered unknown terrain, but not yet willing to admit it. "Okay, I admit I only met him some time ago, and, yes, he's a chauvinistic ass. But he really loves her, y'know? A lot."

"So how come he lets you get near her?" Hutch asked.

"Fun-ny. No, serious, Hutch, I mean..." Starsky shrugged as a substitute for something he wanted to say but couldn't find the words for. "She does run the business. She's only going to those monthly things out of a feeling of obligation."

Hutch looked at him wordlessly.

"And don't give me that look," Starsky ordered. He finished his coffee and slid off the breakfast counter.

"What look?"

"The look that's supposed to tell me that I don't know that not everyone was raised by Mike and Rachel Starsky."

"Is that what it looks like?"

"Yes."

"Good." With that, Hutch put away his unfinished coffee in order to head for his bedroom. He could feel his friend's annoyed frown follow him.

"You know, she's right," Starsky told him when he returned with a light jacket and his holster. He was standing in front of the open 'fridge, letting the door fall shut as Hutch reentered the kitchen. "There's nothing in there but beer and the patient. No wonder you can't sleep."

"What, knowing your 'fridge is stuffed helps you sleep through?"

"Sure," Starsky replied as if it were undeniably common. "Gives ya a good feeling. Kinda safe. Homey."

"Uh-huh." Brows raised, Hutch nodded. "Your 'fridge hasn't seen fresh food since you moved in."

Starsky was not impressed. "Maybe. But at least there is food in my 'fridge."

"Yeah. You comin'? I don't wanna be late again." Checking his watch, Hutch turned for the door, putting on his jacket as he went.

"I mean it," Starsky called after him. He closed the door behind them and followed Hutch down the hallway. "You should have this insomnia thing of yours checked out. It's been going on for what now, three weeks?"

"One and a half," Hutch corrected, annoyed. "And there's nothing you can do about insomnia. Besides, I don't have insomnia. I have trouble sleeping."

"Right," Starsky said, unconvinced. They had arrived at the parked LTD outside of the building.

Already, Hutch regretted having put on the jacket. Throwing an annoyed glance upwards, he shook his head. It was seven in the morning, for crying out loud! Who wanted to sweat at seven in the morning?

"Want me to drive?" Starsky asked, a picture of pure, thoughtful innocence.

Hutch shot him a glare and got into his car.

With a 'have-it-your-way' shrug, Starsky opened the passenger door. "Maybe it's all that stuff you don't eat," he continued with his unsolicited advice. "Or maybe it's what you do eat," he said, after he'd closed his door.

"Maybe it's all this rambling I have to listen to all day," Hutch snapped, starting the car.

Starsky seemed to consider that, waggling his head as if thinking. "Maybe you don't watch enough TV," he said at last. "TV makes you tired. I read that somewhere."

Rolling down the window with one hand and driving with the other, Hutch was pretending that he was not listening. Speaking over Starsky's comments, Hutch asked, "By the way, why would there be blood on that t-shirt?" He glanced at it, as if trying to remember when Starsky could have worn it before. "I don't think I remember."

"Me neither," Starsky admitted. "But then, you probably wouldn't. What with no hole to match the blood, it's likely to be yours."

Hutch thought about that. With a light grimace, he nodded. "Good point."

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'Pacero & Son' was one of the city's most successful publishing houses, specializing in books about cooking, wines, Californian history and, ever since Allison Pacero had succeeded her father as the head of the business, Native American art.

The 'son' in the name had originally been Jeffrey Pacero, Allison's father, who hadn't thought it necessary to change it even though his son was a daughter. A daughter that he had never considered as a possibility when it came to running the business. When it had become clear that no male heir would fill in the position of the 'son', Jeffrey had started looking around for a fitting successor. He had not had much success. Though the book concern was practically running itself at that point, and the job would have been a lucrative one, none of the few young, promising men that Pacero had hired had proven able to work with him. Or to follow his orders. To his satisfaction.

True, they had all wanted to work for the sake of the publishing house. For the sake of knowledge (about baked potatoes and red wine and the great earthquake in 1906). For the sake of earning enough money to buy themselves nice, Mexican-style haciendas in the hills of Bay City.

But some prices were just too high.

And being in Jeffrey Pacero's everyday company was that high price. It wasn't that the man was unfriendly, just direct. And it wasn't that he was thoughtless, just not interested in people. He was, in short, the sort of man who would tell you that his father hadn't gotten the book concern to this level by calling it a day at midnight.

He was the kind of man whose child would work all her life to earn his praise. The kind of father whom she continued to emulate, though she knew better.

One cool, spring afternoon, early on in her relationship with his partner, Hutch sat with Allison at a café, waiting for Starsky. As she talked about her job and her father, Hutch had immediately understood what it was that had drawn her so quickly to his friend.

She and Starsky had met at some art exhibition, where they'd both happened to take a liking to the same picture. Their relationship began with each spending the better part of two hours in front of that portrait. Each attempting to stand in front of the other, so as to have the best view of their desired piece of art. The rest of the relationship had followed the normal course of events: coffee at the museum's cafeteria, dinner the next day, dinner several evenings following, eventually breakfast.

Starsky's decision, as far as Hutch could tell, had been made during that first coffee. In the time it took for the two love birds to get together, Hutch had listened to so much about Ally that he would have been able to pick her out of ten similar females in a lineup. He knew that she was funny and smart and that she liked Bella Lugosi and James Cagney. He knew that she was a vegetarian, but, oh hell, no one was perfect. He knew that she liked Starsky's photographs, that she liked wine and French food (which Starsky thought to be strange, for a vegetarian), that she was writing a book about the artist at whose exhibition she and Starsky had met, and that she was the most beautiful, greatest, funniest, most special, kindest and all-in-all damn-near-closest-to-perfect-woman that walked the Earth. Even though she hated -- hated, not just disliked, as did Hutch -- the Tomato.

Overall, Hutch knew a lot.

He even knew that Allison's father had accidentally run into Starsky once, when he was picking up Allison for a late dinner, one evening. Apparently delighted to see his daughter dating someone, Jeffrey Pacero had instantly invited Starsky to join their monthly dinner meeting, a fixed institution within their family.

It turned out to be not so much a dinner as a monthly business report from Allison to her father, even though the old man was no longer officially working. Every decision Allison had made over the month was discussed, every mistake pointed out, the numbers were discussed, the orders from the former "son" in "Pacero & Son" were given.

After the first dinner he'd joined, Starsky had gained an understanding as to why the Ally he knew could turn into a totally different, uncharacteristically nervous person when it came to her father or the costs of projects she cherished and dreamed of.

"He kept on asking me all those questions about connections to lawyers and stuff. About what I thought of books on law or domestic safety and stuff. Like he wanted to offer me a job," he told Hutch after the first dinner meeting.

"Well," Hutch replied, "you always wanted to marry a lot of money, didn't you?"

As a joke, Starsky acted like he could consider it all day long. He only stopped when Dobey heard of it and started teasing him about his talent for fiction, as shown in his case reports.

Over time, Starsky became Allison's rock when it came to facing her father. She would bring him to every required meeting with Jeffrey. As she told Hutch, when they were waiting for Starsky that spring afternoon, her father liked Starsky. And not only that, but he paid attention to him. Which meant that he forgot about his daughter or what he had wanted to tell her, or order her, or discuss with her, or anything.

Starsky, Allison told Hutch, was good for the business. He was good for her too.

Hutch had smiled knowingly. While listening to Allison's story, he had not been able to resist comparing their fathers. Though he had not -- thank God -- accepted his father's plans of joining the law firm, he could vividly imagine what it would have been like. To never fulfill the expectations. To never outgrow the name.

Fitting into a name like that brought its own unique set of difficulties. It felt as if no one would ever just love you. Certainly not your parents. Only someone who did not care about the name. Someone who liked you from the start, because of something you would never understand. Something only he could see.

Someone like Dave Starsky.

Allison never said that she felt so at ease with Starsky, that finally there seemed no need to look for an ulterior motive in someone's love for her, but still Hutch knew. Few people could give you that feeling. Kind of safe. Homey.

They were the lucky ones. And so what if sometimes Starsky appeared to forget about the revelations of the first Pacero dinner meeting? How was he supposed to understand families like that? That he found it hard to do so was part of what made him Allison's rock.

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To keep Starsky from suggesting a lot more reasons for his sleeping troubles, Hutch had started a half-serious mind-search for The Time The T-Shirt Got Bloody. This mind-search continued, as the partners climbed the stairs to the squad room at Metro.

"Maybe it was that time you were shot at that café," Starsky was just saying, dropping out of their fast walk without a warning to stop at a vending machine.

Years of training saved Hutch from expecting anything else, and so he didn't run into the door when looking after his friend, but stopped in time and waited for him. "What café?" he asked.

"You know," Starsky said with a meaningless gesture, padding his pockets with one hand. "That one place. Down at...somewhere. Where the bad guys were." Frustrated at the results of his search, he looked down at himself as if a dime could cling to his clothes like crumbs.

Hutch watched the show, unimpressed. "What bad guys?" he asked. "Down where?"

"Those...bad bad guys," Starsky replied, not looking up from his futile search for money. "Down at...Aw, fuck. You got a dime?"

"No."

"You didn't even look!" Starsky exclaimed accusingly.

"I don't have to. I know how much money I carry around, and I know I don't have a dime."

It was obvious that Starsky didn't believe him. "C'mon, it's just a dime!"

Hutch sighed and turned to open the squad room door. "Starsky, I don't have a dime."

"At least admit it's just another way of trying to keep me from eating candy." Starsky and his complaining followed Hutch inside and to their desks. "As if I couldn't get a dime somewhere else! Hey, Charlene," he called in greeting to a young, blonde uniformed officer who was passing him by. "You got a dime?"

"Do I look like I got one?" she snapped and left, shaking her head.

Too stunned to notice his partner's snorted grin, Starsky stared after her. "Did she hear what I asked for?" he wondered.

"You should be grateful," Hutch told him, when Starsky sunk into his chair, starting his morning scan of the ever-growing pile of paperwork on his desk. "I keep tellin' you, all that junk'll be your premature heart failure."

"I'm the one sleeping fine every night," Starsky muttered without looking up from the papers he studied.

Since there was nothing to say to that, Hutch rolled his eyes in silence. He, too, picked up a few files to put them away, creating a little spot of table surface on his desk. "What is all this?" he finally asked. "Who the hell's Michael Scavio?" Looking up from the name on the file he'd just picked up, he met Starsky's frown. "Since when are we the file clerks?"

"How should I know?" Starsky replied. He, too, was holding a thin file folder which he now glanced at confusedly. "Rick Attlee," he read.

Hutch shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"No," Starsky agreed. "Couldn't anyway. He's dead." As for proof, he held out for Hutch to see the gruesome picture attached to the inside of the folder. "Autopsy report says he was beaten up badly and then shot in the chest six times."

Hutch gave a low whistle. "That's what I call a fail-safe job."

"No kidding," Starsky nodded absently. He had withdrawn the folder and was reading out loud: "No signs of restrains...no signs of a fight...used to...oh." With something that looked like disgust, he glanced up again. "Used to be an escort."

"A call boy?" Hutch asked.

"It says escort," Starsky corrected.

Hutch waved. "That's a call boy. Why do we have all this?"

Starsky shrugged, digging through some more papers, mostly hand-written notes. "Oh, hey," he suddenly announced, causing Hutch to look up from his own paper mountain. "Here's a message from Dobey."

"Yeah? What's it say?

"He wants to see us right when we get in."

Dropping the folders he had just lifted from his desk, Hutch rolled his eyes and stood up, following his partner to Captain Dobey's office. "Hey," he called, causing Starsky to turn around with his hand on the doorknob. "At least knock." He grinned.

With a glare, Starsky rammed his fist against the door once, then entered without waiting for the reply.

"You wanted to see us, Cap?"

"Yeah," Dobey grumbled. Sitting behind his desk with a steaming coffee cup before him, he was his usual, shiny, morning self. "Half an hour ago. Get in here."

As quick as two students who know the principal's office too well, the detectives rushed inside and sat down.

"Does this, by chance, have anything to do with the folder collections on our desks?" Hutch asked.

"So Odone and Reed already gave you their notes; that's good," Dobey said in answer. Ignoring his detectives' questioning looks, he picked up his phone and asked for Captain Doward to be send to his office.

Hanging up with a satisfied grumble, Dobey explained, "Doward wants to assign you to a new case."

Starsky and Hutch frowned. They had never met Doward, but knew that he was from another precinct, one pretty far south. He was the head of homicide over there, though rumors had it that he would not remain as such for very long, if the murder rate didn't drop soon. And deep.

"He's here?" Starsky asked.

Dobey nodded. "Down at the cafeteria. I told him it might take a while for you two early birds to get here."

"What does he want from us?" Hutch asked, wisely refraining from remarking on his superior's comment.

"He'll tell you that," Dobey replied. Somehow, his tone didn't make whatever it was that Doward would tell them sound very promising.

The detectives exchanged a glance.

It was Starsky who addressed what they saw in each other's eyes. "Why does that sound like he wants us to feed the wolves at the zoo, covered in raw meat?"

To their surprise, Dobey smiled. At eight in the morning. Widely. Yet, he didn't say anything, just gave a 'you'll see' gesture.

So they waited in silence -- Starsky and Hutch exchanging a meaningful glance -- until the door opened to reveal Captain James X. Doward in his full pride, sweating in the heat that soaked through the walls. He wasn't wearing a jacket, and his light brown shirt bore large wet spots. He was almost bald, and the hair that had refused to leave was a shiny gray, like dust. His face was very red, and his eyes startlingly blue.

"Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky, I assume," he said, holding out a trembling, sweaty paw for each of them to shake. "I'm Captain Doward. I'm glad you found the time to see me."

"Don't mention it," Starsky quipped. "You know how it is, a few meetings cancelled here, a stakeout scratched there..."

"Starsky," Dobey growled.

The detective hushed, his sudden silence revealing his partner's low snickering. With a blush, Hutch ducked his head under his Captain's glare.

Though his expression seemed on the verge of confusion, Doward didn't seem willing to bother caring what that had been about and came right to the point: "As I told Captain Dobey earlier, I'm here to ask your help in a case two of my detectives are investigating at a... business in our district."

Seeing Dobey's grin return with a vengeance didn't help ease any of Starsky's or Hutch's dreadful assumptions.

"What kind of business is that?" Hutch asked, his mind wandering outside to the folders on his desk. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Before anyone could answer, he closed his eyes, turned his head. "Aw, no. Cap'n, please! C'mon, don't tell me you need undercover cops for that!"

"Well..." Doward started, looking at Dobey for help. "We were sort of hoping you'd be willing to help out," he admitted. "I assume Detectives Odone and Reed have already left you their notes on this one."

"Wait a sec," Starsky cut in. "You want us to work as escorts?"

"That's call boys," Hutch mumbled into his hand, so only Starsky could hear him.

Looking lost, Doward arched his brows, almost pleadingly. "Well... Actually...I mean...yes," he said at last. As if proud of his late courage, he smiled at the curly-haired detective.

Starsky stared at him in disbelief, then at his superior. "Cap."

But if there was someone from whom no help could be expected, it was Dobey. "As far as I know, you are not assigned to any case at the moment, you've been just patrolling for quite a while, you both fit the job description -- so you're going."

Gazing at him over the hand that supported his chin, Hutch asked, "What d'you mean, we fit the job description?"

"Well," Doward said, "Detectives Odone and Reed are very effective workers. Great cops. Smart men. But they are also..." He scratched his head, searching the floor for answers.

"Old?" Starsky helped out.

"Exactly," Doward said with a relieved smile. "They've both been happily married for some time now, and as much as they would want to continue working on this, there is no way they could."

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Oh, greatness. So basically you're asking us, because we're young--"

"And attractive," Starsky interrupted him with a grin.

Hutch shot him a glare.

"Basically, yes," Doward said with a shrug. "We went through some files from a lot of nearby districts, and we think you're the best choice."

Sinking further into his chair, Hutch averted his eyes. "This is humiliating," he mumbled.

It didn't appear to be how his partner felt. "So, what, we made the cast?" he asked with a smile.

Hutch turned his head. Did Starsky actually look...proud? "Starsk," he tried, but got no reaction. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dobey snicker, with his head bowed.

"If you want to put it that way," Doward said. "Fact is, the investigation for now has led our detectives down a one-way street. Apparently, we need someone inside that...business. And our chances of success look best with you."

Hutch narrowed his eyes. "How come you're willing to put in so much effort?" He shrugged casually. "No offense, but we're not exactly known to jump in for...just everyone, like this."

It was clear that 'we' were the Bay City police, who in fact -- much to Starsky's and Hutch's frustration -- had seemed to act rather choosy lately. Not that one jabbed junkie had ever caused undercover missions, but ever since the new D.A. had decided to cut down the sources, it seemed that if you wanted the police to go through all possible pains in order to get your killer, you'd better be someone's fourth victim. Or important.

Dobey had listened to his share of rants from both of his detectives. Of course, he, too, was frustrated by this situation. So he seemed content to have someone else take it, this time, and he kept his silence.

"Mr. Attlee was a citizen of this city," Doward replied indignantly.

Hutch gave a slow nod. "I see."

"A member of our society has been murdered," Doward continued with growing irritation. "And the assigned officer asks why he should care? Do you think that's the kind of attitude that's going to restore the overall view people have of the police?"

"'Restore the overall view'," Starsky repeated. "Is that what this is about?"

"Been having some bad press lately, haven't you?" Hutch asked Doward. "Y'know," he added in a friendly tone, "the overall view, on the streets, of me and my partner here doesn't need restoration."

"Hell, no," Starsky agreed. "They love us."

Throwing his fellow captain an exasperated glance, Doward found himself trapped by quiet, questioning looks from all sides. With a sigh, he slightly raised his hands, like a suspect about to confess. "All right. I admit we didn't want for this case to hit the press, so we've been keeping it out of it. Unfortunately, that led certain members of the writing pests to assume other than security reasons for it."

"Like, of course we don't want anyone to know about this poor kid, 'cause we ain't planning to do anything about it," Starsky said sarcastically.

Doward shot him a glare. "There is an investigation going on right now."

"Yes, you're right," Dobey cut off any reply Hutch had wanted to snap at the man. "There is now. You two better get out there and study those notes. I want you to be ready for job interviews tonight."

Starsky didn't need to be told twice. He was on his feet and at the door in the time it took Hutch to cast Doward one last spiteful glance -- and suddenly realize that, in maintaining his idealism, this time, he had wound up accepting an undercover assignment as an escort. Shoulders slumped, he stood up and shuffled over to his waiting friend.

"By the way," Dobey's voice held them back. "Congratulations on making the cast." He winked.

Hutch's warning finger snapped up with his mouth flying open, but Starsky quickly grabbed his arm to all but shove him out of the office.

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Nearly two hours later, it had long dawned on the detectives why their old and married colleagues were in desperate need of someone to go undercover in 'Urbaniak's Escort Service (discreet & satisfying)'. Though Odone's and Reed's notes were bursting with useless material about the victim, Rick Attlee, a 27-year-old medical student, there were only two suspects: Alexander Urbaniak, the owner of the business; Michael Scavio, a 26-year old former salesman with a temper problem. Scavio had been arrested for assault no less than six times, but only convicted once.

However, the case notes mentioned no motive, even for the two suspects. It seemed that Odone and Reed had just started suspecting everyone, when the idea about the undercover cops had hit them.

The notes did mention the regular customers' who requested Urbaniak's service, though. Most were women beyond their 40s, some married, some widowed, almost all of them rich. Urbaniak's escorts weren't cheap. Even Hutch had to admit that those escorts may in fact be just that.

Which didn't mean he felt any better about the whole thing. Spending an unknown number of nights in the company of women his mother's age wasn't exactly his idea of fun on the job. The only thing that made up for that just now was the fact that this aspect of their 'making the cast' had slowly entered his partner's mind, as well.

"I don't know what you're complaining about," Hutch told Starsky, after watching a frown of misery deepening on his friend's face while he read a file. "Grannies love you."

The dry glance Starsky threw him somehow reminded Hutch of Allison. He smiled reassuringly.

"You are aware that -- to people who don't know you -- you look like the perfect son-in-law, Blondie, aren't you?"

"Absolutely," Hutch agreed. "But those ladies aren't looking for a son-in-law there." He widened his smile.

A shadow crossed Starsky's eyes, but at last he tried on a 'what do I care' look, and turned to his reading again. "You just watch. I can be not-irresistible if I want to."

Hutch wasn't ready to let him off the hook that easily. "No doubt 'bout that," he said. "But we both know you're incapable of refusing an old lady a flirt she's looking for."

It took a moment, but at last the deep blue eyes came up again. "What?"

Hutch shrugged innocently. "Just stating a fact. I've watched you taking statements from old crows for years. You like to flirt with them."

Starsky blinked. "'Old crows'?" he repeated. "Mind if I use that? It might earn me a lot of free nights. And in case you didn't notice," he added, before Hutch could counter, "we'll be working there. If you want out again before your number is the highest chip in every Granny Club poker game, you'd better have some of those 'old crows' want to meet you and find out who likes to call it a night with six goodbyes."

Hutch thought about that, suddenly serious again, since they were case-talking now. "What granny could possibly have beaten a grown man like that?"

"An armed granny," Starsky told him. "A pissed off, armed granny." Watching Hutch's forehead furrow in doubt, he asked, "Didn't you ever catch one from your grandmother when you were a kid? They might look weak, y'know…"

The furrow evened out into surprised -- if faked -- shock. "What, your grandmother with the Italian restaurant underneath her apartment hit you?"

Starsky rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. Judging a book by its cover's always a mista..." His shocked expression, stealing into his eyes as he trailed off, was very real, as opposed to Hutch's previously feigned shock. "Aw, no," he suddenly whined, letting his head fall onto his desk. "Nooooooooo."

"Hey, Buddy?" Hutch asked, puzzled. "What's with you, all of a sudden?"

From where Starsky was mumbling into the files, Hutch could only make out 'Ally' which was enough of a clue.

"Oh," he said, too full of pity to even gloat.

Lifting his head just enough to look at Hutch, Starsky showed a grimace of dreadful misery. "I can't let her down tonight. I promised her I'd be there."

"Well, you can't," Hutch told him matter-of-factly. "It's the job." He waited, but got no reply to that, as Starsky seemed suddenly fascinated by the ceiling. "Starsk?"

"Let me be for a sec. I'm still contemplating whether the job's worth keeping."

Hutch smiled, but threw a crumpled paper ball at him, hitting Starsky's chin. "C'mon, just call her. She'll understand."

"You call her."

It was so sudden that Hutch thought he'd heard wrong. "Wh-what?"

"You call her," Starsky repeated. He'd shifted on his chair again and was looking at Hutch with just a fine layer of insanity shimmering in his midnight blues. "You tell her I've been kidnapped by crazy investment brokers, and we're on our way to New Zealand right now, but you expect them to let me go unharmed in a day, and then I'll only have to make it back here. That should leave me enough time."

Hutch sighed. "Starsk."

"Or maybe you could tell her I've been shot. But, uh, nothing too serious. Just so that I can't make it tonight. And it's contagious," he added as a thought hit him. "Y'know, in case she wants to see me. Oh, wait! Better tell her you've been shot; that'll cause the least troubles."

Hutch had to laugh slightly at that, shaking his head. "Why not tell her that you have to work late and thereby won't make it?" he asked.

Starsky seemed to contemplate that -- it didn't sound very adventurous -- and shrugged. "Okay, tell her that."

Hutch snorted. "I'm not calling her, Starsky."

"C'mon!" Starsky pleaded. "What good're you? Who stayed with you when you had the flu and needed to be fed that yucky-smelling stuff every half hour?" Since it was obvious that it had been Starsky who had committed such a sacrifice, he went on: "And who cheered you up when this Christine chick left with a dump in your car? Who found that health food take-out and even told you about it?"

"Starsk-" Hutch tried to cut in, unsuccessfully.

"Who didn't mind you bleeding on his favorite t-shirt a hundred years ago?" Starsky finally finished his litany, eyes wide with accusation.

"You don't even know it's my blood," Hutch pointed out.

"'Course it's your blood. You think I'd let anyone else bleed on my clothes? What kind of a friend d'you think I am? Huh? You think I'm the kinda friend who'd not do anything for you? Huh? Who'd not call your girl and tell her the truth she'll believe me but punish you for? You think I'm that kind of a friend?"

Having been blown far into his chair by the power of his partner's outburst, Hutch sat there watching for some time, before quietly asking: "You done now?"

In answer, Starsky just waved.

"Okay." Hutch sighed, studying his friend. "Okay, I'll call her." His hand snapped up to stop the expected declaration of gratitude. "Don't start. I'll forget why the fuck I'm doing this the second I pick up the receiver, anyway, so don't push your luck."

Starsky's mouth clamped shut.

Giving a curt nod, Hutch picked up the receiver and dialed the numbers Starsky quietly told him. While it rang, he let his forehead fall into his hand.

"Why the fuck am I do...hi Al. It's Hutch. Yeah, listen, I'm just calling to...No, he's fine, don't worry. Actually, it's just..." Suddenly, he grew very quiet, and slowly his gaze wandered up to Starsky. "Uh-huh." More listening. "Mm-hmm." A grimace, not at Starsky, though. "I see. Yeah. Uh-huh. Hey, hang on a sec, okay?" Covering the mouthpiece of the phone with one hand, he turned to his friend. "How much is this worth to you? I'm being threatened, here."

Starsky's face fell. "Aw, gimme that," he snapped and held out his hand, taking the receiver as Hutch hastily shoved it at him. "Honey... Sweetheart..." Casting Hutch a heart-breakingly desperate look as he listened, he sank back in his chair. "Ally, please just...Al. Allison...Ally, look, it's a case." With that out, the blurry noise reaching Hutch's ears didn't sound quite as hasty as before.

"Yeah, well, I am sorry," Starsky just said. "I would've been there, you know that. I'm sor...Hm?" He frowned. "Um. I...I don't know. But I guess so, yeah." A relieved smile. "Okay. Tomorrow it is then."

Hutch's gaze snapped up from the paper he'd begun to skim.

Starsky didn't notice. "Ooookay. I'll see you tomorrow then. Yes, I'll call him. I promise. And you're not mad anymore, right?" Another smile. "I love you too. Have a beautiful day." With that, he hung up, looking at the phone like a proud father bird after its brood. "That wasn't so hard," he stated and looked up at Hutch, who regarded him doubtfully. "What?"

"You just had her cancel the dinner?"

"Yeah," Starsky replied happily. "Great, huh? All I gotta do is call Jeffrey, and that's no big deal. He loves any sentence with the word 'job' in it."

"That's nice," Hutch commented. "But how d'you know you'll be available tomorrow night?"

Starsky's smile grew uncertain. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean," Hutch explained, "we're working. At an escort service." He arbitrarily picked up a folder and waved it. "Case it wasn't clear to you, it's usually a night business. Get my drift?"

The truth was slowly crawling inwards, but Starsky did his best to refuse to welcome it. "Okay, yeah, but that doesn't mean I'll have to work tomorrow night. There're five guys working there, plus us is seven. You don't believe that every night there're seven women hiring the whole crew, do you?"

"No, I'm saying your chances are one in six."

Starsky thought about it for so long that Hutch almost considered the argument won, when his friend suddenly shook his head and, with every bit of conviction he had, stated: "I'll just try to avoid it. Maybe I won't shower or...I'll be rude. Or wear the blood-stained shirt again," he added as if that idea was the key to victory. He nodded.

Making a show out of giving him a once-over, Hutch tilted his head to one side. "Might work," he said. "I wouldn't wear jeans, though."

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Alexander Urbaniak looked just like the sort of man who would provide any kind of services to women through other men. His 60-something features contradicted the height of a rather small twelve-year-old, and if he'd ever had any hair, it hadn't been very loyal. His tiny eyes lay so deeply hidden in the fat surrounding his plain face, that there was no saying which the color they might be.

His smile though, with which he waved Hutch and Starsky into his small-yet-stylish office, was easy to read, open like the ocean.

"Why me?" Hutch muttered under his breath, following his partner down the hallway from the equally stylish waiting area to Urbaniak's office. Earlier, on the phone, they had been told to drop by at an early hour for this, before what Urbaniak called the "last-minute shoppers" would hit the "store".

Now that Urbaniak closed the door behind them, gesturing for them to have a seat in front of his obscenely expensive-looking oak wood desk, Hutch couldn't shake the feeling that, as far as this man was concerned, all they needed to do was sign the contract. Urbaniak continued to smile -- appreciatively -- while he lifted his brows questioningly at them, indelicately looking each of them over.

"So," he said, "I understand you boys're looking for a job?"

Hutch opened his mouth, a sarcastic answer about to slip out.

Fortunately, Starsky beat him to the answer. "That's right, Sir," he said in a tone so dripping with small-town-naiveté that Hutch had to shoot him a surprised glance.

Urbaniak's smile widened, lighting up his whole face. With a fatherly expression, he leaned back in his fluffy chair. A few seconds of silence passed by. Urbaniak grinned at them, Starsky grinned at him, then Hutch, and Hutch felt his fingers clawing into the arms of his chair.

"Y'know something?" Urbaniak suddenly broke the silence in a booming voice, causing Hutch to flinch. "You got it."

"Got what, Sir?" Starsky asked innocently.

Hutch rolled his eyes. "That's real nice of you, Mr. Urbaniak," he said with forced gratitude. "You won't regret this, I promise."

"Oh, hey!" Starsky exclaimed happily, before Urbaniak had a chance to reply. "You mean we got the job?" At the exasperated glare from his partner, he shrugged giddily.

Urbaniak laughed. "Know what? I like you boys. You seem fresh, y'know? Exactly what the business needs. Not so-"

The opening of the door interrupted him. His smile instantly vanished behind a cloud of annoyance. "What?" he snapped at the pale face that appeared in the half-open door.

"Jus' wann'ed ledda know 'm'n, boss," the young man mumbled and left again.

Hutch stared after him. Now, there was early drug abuse if he had ever seen any.

Urbaniak's apologetic sigh drew his attention back to him. "Sorry for that. Kid still drops by every now and then..." He waved dismissively. "Never mind. Anyway," the smile was back, "welcome to the family." In an awkward gesture, he leaned forward as if to pat Starsky's shoulder, but couldn't quite reach him over the table. Instead, he formed a pointing finger, asking, "We talked on the phone, right?"

"Uh, no," Hutch cut in, "that was me. Ken Holland," he added in an inquiring tone as if testing the man's memory.

Urbaniak grinned and shifted the pointing to him. "Right. Holland. So, you're the medical student."

Next to him, Hutch could feel Starsky stiffen with a repressed snicker. "Yep," he nodded. "And I wanted to say, sir, I'm really glad you agreed to see both of us. I know you were only looking for one new-"

"Aw, pish-posh," Urbaniak cut him off with a wave. "I'm always looking for ambitious young men like you two." He paused, studying them for a moment, before suddenly turning to Starsky again. "So what's your name?"

"Joe Buck," Starsky replied.

Hutch's head snapped up to him.

Urbaniak frowned, but for the shortest moment. In the end, he seemed unable to place the name and just continued. "Well, then. Let me introduce you to our rules." He folded his hands on the desk, the businessman's seriousness blanketing him. "You will drop in every day at..." He looked down at some papers on his desk, then back up. "Five. I'm not the most punctual guy myself, but try to be remotely on time, okay?"

Starsky and Hutch nodded obediently.

"A'right. You'll get your checks then, provided that you earned anything. Also, if there're any complaints, you can tell me then." His expression changed slightly, when he added, "I'm always fully behind my boys. If there's anything that bothers you, or if there were any...troubles with a client, I want you to tell me. Think of me as your friend." He flashed a smile, that seemed to fade into his following words. "But, if I find out it was really you who started it, you're out." He paused meaningfully, closely scrutinizing the detectives. "Is that understood?"

They nodded.

"Okay. For, believe me, I won't go down for any stupid stunt any youngster thinks he needs to pull on the business. If there is the opportunity to earn a little more..." He spread his hands generously. "Personally, I don't think there's anything wrong with it, though God knows you're getting a big enough percentage here. But I won't know anything about it. If you go farther than the chick's front door, then that's entirely your business, as long as I won't get shit about it later. The moment I have the cops in here, you're out. The clients know what kinds of service we provide, and what kinds we don't, so...any other arrangements are private parties. Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal," Starsky and Hutch muttered in unison.

Urbaniak's gaze remained stern for a moment longer, then he nodded, his expression softening like that of a father after a lecture.

"The clients," he continued, "pay either in advance or afterwards. Anyhow, they pay me, not you. That way, there won't be this ugly moment of money exchange at the end of a nice evening. Like I said before, you'll get your share at five the following day. Any questions about that?"

Starsky and Hutch shook their heads.

"Glad to hear that," Urbaniak said friendly. "Well, last but not least: assignments." He opened a drawer and produced two sheets of paper that -- to the detectives -- looked like blanks for wanted ads. "After we're finished here, we'll take a couple of pictures of you for these, here." He waved the forms.

Unseen, Hutch cringed.

"So that the clients have an idea of what they're choosing. Now..." Urbaniak smiled again, grabbing a pen. "Let's hear a bit about you, Ken Holland and Joe Buck." He lifted his brows at them. "Height?"

"That was the most humiliating thing, ever," Hutch muttered miserably, as they headed back to the waiting area.

The boss himself was talking to Corey, the pale kid who had previously interrupted the interview. He had all but burst into the office again, as Urbaniak was rising to walk his new employees to the photo session. With an expression that made Hutch grimace in sympathy for the boy, Urbaniak had apologized to the detectives and asked them to wait until he was finished there.

"Oh, yeah?" Starsky grinned at his friend, then shrugged. "Well, just wait until he takes the pictures."

Hutch groaned. Shooting Starsky a glare, as he comfortingly patted his shoulder, Hutch growled, "By the way, thanks a bunch for telling him I can sing."

Starsky shrugged innocently. "Look how delighted he was! Chicks love guys who can sing."

"I know that," Hutch snapped. "But you still had no business tell...And, anyway, you didn't seem very keen about sharing your 'special extra abilities'."

"Which would be?" Starsky asked.

Hutch opened his mouth to shoot back a reply, but stopped at the lack of any. "W-well..." he started helplessly. "How 'bout...um..." He frowned deeply, hunting through his mind. In the end, his shoulders slumped in defeat . "Model-ship building?" he tried.

Starsky's brows shot up in mock fear. "Man, c'mon! Don't tell him about that!" he exclaimed. "Please! You know how girls just dig model-ship building! What am I gonna tell Ally when those hordes of women come swarming to my place to get a glimpse at me gluing paddles to-"

"Aw, shuddup," Hutch mumbled, rubbing his eyes with two fingers. "Just know that I hate you."

"Noted." Starsky nodded amiably. "So," he asked, more seriously, "what d'you think about the boss?"

Blinking his eyes open again, Hutch shrugged. "First impression? I don't think he's our man."

"Nah, me neither," Starsky agreed.

"But then," Hutch said, "my first impression of you was that you're a smart-assed idiot with all the loyalty of a black widow." He paused as if thinking about that. "Then again -- see how wrong I was there."

Starsky's chuckle ruined his hurt expression. "Aw, Blintz, honest, if I'd known just how much it'd bother you, I wouldn't have told him about your singing."

"Yeah, right," Hutch growled.

They had reached the waiting area, where Starsky headed for the chair under which he'd hidden the magazine he'd been reading earlier. The opening of the front door and the subsequent -- rather nervous -- female voice prevented them from sitting down, though.

"Hello?"

Stepping back into the hallway, they saw a blonde woman, probably in her late twenties, lingering at the door, clutching her purse. She wore a light-brown business suit and a hat that gave her the striking appearance of a 30s-detective's client, like the falsely-innocent looking girl who would hire Philip Marlowe at the beginning of a novel.

Except that she looked intimidated, almost scared. "He-hello?" she tried again, but fell into startled silence, when she became aware of the two men down the hallway.

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a glance, and Hutch was about to speak, when the door to Urbaniak's office flew open, revealing the boss himself wearing his widest smile.

The woman backed away a step. One of her slender hands came up as if to reach for the doorknob.

"May I help you, Miss?" Urbaniak asked. Behind him, Hutch caught a glimpse of Corey huddled on the chair Starsky had occupied earlier. He could not be sure, but he thought the kid looked like he had been crying.

"Uh...I-I'm not sure," the young woman stammered. Her gaze jumped from Urbaniak to Hutch to Starsky, where it lingered for a moment, then found Urbaniak again. When she spoke again, a new-found determination made her voice appear less girlish. "I'm looking for..." But here, she trailed off again and even blushed a little.

As did Hutch, if the amused glance Starsky cast him was any indication. He quickly bowed his head and cleared his throat.

All experience, Urbaniak softened his expression, until he looked like a thirteen-year old dog and approached the potential client in an encouraging manner, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted to one side. "I'm sure we can help you find what you're looking for," he said confidentially. "May I ask you to step into my office?" He gestured for her to follow him.

Yet, she didn't seem inclined to follow him. "Uh...I-I'd rather...I..." A desperate frown formed on her face. "Actually, I never..." She smiled nervously and suddenly, out of nowhere, pointed at Starsky. "Does he work here?"

Surprised, Urbaniak looked from her to his new employee, then back. "Sure does," he nodded, looking almost proud. "He's what you're looking for?"

She blushed again, but managed to ignore it and nodded. "Sure is," she replied ironically, causing Hutch to grin a little.

"Well, then," Urbaniak said contentedly, "would you like to-"

"I'll pay in advance," she cut him off hastily, opening her purse with trembling hands, and produced a check. "If that's okay."

"Perfect," Urbaniak said. He accepted the check, looked at it and nodded. "So, when should I send..." With a frown, he trailed off, embarrassed.

"Joe," Starsky helped. He didn't sound unfriendly, merely a bit stunned at being spoken about like a piece of furniture that was to be delivered.

Urbaniak didn't finish his sentence as if he hadn't intended to and hadn't forgotten his employee's name. Instead, he looked questioningly at the young client, who had looked at Starsky, ever-so-briefly, upon hearing his voice.

"Tomorrow, seven o'clock," she said and handed Urbaniak a small piece of paper. "Here's the address." With that, she turned for the door, but stopped suddenly, shyly looking over her shoulder. "Um...c-could he...I mean..." The sudden thought that she, damn it, had paid for this guy seemed to strike her, and with confident righteousness she ordered, "Wear something nice. We'll be attending a dinner party."

"Uh...actually," Starsky hastened to say, "tomorrow's not such a good-"

But all he was talking to was the door falling shut behind her.

Starsky stared at it for a moment, then at Urbaniak. "I can't-" he started, but was interrupted by a jab to his side with Hutch's elbow.

"Wow, Joey," the blond exclaimed, "you lucky pup! D'you believe him?" he asked and pointed his index finger at his friend. "Scored right the first day. But then," he grinned, ruffling Starsky's hair, "that's our Joe Buck! One helluva guy's what he is." He winked, ignoring the glare-to-kill that his partner was sending his way.

"You can say that again," Urbaniak agreed happily, stashing the check in his pocket. "Let's go take your pictures now," he said, walking past them to lead the way. "You know..." He turned before a closed door at the very end of the hallway, hand on the doorknob, and smiled broadly. "I have a good feeling about you two." He nodded. "Good feeling," he repeated, going inside.

Hutch patted Starsky's back, slightly pushing his friend to follow their new boss into the room. "Told ya not to wear jeans," he muttered.

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Getting Hutch to take a photo that made him look like someone a woman would want to spend an evening with was not easy. It took quite a few shots before he stopped looking like someone a woman would want to reprimand, telling him to "Stop sulking." But, as much fun as watching his partner go through that was, it didn't help to entirely restore Starsky's mood. How in the hell was he supposed to tell Allison that he would have to ditch her again tomorrow so that he could "attend a dinner party" with another woman?

Not to mention that he hated dinner parties. Almost as much as he hated wearing "something nice". That phrase always reminded him of choking ties and scratchy pants and his aunt trying to smooth down his hair with her spit-slicked hand.

Last time he'd checked, he suddenly recalled, he hadn't found any shoes matching his suit in his wardrobe, either.

"Penny for your thoughts," Hutch's voice to his right drew him out of his mental search through his apartment.

They were sitting -- again -- in the waiting area, this time waiting for news on how their pictures had come out.

Starsky blinked his way back to the here-and-now and cast his friend a helpless glance. "Just tryin' to figure out what to tell Ally about tomorrow," he admitted.

Hutch grimaced. "I could say I told you so," he said, thereby managing to be mean without openly being mean, "but what with all we've been through, I'm just gonna say: tell her the truth."

Starsky pretended to consider this. "Right," he at last said. "That's just what I'm gonna do. 'Sorry, Sweetie, but I won't make it -- again -- tomorrow, because a hot blonde paid for me to accompany her to a dinner party.'" He nodded as if listening to the echo of this. "That's real good, Hutch. I wonder why you're single."

Hutch didn't look impressed. "It sounds different if you leave out the 'hot', y'know?" At his partner's glare, he nodded reassuringly.

"Believe me," Starsky told him, "I intend to make it sound a lot different."

Hutch frowned. "Not what I'd advise, Pal."

"See if I care," Starsky mumbled and was about to ignore the response to that, when the opening of the front door preceded the male voice flooding the hallway.

"Yo boss! 'M in!"

Eager steps carried a tall, slender man of about thirty towards Urbaniak's office, where he lifted a hand to knock, but became aware of the detectives watching him.

"Hey, there," he smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth that matched a perfectly tanned, fine-boned face framed by almost bluish-black hair which fell into his eyes when he moved. He brushed it back with a surprisingly small hand, then holding out that hand for Hutch to shake. As he stepped onto the carpet which marked the waiting area, he amiably inquired, "You the newbies?"

Rising to his feet, Hutch shook the offered hand and nodded. "That's right. I'm Ken, and this is Joey." He ignored Starsky's glare. "We just got in."

"Waiting for the pictures," the other man more stated than asked. He smiled knowingly. "Hell of a silly thing, huh? I remember I felt like back at school, when they'd take your picture in front of those stupid background wallpapers. I bet Old 'Banik used this sissy mountain sunset for you," he told Hutch, whose ears took on a pinkish tinge.

"Tell me 'bout it," the black haired man continued, shaking his hair out of his eyes again. "When I started, he didn't even have background pics. I had to go down to the beach for one lousy picture." He laughed, shook his head. "Hell, I was so naïve, I considered myself lucky I didn't have to take my clothes off."

He seemed oblivious to the glance exchanged between the two detectives. Instead, he now held out his hand for Starsky to shake. "I'm Rawdon Jones."

"Hi," Starsky muttered, as he shook Rawdon Jones' hand. "Nice to meet you. How long've you been working here?"

Rawdon laughed and waved. "Forever. Used to be just a job," he said, wiggling two fingers to indicate quotation marks. "Y'know, to get through college, but..." He lifted his shoulders. "You know how it is. Sometimes you just get stuck. And it's not the worst place for that, either," he added with a wink. "What d'you guys do?"

"Well, Kenny here," Starsky said before Hutch had any chance, taking decided pleasure in the payback, "is trying to get back into med school."

A shadow rushed through Rawdon's eyes, like a blink. "I see. What about you?"

Starsky shrugged lightly. "I'm looking for a place to get stuck."

Rawdon laughed. "Good luck then." He glanced over his shoulder. "Hey, as much as I'm enjoying our little chat here, I need to check in, or the old rag'll have to actually move outta there and yell at me, so...see you, okay?" He shook their hands once more and left with bouncing steps.

"Nice guy," Starsky commented, when the door had closed behind Rawdon Jones.

"Yeah," Hutch agreed.

"Doesn't look like the kinda guy to get stuck in a place like this, though."

Hutch thought about it. "I don't know, Starsk. He doesn't exactly look like the kinda guy to try and get outta here, either."

"Could be. D'you see his reaction to the med school?"

Hutch nodded.

"Doesn't have to mean anything," Starsky continued. "They all knew Attlee. Maybe those two were friends."

"Maybe," Hutch said.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Starsky finishing his magazine and Hutch suppressing half-a-dozen yawns. The phone inside Urbaniak's office rang a couple of times. When Rawdon Jones finally opened the door, he grinned widely, waving at the two detectives.

"Hey, Blondie, the boss wants to see you."

As an expression of helpless dread spread on his face, Hutch glanced at Starsky for support and slowly stood to shuffle over to Urbaniak's office.

At Starsky's quiet inquiry, Rawdon reentered the waiting area. "Looks like your friend arrived just in time to save our jackpot." He winked conspiratorially and sat down on the chair Hutch had left. "How'd you two meet, anyway? You've been studying too?"

"Uh, no," Starsky replied. "Never have. Ken and I sorta grew up near each other. Our mothers are friends, so when he heard about this job, he gave me a call. Things haven't been looking too bright for me lately." He shrugged. "You know how it is."

"Yeah," Rawdon nodded understandingly. He glanced at the closed office door. "Mighty nice of him."

"I guess," Starsky said matter-of-factly. "What did you mean about the jackpot?"

Rawdon turned to look at him again. He smiled. "There's this client who's been coming here, like, forever. I mean, she was hiring guys from Urbaniak before I started here, 'n' that's saying something. Some of the boys call her Lady Methuselah, but if you see her, you'll agree with me, she is a pretty chick. I mean, she still is, y'know? Makes ya wonder how she looked like before she hit 100." He smiled. "Used to be some sort of star, dunno what, theatre or movies. Probably not TV," he added. "I doubt that it was already invented when she was at the top. But, anyway, she's widowed, and I guess she just misses company. She sticks to one guy only, y'know, kinda like with a real boyfriend or something."

It took all Starsky had to not let the evil grin spreading inside him show on his face. "Okay." He nodded meaningfully, also watching the still-closed door. "Good for him; he sure needs the money."

"I hope he likes storytelling," Rawdon said with a grin. "We've grown used to hearing all those freaky stories about her from..." He hushed himself. His gaze dropped.

Starsky frowned. "Y'okay?"

"Yeah," Rawdon said quietly. He closed his eyes briefly and lifted his head again. "Yeah, 'sjust..." He sighed. "She used to hire a friend of mine, Rick. He's dead."

"Oh. Man, I'm sorry. How did he die?"

Rawdon averted his eyes. "He slipped in his bathtub, broke his neck."

Starsky studied him for a while, then looked away. "Shit," he said.

Rawdon nodded. He drew in a small breath to steady himself. Yet the smile he cast Starsky didn't cover any of the raw pain in his gaze. "Well, shit happens," he said and stood up. "I should be going." He checked his watch. "There's a fine lady waiting at 'Benito's'that doesn't deserve to be left waiting for her date. Not for the price she paid," he added with a wink. "'Twas nice talking to you, Joe."

"You, too," Starsky said and smiled. "Have fun."

Rawdon laughed and nodded appreciatively. "Asshole," he said, but it sounded like a compliment. "Hell, if you don't fit in here..." He shook his head. After a few steps towards the front door, he turned once more. "Hey, when's your daily hour?"

"Five," Starsky told him.

"Five," Rawdon repeated, then left.

Starsky looked after him with a frown deepening on his face. The man seemed genuinely sad about Rick Attlee's death. So why lie about it?

His thinking was interrupted by Hutch leaving Urbaniak's office. He looked even more pissed off than before, and he crumpled a piece of paper in one hand as he approached the waiting area with large steps.

"C'mon, let's get outta here." He didn't wait for Starsky's reply, but turned for the front door.

"Hey, wait," Starsky called after him, jumping to his feet to follow. "What about-"

"I saw your picture," Hutch cut him off, "trust me, you look breathtaking, now please let's just get the fuck outta here." He all but tore the door open, causing an impressively tall, muscular man, whom Starsky recognized as Michael Scavio, to stumble inside.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Hutch hurried to apologize, reaching out uselessly to offer support that wasn't needed. "Sorry, I didn't see you."

The giant made a growling noise and continued on his way without paying further attention to any of them.

The detectives looked after him. "Scavio," Starsky whispered.

Hutch nodded slightly and stepped outside.

"Hey, will ya slow down?" Starsky exclaimed, as he walked behind his storming friend, not willing to run to catch up with him. "What's with you all of a sudden?"

"All of a sudden?" Hutch repeated, irritated. Finally, he stopped and turned to wait for his partner to walk up to his side. "Where the hell were you when I started to express my feelings towards this assignment?"

"Inside my sound-safe bubble of ignorance."

Hutch grimaced. "Thanks, Buddy." He sighed, his brows slowly arching up into a sick-puppy look. "I've just been sold," he whined, causing Starsky to laugh.

"Don't take it too hard, champ," the curly-haired detective said gently, laying one arm around Hutch's shoulders to walk him around the corner where the LTD was parked. "So was I."

"But I don't like it," Hutch complained, stepping out of the half-embrace to open the driver's door.

"Gee, how come?" Starsky asked ironically. "It sure gave me a thrill."

At that, Hutch grinned. "I bet it would, Joe Buck." Tilting his head, he looked at his partner in a pretty good imitation of Dustin Hoffman. "Not bad at all. For a cowboy."

Laughing, Starsky followed him into the car. "So you agreed to date Miss Methuselah?" he asked.

Probably assuming Rawdon had told his partner, Hutch wasn't surprised. "Oh, yeah," he replied and started the engine. "I agreed. That's the word. When being told, 'Listen, Boy, it's a date or it's go home', I agreed to choose the date."

"Did Urbaniak tell you she used to hire Rick Attlee?" Starsky asked.

"No," Hutch answered, all sarcasm evening out on his face. "Did Rawdon say that?"

Starsky nodded. "Seems she used to only hire Rick. At least Rawdon said she's a one guy lady."

"So at least that's something," Hutch stated with grim satisfaction.

Starsky frowned. 'At least that's something'?" he repeated. "Hutch, whoever dated Attlee could be our killer."

With a confused frown, Hutch turned to glance briefly at him. "Yeah, well, good thing we're cops then, huh?"

"But I don't want you to date a killer," Starsky stated matter-of-factly.

"Tough," Hutch replied, though he had to smile at that. "For one of us has to do it, and you'll be busy attending a dinner party."

Starsky groaned. "Don't remind me." He drove a hand over his features, then let it fall back into his lap, before suddenly pointing at Hutch. "A'right then, you date the suspect. But don't let her kill you."

"I'll do my best," Hutch promised.

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Hutch's date with Lady Marrinon, as her real named turned out to be, started at six the following day, meaning that he could not attend their daily hour at five o'clock. Starsky, however, had to show up to get his assignment's address and his share of the check handed to Urbaniak by his date, the day before.

He was a bit early, since he simply refused to change into "something nice" before it was absolutely necessary and therefore planned to drive home again before seven. To his surprise, Urbaniak proved all understanding about that and handed him both the address and his money with little more than a smile and a "good luck".

The address on the note was a small hotel outside the city. Underneath it, a fine-lettered message in green ink ordered him to "wait at the glade behind the hotel". Puzzled, Starsky turned to ask Urbaniak what that was all about, but the giant Hutch had run into the day before was already closing the door behind himself, having waited for his turn.

"You should be glad you're new," a familiar voice announced from the front door, and he turned to see Rawdon Jones leaning against the wall next to the it with his arms folded in front of him.

"Hi." Starsky walked up to him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's not yet five," Rawdon told him and was about to add something, when he caught a presence behind the front door and with a charming smile opened it for an elderly, well-dressed woman, who presented him with a loving smile.

"Miss Julia," Rawdon purred. He took her offered hand in his and pressed a light kiss on its back. "I swear I just felt the sun rise over this day."

Miss Julia giggled girlishly. "Mr. Rawdon," she chided. She didn't say anymore, but just covered her mouth and rushed past them into the waiting area.

"Let's go outside," Rawdon muttered to Starsky. "It's getting crowded."

Outside, Rawdon leaned against the building and produced a pack of cigarettes. "Want one?"

Starsky shook his head.

"Good for you," Rawdon told him. "I know they'll kill me." He lit his cigarette with a long drag. "Anyway," he then continued, smoke leaving his mouth as he spoke, "four is Scave's hour. You don't wanna push yourself into Scave's hour. He doesn't like that."

"It's ten to five," Starsky said. "That's hardly his hour anymore."

Rawdon sighed, as if exasperated. "'Ey, man, it's not me, okay? I don't give a shit if you take my hour, but Scave does, so just don't do it, okay?"

"Okay." Starsky shrugged. "Though I don't see-"

"Just don't," Rawdon interrupted him. "I mean," he added after watching an angry frown grow on the other man's face, "you're a good-looking guy, which is why you got this job, and you don't wanna lose it, right?"

Starsky widened his eyes at that. He looked over at the front door, then shook his head with a laugh.

Rawdon smiled, confused. "C'mon, stop it. He's a nice guy. As long as-"

"You don't mess with his hour?" Starsky asked dryly. He still looked amused. "What's his job, anyway? What's he dating?"

Rawdon wiggled his brows. "You'd be surprised."

Starsky watched him, the grin slowly fading, as he recognized hurt in Rawdon's pretend-to-be ironic voice. "I guess," he said and dropped the subject. "What're you doing here so early? Playing the doorman?"

Rawdon snorted out smoke through his nose. "Nah, as much as I love the attention..." He winked. "No, I sometimes accompany Scave. We used to play poker together. I got him the job."

Starsky nodded in understanding he didn't feel. Who would look at a guy like Michael Scavio, this bull of a man, and think 'oh yeah, an escort, that's him'? And just how much did Rawdon pay Urbaniak to hire him too?

"Mighty nice of you," he said.

Rawdon nodded and blew out more smoke. "Why're you so early?"

Starsky's held up the note he still held. "Wouldn't wanna let her wait. Though she seems kinda weird."

The smile of the wise twitched Rawdon's lips. "Weird how?"

Starsky told him about the added message, and the smile on Rawdon's face grew. He lifted his shrinking cigarette. "Not weird at all, Pal. It's where she wants you to switch into her car. Or maybe you'll take yours," he added. "What're you driving?"

"Grand Torino," Starsky answered without thinking. "What for?"

Obviously it was question naive enough to warm one's heart, if Rawdon's look was any indication. He snorted a little laugh. "So you'll arrive at wherever you're going to together. If you'd hire a girl to accompany you to a party, you wouldn't want anyone to know about it, would you?"

"Oh," Starsky said quietly. Then: "That's sad."

"Life in the big city." Rawdon shrugged. He dropped his cigarette. "Have fun."

Starsky cast him a 'ha,ha'-smile and watched him head for the front door. "Rawdon?" he called after him at a sudden thought.

"Yesterday, when Ken and I were here, there was this kid lurking around. Urbaniak later called him into his office, but he left, before you got there. Didn't look too good. D'you know him? I think his name's Corey or something?"

Rawdon's expression grew serious. "Yeah, I know him."

"So - what about him?"

"He's just some kid who used to work for Urbaniak some time ago."

"He doesn't look old enough for any 'some time ago's," Starsky said.

Rawdon studied him for a long moment, seemingly searching something in the other man's eyes that he knew wouldn't be there. "He's just some kid," he repeated, "who got stuck too."

Starsky smiled through a frown. "Not in a good way, though, huh? Not like you or me."

But Rawdon had already turned again, opening the door, behind which Starsky could see Michael Scavio waiting patiently for him to enter. Without looking at the detective again, Jones lifted one hand for a dismissive wave. "Stuck is stuck," he said and let he door fall shut.

Starsky stood where he'd been left for a moment longer, looking at his own reflection mirrored in the glass door. Only when a slight shift could be seen did he notice he'd been watched from the inside too.

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Lady Marrinon's house had all the welcoming charm of a diamond kept behind barbed wire. It was overcrowded with beauty, but none of it the kind you could touch. There seemed to be no furniture made for sitting. As Hutch followed a tall, slender man through countless rooms, he noted that everything was hidden under dull, plastic covers. Even the framed photos of Lady Marrinon, herself, which practically blanketed every wall. Hutch noted that the man who was leading him through these rooms also looked like he was wrapped in invisible, dull plastic. Even his voice sounded like it was wrapped in something. Probably disgust, Hutch thought.

He sure was disgusted. Not a stranger to the urge of the affluent to flaunt their riches, he had still never before seen such a shiny (yet dull) example of it. Nothing in the house looked remotely warm, and he could feel goosebumps on his arms, despite the heat outside.

He was finally left alone in a room smaller than the others. However, this room had a huge porch attached to it, and the door to it was half-open. The golden light of the nearing sunset, outside, played mirror tricks on the plastic wrapped around the pictures and items in the room. But, at least in this room, there finally stood an uncovered sofa and a huge armchair. The faded pink of that armchair reminded Hutch of his grandmother's chair. His father had inherited it and stored it in the basement, and Hutch had hidden under it, as a child.

An old, brown piano was also untouched by plastic. Drawn to it by its beauty, Hutch stepped closer until his fingers could brush over the freshly polished keys.

"I wondered if you'd able to play it, dear boy." The deep voice made him flinch, his finger hitting a key by accident, causing a shrill noise to fill the room.

He snapped his head up and saw a surprisingly tall, slender woman standing in the door to the porch. He instantly recognized her from the ubiquitous pictures, though her startling beauty had faded, as if she, too, had been wrapped in a dull material, hiding her true looks. Age had dug into skin so pale that it appeared almost as white as the hair that she wore in a tight knot at the back of her small head.

She was still a good-looking woman, her body obviously well-cared for, while her mind seemed to have taken up residence only behind her eyes. Neither warmth nor energy marked any other part of her appearance. She held out a hand for Hutch to take and help her step into the room. The hand was cool and weak, like an autumn leaf in his.

Almost instinctively, he began guiding her to the faded pink armchair, noting that she gestured towards it once they were already halfway there. "Thank you, my dear," she said. "Maybe you'd like to sit down over there?" She pointed at the bench in front of the piano.

Hutch smiled at the subtle hint and sat down where she wanted him. He hadn't said anything yet, assuming Lady Marrinon would address him when it pleased her. Though he doubted that any other woman could've made him feel that bought, at least he didn't feel cheap.

Which he hadn't been, he thought with a dry smile.

"I like your smile," Lady Marrinon told him.

He looked at her, awkwardly surprised. "Thank you."

She studied him with a somewhat dreamy look in her clear blue eyes. They were almost as sky-like as his. "You don't know who I am, do you?" she asked. There wasn't the least bit of disappointment in her voice.

Still, Hutch felt guilty, when he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Ma'am," he said sincerely.

Lady Marrinon smiled. "It's your loss," she said with a cocky little wink that seemed to take ages off her face. "But," she added and shrugged slowly, "nobody does know me anymore."

"What did you do?" Hutch dared to ask.

"Grow old," she replied.

He smiled.

"Don't call me Ma'am, Dear," she said after a moment. She wasn't looking at him, but had tilted her head back to inspect the ceiling.

"Okay," Hutch agreed. He waited for her to tell him what to call her instead.

After a long while, she asked, "What's your favorite song, Dear?"

Surprised, Hutch opened his mouth, but couldn't think of one. For some reason, it seemed reprehensible to tell her anything private about himself. As if she had paid for a fantasy, but now asked for reality.

"I don't know," he said. "Would you like me to play something you like?"

"See?" She smiled. Slowly, her head dropped from the ceiling. "I knew you could play."

"What would you like me to play?" Hutch asked again.

She studied him. "How can you not have a favorite song?"

He forced himself to contain his frown. He felt trapped. "I just like a lot of different songs," he explained.

"Like what?" she urged.

"Like...'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'," he said. That was Rosie Dobey's favorite song.

Lady Marrinon smiled a gentle smile. "I hate that."

Hutch nodded his okay to that. "Well, what do you like?"

Her elbow on the arm of her chair, she supported her chin in a shaky hand. "Something else."

Hutch thought, trying to form melodies out of the thoughts running through his head. Thoughts such as this: as strong as her voice and mind sounded, this faded beauty would never have been able to strike down a grown man like Rick Attlee.

"Mrs. Robinson," he heard himself suggest. Apparently, that was Allison Pacero's new favorite song. At least she had once sung it under her breath, while trying to beat Hutch at chess, and ever since that Sunday afternoon, Starsky had done his best to drive his partner crazy by humming it during their time on patrol.

It only struck Hutch that the very last appropriate moment to sing that particular song would be right now, when it was too late already. "I-I mean..." he tried for a save, but Lady Marrinon didn't let him.

"I don't know that song," she said interestedly. "I think. Please." She motioned for him to start.

Inwardly, Hutch quickly went through the lyrics. If you didn't know the movie...

"All right," he nodded with a smile and put his hands on the keys.

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"Didn't I tell you to wear something nice?"

Startled, Starsky looked down at his outstretched hand, the black sleeve it poked out of, which belonged to the rest of his best suit, with which he'd chosen a blue tie and a white shirt, thinking that that combination couldn't be all wrong.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, inwardly praising his ability to not forget that this was not Allison greeting him like that, but someone who had paid for him to be nice to her.

"Your shoes," she told him and pointed down at the striped sneakers peeking out from under his trousers. "How can you wear running shoes with a suit?"

"Um..." he started, about to reply that he could wear running shoes with everything, because they were just shoes, but she was already waving in wide, dismissive gestures.

"Oh, hell, never mind. I mean -- guys, right?" she added, putting a decidedly un-complimentary stress on the word 'guys', then turned to inspect the Torino. "How 'bout taking my car?"

"It's your show," he muttered, unheard, since she had turned the moment the words had left her mouth and marched over to her white little lady-car and got onto the passenger seat.

Starsky bent down to look through the driver's window. "You want me to drive?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "It's just down the street, right?"

"Yeah, I know, but what I meant is-"

He flinched backwards as she suddenly jumped out of the car. Look," she snapped. "We're already late. And I hate being late. But obviously I should've looked at all the IQ-tests down at your business before choosing. So what about all this is it that you don't get?"

Starsky stared at her, wide-eyed, too stunned to even be mad. "First of all," he said at last, "I don't even know your name."

Her angry appearance crumpled along with her hands-on-her-hips-and-chin-lifted-posture. "Oh." She grimaced, embarrassed. "Didn't I write it on the note?"

"Nope."

A nervous little laugh escaped her. "Oh, well. Um...sorry then. It's Hope. Hope O'Tavish." She held out her hand over the roof of the car, but thought differently and withdrew it again.

"Hope," Starsky said. "See? That's a start. Hi, Hope, I'm Joe."

She furrowed her brows. "Joe? Oh. Um..." She seemed to think, her mouth opening a few times without any noise coming out, until she finally decided, "That's not a good name. I mean," she hastily added, her hand flying up, "no offense. Really. I'm sure it's a good enough name for you..."

She didn't even notice his glare.

"... but I just wouldn't date a 'Joe,' y'know? I mean…'Joe'..." She listened to the echo and shook her head with determination. "No way."

"How about David?" he asked patiently.

She snapped her fingers. "Perfect!"

"Glad I could help. Is there anything else you want to change about me?" He smiled wryly. "My profession maybe?"

"Oh, sure!" she exclaimed. "I mean..." And her apologetic waves were back. "I'm sure it suits you just fine, and, gee, I've no doubt you're doing swell at it, but-"

"Hey!"

At his half-yell, she instantly fell silent.

"If you don't mind, I'm all done with taking insults for tonight, all right? I cancelled something extremely important for this, and if I wanted to be told off, I'd call the someone I ditched for you, so if you could just tell me your God-damned catalogue of do's and don'ts and wants for tonight, I'll be happy to do what you paid me for."

At the stretching silence, he raised his brows. "Well?"

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"You do have a beautiful voice, Dear."

"Um...thanks," Hutch said and looked down at the keys. "Again," he added under his breath.

"I like all those new songs," Lady Marrinon continued dreamily. "It's been so long since I sang new songs."

"It's hard to believe that," Hutch said gently.

She smiled slightly. "Liar."

"No," he insisted, "I-I meant...why don't you sing new songs?" At her dumbfounded gaze, he shrugged. "Just for you. For fun."

"I don't sing for fun," she said, as if he'd just suggested she go fix her own meals.

"Maybe you should."

She simply stared at him for such a long time that he had to drop his gaze, his fingers nervously playing a faint little melody where they rested on the keys.

"Would you teach me a new song?"

Surprised, Hutch looked up at her. The child-like wonder in her voice was almost scary to him. As if he'd awakened a ghost. Her begging, light eyes seemed empty all of a sudden, like you could look through them, see the wall behind her. The wrapped-up pictures of her living self on it.

"S-sure," he said in a choked whisper. He cleared his throat. "Which one?"

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"So when's the wedding?"

"June 20," Starsky said at the same moment he heard Hope, on his right arm, say, "January 12."

The small, brunet woman and her fat husband -- Edie and Wilbur, if Starsky remembered correctly -- laughed a little half-embarrassed, half-amused laugh and exchanged a quick 'let's get the hell outta here' glance.

Starsky and Hope looked at each other and smiled forcefully.

"Sweetie pie," Hope said as sweetly as a German Shepherd. "You know we always said we'd want to get married in winter. We're going to Switzerland for our honeymoon," she told Edie and Wilbur. "If David here gets his boss to give him a week off." Pretending to playfully hit Starsky's arm, she managed to punch him hard enough to make him swallow a wince.

"Yes," Edie said sympathetically, the voice of a woman who knew all about the 'boss' of any husband. "It's so important to have a good honeymoon, Hope. Let me tell you, I know. I so hope your boss will let you go, David," she said to Starsky.

"What do you do?" Wilbur asked, since that was the question meant to be asked and answered by husbands.

Starsky opened his mouth, but was cut off by Hope proudly stating, "He's an architect." As if to underline it, she hugged the arm that she'd just punched to her chest, snuggling up on his side.

Starsky just looked down at her, trying his very best to keep his captured arm from coming to rest around her throat.

Wilbur was impressed. "That's great," he said. Edie nodded jealously. Contrary to Hope, she was creating some distance from her husband.

"Oh, yeah," Starsky nodded. "And, hey, this from a guy who started out to be a lawyer!"

He felt Hope pinch his arm, but ignored it. Merely ten minutes ago, he was supposed to be a lawyer. In fact, all the way to the hotel and inside, Hope had changed her fiancé's profession with the speed of a writer.

"Really?" Wilbur asked. "That's interesting. What made you reconsider?"

"I like houses," Starsky replied.

"Okay, you guys," Hope hurried to say, already shoving Starsky in another direction. "It was really great talking to you, but we need to say hello to a few oth...oh, there! I see Tina Rogers waving over there, so -- Edie, it was so good seeing you again." She gave her former classmate a quick squeeze. "Bye."

With that, she turned, the smile on her face instantly crumpling to an annoyed grimace, dragging Starsky across the room. They crossed the dance floor, which was strangely devoid of dancing. Instead, it was crowded with members of Hope O'Tavish's 10th high school reunion, standing around and greeting each other.

"'I like houses'?" Hope hissed, as she kept close to his side. "And if I'd let you be a lawyer, you'd have said 'I like laws'?"

"Exactly," Starsky said unmercifully.

"Why don't you just keep it shut for the rest of the evening?" Hope snapped, in a whisper.

"If you stop punching me," he countered.

"You just got what...Tina!" Hope exclaimed in shrill, feigned happiness as a well-built, blonde woman miraculously appeared in front of her. A cocktail was in one hand and her other one was held out to draw Hope into a big hug.

"Hope O'Tavish," she all but yelled and shook her head. It didn't seem to be her first cocktail that night. "Look at you." But she was really looking at Starsky.

"Tina Rogers," Hope imitated her. "You look ravishing as ever. I can't believe I haven't seen you until now."

"Yeah," Tina said. Her continued smiling started to make Starsky feel uncomfortable. "Hi, there," she finally addressed him in a husky, drunken voice and lifted one hand for him to grab. Probably to steady her, too. "I'm Tina."

"David," he said, discreetly helping her to straighten back up. "Nice to meet you. Hope, here..." He drew Hope closer to him, one arm around her shoulder. "...talks about you all the time."

Obviously, that had been the right thing to say, for no punch followed. In fact, Hope suddenly seemed uncharacteristically subdued. She stood in his half-embrace, leaning against him as she would have against a banister, for support.

"You do?" Tina's eyes flew to Hope again. "Aw, that's so swee...Wait." She had been about to hug Hope once more, but stopped in mid-step and leaned back like she was inspecting a painting. "You look different. What…?" She frowned, then snapped her fingers. "You aren't wearing your glasses."

Hope didn't say anything. Why bother? She didn't wear glasses.

"And that ugly rash is gone," Tina added in delight. "It used to be all over her," she told Starsky in a low voice, as if Hope mustn't hear about it.

The whole situation was so painfully easy to read that Starsky didn't think it necessary to go through with it.

"I know," he said, never letting go of the woman in his arms, and suddenly narrowed his eyes as if trying to remember something. "Hey. Don't Hope tell me something about you having married someone?"

He shifted to meet Hope's confused gaze. "Didn't you, Babe?" Not waiting for a reply, he snapped his fingers and looked at Tina again. "That's it! This John-Earl-Christian-Whatshisnamefellow, the-"

"Donnie," Tina corrected him darkly.

"Yeah! Donnie." Starsky nodded. "Captain of the base-"

"Football," Hope quickly cut in.

"Football team," Starsky finished. "Donnie." He smiled, playing to the hilt the role of the boyfriend proud of having remembered his lady's high school memories. "So you married Donnie. Well, congratulations. I heard he's one helluva guy. Didn't you say so, Honey? Where is he?" He looked around.

Tina suddenly grew extremely interested in her empty cocktail glass. "We didn't marry," she muttered.

"Oh?" Starsky asked in surprise. "I thought you said they did," he told Hope.

"Well, we didn't, so what the fuck," Tina slurred. She vanished into the crowd before either of them could respond to that.

At last, Starsky let go of Hope and looked down into her watery eyes. "So, that's who we're here to show up and make weep?" he asked with a grin

Hope smiled through a sniff. "That's one of 'em."

He nodded. "Let's find the rest."

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"It's no good," Lady Marrinon let her head hang. A sniff could be heard, shaky as everything about her, including her memory.

For the past few hours, Hutch had tried to get the lyrics of 'Sound of Silence' into her head, without any success. The beautiful voice of hers that once may have been able to touch hearts could no longer sing words. All it could do was produce noises.

Such as her sobbing, when Hutch stood to discreetly support her upper body. It had started to tremble and sink towards the piano she was standing near.

He stiffened a little, when he felt her turn her face towards his chest as she continued to cry, feebly clinging to him for more support than he was willing to give.

"Shh," he crooned, as he carefully walked her back to her armchair. "Easy. It's okay. It's okay."

She refused to let go of him, even when she was sitting, and so he crouched down in front of her and let her continue to cry into his shoulder, all the while trying to calm her like he would an upset child.

"It's all right," he said softly and at last rose to his feet, fleeing from her weak claws. Averting his gaze, when she blew her nose and wiped her eyes, he sat down on his bench again.

"D-d'you want me to play for you again?"

She didn't look at him. "You think I'm a damned fool, don't you?" Her voice was soft, yet so bitter it made Hutch cringe.

"No," he answered sincerely. "No, not at all."

"I can't learn new things," she said. Her gaze ever-so-briefly brushed over him. "In case you wondered why I didn't ask your name."

"It's okay," he assured her. "You don't need to-"

"Be interested in your name?" she snapped. Suddenly, the energy he'd seen in her expression before was back with a vengeance. "Is that it? I don't need to be interested in anything, do I? Because I'm paying for you to be here. Because if it wasn't for money, you wouldn't even be here? Is that it, Rick?"

Stunned by the violent outburst, Hutch stared at her. "N-no," he replied. "That's not...that's not it. I'm sorry."

She didn't seem to be listening. "I'm tired," she informed no one in particular and let go of a deep, angry breath. "You look tired too, Dear."

"I am," Hutch agreed.

"Well then," she said in a hasty voice, almost breathless. To his utter surprise, she pushed herself out of the armchair and walked over to the porch door.

Could it really have been just a few hours ago that she had entered the room through this door? The strong, pretty old lady he had met then seemed to have aged and died and risen from the dead in the short time he had been here.

"Good night, dear boy," he heard her call out without turning again, as she stepped into the dark garden. "I'll see you in the morning."

Before Hutch had any time to correct her there, he felt a presence behind him and found himself looking at Lady Marrinon's dull, wrapped-in-plastic servant, who wordlessly motioned for the detective to follow him.

Hutch took a few steps, but stopped in the door that the man was holding open for him. "I'm not staying," he said sternly.

Lady Marrinon's servant did not so much as blink. "Of course not," was all he said.

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"May I ask you a question?"

Starsky looked up from his glass. He had been trying to find out what the hell was in this weird-looking cocktail the waitress had given him when the sat at one of the tables. So far, his sense of smell had discovered something he thought he had last smelled in Hutch's health food cupboard. "Sure."

"Why d'you do this?" Her eyes staying on him, Hope lifted her own cocktail, took a sip and made a face. "God, this is awful."

"Thanks for the warning," Starsky muttered and shoved his away. "What d'you mean?" he then asked.

Hope blushed a faint shade and dropped her gaze. "You know. Your job." She looked up again with rediscovered confidence. "How come a nice guy like you doesn't have a...normal job?"

"I'm a nice guy?"

Hope smiled wryly.

"Okay," Starsky admitted. "I'm a mighty nice guy."

She laughed. "C'mon."

"Well..." he started, but trailed off. Not a bad question, really. "What makes you think it's not a "normal" job? I mean, you hired me."

Hope shook her head in a way that communicated 'have to give you that'. "So this doesn't feel...strange at all to you?"

He bowed his head with a smile. "I didn't say that. Can I ask you something, too?"

There was no answer. When he looked up again, she was watching him cautiously. Still, a blink told him to go on.

"What happened to the real architect? Or lawyer. Or astronaut," he added after a pause.

Hope chuckled, which ruined her irritated gaze. "I still don't think that was a stupid idea."

Starsky grinned, but maintained up his questioning expression.

The amusement slowly faded on Hope's face. A sigh like a little laugh preceded her answer. "Let's say he did a Donnie on me."

Starsky frowned in sympathy. "He left you?"

"He left us." At the confusion crossing his gaze, she opened her purse and produced a photograph, handing it to him.

It showed a girl of about five, sitting on the edge of an ugly sofa, staring into the camera with wide eyes, as if she expected to be given orders from the lens.

Starsky smiled, glancing up at Hope again, as he handed the picture back. "She's beautiful," he told her. "Hope Jr.?"

"Amy," she corrected. "Hope didn't exactly jump to mind back then." Absently, she lifted her cocktail once more, but wrinkled her nose before taking a sip, obviously remembering why she'd put it so far from herself in the first place.

Uncomfortable silence engulfed them and stretched, until Starsky seriously contemplated trying his cocktail.

"I'm sorry," Hope finally said regretfully. "I shouldn't have started. I guess there's even a rule against exchanging private information, huh?"

"Not really," Starsky replied, only then realizing he didn't know. "I mean...who cares?" He waved dismissively.

Hope nodded gratefully and scanned the dance floor over her shoulder.

Watching her, a disquieting idea grew in Starsky's mind. "Your ex..." he started, bringing her attention back to him. "I mean...Are you expecting to meet him here?"

The surprise on Hope's features changed into an amusement more commonly worn by women much older than she. She shook her head. "Don't worry. That was in college."

"Just ask-" Starsky started to defend himself, when suddenly Hope's gaze drifted from him to something behind him. Before he even had time to turn around or ask her about it, a shadow loomed over their table, and an instant later a man of maybe thirty sat on the vacant chair next to Hope.

To Starsky, he looked like an older version of Rawdon Jones, though he had to be younger. Yet, his well-tanned skin seemed to have been designed for paler looks. Fine wrinkles marked his face, like tiny cuts in old oil paintings. His hazel hair matched his eyes. He was tall, slender, but not muscular.

"Hope O'Tavish." It sounded as if only now that he'd seen her he could believe it really was her. "Look at you." He did it for her, to such an extent too that Starsky felt obliged to clear his throat.

"Oh," the man grinned a feigned apology. "Sorry. Ben Dedmon."

"David Buck," Starsky introduced himself, shaking Dedmon's outstretched hand, while he felt Hope's gaze snapping up to him. It was the first time he had used his alias' last name in front of her.

"So you're the lucky one who caught our Hope," Ben said around a grin that had apparently been stitched onto his face. He winked at Hope. "Don't try to deny it. 'Sall over the room." Abruptly, he turned to Starsky again. "I used to date her, she tell you that?"

'Go figure,' Starsky thought. What a comfort to know that two days as an escort hadn't harmed his detective's instinct any. That guy had reeked trouble from the moment his shadow hit the tablecloth.

Yet, before he could reply anything -- most likely for Ben Dedmon to go find himself another table to sit at -- Hope informed him that "Ben used to be president of the student council."

"Really?" Starsky asked, none-too-surprised. As far as his experiences went, those usually were bound to grow up into jerks.

Ben Dedmon wrinkled up his face in mock hurt. "Aw, Hope, that mean you never told him about me?"

Her features hardened. "I must've forgot," she said calmly, blinking her eyes up at him in a manner that once more made her look as if she had come straight out of a film noir.

As fascinated as Starsky was by the striking shift in her appearance, he felt himself suddenly rising to his feet, as if his body had a sense of decency of its own. "Um...don't know about you," he answered their questioning glances, "but I can't drink whatever that is." With a nervous smile, he pointed at his untouched cocktail. "I'm just gonna head for the bar. Be right back. Uh -- d'you...want anything?"

Ben Dedmon opened his grinning mouth to accept the offer, but Hope cut him off. "Don't bother, I'll go." With a grace Starsky had not previously seen from her, she stood and picked up her purse. "You know you always get my drink wrong," she told him patronizingly.

"Right..." Starsky replied apologetically. "Okay, well, you know..."

But she was already sliding into the dancing crowd.

"...my usual," Starsky finished his sentence. His sheepish smile found Dedmon again and vanished. He sat down again, causing Dedmon to stop looking after Hope and instead turning to him.

"Man." Dedmon curtly shook his head. "Tight collar your leash is attached to, isn't it?"

Starsky took it in silence and watched Dedmon pick up his cocktail for a gulp. When the man put the glass back down, Starsky slowly reached out to take it away from him. "I think," he quietly said, "Hope would like to find you gone, when she comes back."

Something strange mixed into Dedmon's surprised grin. Something like...satisfaction. "That so?" he asked.

Starsky nodded.

Dedmon seemed to contemplate it. The frown he cast his opponent almost succeeded in covering the grin. "I don't think you know your fiancé very well, Davey." He shook his head. "Uh-uh. Y'know, I think she'll be disappointed if I just left. 'Sides," he added with a generous gesture, "she knows my usual too."

"Shirley Temple?" Starsky guessed.

Anger rushed over the sun-kissed features like a fleeing deer. Then the grin was back. "You pissed cause she didn't tell you about me?" A curt, smacking noise with his lips. "Honest, there's no need to, we were-"

"I'm not pissed," Starsky interrupted him reassuringly. "God knows I have my share of fucking embarrassing stuff I wouldn't want her to know. Don't worry. Anyhow..." He smiled wryly and blinked. "Why don't we say that I'd rather you go now?"

Dedmon studied him and snickered. "You are pissed," he observed smartly.

Starsky sighed, as if regretting the man's stupidity. "Well," he said, "slowly you're getting there. Is there anything particular you..." He paused, focusing on the other one. "...want me to get pissed about? Anything you wanna share, 'cept your aftershave?"

Something incredible happened. The Dedmon-grin vanished. "You ever reached third base with her?"

Stunned, Starsky stared at him for a moment, then huffed and shook his head. "Look, Pal, I don't want any trouble. And, believe me, you don't want trouble, either. So how about you just get the hell lost and stay away from us?"

Apparently, that wasn't a plan for Dedmon to agree to. "Didn't?" he snickered. "Huh? Yeah, tell me 'bout it. That's her thing, d'you know that? Personally, I think it turns her on to have some poor sucker go all-"

"A'right, that's enough," Starsky cut him off sternly. About to add another, more descriptive, suggestion of what would be best for Dedmon to do just now, he noticed Hope approaching the table again. Indeed, she looked more than just disappointed to find Dedmon still sitting there.

Quickly, Starsky stood and took her arm. "C'mon, let's have our drinks at the bar."

Puzzled, she gazed up at him, but didn't resist, when he started to lead her away from the table. They didn't get far, though, before Ben Dedmon's voice held them back.

"I think there's still Hope for you, Dave!"

Both Starsky and Hope turned abruptly, to see Dedmon shaking his head with a wry grin. He, too, had gotten to his feet. "And even though I told him," he added. "Damned shame."

Hope bowed her head. Softly, she tugged at Starsky's arm, yet he remained facing Dedmon's gloating face.

"You apologize to her." It was a statement more than an order.

Dedmon arched his brows in amused surprise.

A small crowd started to form around the two parties. Starsky felt Hope tugging at his sleeve once more. "David," she whispered urgently. He ignored it.

"I can't hear you."

Dedmon huffed a laugh, but in the end threw his hands in the air in an exaggerated gesture. "All right. I sincerely" -- there was an ugly stress on that word -- "apologize for having destroyed your illusions about your soon-to-be wife." As sudden hate hit his voice with all the violent power of things left unsaid for a decade, he slowly stepped closer, fixing Hope with sparkling eyes. "For Heaven forbid anyone finds out that perfect little Hope O'Tavish is nothing but a pathetic cock-teaser!"

It suddenly dawned on Starsky that the man was probably drunk. Not that that was any excuse.

Hope had let go of his arm to back away from the approaching Dedmon, and now Starsky stepped into his way, holding out one hand to push him back, when he tried to reach Hope.

"Get the fuck outta my-" Dedmon snapped, but was effectively silenced by the blow to his jaw that Starsky delivered without a second thought.

Landing on his butt, Dedmon stared up at the detective, absently rubbing his jaw. "You fucking hit me!" he yelled accusingly.

Starsky glanced at Hope, who stared down at Dedmon with wide eyes. "You didn't tell me he was Genius of the Year, too," he quipped. Her change of expression warned him of the following, yet he turned his head too slowly to catch Dedmon's fist, as well as the rest of his body, flying towards him.

Both men crashed into a nearby table, causing a row of people to jump up in a wave-like motion, like fans at a football game. Hope stood in the middle of the growing crowd of spectators, a shaking hand covering her mouth.

Starsky was the first back on his feet. "That," he panted, as he reached down to grab the back of Ben Dedmon's suit jacket, dragging the struggling man back up, "was a mistake."

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"You can pull over here," Starsky muttered, when the Torino rolled past his building.

"Okay." With a nod, Hope stopped the car. Frowning in sympathy, she turned her head to look at the man on the passenger's seat. "How's the eye?"

"T'riffic," Starsky replied.

"Doesn't look "t'riffic"," Hope commented, making an attempt at touching the severely swollen area around his left eye.

Startled, he jerked back before the contact was made and flinched at the wave of pain that the unwise move had let loose in his skull. "Don't," he hissed, "touch."

She cringed. "Sorry. Maybe you should've gone to the-"

"It's just a black eye," Starsky cut her off. They'd been through that conversation before. "Nothing a thick steak won't heal," he added, earning a little laugh from her. "And I could've driven myself."

She didn't say anything to that, just lifted her brows.

"Still," he said after a moment, "thanks for the ride."

"Least I could do," she replied generously. "After all, you fought for my reputation. You're my white knight."

Starsky grinned, but winced at his own chuckling.

Hope smiled. "What's so funny?"

"Oh...nothing." He waved dismissively. "'Sjust...no one ever called me a white knight before."

Her features softened. "That's hard to believe." Her eyes found his, and this time he didn't flinch, when she brushed gentle fingers over the blackened skin of his cheekbone.

"Hope..." his voice came out croaked, yet she instantly caught the message it carried.

She lowered her hand along with her gaze. "'Msorry."

Before he had any time to react, she was out of the car. Starsky sighed. He gave her a moment, then slowly followed her.

She stood with her arms wrapped around herself. As their eyes met again, she smiled. "Well..." A helpless shrug. "Thanks again. You sure you don't want me to...pay for the steak?"

Starsky laughed. "No, that's okay. We white knights don't take fees." He watched her smile grow at that, then pointed at his building. "You wanna call a cab?"

Hope had insisted on driving him home after they'd left the party (leaving it to Ben Dedmon's old drinking buddies to carry him up into some room and try and rouse him), pointing out that he shouldn't drive with one only open eye. She'd been so grateful for what he had done for her, she'd instantly offered to take his car, when she caught his protesting glance.

Under any other circumstances, Starsky would have preferred to drive with both eyes swollen shut, before he would agree to let someone else -- who was not Hutch -- drive his car, but Hope had seemed so eager to at least try and make it all up to him that he had not had the heart to deny her the opportunity.

Plus, she was probably right, anyway. Over the ride home, the swelling on his face had only increased, not to mention the major headache he felt growing.

Yet, he couldn't help thinking with grim satisfaction, you should've seen the other guy...

"No, thanks," Hope answered to his offer. "I saw a phone booth just a block down there." She pointed in the direction they'd come from. "I'm gonna use that."

Starsky followed her outstretched finger, then looked back at her with a puzzled smile. "Hope, I can't let you walk to some phone booth in the dark. C'mon in, you can call from my phone."

She didn't seem inclined to. "Isn't that against the rules?" she asked ironically.

"It's past midnight!" At her insistent expression, he threw up his hands in an exasperated gesture. "A'right -- I'll walk you there. That okay? Hey," he hastily added, seeing her about to protest, "what kind of a white knight would I be, if I let you wait for a cab at a corner in the middle of the night? Huh?"

She didn't look convinced.

"What d'you think Amy'd tell me if I did that?" Watching her resistance crumble, he smiled and stepped up to her. With one arm around her shoulders, he turned both of them around to start their walk down the street.

"Thank you," Hope whispered and stole a quick kiss to his cheek.

It was in that moment, that Starsky saw the running car on the other side of the street. It hadn't been there when they'd arrived, he was sure of that. Yet, how long it had been there, he couldn't tell.

"Aw, no," he muttered under his breath. Absently, he let go of Hope, his attention directed only at the woman in the car, whose eyes he missed meeting by a split second. "Ally!"

But she had already started to drive.

"Allison!"

She didn't slow down. Starsky thought about sprinting after her, but the throbbing behind his forehead informed him of his body's veto to that.

With slumped shoulders, he stood staring after Allison's blue Mercedes, even after it had vanished into the darkness.

Only slowly did he become aware of Hope's cautious glance. Without meeting it, he gestured down the empty street. "That was my girlfriend."

"I figured," Hope replied, sounding genuinely sorry. "She, um...I mean...She doesn't...?" Embarrassed, she trailed off.

At last, Starsky looked at her. "Know?"

Hope nodded.

He let his head hang. "C'mon," he mumbled, and started down the street. "Let's find this phone booth."

They walked in silence for a short while.

"She'll understand if you tell her," Hope eventually asked, "won't she?"

Catching something in her tone, Starsky cast her a glance. He smiled reassuringly. "Course she will." 'I hope.' "Hey, you don't feel bad about this, do you?"

"W-well...no. I mean...I hadn't...thought..." Her voice dropped in volume until it was barely audible. "I'm sorry," she finally said in a half-mutter.

"Don't be," Starsky told her kindly. "Wasn't your fault. I should've listened to someone." He shrugged. "Story of my life."

They had reached the phone booth, and Hope was rummaging through her purse for a dime. At his last added mumble, she looked up comfortingly. "I could call her, try to explain things."

Starsky laughed a little at that. "Yeah, no, thanks. I mean, that's real nice of you, Sweetheart, but I think I'd better just wait for her homicidal desires to die out, and then I'll tell her myself." As if to put a point behind that, he held up a dime for Hope to take.

Blushing a shade, she took it. "Okay." Receiver in hand, she turned to him again, a thin, ironic smile playing with her lips. "Maybe you shouldn't put anything on your eye just yet, y'know? Might come in handy, when you tell her." With a wink, she started to dial, obviously happy at earning a different sort of laugh this time.

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The red glowing numbers on his nightstand read 3:00, when Hutch refused to just lay there and stare at his decidedly boring ceiling any longer. Out of reflex, he reached for his bathrobe, but rolled his eyes at himself, when he stood up. Even at this hour, it was too hot for any more clothing than the shorts he wore.

"Does what you have hurt?" he asked the patient in the fridge, while he grabbed a beer. "I'm willing to switch places."

Imagining the answer was probably something like "close the door, it's getting warm in here", he let the door fall shut. After a sip of the blessedly cold beer, he yawned widely and shuffled on into the green house.

The yellow-green little tree had developed one brown leaf. Scowling, Hutch lifted it with one finger.

"You doin' this on purpose?" he asked. "Think you were better off at Jerry's shop?" He thought about it, then shrugged. "Can't blame ya." Lifting the bottle for another sip, he pointed a poor version of his Hutchinson warning finger at the plant. "But you better try and start improving, Pal. I'm not gonna buy a bigger fridge just for you."

That said, he continued his late night check on the other well-behaved members of his jungle, then walked back into the living-room, where he sank heavily down onto his couch.

To hell with Lady Marrinon! Not that he could have slept in the first place, but the earworm of 'Sound of Silence' his trip to the wrapped-up house had left him with did not exactly help. Neither did the fact that he could not help shuddering whenever he thought of the vacant look her eyes had taken on when she had asked him to teach her a new song. This complete emptiness. The childlike tone of her voice.

All but jumping at the goosebumps starting on his bare arms, he absently rubbed one with the hand that held the bottle. As if by its own will, his gaze wandered off to linger on his phone on the coffee table.

The raspy voice that answered after the ninth ring didn't sound as colored with unsure worry as Hutch assumed his own would have sounded, given the time of the call.

"'Lo?"

"D'you believe in ghosts?" Hutch asked, only frowning at how stupid that sounded after it was already out.

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Long enough for Hutch to wonder if he should repeat his question. Then, quietly, "Hutch, it's half past three in the morning. Don't call me at half past three in the God damned morning to ask me about ghosts."

Despite the words, it didn't sound angry. But then, Hutch hadn't anticipated it would.

He snorted a smile. "What, you're scared now?"

"Uh-huh," came the drowsy answer. A yawn followed. "Did dating Lady Methuselah put you in the mood for talking about ghosts?"

Hutch shuddered, absently feeling behind him in the search for the blanket he sometimes forgot on the couch. Yet, there had not been any afternoon naps lately, so no blanket. He inwardly groaned in frustration, while telling Starsky, "Please don't call her that. That name together with her image is just..." This time the shudder was audible. Thinking he had heard his friend chuckle, he added, "You don't really believe in ghosts, do you?"

"Course I do."

"C'mon, Starsk. I mean, even for you-"

"Good night, Hutch."

"No, wait!" Hutch hastened to beg and was relieved at hearing an amused, if exhausted sigh at the other end. Some shuffling and a poorly suppressed groan told him that Starsky was probably crawling up into a sitting position, accepting that the conversation would take a bit longer.

"Okay, tell me about it."

Hutch leaned back into the couch, lifting the phone to put it on his stomach. "She's too weak to have inflicted the injuries on Attlee's body."

"Including the shots?" Starsky asked.

"Except for the shots. But I don't think she did it."

"Why?"

Hutch thought about it. "I can't imagine her leaving her house," he said at last, surprising himself with how right that sounded. In fact, the thought of Lady Marrinon ever having existed in the outside world seemed ridiculous. Like when you tried to imagine the skeletons of dinosaurs suddenly filling with flesh and muscles that carried them out onto the land where your own feet now stood.

Starsky seemed to think about it too. "You sound strange," he eventually observed.

A bit guilty, Hutch found that his friend sounded worried. Shaking his head as if to calm Starsky that way, he replied, "No. The evening was strange 'sall."

"Hmm."

"She wanted me to teach her new songs," Hutch explained, since Starsky didn't seem convinced. "She used to sing, I think. But she has troubles memorizing new things. She called me Rick, once," he added, when he recalled it.

"Rick," Starsky repeated.

"Yeah," Hutch said. He could almost see his partner frown deeply.

"How long did she used to hire Rick?"

"I don't know," Hutch replied. "Must've been for some time, though. The first things you start to forget are recent information. She had to know him long enough to really save his name."

"Or well enough," Starsky pointed out.

Choking on a swallow of beer, Hutch cringed. "Aw, man, don't...cough...don't say that!"

Starsky giggled, taking any sincerity out of his apology. "Sorry. We should check on that. On how long she knew him, I mean," he quickly explained with more of a grin in his voice Hutch thought necessary.

"I agree."

"Rawdon would know, I guess," Starsky suggested, suddenly serious again. "Did I tell you he lied to me about Attlee's death?"

"No. What'd he say?"

"That he slipped in his bathtub and broke his neck."

Hutch frowned. "That's weird. Why would he do that?"

Starsky's response was interrupted by a loud yawn. "I...yawn I dunno. He claims to've been his friend. He's friends with Scavio, too. And Corey, the kid we saw in Urbaniak's office? Rawdon said he used to work for Urbaniak, too, a while ago. Didn't say as what, though."

Hutch whistled in appreciation at his partner's research results and lifted his beer again. "Man's friends with everyone, huh?"

"I don't think he's friends with Corey," Starsky replied, somewhat darkly.

Sensing that more would follow, Hutch quietly waited.

"There's something going on with that kid, Hutch. 'N' I think Rawdon has something to do with it."

Hutch nodded slowly. "Drugs?" he asked.

Starsky seemed to consider that. "I'm not sure," he finally said. "Just because he looks like a user, doesn't mean they're involved in that stuff. 'Sides, he's way too young to work there now. As an escort, I mean."

As the picture his friend had in mind put itself together for Hutch, he felt his features soften in sympathy. His voice lowered. "You mean Urbaniak uses him to walk the streets? What for? He must earn enough with his regular employees. Hell, I overheard what the lady paid for today, and I wasn't even first choice."

"Because first choice is dead?" Starsky asked incredulously. "She paid less for you?"

"Starsk," Hutch sighed at the amused tone of that.

"Guess that's business, huh?" Starsky grinned. "Anyway," he got back at their earlier subject, "I've no idea why they'd do that. Maybe there's a reason for them to want Corey to stick around. If you get my drift."

Hutch did. "You think he might know something about Rick's death."

"I think even if he doesn't, it won't hurt to keep an eye on him. We don't want to skip checking out the monster corner while we're already in the basement, right?"

For the second time that night/morning, Hutch almost choked on his beer. "What kind of a saying is that?" he asked through a laugh, while wiping beer off his phone.

"My Mom used to say that," Starsky replied, of course not the least bit embarrassed but rather surprised at being laughed at for a saying everyone should know, since his Mom used to use it.

"Okay," Hutch said, still laughing, "tell me, what's a monster corner?"

"It's where the monsters hide in the basement," Starsky explained. Hutch could all but see him roll his eyes at the blond's lack of knowledge. "When Nicky was a kid, he was afraid to get stuff out of the basement because of the monsters hiding in the corners. So whenever my Mom went down herself, she'd always check out the monster corners, so that she could tell him she'd done it, when she'd send him down the next time."

Hutch listened with a grin. "When Nicky was a kid," he pointed out dryly.

"Anyway," Starsky said in a tone that made it clear the subject was closed now, "I'd hate to..." A tiny noise escaped him, before he quickly continued, "...to think we'll leave that boy in any tight spot, when we're finished there. Even if it turns out that a client killed Attlee. Okay?"

"Sure," Hutch agreed. "You know I'm with you there. What was that wince for?"

There was a stunned pause, then, exaggeratedly innocent: "What wince?"

"The wince," Hutch answered matter-of-factly. "You just winced."

"How the hell could you tell?"

"Years of experience," Hutch told him. "So -- you okay?"

"Yeah," Starsky replied dismissively. "'Snothing. Just a black eye."

Hutch furrowed his brows, sitting up straighter. Though he knew better, he still couldn't fight the instant urge to drive over and check on the truth of that. When his partner was not in the mood to drop a case, "just a black eye" could mean everything between a severe concussion to a skull fracture. Then again, up until the wince, there had not been any signs of pain, and you could not very well carry on a phone conversation with a skull fracture.

So Hutch settled for a light tone, but listened more carefully to the sound of Starsky's voice now. "What happened, Buddy? Didn't she like what you wore?"

"Funny," Starsky replied dryly. "No, this guy she didn't get it on with ten years ago started becoming unpleasant. Even more unpleasant than his usual self," he added after a moment's thought, then casually concluded, "So I showed him how I felt about it."

That eased some of Hutch's worry. It didn't sound like an incident that would leave serious injuries. "I take it he then turned more than just unpleasant."

"Yup," Starsky agreed. "Unconscious, to be precise."

Hutch laughed. "So you saved the damsel in distress. No less than what I expect of any partner of mine."

Starsky snorted a grin. "Yeah, right. You could've told me that no good deed goes by unpunished, though."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A deep sigh. "Hope -- that's her name -- insisted on driving me home, and we were sorta like hugging, when Allison drove by."

Hutch widened his eyes. He picked up the phone from his knees and put it down on the coffee table again, as he sat up more. "Sorta like hugging?" he repeated dreadfully.

Starsky groaned, annoyed. "Man, I hugged her, okay? She didn't even come in here to call a cab! I had to walk her to a phone booth. Geez, Hutch, we're talking about Ally here. That's not some two-week sleep-over I'm dating, you should know that."

Actually, Hutch had. And he did feel bad about his comment. Fortunately, Starsky's following words told him his partner had very well sensed and accepted his regrets.

"Anyway, as much as I hate to say it: shoulda listened to you."

Hutch frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" There was no immediate answer. "Starsky? Didn't you tell her you were working tonight?" A thought hit him. "Aw, don't tell me you forgot to cancel the family dinner!"

"No," Starsky said in a somewhat small voice. "I told her I was working tonight."

Slowly, slowly, the truth dawned on Hutch. "Right," he said carefully. "Undercover."

"Mm-hmm."

"As an escort."

Silence.

"Starsk? You did tell her about the escort thing, didn't you?" But he knew better than to expect an affirmative reply.

Starsky's answer confirmed that. "Remember I said I'd make it sound different?"

Hutch let a long pause pass by. Of course there was stuff to say here, but then, hell, the poor guy had already said the 'shoulda' phrase. "Shit."

He could sense the wave of gratitude cross their receivers, though all Starsky replied was: "Yep."

"I had an old crow sob into my t-shirt," Hutch offered lightly.

At least that earned him a small laugh. "Well, thanks, Blintz, but that's not even in the same game."

Hutch had to give him that. Though, when he remembered Lady Marrinon's cold arms brushing against his skin...Grimacing, he shook off the feeling. "D'you call her, yet?"

"No."

"Hmm. Well, listen to me this time, Gordo: that's not how you'll solve it."

"Thanks, Dr. Ruth." Starsky sighed. "I'm gonna call her in the morning and offer to adopt Jeff. That should calm her enough to at least hear me out. If only I knew where to put him."

Though he really felt for his friend, Hutch had to chuckle at that. "How 'bout your kitchen?" he suggested. "No one's ever in there."

"Yeah. How about your bed?" Starsky countered and yawned loudly as if on cue. "Serious, Hutch, when're you gonna have this checked out? I mean, no offense, but it's starting to become contagious." For proof, he yawned once more.

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Sorry I'm keeping you up," he said without much sincerity.

"Nah, 'sokay. Twenty years, and this'll be my time to get up for the nightly walk to the sandbox, anyway. Better start getting used to it early."

"Way you're living, you're giving yourself twenty more years?" Hutch asked dryly. He had to admit, though, that if the roles were reserved, he'd start to make hints at this time too. "But you're right, one of us should get some sleep."

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty, because you can't sleep?" Starsky asked incredulously.

'Sort of...' "What makes you think that?" Hutch replied indignantly.

"The fact that it's true," Starsky pointed out, unimpressed. "Why don't you count sheep?"

"Sheep are boring," Hutch said, sounding just a bit whiny.

"Of course. Okay," another yawn, "then count pin-ups."

"Yeah. I'll look for something to count," Hutch promised, half annoyed, half amused. "You just go back to sleep."

It didn't sound like Starsky needed to be told twice, yet he managed to stay awake long enough to drowsily ask: "You're okay, aren't ya?"

Hutch smiled at that. "Yeah, don't worry."

"If there was anything, you'd tell me, right?"

"Sure." Waiting for a reply, Hutch furrowed his brows. "Starsk?" When nothing came, he pressed the receiver closer to his ear and slightly shook his head at the even breathing he could hear. "Starsky!" he yelled.

"Huh?" a startled voice answered. "Wh...Yeah?"

"Sleep tight," Hutch told him and hang up.

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"Well?" Hutch heard Huggy ask, prompting him to look up from the newspaper he had been reading, while nursing a beer.

The look Starsky carried back from the phone to the counter wasn't exactly that of the triumphant. "She's in a meeting."

Huggy lifted his brows. "One hell of a meeting." To drive home his point, he checked his watch, then grabbed the next damp glass from the sing, and began to dry it.

Starsky scowled. "It's another meeting," he growled and grabbed Hutch's beer for a gulp.

Watching after his glass, Hutch tried to sound reassuring, as he pointed out, "Ally's a busy lady. Running a business like that. I'm sure you'll catch her at home tonight."

"What if I'm working tonight?" Starsky whined. He put down Hutch's beer and frowned, when the blond reached out to take it back. He did not catch the doubtful once-over that his buddy gave him.

"Seriously, Starsk. I wouldn't worry."

"Yeah," Huggy agreed. He put a new beer in front of Starsky and tipped his finger to the detective's chin as if to get a better look at the deep blue shiner on his face. "You look like you're part raccoon."

Hutch chuckled into his beer, unsuccessfully trying to pretend that he had been drawn back to his newspaper.

"Ha, ha," Starsky grumbled, while Huggy withdrew his hand to return to drying the glasses. "You think it's funny. I'm starting to feel like Gary Cooper -- I'm doing the right thing, and my lady leaves."

Turning a page, Hutch softly hummed the first notes of 'Do Not Forsake Me, Oh, My Darling' under his breath. When he looked up at his utterly miserable partner, he stopped, letting go of a sigh of sincere sympathy. "Aw, c'mon, Starsky. So she's still angry, can you blame her? I mean, once she's heard what it was all about, she'll understand."

"Right." Huggy nodded. "Just don't tell her you got punched for another chick. They don't like that."

At Hutch's questioning glance, the bartender shrugged. "What? I do have a life too, ya know."

"Just keep it to yourself," Hutch advised and emptied his beer. "Come on, Sheriff," he said, patting Starsky's shoulder as he walked past him. "It's almost five."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Starsky grumbled and slid off his barstool to shuffle along.

"You two behave!" Huggy called after them.

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Lady Marrinon appeared to have been quite impressed with the "second choice", as she had hired him again for the evening. To say Urbaniak was delighted would have been an understatement. It was from him that the detectives learned that Lady Marrinon had been Rick Attlee's "regular" for almost a year, practically ever since he had started working as an escort.

"If you want my opinion," Urbaniak said, not bothering to notice that no one had asked him for it, "she had quite an unprofessional interest in him." He winked. "If ya get my drift."

Starsky couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw Hutch pale a shade. Not that you could tell. Lack of sleep had by now left some marks on the blond's face. Most of the time, Hutch looked ready to keel over.

"Sh-she, um...she doesn't seem like that kind of...woman...to me," Hutch stammered, visibly uncomfortable under Urbaniak's happy stare.

"Well," the man said with a defensive gesture, "I wouldn't wanna know, anyway." He checked the clock on the wall. "You'd better get going, Holland. Don't want a lady to have to wait for you, do you?"

"No, sir," Hutch muttered and stood to leave Urbaniak's office.

When Starsky was about to follow him, though, Urbaniak's voice held him back. "Mr. Buck...I'd like to have a word with you."

Feeling unpleasantly reminded of half-a-dozen different principals' voices, Starsky froze in mid-step and cast his partner an imploring glance. Yet, Hutch was busy nursing his own misery -- the thought of one more evening spent in the presence of Lady Marrinon's ghost seemed to have slowed his steps immensely -- and he left without even catching it.

Slowly, Starsky turned around again and smiled. "Something wrong?" he asked innocently.

Urbaniak fixed him with a stern look, two fingers drumming the surface of his desk. "There something you want to tell me?" he asked instead of an answer.

Starsky gazed aside, as if trying to locate something to tell, but did not find anything. He widened his smile and shrugged. "No, Sir."

"So I won't get any calls today informing me about one of my boys causing any trouble somewhere?"

This time, the response was immediate. "No."

It took another second or two, but eventually Urbaniak's features lost some of their tension. When he narrowed his eyes, it looked more conspiratorial than suspicious. "You wanna tell me how you got that?" he asked, gesturing for Starsky's face.

"I don't think I can," Starsky replied and at the silent inquiry forming on the other man's face added, "I mean, you said you don't want to know any..." He waggled his head. "Y'know, details."

Like a cloud breaking open, Urbaniak's grin spread on his face. With a shake of his head, he swallowed a chuckle. "Get the hell outta here."

"Yes, Sir," Starsky said and turned again.

"And kid?" Urbaniak held him back one last time. "Next time, try being more careful, all right? It's bad for the business. I mean, you'll probably be out for two or three days now. If there's no one among our clients who gets turned on by the Cassius Clay look."

"Few do," Starsky agreed and left. He had just closed the door, when Rawdon Jones called out for him from the waiting area.

"Hey, Joe."

Starsky turned his head and started to approach him. "Hi."

Once he got a look at Starsky's face, Rawdon's brows flew up. "Boy, look at you," he exclaimed and grabbed Starsky's jaw to turn his face, then let him go again to step back and with mock sympathy ask, "What happened? Did she use force?"

Starsky cast him a dry glance. "You think you're awfully funny, too, huh?"

Rawdon grinned. "Not planning on making a living outta it, but I get by," he quipped and produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Wanna come out for a smoke?"

"Sure."

Outside, Rawdon lit his cigarette and leaned against the building. "Okay, what happened?"

"I fell."

Rawdon smiled. He took a drag off his cigarette and studied Starsky more closely, while he blew the smoke out slowly. "You don't look like the clumsy type," he observed.

"Don't let me fool ya."

For some moments, Rawdon continued to just watch him, a twitch of amusement playing with a corner of his mouth. Eventually, he shrugged. "A'right, Clumsy." He snapped his half-burned cigarette away, as he pushed himself off the brick wall. "Care to join a man for a beer?"

Starsky shrugged a "why not" and walked next to Jones, who led their way down the street.

"What did the old man say, when he saw you?" Rawdon asked ironically. "Got a pimp's attack or somethin'?"

Starsky snorted a laugh. He shook his head. "Nah. Just told me to be more careful and to not expect any assignment in the next few days."

"Hmm." Rawdon nodded importantly. Absently fumbling with his cigarette pack again, he produced a new cigarette and patted the other pocket for his lighter. "I had a client once who went for stuff like that."

Uncertain if he wanted to hear about anything labeled "stuff like that", Starsky cast him a side glance. "Which means?"

"She liked the beat look," Rawdon explained matter-of-factly. As if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Starsky frowned. "That's strange," he muttered. He was about to add something else, when he saw Michael Scavio turn around a corner ahead of them.

A half second later, Rawdon saw him too and waved with a smile. "Hiya, Scave," he greeted him, when they were close enough. "Joe 'n' I are heading for a beer. Wanna come?"

Scavio mumbled something that to Starsky sounded like a 'no' and strolled along, but not without throwing the detective a narrow-eyed scowl.

Surprised, Starsky looked after him, then at Rawdon, but he didn't seem to have noticed.

"Does he have more than one hour?" Starsky asked.

Rawdon cast him a questioning look. "Huh?"

"Not to mess with, I mean."

"Oh." With an understanding nod, Rawdon waved dismissively. His new cigarette was already almost burned down again. "No, never mind him, really. He's just grumpy most of the time 'sall."

"Grumpy," Starsky repeated. "That's one way of putting it."

"Yeah, well," Rawdon replied in a somewhat defensive tone, "it's not easy for him, y'know, stuff, life, the job...practically everything. Just give him time. He's a nice guy, once you know him better."

"Hmm." Starsky wasn't convinced.

Apparently, Rawdon had different plans for their conversation. While he opened the door of the downstairs bar he had led them to, he announced, "Hey, maybe I can do something about your problem."

With that, he stepped into the dim, smoky light, leaving Starsky to follow him through a bar that made The Pits look like the Ritz. They arrived at a wooden table at one far end. The chairs were wooden too, and the wood was made of plastic.

The moment his butt hit the chair, Rawdon raised one hand to wordlessly order two beers. He seemed to be known, if not a regular.

Starsky sat down too, scanning the shabby room with a quick glance. "What problem?" he asked and turned to Rawdon again.

Jones was just arranging his cigarettes and lighter on the table, while with one hand grabbing the ashtray from the table closest to theirs. As if surprised at the question, he lifted his brows. "Why, your income prob," he answered and grinned. "Sure, if ya wanna share some more troubles, maybe I can come up with solutions for those, too." He winked. "I'm good at that."

Starsky smiled wryly. "No doubts. So -- what's your solution for this one?"

Obviously content that his help was being accepted, Rawdon leaned back on his chair, watching the waitress walk over with their beers, while he spoke. "Remember Corey, the kid you asked me about?" He didn't wait for Starsky to nod, and his reaction to the beer being put in front of him consisted only of a nod and hint of a smile for the young waitress. "Well, I sometimes let him work for me, y'know, have him bring people stuff, collect the money and so on." Again, he didn't wait for a reply, but shifted his head in a modest gesture. "Lately, though," he continued, reaching out for his cigarettes, "he's been a bit slow. Giving me grief, y'know? And, seriously -- would you like to accept a package out of the hands from a kid looking like that?"

Starsky didn't respond. He did not have to, anyway. So he just sat back, beer in hand and waited for the monster corner to reveal itself.

"Don't get me wrong," Rawdon said, his hand coming up in a matching gesture. "I'm not saying I won't give him a job every now and then, but if you're interested, for the next few days, since you're out, anyway, I could have you deliver two or three of his usual runs. Just until you're good to work again." He winked, blew out smoke, as he watched the detective for a reaction. "Well? What d'you say?"

Putting his glass back on the plastic wood, Starsky propped one elbow up on the table to support his chin, eyes locked with Rawdon's. "What deliveries?"

"Is that important?" Rawdon asked.

After a moment of just watching Jones, Starsky snorted a smile. He leaned back again, taking his beer with him. "Forget it."

Probably having anticipated that, Rawdon sighed. "Hey, c'mon," he tried nevertheless, spreading his hands like a salesman. "What d'you think I'd let you walk around with, man? I just met you, d'you believe I'd send you off with dope or somethin'? So you could walk straight to the cops?"

Lifting his glass as if for a toast, Starsky grinned dryly. "Here's to us trusting souls," he announced.

That eased Rawdon's faked hurt. His features lost their tension and evened out into one of his charming smiles. "Okay, I'll give you that. Guess that makes us even." Studying Starsky closely over the edge of his glass, he seemed to consider his options.

He didn't fool the detective one second.

"Alright," came the final decision, "I'll tell you."

Starsky waited in silence. 'Gee, what a shocker.'

"But you must promise not to laugh," Rawdon said, lifting his index finger in a rather poor warning gesture. Then again, everyone's warning gesture looked pathetic in comparison to what Starsky was normally used to...

The verbal warning, though, hadn't been quite what he'd expected. With a confused frown, he tilted his head to one side. "Okay."

"I mean that," Rawdon urged. "I'm easily hurt."

If the purpose of that addition had been to make the detective laugh right away, it was successful. Still, Starsky tried to turn it down into a grin. "Okay, I promise I won't laugh!"

"Hmm." Rawdon didn't look convinced, but at last he just rolled his eyes as if at himself, gazed down into his beer and in a low mumble said, "It's pictures. I sell pictures to some of the clients."

The feeling of 'I don't wanna know' was back with a vengeance. Starsky felt his grin fade into a sheepish-looking expression. "Pictures," he repeated tonelessly. "You mean..." Trailing off, he gestured vaguely at Rawdon.

Jones nodded. "Yep." He grimaced, then shrugged exaggeratedly. "Sells."

Unaware that he was slowly inching away from the edge of the table, as well as from the man opposite to him, Starsky gazed at Jones with the same dumbfounded look as before. For some moments, it was very still.

"A-and...um..." As his eyes finally wandered off, Starsky cleared his throat, before he continued, "Uh...wh-why don't you...deliver your... uh...your stuff yourself?"

All embarrassment (which had seemed fake, anyway) left Rawdon's features, as a little, ironic smile took over. It fit him way better too. "Ever got your yearly stack of 'Playboys' delivered by the Bunny of the Year?"

Starsky grimaced at the choice of words. Still, he had to concede that it was a good point.

"You don't look very interested," Rawdon observed after a short silence. He shrugged, lifted his beer. "No sweat. 'Twas just an off-"

"Uh, no," Starsky cut him off. "I am..." Discreetly, he drew in a bracing breath, "I'm interested. Um...I was just wondering...do the others have those little...side-incomes as well?"

Rawdon seemed to consider that question and furrowed his brows in thought. "I don't think so. I mean, I guess Alan Rubinek does, y'know, two o'clock. He's doing something, anyway, from what he drives." He thought some more, but shook his head. "No. I think most of the others just don't like the idea. It's not the same, really," he concluded with a wink.

"Don't say," Starsky commented dryly.

Rawdon didn't hear, as a sudden thought hit him. He snapped his fingers. "Rick used to sell tons of those." His gaze drifted off for the briefest moment, seemingly following an image that rushed by to fade away. "Rick had it all," he muttered, more to himself than to Starsky. "All the good jobs, everything you need to really make money." Sadly, he shook his head, then looked at the detective again and smiled apologetically. "I miss him," he said, as if in excuse.

Starsky just nodded. He let a moment pass by, then asked, "Okay. So what'll you pay me for delivering your...smut?"

Rawdon grinned.

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Hutch felt reminded of too many rides he had wanted to take forever, as he drove through the overheated streets to the Wrapped Mansion for his second encounter with Lady Marrinon's ghost.

It was one of those drives where you could not come across enough red lights. Where, of course, there was for once no traffic jam in sight.

Brushing a hand over the fine sheet of perspiration on his forehead, Hutch focused on the red light, hoping it would not turn green. A bunch of chatting teenagers crossed the street, all of them busily trying to talk to everyone else, turning back and forth and to all sides like a panicked crowd of Wall Street brokers. They all wore the long-sleeved uniform of some private school, jackets casually slung over their shoulders.

How they managed to shield their energy supply from the heat was beyond Hutch, whose gaze followed them in exhausted awe, until it came to a sudden halt on a figure the excited students passed by. A sickly-looking boy in shabby clothes with blond, sun-bleached hair, not unlike Hutch's.

'Corey,' Hutch thought, frowning as he watched the kid now talking into the open passenger window of a dirty, brown Buick that had rolled to a halt next to him. A second later, without visible hesitation, Corey entered the car.

Hutch watched it speed off in his rearview mirror. The situation was unmistakable.

'Guess I just stepped into the monster corner, Buddy.'

Sadly, he shook his head, as he turned to watch the street light again; the angry honking from behind informed him that he should have been watching the light. With an annoyed "yeah, yeah, yeah", he drove off, but his thoughts turned the other way, followed the brown Buick.

Some things didn't need wrapping up to preserve their ugliness.

At least, he comforted himself, the boy's misery was now limited. There was no way Starsky and he would leave the case without doing something about it.

As he pulled over at the Marrinon Mansion, he couldn't help thinking that he was one guy who would not cry when Urbaniak's business was shut down. Snickering contentedly at that thought, mixed with a dreadful grimace at what lay ahead of him, he walked up to the gate.

Again following the silent servant through several rooms, he noted that the dull covers no longer startled him. He found himself briefly studying some of the pictures and photographs along the walls. Most of them -- almost all of them -- showed Lady Marrinon in various stages of age, different costumes, postures; some seemed to have been taken by amateurs, private snapshots of a laughing young girl at some lake or on a film set. The majority, though, were well-lit, black-and-white commercial shots.

She had been very beautiful, like so many others before and after her. With a rueful smile, Hutch thought that about ten years ago, he would have been impressed. Film stars weren't a dime a dozen in Duluth.

When he entered the "unwrapped room", he was relieved to find the air-conditioner running. With the porch door widely open, though.

Lady Marrinon greeted him with an excited enthusiasm that caused him to flinch in startled surprise. From out of nowhere she appeared in front of him, when he turned to face the room, and threw her arms around him in a big, welcoming hug.

"Darling boy!" she exclaimed happily, as she let go of him to hold him at arm's length, her face open and fresh with joy. "It's so good to see you. I was afraid you'd find an excuse to not come."

Taken by surprise, Hutch stared down at her, after a short time managing to smile reassuringly. "S-sure I came," he stammered. "You know I would."

"Yes," she nodded dismissively and finally drew her hands away to wave exaggeratedly, a few times. "Yes, yes, but..." And here she turned on her way over to the porch door and pointed a long finger at him. "Sometimes you say you'll come and then don't." In an instant, the hurt tone was gone again. "Isn't it a wonderful day?" she asked through a happy smile, leaning into the doorframe, her face shimmering almost white in the sun.

Slowly, Hutch followed and stood behind her, looking out over the garden, managing to stay within range of the air-conditioner. "It's a bit hot for my liking," he admitted.

Lady Marrinon laughed. She turned a bit to chidingly slap her hand against. "Silly boy," she told him. "You're in California now. You want snow, go back to Wisconsin."

Years of undercover assignments enabled Hutch to frown only on the inside. At her, he just shrugged with an apologetic smile. "You know I miss the snow."

Her easy happiness was broken by an annoyed groan, the kind usually uttered in order to prevent a serious argument. "Don't start now, Sweetie," she said, half begging, half ordering, and looked at the sunny green garden again, away from him. "Not on a beautiful day like this."

Hutch obeyed, waiting in silence, until she gazed at him again. The sight that met her faded blue eyes seemed to have changed.

Now, her smile was a more distant one. Friendly, but not happy. "Don't you want to play for me, today?" she asked.

This time, Hutch couldn't quite hide his confusion. She was switching conversation partners a bit fast, here.

Yet, he managed a polite smile and glanced at the piano. "I'd love to. If you want me to."

With her eyes closed, she stood facing the sun. "Yes," she said softly. "Please, play for me." Her eyes blinked open, but not at him. "I could use music today. Something beautiful."

It was added with such sadness that Hutch almost felt inclined to try and comfort her, take her in his arms. Yet, something about her expression told him that it would be wasted sympathy. She didn't need a white knight; she needed a time machine.

So without asking any further, he walked over to sit on the piano bench and started playing 'Sound of Silence'.

While he sang, Lady Marrinon did not once tear her gaze away from her garden, but listened in silence. When the song was over, she cast him a faint smile, making her look as if she had just stepped down from one of her covered photographs.

"What a nice song," she observed. "I don't think I've heard it before." As there was no reply from him, a tiny furrow appeared on her forehead. "Have I?" But the question was not directed at him. "Play some more, Dear. Will you?"

So Hutch did. He played all the songs that he had played the day before. Lady Marrinon could not recall one of them.

But she still liked them. Her mood visibly improved, and when he ended the sixth song, she had moved to her armchair, her elbow propped up on the arm, face in her open palm. "I do like your voice," she told him.

"I'm glad to hear it," Hutch replied.

"When you sing," Lady Marrinon continued, "you remind me of him. Oh," she sighed dreamily, her gaze wandering over to the setting sun outside, "on evenings like this, we'd sit here for hours, sometimes until dawn, and he'd sing for me. He had a beautiful voice. Just like you." A gentle smile found Hutch again and suddenly changed into an excited one. "Y'know," she said, pointing her finger at him, "I could introduce you to people who'd know what to make out of a voice like yours, Dear."

An uncertain expression mingled with a blush on Hutch's face. "Oh. Um...Th-that's very flattering, Ma...uh, Lady Marrinon, b-but I don't think-"

She did not listen. "In a month," she exclaimed, "I could have you performing in any concert hall you name. Any." Her eyes glazed over with beloved memories. "I used to sing in concert halls. Did I ever tell you about it, about London? They adored me in Europe."

Hutch's hope that her memories might have covered her earlier offer faded, when she once more fixed him with an expectant glance.

"I-I'm..." He smiled helplessly. "I'm not very good with crowds."

"Oh." She winked as cockily as an eighteen-year-old girl. "Don't worry, sugar. I'm sure crowds are good with you."

Hutch swallowed dryly. "Uh...yeah...well..." His nervous smile widened. "I'll think about it. How about...how about I play something else for you? Is there something you'd like to hear?"

A darkness as merciless as the night chased away the enthusiasm in her eyes. "Why don't you ever want my help?" she asked sternly. Her shoulders slumped, as if she were shrinking into her armchair, all energy leaving her. "There's nothing you want from me anymore. Not even my help."

Decidedly experiencing déjà vu, Hutch stared at her helplessly. "I didn't say that," he tried, but had the unwavering feeling that it was of no use. Just as it had been no use, the day before. "I said I'll think about-"

"You think I'm of no use to you anymore," she muttered accusingly, not meeting his eyes. Hands folded in her lap, she let her head hang. "Of no use to anyone."

"I don't-" Hutch started, but was cut off again.

"Enough!" she ordered and stood up abruptly. Her fingers clawed around the back of her armchair, as she turned away from him, towards the porch door. "I've had enough of all of this! This...this...sympathy," she spat the word out, "of yours."

Slowly coming to his feet, Hutch contemplated approaching her, when she threw him a hard, hateful glare. Her voice shook, when she spoke. "You're just a kid. Live a life, before..." She trailed off, shook her head.

A sudden presence behind him made Hutch jump, and when he whirled around he saw Lady Marrinon's employee standing in the open doorway, motioning for him to leave.

Hutch opened his mouth to protest, but as his gaze settled on the dark figure outside, her back to him, he closed it again. His gaze dropped.

Not paying any attention to the servant, he left the room with hasty steps, but stopped in the last room before the lobby, when something caught his eye. It was one of Lady Marrinon's wrapped-up pictures, a color photograph, showing her in the same pink armchair from earlier. She wasn't looking at the camera, but at the ceiling, her head bent back so that it was almost lying on the headrest. It almost seemed as if she was unaware of being photographed.

But that was not what had caught the detective's attention. It was the man taking the photograph that had. His reflection was visible in a large mirror next to the armchair. A young man, much younger than she, with light brown hair and soft features. He was looking down at the camera he held, concentrating on getting the picture.

As he heard Lady Marrinon's employee's steps behind him, Hutch quickly grabbed the picture off the wall and hid it in his jacket, then continued on his way to the front door. He did not turn again, before he left.

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Darkness had just won the daily fight when Hutch pulled over at The Pit's. He had gone through the whole evening about a hundred times in his head, listened to the conversations again, tried to remember every word Lady Marrinon had said to him. Up until now, he only knew that he was not sure if she had once recognized him as who he was.

At the beginning, she had clearly thought him to be someone out of her past. And not Rick Attlee. But later...He shook his head. He could not tell. He thought that she had spoken to Attlee at some point. Had Attlee sung to her too?

Before he left the LTD, he picked up the framed picture he had thrown onto the passenger seat. With some imagination, the man in it could look like Rick Attlee. That was what had startled him about it in the first place. It was not Attlee, but he resembled him in a way. He was about Attlee's age, he had the same color hair, the same handsome, soft looks, the same smooth, pale skin.

Studying Lady Marrinon, Hutch decided that the picture had to be maybe twenty years old.

He heard her voice in his head, as she spoke about "him". "Him", who had sung to her as, well.

As he tried to mentally step back from the puzzle, to take it in as a whole, he leaned back on his seat, his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose. It was only then that he saw the red Torino parked on the other side of the street.

Frowning, Hutch put the picture aside, left his car, and entered the bar.

He did, indeed, find Starsky at the counter. He was looking none to happy, as he absently played with his half-empty beer glass, visibly ignoring a babbling Huggy, who was sitting on a barstool behind the counter.

"Ah, help is here!" the bar owner exclaimed, once he saw Hutch approaching the counter. With an exaggerated pointing gesture at Starsky, he explained, "I've a tough case of unpleasant grumpiness here. Make him smile, and the beer's for free."

Hutch had to grin at that, but still frowned somewhat worriedly, when he sank down on a barstool next to his partner.

Starsky acknowledged his arrival with a mumbled "hi" and lifted his beer for a sip.

"Hi back," Hutch replied. "What're you doing here? I thought you'd drive over to Ally's tonight."

Starsky's glare alone would have told him that his question was not appreciated, but -- just in case he didn't get it -- Huggy made a chiding noise and shook his head.

"Ahhh, you said the a-word, man," he informed Hutch. "That's not how you reach the goal."

Starsky's irritated glance wandered over to the bartender. "Huggy," he growled.

Looking from one to the other, Hutch asked, "So what, Ally's still in a meeting?"

"And there's the m-word," Huggy said, as he put a beer in front of the blond. "Or, as the saying goes: strike two."

"Its a big counter," Starsky let him know. "Yes, she's in a meeting," he then explained to Hutch and after a pause added: "In Seattle."

"Wow." Impressed, Hutch raised his brows. "Who has meetings in Seattle?"

"My girlfriend," came the grumpy answer. "She left a message at the precinct to let me know that she guesses it wasn't what it looked like, that she's sure I can explain it, when she's back the day after tomorrow, but that she doesn't want to hear me out just now, because she's not yet done being pissed off."

"Well," Hutch observed, "that doesn't sound too bad."

"Hmpf," mumbled Starsky into his beer, unconvinced.

"C'mon, Buddy, cheer up," Hutch advised, nudging his shoulder. "Look at the bright side of this: you're dating the one woman on Earth who withdraws when angry."

That, at last, had the desired effect, and Starsky's cloudy expression broke into a grin.

Triumphant, Hutch glanced at Huggy, who just snorted.

"What's that look for, Blondie? As if you ever pay!" With that, the bartender slid off his barstool to serve the customer who had just stepped up to the other end of the counter.

"So, how was your day?" Starsky asked after a moment, studying Hutch over his beer. "Fear ghostly thoughts will keep you up again tonight? I could drive you home, check under your bed."

Acknowledging the offer with a wry smile, Hutch shook his head. "I'm not the one who has a night light."

"It's a street light," Starsky corrected.

"Right. Anyway, it was even more fun than yesterday. You know, I don't think she even realized I'm a different person."

Starsky frowned. "As in not Attlee?"

"I don't know. I guess she thought she was talking to Rick sometimes, but...When I'd just arrived, she was rambling something about 'us' being in California 'now', not in Wisconsin anymore." He shook his head curtly. "It was more like she was talking to someone close to her. Like a boyfriend, or a husband. And later, she mentioned another man, someone I...or Rick, I dunno, reminded her of."

Taking it in, Starsky let go of a soft whistle. "Doesn't sound like she's easy to keep track with."

"No," Hutch replied. Swallowing a yawn, he rubbed his eyes with two fingers, then -- remembering the picture -- turned to his friend again. "Remember all those wrapped-up pictures I told you about? There's one that shows her and a guy who looks exactly like Attlee. I have it in my car."

"You sure it's not him?"

"Yeah. She's much younger on it, I think it's at least twenty years old, maybe older. But still the man's way younger than she was back then. Think I'm gonna run some checks on her tomorrow, before five."

Starsky nodded. "Good idea. You can do that after you've helped me with my new job."

"Your new job?" Hutch repeated, confused.

"Yep. Rawdon hired me." With a falsely proud smile, Starsky lifted his beer for a toast. "Since my white knightiness proved unbecoming for my naturally good looks," he explained at the blond's continuous frown.

"I see," Hutch replied. "Okay, so -- what is it you do?"

"Sell porn," Starsky answered matter-of-factly.

"A-ha. Well, you always were fast with promotions."

Starsky grinned and told Hutch about his conversation with Rawdon, including the little more information he had gained about Rick Attlee and Corey Niles.

When he finished, a grave expression had settled on Hutch's features. "So you were right. He isn't friends with Corey. Which reminds me, I saw Corey take a ride to the monster corner today. On my way to the Marrinon Mansion."

With a frown of knowing dread, Starsky asked, "You mean...?"

Hutch nodded.

Resigned, Starsky sighed. "Stinks. Y'know, sometimes I hate always being right about everything."

"Can't blame you," Hutch quipped. "We don't know if Rawdon is Corey's pimp, though. He could be working for both him and Urbaniak."

"Yeah," Starsky replied. "But if so, so what? If he's a minor -- and I bet he is -- they're both going down, anyway."

"Hmm. Have you gotten anything from Rawdon already?"

With a decidedly unhappy face, Starsky nodded. "Yeah, 'sin my car."

"Have you checked it out?"

"I don't get paid for that," Starsky replied tonelessly.

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Actually you do, Gordo. C'mon," he added at his friend's frustrated expression, "bring it in."

Grumbling, Starsky slid off his barstool, but waited to leave until he had finished his beer in one gulp. "Easy for you to say," he muttered. "You don't sleep, anyway."

With that, he shuffled off to return ten minutes later, a flat box in his hands that he -- with clear determination -- put on the counter in front of Hutch. "There you are."

"It's your job," Hutch pointed out, shoving the thing over to Starsky, who had sat down again.

Starsky cast him a glare, but worked on untying the thread wrapped around the box, anyway. "Ninny."

Hutch didn't bother react to that and lifted the lid, when the thread came off, so that they could look inside. He had not expected the floor of the box to give way, though, sending a handful of pictures falling out on the wrong side, into his lap.

"Oops," Hutch mumbled and gathered them up. He had only glanced at them, before placing them on the counter.

"Oh, my God. Starsk."

Turning from where he had tried to reattach the loose ends of the box's bottom, Starsky followed his gaze. "Wha...?"

As his eyes fell upon the frighteningly vacant ones of Corey Niles, staring back at him from the pictures, he trailed off.

"God," Hutch repeated softly.

When Starsky spoke, his voice was low with disgust. "That bastard."

"And he lets the kid deliver these, himself." Hutch shook his head and brushed a hand over his eyes. An excuse to cover them.

"Not anymore," Starsky stated. Letting go of a deep breath, he closed the box again.

For a long moment, they sat in silence, both staring at the counter before them. Starsky's growing fury, Hutch thought, was palpable.

When a sudden idea hit him, the blond slowly lifted his gaze. "You said Attlee used to sell those too? Isn't that what Rawdon said?"

Starsky opened his mouth to answer, but closed it, following his own thoughts, before he replied, "Yes. I thought he meant...Wait, you think Attlee was in on this?"

"All the ways to make money, didn't he say that? That Attlee 'had it all'? Y'know what I think they had, Pal?" Angrily, Hutch tapped his index finger on the box. "A plan for a little side income, that's what. Corey Niles ran into them at Urbaniak's, maybe asked them for a little something one day, and because he's such a well-behaved boy when juiced up, they had him work for fixes."

"Think he's not the only one?" Starsky asked.

"I think he wasn't supposed to be the only one," Hutch replied. "They were about to start a business."

"Whoever exactly 'they' are," Starsky pointed out. "From how close Scavio and Rawdon seem to be, I'd say we have to count him in, too."

"And Urbaniak," Hutch said.

"Yeah." There was a short pause, and when Starsky spoke again, his voice was soft with gravity. "You know what truly sucks about this?"

Hutch nodded into his glass. "The only one with a clear motive right now..."

"...is Corey Niles," Starsky concluded darkly. He finished his beer. "Sometimes I hate my job."

An understanding side glance found him, and Hutch put his own empty glass next to his.

"That's okay, Buddy. Sometimes I hate your job too."

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What woke him was the smell of coffee.

Slowly becoming aware of the fact that he'd been dreaming, that Ally and Hope O'Tavish were not members of Simon Marcus' cult, and that he was not hiding from them in some vaguely familiar dark old building, but lying in his own bed, safe and warm and unconsciously sniffing the smell of coffee that had mercifully intruded his nightmare like a bridge to the other side of reality, Starsky cracked his eyes open, squinting against the bright sunlight flooding his bedroom.

It was then that he heard the soft singing coming from somewhere inside the apartment.

'What the...'

Not yet sure whether he should be annoyed or worried or sorry for having overslept, he scrambled up into a sitting position, blinking repeatedly to get rid of the sleep in his eyes, as he searched for the alarm clock.

Well...the last option could be scratched.

For a moment longer, he sat where he was, rubbed his face a couple of times, listening to some muffled, unrecognizable tune that came through his closed bedroom door.

The furrow on his forehead deepened. Worry over a man this cheerful?

At last, he stood up and headed out to the rest of the apartment, careful not to make too much noise. Walking barefoot over to the kitchen, he leaned on the doorframe, arms folded in front of him.

The unrecognizable tune, it turned out, was the 'Good Morning' song from 'Singing in the Rain'. The coffee had almost run through, and the provider of Hutch's Early Morning Show was standing with his back to Starsky, rummaging through some drawer, in search of God knew what.

Starsky took in the scene for a second longer, seriously contemplating turning around and getting into bed again, since Hutch seemed by no means in need of any support but as disgustingly cheery as one could be at this ungodly an hour.

"Did I forget I told you to pick me up in the middle of the night?" Starsky finally asked, totally unimpressed by the startled flinch he caused.

Almost losing his footing in the motion of whirling around to face him, Hutch made a gesture as if to grab his heart, which was impossible, since he held a can opener in one hand and a knife in the other.

"God! Starsk!" The hand holding the can opener came up to run through his hair, and only then did Hutch notice that he was holding something. He put both items onto the counter. "Don't do that," he ordered and let go of a panting breath. "I think my heart missed a beat."

"Looks like it could use it," Starsky observed. Now that he could see Hutch's face, he thought that he had probably scratched worry off the list too soon. He had gotten used to the darkening smudges underneath the blond's eyes, due to lack of sleep, but this morning, Hutch looked downright sick, his features pale, almost gaunt.

"I hope the adrenaline rush won't knock you out," Starsky continued jokingly, but the concern evident in his voice killed most of the humor. "Hutch, you look terrible."

Hutch just waved dismissively, a nervous side glance checking on the coffee situation. Indeed, it came to his rescue, as the coffee was ready, giving the blond something to do in the form of producing coffee mugs and filling one.

"Look who's talking," he said, when he turned again, leaning against the breakfast counter. "Have to say I'm glad I don't usually wake up to that." He gestured at Starsky's face with the coffee mug.

By coincidence, Starsky had just been rubbing his sleepy eyes and now lowered his hand with an annoyed scowl. Knowing he was nowhere near argument shape yet, he scratched his head, at least trying to sound stern. "Okay, what're you doing here? You're supposed to pick me up in two hours."

A boyishly innocent expression crossed Hutch's face, as if he was so openly thinking up a lie it was ridiculous. In the end, he smiled sheepishly. "I brought breakfast."

Starsky rolled his eyes.

"And, by the way," Hutch continued, "you're one to complain about my 'fridge. Yours looks exactly like mine, minus the beer and patient."

While Hutch was still talking, Starsky turned, one hand feebly coming up in a 'not listening' gesture. "I'm gonna take a shower."

Fifteen minutes later, he re-entered the kitchen, fully dressed and a lot more coherent, ready to get to the bottom of it all. He was greeted by a steaming coffee mug on the kitchen table as well as a strange, somewhat pinkish looking bagel on a plate.

Hutch obviously had quit eating, along with sleeping, and was nursing another cup of coffee, reading the newspaper -- the pages of which lay spread out everywhere.

Brushing the sports page off his chair, Starsky sat down and picked up the coffee, while casting the bagel a suspicious glance. "You call that breakfast?"

"Eat it," Hutch replied without looking up from the article he was reading. "It's good for you."

Starsky didn't move to follow the instruction. He eyed Hutch over the edge of his lifted mug. "Why is it good for me and not for you?"

"I'm not hungry," Hutch answered and finally met his friend's eyes. He smiled, pointing at the bagel. "But if I were, I'd eat it."

"Maybe that's why I don't," Starsky mumbled. Glancing down at the bagel once more, he wrinkled his nose and with determination shoved the plate away from him. "Okay," he then said, "spill it. What's going on?"

Hutch was back to reading. "What d'you mean?"

Silent, Starsky leaned back on his chair, waited, and -- when Hutch finally looked again -- raised his brows.

The blond sighed. "It's nothing, Starsky, okay? I can't sleep. Big deal."

Starsky remained silent.

"Come on," Hutch exclaimed, his tone only half as annoyed as his words. "It's two hours. It won't kill you to show up at work on time once. Hell, I'd be up at this hour, anyway."

"Blintz," Starsky started, making it clear that he did not, for one second, buy the outburst. "I'm not mad at you for being here. I mean, sure, you could've brought real breakfast if you were gonna wake me with the birds..."

Hutch rolled his eyes, but with a small, wry smile.

"It's just that it's obvious something's eating you," Starsky continued, his voice softer now. "It's not like you to do something so...unhealthy..."

And here Hutch dropped his gaze, as if ashamed.

"...as not sleeping. So something has to be going on." Once more, Starsky fell quiet to look intensely at his friend.

After a moment, Hutch met his gaze, but just shrugged with a small smile.

"You've no idea what?" Starsky more stated than asked. "No dreams? Anything? Shit welling up?"

Hutch shook his head.

Starsky narrowed his eyes.

"I'd tell you," Hutch said, almost defensively.

There was no reason to doubt that, so Starsky sighed, gaze focused on his exhausted-looking friend. Hit by a thought, he tilted his head to one side slightly. "Didja try getting drunk?"

A confused grin broke free on the blond's face, along with a deep frown. "Wha...uh...no, can't say I have."

Grimacing a 'you never know', Starsky shrugged lightly. "Used to help me get my sleeping rhythm back on track when I had more than one job." The more he thought about it, the more appealing he found the idea. "Listen, how about I crash at your place tonight and we have a few rounds of 'Monopoly'?"

Hutch grinned wryly. "You havin' troubles sleeping too?"

On cue, Starsky yawned. He lifted his coffee. "Sorta," he countered and emptied his mug. With a glance at his watch, he stood up. "C'mon, let's head on. Might as well deliver Rawdon's crap before we show up at the precinct. Make Dobey's day."

Nodding, Hutch got up too. At the front door, he waited for Starsky to gather his holster and jacket, then opened it, but was kept from stepping outside by a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, the pinkish bagel was shoved into his hand.

"Here, 'sgood for you," Starsky told him and walked past him. "I'll get what's good for me on our way."

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The first address Rawdon had chosen to give his new delivery boy turned out to be a building not unlike the Marrinon Mansion, as Hutch let Starsky know. It was a huge, blue house in Victorian style with two small bays on each side and large, curtained windows.

From where Hutch had stopped the LTD, the garden surrounding it looked like a park. A big, nicely decorated iron gate let any passersby know, though, that it was not.

Watching the estate with his head tilted back, Starsky gave a soft whistle. "Why would anyone in there buy Rawdon's pictures? Isn't there something like high-class porn?"

"It's part of the kick, I guess," Hutch replied. "Probably like roaming the streets, picking up shabby-looking kids."

Starsky cast him a dark glance. "Anyone ever tell you you really have a gift for making mankind shine with beauty?"

Hutch wasn't impressed. "Mankind doesn't live in there," he said and -- before Starsky could come up with a reply -- turned to gather the wrapped-up box from the backseat, holding it out for his friend. "You want me to come along?"

Starsky shook his head as he took the box. "Nah, don't think so. Rawdon said I should just dump it at some side door, but who knows, maybe the guy's watching or something. Don't want to run the risks of having to answer a lot of questions later."

Hutch nodded. "It's your job, Pal."

So, with the box in hand, Starsky left the car and walked over to the gate. He read the sign on the mail box attached to it: 'J. Silver. MD'. With a wince of disappointed disgust, he opened the gate to step through it.

He didn't know why, but the fact that it was a doctor buying Rawdon's goods seemed to make it even worse. Maybe because it meant that he was someone people trusted with their health. Their bodies.

Starsky had no doubts it was a he.

The gate swung closed behind him, but didn't fall completely shut, a fact that had a somewhat calming effect on him. He couldn't help but feel nervousness starting to creep into his veins, as he walked further into the large, green garden. It looked friendly enough, the bright, hot morning sun creating beautiful light effects on the fresh green leaves and grass. But the fact that he was merely yards inside and could no longer see the street simply unnerved the big city detective. Nature was okay, as long as you could see civilization around, and here there was only the blue old house to see. Which did not house civilization.

Telling himself that he did not need to pay attention to how everything looked, since he had only come to check out the owner's name and deliver the box, Starsky increased his speed towards a small, light-brown door he had discovered behind some bush. It was obviously not the front door, but any door would suffice.

Suddenly, a noise swelled up behind him.

Starsky froze.

There it was again. Throaty, soft and yet strong. And decidedly not human.

As another growl mingled into the first, this one louder, closer, Starsky swallowed dryly. His first instinct was to instantly run, without even turning around, but he forced himself to slowly, inch by inch, move his head to glance over his shoulder.

He could see one Doberman to his right, only a jump away from him. The second, he figured, stood directly behind him, and his ears told him that a third had belatedly showed up at his left.

They were all three growling. And if the other two looked anything like the one to his right, they were all three painfully large and fit and pissed off.

A drop of sweat ran down Starsky's neck, as he let his eyes slowly wander over to the house, as if even that movement could set off the tense dogs.

Mind racing, he contemplated his options. He had no reason to believe that anyone was home, that the light-brown door was open, that it would be opened for him or, for that matter, that J. Silver, MD cared at all if someone was torn into pieces in his garden. After all, the dogs were probably guarding the estate for a reason.

Another option was to follow his instinct and run for his life, which would be made difficult by the fact that he was more or less surrounded.

The third option he managed to come up with was to stand very, very still and wait for Hutch to get worried and come looking for him. That one he liked the least, he had to admit.

Another triple-voiced growl sounded from behind him. The Doberman Starsky could see from the corner of his eye bared his teeth in a cruel grin.

For a split second, Starsky was back in the old zoo where Simon Marcus' cultists had held him captive months ago, staring up at a growling bear showing its teeth as it half-danced towards him.

Afterwards, it wasn't clear to Starsky who had made the first move, he or the dogs. He only knew that he was suddenly running, and the dogs were behind him without a second's loss.

Fortunately, they did not seem trained to work as a team, but ran in a row of three, not trying to separate and block his way, as he sprinted around a bush, desperate to get back to the gate. He had lost the box, at some point, he did not know where, and he did not allow himself to check over his shoulder once, knowing that would only slow him down. The dogs' hitched breathing and furious barking was proof enough of their proximity. One or two times, he felt a violent gust of air near his legs, as one of them tried for a grip with their teeth.

It all went down incredibly fast and took unbearably long at the same time. After what felt like an hour of running as fast as he could, seemingly without drawing air in once, he saw the gate appear behind a tree and tried to speed up even more. His lungs were burning, but if the noise they made was any indication, the dogs were still in chasing shape.

Starsky became vaguely ware of the parked LTD behind the iron bars, a tall shape leaning against the driver's side.

"Get in the car!!!" he yelled, causing a symphony of barks to follow. Another blow-like wave of hot air caught his calf, this one sharp, leaving a lingering fire there that Starsky chose to ignore for now.

He had reached the gate and stumbled, when he tore it open -- thanking all the guarding angels around that it had not fallen shut. Fortunately, he didn't fall, but managed to catch his balance, wincing hard, though, when he continued to run with one twisted ankle.

Hutch was no leaning against the car's side, but standing next to it with a puzzled expression. At least, Starsky thought it looked puzzled. What with trying to break the four-minute-mile, it was not easy to catch details like that. What he did catch was that Hutch was still standing around outside the car.

"Get in the fucking car!" he ordered in a high-pitched, breathless voice and for the first time checked over his shoulder, only to see the dogs at biting-distance from his heels.

He heard Hutch exclaim some sound of panic and then a door falling shut. The driver's door to be precise, as Starsky found out, when he turned ahead again, hand already reaching out to open it.

Since the situation didn't leave time for throwing his thoughtless partner the glare he deserved, Starsky leaped up onto the hood, skittered over it and was inside the car just in time to draw the door shut behind him, when the first Doberman jumped -- head first -- against it. The whine that followed the action was music to the panting man's ears.

Next to him, Hutch sat motionless, staring at the dogs jumping up on the passenger's side.

"Will...will you..." Starsky stammered breathlessly. "S-start the...start the Goddamned...engine?"

Instantly, Hutch's eyes snapped to the steering wheel. Within seconds, they were at a considerable distance from the dogs, leaving them to bark at them in the rear-view-mirror.

"I-I hope..." Starsky muttered through a deep breath, "I hope they get run down." He looked at his friend. "Maybe we should turn around and do it. It's just your car, anyway."

Hutch either ignored the comment or had not heard. "What the hell was that?" he blurted out, instead of an answer.

"Dogs, Hutch," Starsky replied dryly.

The blond threw him a glance, but frowned at the strain on Starsky's features. "You okay? D'you get bitten?"

"Nah." Starsky shook his head. He allowed himself another deep wince, though, as he was about to lie, anyway. "Just twisted my ankle. I'm fine."

Truth was, he had to check on that. The fire in his calf had not subsided, and he was pretty sure he would find a graze when he checked. But the thought of being paraded to the next hospital, where Hutch would surely force some overworked ER doctor to shoot Starsky up against rabies and tetanus and dog flue and whatall, was enough to make any pain bearable. Hell, he hadn't even had breakfast yet!

"You sure?" Hutch asked, not fully convinced.

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure. By the way, next time you see me flying towards you, yelling to get in the car -- get in on the other side, alright?"

"It's my car," Hutch countered. Ignoring the growl he received for that, he added, "And I'll bet there was no need for the flying and yelling in the first place."

Slowly and unseen, Starsky turned his head to stare at the blond.

"Seriously, Starsk, didn't anyone ever tell you to stand still and not move when you're being threatened by dogs?" Unaware of the glare he was the target of, Hutch shook his head. "You and our fellow creatures, Pal..."

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"I don't believe it."

Looking up from the file about Joseph Silver, MD he was reading, Starsky swallowed the piece of muffin he had been chewing and asked, "What?"

Hutch's gaze rose from the pile of papers he had found on his desk upon their arrival -- all Lady Marrinon-related. "You'll never guess," he said incredulously. "'Lady' is her first name."

"What? You serious? Lady? Lemme see that." Bending over his desk, Starsky stared at the line to which Hutch's finger pointed. "Lady," he repeated, with an almost disgusted frown. "That's a reason to sue your parents if I've ever seen one. Can you imagine going through life...oh, wait, who am I talking-"

"And guess what else," Hutch cut him off, not meeting his gaze. His ears, Starsky thought, took on a slightly pinkish tinge, though. "Marrinon's the name of her second husband. She was born Lady Cassandra Johannssen."

Starsky made a face.

"At 18 she married a Gerald Heller, who divorced her, when she moved to California for her first movie. Seems that she met her second husband on a movie set, where he was working. Must've been some temporary job, he's not even listed. The newspaper articles call him her personal assistant. His name was..." Hutch looked up. "Rick Marrinon."

"Rick?" Starsky repeated.

"Yeah. He never made it to the screen himself, though. Lady Marri...Lady," he corrected himself, wincing slightly at how awkward it sounded, "mentioned his singing, so I guess they both had plans for him."

"He was her protégé," Starsky pointed out. His eyes wandered to the framed picture Hutch had placed onto his desk, next to the mass of articles and files. "How much younger than she was he?"

"Twenty-one years," Hutch answered.

Starsky whistled softly. "How old was he?"

"Twenty-six when they got married. Died at thirty-two."

Surprised, Starsky looked from the picture to Hutch. "He died? What was it?"

Hutch shrugged, put away the newspaper article, and stared down at an old police folder lying underneath it. "Nothing natural, I'd guess," he muttered sarcastically, flipping open the folder. A frown appeared on his forehead. "He was killed."

Patiently, Starsky waited until his friend had scanned the report and looked at him again. "Says here he a Norman Kheen hit him with a candle holder in defense. Apparently, Rick and Lady had a little argument that was getting out of control. He hit her. Both this Kheen guy and Lady later stated that Rick had been about to kill her with a knife from the kitchen."

"Let me guess," Starsky cut in. "No proof."

Quickly checking the report, Hutch lifted his hands. "No proof."

"Okay, who's Norman Kheen then, except for another poorly named human being? No, wait, don't tell me -- her third husband." Starsky smiled, dryly.

"Well, she did marry again," Hutch said, reciting that from memory as he looked into the police report again. "But that was some other guy...can't remember his name now, something with an M or J, dunno. She never took his name, though. But it wasn't Kheen, I'm sure. Kheen was her..."

Having searched through the folder while speaking, he suddenly trailed off, staring with wide eyes at the picture of Norman Kheen that had been taken upon his arrest. "I'll be..." His eyes found Starsky's questioning ones. "That's her butler."

"She has a butler?"

"Her employee," Hutch corrected, annoyed. "Servant, house boy, whatever. He's been there every time I was there. I think he lives there." He looked down at the picture again, seemed to talk to himself, not his partner. "He stayed with her all those years."

"And he walked a free man," Starsky pointed out.

"Hmm?" Puzzled, Hutch glanced up, then nodded. "Yeah, well, they said it was in defense of her, so..." He shrugged.

"And," Starsky asked after a moment, "do we believe that?"

Hutch frowned. "Why wouldn't we?"

"You said yourself he stayed with her all those years."

Understanding, Hutch grimaced. "Now who's making mankind shine with beauty?" he chided.

"I'm just being...experienced," Starsky replied, ruefully.

"Yeah," Hutch muttered absently. He was once more studying Norman Kheen's face in the black-and-white picture. "I wonder who exactly hired Rick Attlee in the first place."

"Hutch."

Hutch glanced up.

"Your alias' name's not 'Rick', and you look nothing like him."

Hutch gave that a thought. "But I sing to her," he pointed out. "And I don't appear to mind being called 'Rick'." He sighed a sad little sigh, brushing papers off the framed photograph of Rick and Lady Marrinon. "Maybe she's too far gone for details."

Starsky watched his partner for a moment. "Well," he finally said, drawing Hutch's attention to him, "that's all very sad and touching, but why would Kheen kill Attlee, if he hired him to make his...lady happy?"

Hutch gave it a thought. "Maybe Rick hurt Lady somehow. Or maybe Kheen was afraid Rick would hurt her, eventually."

"And he couldn't just not hire him anymore?"

Hutch opened his mouth, but -- with a frown -- closed it again and made a helpless gesture. A split second later, he snapped his fingers. "Rick was beaten up first and then shot. That shows a lot of anger the killer must've carried around. If Rick had hurt Lady's feelings and Kheen feels for her what we assume he does...That's the second-best motive we have so far."

Starsky just looked at him, chin supported in his open hand.

Hutch raised his brows.

After another second, Starsky sighed and scratched the side of his head. "Okay. It's a motive, let's go with it."

Hutch grinned.

"Besides," Starsky continued, while picking up his own files and leaning back on his chair, feet rising to rest on his desk, "I don't want Corey Niles to be the killer, either."

"I knew you'd be on my side," Hutch muttered, also returning to his reading. When something caught his eyes, he inquired, "Starsky, is that blood on your jeans?"

Quickly, Starsky sat up straight again, legs hidden under the desk. "No, Blintz, it's mud. Gee, one would think what with you starting out to become a doctor, you'd know the difference."

Though Hutch narrowed his eyes suspiciously, he seemed inclined to let it be and drew the police report closer, about to get into it again.

Still, Starsky heard him softly mumble, "Don't be surprised if I do," which he knew meant that his afternoon would be spent in a hospital waiting room.

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What with reporting to Dobey and Captain Doward, and then getting their deserved chewing out for "just now" reporting to Dobey and Captain Doward, along with the case planning that needed to be done -- and then lunch break -- Hutch found himself reduced to ordering Starsky to go to the emergency room by himself after their five o'clock meeting with Urbaniak, when Hutch himself would probably be sent to the Marrinon Mansion again.

Starsky just nodded and underlined his easily-given promise with a reassuring smile.

Casting his friend a suspicious glance, Hutch lifted his warning finger off the steering wheel. "I mean it, Starsk. If you drop by later and aren't wearing a bandage, I'm gonna carry you to the ER myself."

"Maybe it doesn't need bandaging," Starsky replied smugly, but at the blond's starting protest hurried to reassure, "Relax, Hutch. I'm going, okay? I promise. It's my leg, y'know."

"Well, it's one of the two things that carry you around, while you watch my back, so I take participation," Hutch countered. "And don't think I can't tell when you're lying. I swear, Pal, I'll check you for rabies shots."

"Domesticated Dobermans don't have rabies, Brains."

Hutch grimaced. "I wouldn't be too sure about those three."

Starsky thought about it and nodded slightly. "'Kay, I'll give ya that. But they didn't bite me, and I don't have rabies. And if I had rabies, it'd be a bit late now, anyway."

Hutch rolled his eyes. "No, it would not."

"Yes, it would."

"No, it would...Just go to a damned doctor, all right?"

"I'm going," Starsky stated, raising his hands, defensively. "Okay now? I'm going. And hey!" He snapped his fingers, then pointed at Hutch. "I could ask them about something for insomnia, too."

"I don't have insomnia," Hutch replied, unimpressed. "And if I did, there'd be nothing to do about it, I told you. And besides-" here he glanced at his friend - "I thought Monopoly would help."

Starsky wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, but...just in case."

They had reached Starsky's place, so Starsky could change his blood-streaked jeans and then take his Torino to Urbaniak's. Hutch pulled over and watched his friend open the door.

"If it makes you happy," he told him, "ask them. Do whatever you want, as long as you go there." He underlined his words with a stern glance that was not missed.

Annoyed, Starsky nodded. "Okay! You're worse than my mother." He closed the door and turned.

"Only 'cause I promised her!" Hutch yelled after him, and drove off.

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By the time Starsky left Urbaniak's office, the throbbing in his leg had intensified to the point where he seriously contemplated keeping his promise to Hutch. Maybe the hospital would give him something better than just Tylenol for the pain. Then again, the prospect of spending the better part of the evening, sitting on a plastic chair, waiting for some overworked ER doctor to poke at him made the pain seem less severe immediately. It wasn't even a real bite. Hutch was just exaggerating as always.

"What the hell you're up to in your free time, is what I'd like to know, Pal", a sudden voice tore Starsky out of his considerations, as he stepped outside of the building. He had been too late for his five o'clock appointment to even meet Hutch, who was -- as expected -- on his way to Lady Marrinon.

Turning, he saw Rawdon Jones, carrying an unlit cigarette and a cocky smile, as he approached Starsky from the waiting area to follow him outside.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Starsky asked, when they stood outside, Rawdon lighting his cigarette.

"You're limping," Rawdon observed with a little wave towards Starsky's injured leg. He grinned conspiratorially. "Been clumsy again?" He winked.

"Sort of," Starsky replied dryly. "I had a little run-in with a bunch of guard dogs this morning." He lifted his brows meaningfully.

Rawdon didn't seem to get the message. His smile vanishing, he pointed at the leg again. "Did you go see a doctor? Better get that checked out for rabies. You don't want to take that lightly."

At the tone of sincere worry, Starsky rolled his eyes. "Great, another amateur doctor," he mumbled, adding a bit more loudly, "Your concern would be touching, Bunny of the Year, if it wasn't your fucking fault. Or was it too much to ask to let me know that your...customer's place is swamped with blood-thirsty monsters?"

As understanding worked its way forward, Rawdon furrowed his brows, then raised them with a slow nod. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh," Starsky grumbled. "Pretty big ohs, too, by the way."

"Aw, man," Rawdon replied ruefully, though the grin was already returning. "I'm sorry, Pal, I didn't know there're dogs. Corey never mentioned any dogs. He never had any probs at all. I mean, hey, I would've warned you, you know that, right?" With an almost hurt expression, he took a step back, arms spread widely as if to show his unquestionable good intentions.

Starsky just narrowed his eyes.

"C'mon, Joe," Rawdon exclaimed generously, laying one arm around Starsky's shoulders. "Buy you a beer, okay? Hmm?" His brows lifted, pleadingly. "Let me make it up to you."

Starsky met his gaze, held it for a second, and finally tilted his head in a half-nod. "You're a cheap bastard, Jones. But okay."

Laughing in good humor, Rawdon patted Starsky's back and withdrew his arm. "Got me," he said, and they walked on to the bar Rawdon had led them to the day before.

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The powerful undertow of memories tugged at Lady Marrinon's mind, Hutch could tell. She had appeared less confused than the last time that he had arrived. Yet, she was uncharacteristically uncommunicative; often she would freeze in motion, just staring ahead, her eyes glazing over with images that were dragged across her vision like a curtain.

She had not left her armchair once, since Hutch had come. She had not even been the one to suggest that he make use of the piano. It was Norman Kheen who had -- in a discreet whisper -- asked the paid visitor to "play something nice."

So Hutch had lowered himself onto the piano bench and started to play. But not the "new" songs she had asked him to teach her. Instead, he played old movie classics, ever-observant of his audience, ready to catch any reaction in her mostly-vacant eyes. Sometimes she would smile at a line, once or twice she even moved her lips, as if to mutely sing along, but mostly she remained silent. Did not even seem to be present.

Funny, Hutch thought, that to he perceived her emotional to be one of sadness, when the truth was that he could not tell what emotions were being dredged up with the long-faded images and voices. Maybe she was content, behind the white mask of her shell.

He could feel, though, that she was fading. And maybe it was just what Kheen had told him, that Lady had had an "exhausting day", yet...Hutch could not help thinking that he knew the look in her eyes. Life was ebbing out of her, just as if she had been shot and was now slowly bleeding to death. Only it was not blood that was flooding out of her old body. It was time.

Hutch let the last chords of a song fade out, when he suddenly noticed her gaze upon him. It was clear and focused. He smiled and turned on the bench to fully look at her.

"What would you like to hear next, Lady?" he asked.

She didn't return the smile, but looked at him with such sadness, such accusation, that Hutch feared he had done something wrong. "You think I'm nothing but an old fool," she said, her voice as sharp as ice.

Startled, Hutch frowned. "Of course I don't. What makes you think that?"

Lady Marrinon blinked. A single tear freed itself from her lashes. She looked away again. "You'll see when you die, kid," she said spitefully. "God, I hope you'll die all alone, too."

Though the rational part of his mind knew that the words had not been meant for him, Hutch could not fight off their impact. For a moment, he sat stunned, staring at the old lady and her old hatred.

But the hurt instantly vanished, when it hit him that no one hated him that much. He wondered whom she had addressed. Wondered what you needed to do to deserve such loathing.

It felt like an eternity had passed, when he cleared his throat, nervously glancing over at her, noticing that she had seemed to have slipped back into oblivion. "I-I..." he started, "I'd better, uh...better go now."

At her gaze, he forced a smile onto his face and stood up.

"No, please," she said. Suddenly, she looked scared. Lost. "No, please, don't go. Just...just one more song." A begging smile drew her features into an ugly grimace. "One more? Yes? Just one. Please, Honey. Please, just...just stay for one more. I won't say anymore. I promise. Yes? Say yes."

Every nerve in Hutch's mind seemed to be busy focusing on escape, so it took him a few moments before he found himself able to nod and sit down again, tense fingers finding the keys. What he had come to call the "Marrinon Feeling" was flooding him: a cold mixture of disgust and pity.

"Play our song," Lady Marrinon pleaded in a child-like whisper. Her eyes were wide. Almost innocent. "Yes?"

Hutch opened his mouth to ask what "their" song was, but then thought differently and started to sing the first song that came to his mind.

Lady Marrinon sighed happily. She slid back into her armchair, content, comforted.

As he sang, Hutch watched her leave the scene again. To enter one that had not been drenched in disappointment and filth yet, he hoped.

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One beer had turned into, which Starsky felt he deserved, after almost sacrificing his life for Rawdon's business. So, by the time Jones checked his watch to announce he had to go now, the detective had decided that the ER would still be there the next day.

The beer had helped ease the pain in his leg, and he was supposed to drop by Hutch's place in a few hours, anyway. 'Sides, he could fool his partner any given day, no matter what the blond claimed. He'd just make a big show out of moaning about his hell of a waiting room day -- job done. Hutch would never find out.

Watching Rawdon leaving the bar, Starsky picked up his half-full beer glass and leaned back in his chair. Knowing they had the guy -- Jones was already behind bars, he just didn't know it, yet -- had made it easier to fake his way through tonight's drinking-buddy-bonding. Still, there had been two or three moments, when Starsky had been tempted to make a comment about Rawdon's side income.

He wondered if Jones suspected that he had checked out the pictures. Apart from some more apologies about the dogs and a promise to check on the other customers' places, Rawdon hadn't talked at all about his business. Hadn't even asked if Starsky had still delivered that first package. It appeared as if Jones took that for granted. Once you worked for him, he didn't talk about work anymore. Instead, he had stated some medical facts regarding rabies and had asked about any funny Lady Marrinon stories Starsky might have heard from Hutch.

Of course, Starsky had come across a lot of those sneaky, smart and totally unscrupulous young guys like Rawdon Jones. Actually, he had grown up with some. Yet, it never ceased to amaze him how people could seem so nice, caring even, when at the same time they lacked the most important things that made you human. How could a man like Rawdon Jones purposefully destroy a kid like Corey Niles?

Then again, Starsky thought sarcastically and emptied his beer, he wasn't one for useless questions. After all, the world usually was most ugly where it did not appear to be. Letting things get to you did not help you change them -- wasn't that, what he was telling Hutch all the time? So, Rawdon was going to get what he deserved, and so was Corey Niles. There was nothing more that two street cops could do, and that seemed like a lot, to Starsky.

It was getting dark outside, but not cooler. Huffing an annoyed breath at the warm air hitting him the moment he left the bar, Starsky started to walk back to his car, which was parked across the street from Urbaniak's office.

He did not get far.

A violent blow against the back of head knocked him down, and for a moment, he saw stars. Before he even had the chance to blink away the fog from in front of his eyes, or to try and get to his knees, he felt rough hands grabbing the back of his shirt and dragging him over the concrete. Probably into an alley, Starsky's befuddled mind managed to conclude. Out of sight of the public.

When the hands let go of him, his vision had cleared some, and he found himself able to feebly scramble away from his attackers, until a brick wall stopped him. He drew his injured leg away, before one of them could grab it and drag him back to them.

Now, he could see that there were four of them, all wearing hoods and black t-shirts, which gave them the eerie appearance of some secret military operatives.

Stumbling to his feet, using the wall behind him for support, Starsky reached for his gun. "Get the hell-" he started, but in his weakened condition he failed notice the movement of one of them fast enough, as the man jumped at him, taking them both down.

Instantly, the other three were on him as well. Desperately, Starsky still tried to get to his gun, but his arm was jerked aside and twisted painfully behind his back, while he was roughly rolled onto his belly, despite his fierce struggles.

He kicked wildly, determined to at least not go down easily. Apparently, he succeeded in that, if the pain-filled yelp and curse following one particularly hard kick was any indication.

Starsky's satisfaction didn't last for long, though. Without any warning, one of the attackers stomped down on his already wounded leg, just underneath his knee.

Starsky screamed in pain, but his head was pressed down onto the concrete, a large hand clamping over his mouth to muffle his yelp.

He couldn't see very well from that position and started to struggle again, wriggling to get the clawing hands off of him. Two heavy feet came down on his back, further pinning him down. Every time he so much as moved, they would increase their weight on him, until he could no longer breathe. Only when he grew still did they ease off a bit, allowing him a couple of desperate, short breaths.

His heart hammered against the ground, as he was pressed down onto it. Once more, he tried to shake the restraints off, but a sharp knee hitting his lower back stopped him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned into the hand still covering his mouth.

"Man, honest," a voice somewhere above him announced in amused awe, "you get off on pain, or what?"

Starsky could not be sure, but he thought he recognized the voice. He tried to move his head, look at the speaker, but a set of long fingers suddenly settled in his hair, shoving his head back against the concrete with enough force to cause something warm and sticky to start running into his eye.

The hand over his mouth moved away, and Starsky wanted to ask what the hell they wanted, when the familiar feeling of cold steel against the back of his neck stopped him. The also all-too-familiar sound of the soft 'click' of a gun followed.

Starsky lay very still, his breath coming in short pants. The weight on his back increased, as if the guys smelled their opportunity to add more discomfort. Sweat ran into the eye that was not forced closed by the ground underneath him.

For an ungodly length time, no one said a word. He was alone with the sound of his heart seemingly bursting in his chest and the deadly steel digging into his neck.

"Hey, Kid," the man, who had spoken before, finally said. From the distance of his voice, Starsky assumed he was the one holding the gun. He still couldn't remember where he had heard that voice before. "Did you know one can survive a shot in the head?"

Starsky tensed. Despite the warm evening air, he was suddenly freezing.

"Of course," the man continued, "your brains are soup then. But there are places for soup brains, aren't there?"

The gun was shoved against Starsky's neck even more. He suppressed a cough and almost gagged.

Somewhere above him, one of the other guys snickered.

"I wonder..." the man with the gun continued, now lifting it off of Starsky's neck, "where exactly you have to hit to not kill someone." As he spoke, he let the gun travel over Starsky's head, its touch always there. Every now and then, it would come down with a rough shove to rest against his skull.

Starsky closed his eyes.

The one who had snickered laughed again. "Aw, isn't that cute? He's holding his breath."

Must be one of the two standing on him, Starsky figured. He hadn't even noticed himself, but now he drew in a flat breath, ignoring his burning lungs yelling at him. All he could concentrate on was the cold presence of death now coming to rest on his forehead, inches above his temple.

"I read an anatomy book for this," the guy with the gun informed Starsky. "And I think it was here." He pressed the barrel down some more, as if to underline his words. "What do you think?" Even without seeing him, Starsky knew the man was grinning. "Shall we try and find out?"

Actually, Starsky thought he was getting pissed. Of course, he was scared, but if there was one thing he hated, it was being humiliated. And, hell, if this basket case was going to blow him away, anyway, why take his feelings with him?

So he drew in a deep enough breath to mumble, "Looks like you already did" against the concrete.

A surprised little huff was the answer. "Ya hear that?" the man then turned to his partners, while seemingly absently shifting his hand in Starsky's hair to scrape his forehead over the ground, until the detective was now staring down at the concrete with both eyes.

"A sense of humor. I like that. Of course," the man added, and suddenly the gun rested against Starsky's jaw, "others might not. Whaddaya guys say? Should I shut him up for good?"

"Wouldn't hurt," came the answer from one of them.

"Depends who you're talking about," another one pointed out. The two of them laughed.

The third guy said something, too, but Starsky could not make out what. He was too focused on suppressing his trembling. The thought of what a shot there would cause was enough to make him forget his pride again. Healthy fear pushed aside the fury for now, and he grew very still.

"We're forgetting something here," the man with the gun suddenly said, hushing the others. "If he can't talk anymore, he won't be able to tell us if he understood the message."

Three versions of playful, "Oh, yeah, right"s answered him.

"So, as much as I'd love to blow away your face..." the man told Starsky and tore the gun away, not without leaving a deep scratch on Starsky's jaw line. "The punishment for stealing," he said after a moment, while he shifted his position to press the gun against one of Starsky's hands on his back, "would of course be..."

Despite himself, Starsky jerked away. It was a surprising enough movement to shake the feet off of his back, and he rolled against the brick wall, kicking out with his good leg.

A shot too close to his foot froze him in motion, and he tore his gaze up to stare at the big man pointing his own gun at him.

"Just give me a reason," the man sneered. Starsky could tell that he meant it.

Resigned, Starsky's shoulders slumped. At last free to breathe, he gulped in air, before asking, "Who the fuck are you?"

The man laughed. It was a sound that held no humor, but enough hatred to send a shiver through the downed detective. Slowly, the man stepped nearer, crouching down in front of his victim.

"D'you know what the punishment for attempted theft is?" he asked, ignoring Starsky's earlier question.

About to snap a reply, Starsky wisely swallowed it, when the gun was lowered to touch his chest, just above his heart.

He watched it, but suddenly felt the other one's gaze upon himself and slowly looked up to meet ice-cold green eyes. "If you take mine," the man said in a voice so soft, it seemed solely for Starsky's ears, "I'll take yours."

He held the detective's gaze for a second longer, then abruptly drew the gun back, turned it in his hand and used the butt to deliver a sharp blow to Starsky's face.

Though he had seen it coming, the force of it took Starsky by surprise. He toppled over, his side painfully hitting the concrete again.

Stars were exploding before his eyes...or maybe inside his head, he could not be sure, and in the distance he heard the man with the gun talking to the others.

"All yours."

Somewhere in the pain that spread in his head, like gas in a room, Starsky knew that he did not like the sound of that. Wiping at the one eye that did not scream in protest when he got anywhere near it, he blindly reached for the wall next to him to drag himself up and run.

So what if that was not exactly a plan? He would be damned if he would just lie there, waiting to get his ass kicked.

"Where you think you're going?" The snickered words were accompanied by a foot connecting with his already sore back, almost knocking him back down. But just almost.

Gritting his teeth, Starsky turned to face the attacker, one hand feebly holding onto the wall. Before he had even managed to locate the man through the red fog before him, he was grabbed by two pairs of strong hands, one angry claw digging into the skin just below the back of his neck. His immediate struggles only resulted in his head being knocked against the wall.

Stunned, he slumped down, blackness closing in on him, yet a violent shake of his neck tore his exhausted consciousness back to reality. Helpless, he hung in the vice-grip that the two goons had on him, his knees unable to touch the ground. It was getting harder to breathe.

And it got even harder than that, when the third guy started pummeling his midsection. Unable to move his arms to defend or protect himself, Starsky was reduced to a human punching bag. Sometimes he thought he heard them talk to him, ask him something, but all that filled his ears were the harsh sounds of his pants and groans and the racing of his heart.

Maybe just lying there and letting his ass get kicked instead of his stomach would have been a better choice, after all.

He did not know how long it went on -- probably barely minutes -- but when he was suddenly released and dropped lifelessly to the ground, it took him seconds to even notice.

All he could see when he opened his good eye was a confusing blur of reddish layers of fog, so he kept it closed too. He felt sweat sticking to his face and chest, mingling with the blood there. Yet, he was cold, shivering.

A presence appeared beside his head; one of them knelt or crouched down there. Startled, Starsky tried to roll away, but was held back by a strong grip on the back of his shirt. He moaned softly, when he was suddenly dragged off the hard ground. He tried to blink, open his eye again. It refused to obey.

A hand grabbed his chin and jerked his head up, shook it roughly.

"Can you hear me, Asshole?" It was the man with the gun again. The one Starsky thought he knew.

When he did not immediately answer, Starsky was shaken with enough force to make him worry he would lose his beer all over this guy. He managed a weary groan to show his mental presence.

"Okay." The grip on the detective's chin hardened. Sweaty fingers scraped over his skin, nails dug into it. "Listen good. You think this was bad? If you don't stay away, I'll show you bad."

Like a blow, recognition hit Starsky. He had known that he had recognized that voice!

His triumph was short-lived. Without further words, the man shoved his beaten victim into the ground again, then stood.

The last thing Starsky knew was the impact of a booted foot against the side of his head.

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In his dream, the dogs had encircled him. Their lean, muscular bodies were tense, every nerve directed at their goal. He knew dogs did not attack people for a meal, but they looked hungry. Foamy salvia dripped down their faces. It was disgusting.

They smelled, too. Of wet fur and rotten food. Like they had not been bathed in months.

He wrinkled his nose, repulsed. Something wet touched his cheek. All of a sudden, the dogs were gone, and he became aware of the blackness of closed eyes. The distant roaring slowly turned into traffic noises.

Somewhere close to his ear, something sniffed. It was the tiniest of sounds, but in his personal sphere it exploded like a bark. The eye that was not swollen shut flew open, and he jerked away from the small, furry face he sensed at his side.

It was a cat. Startled, it jumped away from him and up onto the lid of a garbage can. The grayish fur spiked in defense, the tail jerked upwards and from side to side.

Starsky groaned, closing his eye again. A street lamp sent dim rays of yellow light into the alley, and that little light was enough to pierce through the muddled fog inside of his head, directly into the center of agony. Fueled by consciousness, it widened its range, pushing aside the confusion and drowsiness to fill his whole head with stabbing pain.

An unsteady hand found his face to touch his temple, but he flinched at his own touch, when his cracked skin screamed protest. Crusted blood covered that side of his forehead. He could feel the ragged edges of a cut there.

Encouraged by his head, it seemed, various other body parts now reported awareness of pain as well. The knuckles of the hand he'd moved were scraped and bloody, as was probably the better part of his face, if the burning all over it was any indication.

Slowly, Starsky tried to move. He was lying on his right side, right arm curled up under him. When he tried to drag it up to search for the wall he sensed behind himself, he gasped at the unexpected wave of pain that caused. Halting his motion, he scrunched up his face, his forehead pressed against the concrete. It took a couple of short breaths to get control over the flaring fire spreading in his arm and rib cage.

When he felt like he could manage to move again without passing out, he carefully shifted his weight to his left and slowly lifted his upper body. A wave of nausea hit him, and he sagged back, but the row of garbage cans stopped him, so that he sat more-or-less propped up. Once more, he took a moment to gather his bearings, then looked down to inspect his right arm.

He did not think it was broken -- he knew how that felt -- but it sported a fair share of nearly-black bruises, and now that he sat upright, he could feel where his ribcage probably bore the outline. Wincing, he brushed his good hand over it, frowning at a knot he felt there.

Breaking a fall like that was definitely not how he had learned to do it. Consider the irony, that after all he might have broken his own rib.

Another deep wince settled on his features, and since there was only the cat to hear -- if it was still around, anyway -- he allowed a groan to escape. His head sank forward, away from the support behind it, unable to stand the touch. From the corner of his eye, he scanned what he could see of the street at the far end of the alley -- and frowned.

It was not where they had jumped him. Of course, he thought, that would explain his stupid fall, for he couldn't remember ever getting up again after they had finished with him, anyway. They must have dumped him somewhere.

Away from Urbaniak's office.

And his car. Meaning the radio. Not even Starsky would have thought of driving in his present condition. Hell, he would be content if he could manage to get to his feet.

It was not as hard as he had imagined, standing up, but then maybe that was because it happened in a sort of blur. Once he was standing, one side pressed against the brick wall, his good hand grabbing at a projection, the adrenaline rush ebbed away, and his knees started to buckle.

His left leg, which both the dogs and one of the goons had treated with so much disrespect, folded at the knee out of reflex, almost sending him crashing down again. With a growl of frustration, Starsky huddled against the wall some more, willing his body to obey his orders.

When the light-headedness had subsided, leaving the by-now-familiar flashes of sharp pain behind, he tried his first step, careful not let go of his support, until he had to.

It took ages -- sarcastically, he wondered why day did not dawn while he was inching his way forward -- but, in the end, his wobbly legs carried him to the end of the alley, where he could get a first good look at the area of the city his attackers had brought him too.

Curling around the corner of a building, one sweaty cheek pressed against the cold stone, his gaze roved the street.

'Small favors...' he thought incredulously.

He was just a few blocks from home. He could have cried with relief at the familiar sight. Bless those guys!

Just up the street, around a corner, and he would be safe, he would be warm, and he could lie down. He definitely wanted to lie down.

Only when he pushed away from the stone support to start his walk did he realize 'just a few blocks' were still a few blocks, and one would have been one too many for him. His vision had not been too clear before, but as soon as he stood without support, it worsened. It sent the ground and the houses and the cars spinning. The lights all mingled together, and suddenly there was something hard and sharp against his back, then something hard underneath his butt, and at last his head connected with something hard as well.

Starsky moaned and held his head in his hands, despite the abrasions and bruises covering his face. The whole back of his head felt like it was slowly cracking open; he was half-scared to touch it and find brain leaking out.

He sat where he had fallen to the ground, leaning against the stone wall, head hanging forward. Bile rose in his throat, and the spinning sensation remained, even through his closed eyes. As if he himself was spinning, not his surroundings. He wished he could stop moving. Being sick with cracked or broken ribs would surely not help matters right now.

It took some time, but eventually he found he could crack his working eye open again. Careful not to let his head get anywhere near the wall, he blinked and looked up. The street was a bit blurry at the edges, but it was no roller coaster anymore.

With a small sigh -- that caused a wince -- Starchy stared in the direction of home, as if he could drag it to him with telekinetic powers. Of course, he figured, even if he had had those, they probably would not have worked right, considering the condition of his head.

Damn those guys!

If they had to dump him far away from the office, why not just a taaaad further? They could not have known the significance of where they had dumped him. But what had looked like incredible luck a minute ago was turning into a cruel joke now, Starsky thought.

'So near and yet...'

But there would be warmth there...Vaguely, through the pain, Starsky knew it meant something that he was so cold. The night air was still warm. Not even the concrete he sat on had cooled off. Would not cool off for a few days, yet. The freezing cold emerged from inside of himself. That was why it was of no use to carefully wrap his good arm around himself, either. He would not warm up until he got home.

And he wanted home.

Determined, he stood up, one hand always on the support behind him. He made sure not to lean his head against the wall, once he stood upright, though it was tempting. Even that little effort had been exhausting, and he felt his left leg throb in protest at the weight he attempted to put on it.

Not that he was going to let a stupid leg stop him, though. He registered the flashes of pain shooting up into his thigh, when he started moving, but he forced himself to push it aside, deal with it later. He had walked with more of a leg wound than that. With ribs hurting more too, he added grimly and tugged his arm to his rib cage with determined pressure.

The only thing that really bothered him -- and that he feared might ruin the whole Operation Getting Home -- was his head. It felt like it was about to explode. And at the same time like it was already past that. Starsky could honestly not remember a headache that bad. Not even when he had been grazed during the shooting at that Italian restaurant. Of course, he had had bigger problems then.

The walk was slow and exhausting and unsettling, and he really had not thought that this stupid street was that long! It never looked that long, when he drove down it in the mornings to pick up...

He halted, leaning heavily next to the closed entrance of some small store, and tried to catch his breath. The goal was right there, just a few more houses away. Already, he could see the warm light flooding the sidewalk from inside the café underneath the apartment.

Yes, there it was. Venice Place.

Starsky rolled his eyes, but thought better of shaking his head, as he prepared to continue his march.

What the hell! He was confused, his head hurt, and Venice Place was at least pretty close to home.

Besides, he could rest there, too, it would be warm there, too, and those were all the definitions "home" needed right now.

A few times, he lost his balance on the rest of his way, his meager energy fading fast now that he was so close. He stumbled against house walls or garbage cans a lot. Once, he actually fell and landed hard on his bruised-up arm. Biting back a yelp, he ducked his head, eyes squeezed shut, and knelt unmoving for a while, inwardly yelling at himself to get the hell up again in his best impression of a drill sergeant.

He sensed passers-by rushing past him, either not paying attention to the man huddled on the sidewalk, or purposefully speeding up their steps, as if they feared reality might jump over to whoever dared to halt, like a bug.

Not that it surprised a street cop that common civility did not include an offer of help to a bleeding man, but it did touch a streak of bitterness he had been unaware of having. So much for Hutch's continuous rambles about his great neighborhood...

With the urge to tell off his partner about his ignorant fellow citizens, Starsky managed to push himself up to his feet. Until he reached the door to Venice Place, he did not let go of any offered support, dragging on from wall to wall as if he was walking on the edge of an abyss.

One hand closing over the doorknob, he leaned face first against the building, taking deep breaths. There were still the stairs.

He had not checked to see if Hutch's car was there, and he tried to sense the LTD's presence with his eyes closed and back facing the street. Wouldn't it be nice if the ugly can appeared right now, carrying with it his partner to help him up the damned stairs?

When it became clear that waiting any longer would only result in him passing out outside of the building, Starsky groaned -- half annoyed, half desperate -- and laboriously dragged the door open.

Who would have guessed there were so many stairs up to Hutch's apartment? It always seemed like such a short walk up there! Three times, Starsky had to take a break, leaning against the wall. He was careful not to slide down the wall, knowing full well that he would be unable to rise, again.

By now, each breath caused a wave of fire to wash through his chest, and he was dizzy as hell. He more felt his way than saw it. Mostly, he kept his eyes closed, as the hallway would start spinning or fogging up or did other funny things, when he looked. The pain in his head had increased to an agony that would have made him beg for unconsciousness, if it not been for the stubborn urge to make it to safety and warmth.

Finally, he reached Hutch's door. Sighing with relief, he rested his forehead against the glass and reached up for the key.

It wasn't there.

The sigh transformed into a moan. If his face had not been scrunched up in pain, he would have frowned in anger. Wearily, he thumped his flat hand against the door, never moving his head.

"Hutch. Hey." It wasn't more than a whisper. Frustrated, he forced his lungs to support his voice with a bit more air. "Hutch! Open the door!"

Nothing happened. Starsky could have cried. A few more times, he scraped his hand over the door, like a cat begging to be let in from the rain, and suddenly he was sitting, propped up against the door. His eyes were still closed.

"Hutch," he muttered. "Lemme in, c'mon."

But he knew no one would hear him. At last, he gave in to the tempting darkness, eager to escape the pain for a while.

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Hutch felt strange. The panting LTD raced away from the Marrinon Mansion, that forlorn place in the middle of a time ribbon, where time flowed and halted at the same time. Never before had he wanted to get away from the house so desperately. As if, if he had stayed just a minute longer, he too would have been dragged into the dangerous whirl of Lady's life. This life that lay caught in time like a bug in a cobweb.

Hutch had seen a lot of sad people over his life. Too many, probably. Yet, Lady Marrinon's sadness touched him in a part of his heart that he usually kept too well-covered to be found. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed to be violently clinging to her memories. Memories that were not beautiful, no matter how hard she tried to force them to be so.

She remembered love, where there had been none, and that must -- at times -- occur to her. It was in those moments that she became mean and tried to hurt the young man playing songs for her. She had not been loved by the ones she had loved. And she did not want anyone to feel love anymore, now.

Gee, and Hutch had always thought he was bitter. With a sarcastic little smile, he shook his head, suppressing a shudder.

What great timing his partner had, he thought. What he really needed tonight was something light, something free of darkness and disappointment. Something that stood for his life. His life that did not lack fun and good times and love. A life that would not leave you alone with a load of wrong turns one day.

Maybe it was that part within him that Lady's accusing eyes stared right into: the frightened kid, who feared nothing more than ending up all alone, just like Lady. To one day find you had been disappointed one time too often, and though everything that would make it okay was right there before you, you would not be able to see it anymore.

Once more, Hutch shook his head, then ran a hand over his face as if to push back the pressing thoughts. He was not alone. He was on his way home, and there would be Monopoly tonight, and if the world came to an end the next day, just this one evening of easy bantering and fun would have supplied him with memories worth more than anything Lady carried around.

The contagious sadness threatened to grab him again, so he quickly concentrated on something else. He could not deny that he was in a soapy mood, though. Maybe even enough to let his buddy win once or twice.

As Hutch pulled up to Venice Place, he noticed that the Torino was not yet there. Throwing the driver's door shut, Hutch checked his watch and frowned. He had left the Marrinon Mansion pretty late. But, oh, hell, why would Starsky ever be on time?

With a shrug, he headed for his door. There were some weird looking spots on the wall next to it, like paint or rust or something, and Hutch wrinkled his nose. He loved everything about his place dearly, even the neighborhood, but it did lack some sense of hygiene.

Spots of the same sort dotted the inside of the hallway. Hutch frowned. They had probably been there for quite some time now, and he was only noticing them now. Of course, he was perfectly capable of overlooking huge puddles of spilled milk on his own kitchen floor for weeks, so it was not a surprise that he had not yet noticed the spot. Funny, he thought, how spending time in a palace like the Marrinon Mansion could change your perception.

He was really looking forward to not thinking about that damned house and its inhabitants for a night. Just the thought of relaxing for some time, while kicking Starsky's butt at Monopoly, put him in a good mood, and he whistled to himself, as he walked upstairs, searching for his key in his pockets.

It was just a coincidence that he carried it around. Being so drowsy and sleepy all the time, he had absently stashed it in his pocket, when he had left that morning. If that wasn't a sign of just how badly he needed some rest!

He was still whistling, absently playing with his key, when he reached the hallway to his apartment. Looking up, he trailed off, steps slowing down.

A dark figure huddled against his door, the head hanging low, forehead resting on one drawn-up knee. The other leg was stretched out, the jeans torn and bloody. The man's right arm hung limply, the blood-dotted hand on the ground, and it suddenly hit Hutch what the funny-looking spots had been.

"Starsky!"

Starsky did not stir, neither at the shocked yell, nor when Hutch hurried to his side. Before he dared to touch, the blond scanned his friend's appearance, taking in the distressing amount of dried blood sticking to what he could see of Starsky's pale face. The outstretched leg did not look like it was broken, but Hutch could see a slight swelling just underneath the knee, and when he carefully brushed his hand over the area, his friend flinched, unconsciously twitching it away.

"Okay," Hutch reassured him, softly, lifting his hands as if Starsky could see it. "Okay, sorry. Didn't wanna hurt you. Starsk?" he then asked, and gently lifted Starsky's head to peer into his face. At the sight of blackish bruises surrounding one swollen eye, he winced.

With extra care, he ran his hand over the back of the dark head. Too many knots, too many bumps. Two of those were covered with crusted blood. When his fingers found the back of Starsky's neck, where deep scratches ran down to vanish under his collar, a soft moan rose in the unconscious man's throat.

"Starsk?" Hutch asked hopefully. Aware of the poor condition his partner's head was in, he cupped one hand around it to ever-so-carefully lean it against the wall. "Hey. Can you hear me?" He kept his voice low, to avoid further hurting him, though he assumed that waking up was probably enough to offend his friend's head.

"Buddy, you with me? Huh?"

"I-I dunno..." came the whispered reply. Starsky did not open his eyes, and his lips barely moved. "Where're you?"

Hutch smiled. "I'm right here." He squeezed Starsky's left hand.

Starsky squeezed back. "Okay. Then, yeah, I'm with you. 'M'ere too. I think."

Wincing sympathetically at the strain he could hear in Starsky's voice, Hutch gently touched an unbruised area on Starsky's face to turn his head and inspect a gash on his temple. "Glad to hear that. What happened to you?"

Starsky huffed a weak snort. He had still not opened his eyes. "Never seen a guy after rabies shots?"

Hutch rolled his eyes and was about to reply, when Starsky added, "Where the hell's your key?"

Puzzled, Hutch frowned. He even reached into his pocket again, as if to check, then understood. "Oh. Well..." he started apologetically, "y-you keep tellin' me it's dangerous to leave it up there."

Starsky groaned. "Since when d'you listen to me?"

"Won't happen again," Hutch promised. Taking in Starsky's curled-up position, he started to brush his hand down Starsky's chest, but was stopped by a sucked-in gasp and a violent jerk.

"Sorry," he hissed. "Sorry. D'you...d'you think any are broken?"

"Dunno," Starsky slurred. With a deep wince, he dragged his right arm up to further shield his ribcage, as if to protect himself against Hutch's inspection.

It started to immensely unnerve Hutch that his friend had not yet once opened his eyes. "Can you open your eyes for me, Buddy?" Gently, he brushed his thumb over the area underneath Starsky's good eye.

He was either not heard, or ignored.

"'Mcold."

Only now did Hutch notice the slight tremors running through his partner's body. Mumbling assurances, he shrugged out of his light jacket, while Starsky talked over his words.

"Help me inside? I...I need to lie down."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Hutch muttered absently, while he covered Starsky's upper body with his jacket. As though he had not listened to his own words, he then said, "Listen, I'm gonna call an ambulance. Don't move around, I'll be right back."

Starsky frowned. His left hand moved feebly, searching for Hutch, who took it in his. "I don't want an ambulance; I wanna lie down."

"You can lie down in the ambulance," Hutch assured. He was getting eager to move and get help. "I'll be right back."

Starting to become agitated, Starsky shook his head, but instantly stopped again. He failed at suppressing a whimper. Hutch could feel him squeeze his hand again.

"Starsk," he chided worriedly, "don't move."

Once more, Starsky talked over his words. "I'll come with you. Help me up." He didn't wait for an answer, but reached for the wall with his free hand to drag himself up.

"Starsky." Anxious, Hutch tried to restrain him, but eased his grip, when he noticed a wince crossing Starsky's features. "Buddy, please. C'mon, sit back down, and I'll be right back, I promise."

Starsky didn't bother to answer. Probably didn't have the strength to, anyway, as he leaned heavily against Hutch, who had been forced to follow him up to his feet to prevent him from falling.

"Stubborn idiot," the blond mumbled, while he adjusted his grip on his friend's trembling shoulders.

"Heard that," Starsky breathed.

"Good."

They took two steps before Starsky froze, his face scrunching up. His weak fingers, keeping a fragile hold on Hutch's sleeve, tugged lightly on his partner's arm. A distressing noise, like a gagged whimper, escaped him. "Uh...Hutch...?"

"Y'know," Hutch said, no longer attempting to keep the worry out of his voice. "I'd really feel better if you'd just let me call an ambulance."

"Wanna hear something funny?" Starsky asked in a thready tone. Even as he spoke, his knees buckled, and Hutch had to catch him, guide him back down. "Me too."

Starsky admitting weakness was as distressing as it could get. Hutch's hands flew to help him lie down using the jacket as a makeshift pillow. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

"No..." Starsky promised in a whisper. "I tried that." He shivered.

"I'll be right back," Hutch repeated in a rush, unwilling to move, but knowing he had to. "Right back."

Bless the girl at 911! Probably years of experience had put her in the position to understand a load of information given in as fast a stream of words as Hutch's, so the blond could return to his friend a few minutes later, bringing with him the first blanket he had gotten his hands on, inside.

Starsky's eyes were still closed, but his strained breathing told Hutch that he was struggling to stay awake.

Gently, he spread the blanket over quaking shoulders. "There you go. You still with me?"

One hand lingering on Starsky's arm, he reached for the other hand to monitor the pulse. As his hand was lifted, Starsky weakly grabbed a handful of Hutch's sleeve again and hung on.

"Don't I look it?" he asked, in answer. A wince crossed his face. "Feels like I'm still here," he added resignedly.

Hutch smiled softly and brushed the backs of his curled-up fingers over an unharmed area of his partner's forehead. "Yeah, you look very present. Can you tell me what happened now? Who the hell did this?"

"My head hurts," Starsky complained, as if in answer. His face scrunched up some more. Hutch could feel the hold on his sleeve tighten a bit.

He sighed in concern, glanced at his watch, then over his shoulder, while he continued to soothingly stroke the side of Starsky's face. "I know. You caught some scratches there."

The lightness of the words could not betray his tone.

"Mm-mm," Starsky muttered drowsily. Hutch doubted he had heard.

"Starsky."

There was no answer. Dread tugging at his heart, Hutch watched as his friend's features slowly relaxed, evened out to the blankness of unconsciousness.

"Buddy." Ever so carefully, he shook one shoulder, but got no reaction. The grip on his sleeve loosened, and he had to catch the suddenly limp hand in his. "Hey, c'mon, don't leave me alone, here. Starsk." He shook the shoulder again, a little harder this time.

Fortunately, the paramedics must have heard him slipping into panic, for they showed up just then. With trained determination, they urged the blond detective away from their patient, but made sure they kept him involved, asked questions, accepted his help at lifting Starsky onto a gurney.

One of the paramedics, a man in his early 40s, asked, "You wanna ride in the ambulance with us?"

Surprised - Who'd have guessed! Nice paramedics! - Hutch hurried to nod. "You bet. Thanks."

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So much for finally getting some sleep. Anytime soon, Hutch added sarcastically, as he stared into the drained plastic cup he held in slightly trembling hands. Why the coffee in hospitals always had to be even worse than that at the precinct was beyond him. He remembered Starsky once matter-of-factly informing him that cops had to drink bad coffee -- "'S parta the image."

Still -- why did it have to be part of the image of a worried friend?

Exhausted, he dragged one palm over his strained features, feeling the familiar deep furrow just above the bridge of his nose. Sometimes he wondered if he had already had that, before he knew Starsky...

With a yawn, he slouched back in the hard plastic chair he had occupied for the better part of about forty minutes now, ever since a particularly convincing nurse had thrown him out of Starsky's examination room. Hutch had come across a lot of hospital staff in the past years, and he had to say, this one here matched the coffee.

"Detective...uh...I forgot your name," a busy voice suddenly tore Hutch out of his inner grumbling, and he jumped to his feet to face the tired and none-too-happy-looking doctor he had seen in the examination room. He was about 50, and a lot smaller than the detective. Streaks of gray spread in his otherwise dark brown hair. The eyes appeared strange in the cold white light of the waiting room: as though one was green and the other one brown.

"How is he?" Hutch asked, before the doctor's words even reached him. When they did, he apologetically added, "Sorry. Hutchinson. Ken Hutchinson."

They shook hands. Hutch could not help thinking that it was not comforting to know that a man who appeared to be as tired as he, himself, was, had treated his partner.

"Van Norden," the doctor introduced himself. He looked around the room, as if suddenly surprised at seeing it was deserted, except for the blond cop. "I examined your friend. Maybe we should sit down."

Hutch stared at him, but eventually followed the outstretched hand to once more sink onto a hard plastic chair. Van Norden dragged one across from him.

Uncharacteristically patient, Hutch waited for him to speak again.

The good doctor sure took his time, which did not help to ease Hutch's mind. "David took quite a beating. I'm sure you noticed most of the damage was directed at his head."

Hutch just nodded.

"Well, I do have some good news and that is that there are no signs of skull fractures," van Norden said.

Hutch allowed a small sigh to escape.

As though van Norden disagreed with such a display of relief, he gravely continued, "However, he is severely concussed. His wounds needed quite a few stitches, and he seemed extremely disoriented during the examination. I cannot yet give any predictions about what effects the injury to his right eye will have. We'll have to wait and see."

Apparently, Hutch's turning a dismayed white was more of a reaction the doctor could agree with, for his voice now carried all the authority and power of a man in charge.

"Furthermore, there is one broken rib -- which, fortunately, didn't cause any greater damage -- as well as two cracked ones. David's right arm was fractured. We put it in a splint for now."

A quick glimpse seemed to show Dr. van Norden that he still had the undivided attention of his -- rather unhappy-looking -- audience, and he concluded: "Also, his left leg was -- probably painfully -- twisted and shows a worrying bruise and swelling that we need to keep an eye on. Um..." As a thought hit him, the doctor trailed off and after a moment asked, "You wouldn't by any chance know if David was attacked by...animals recently? For, we found bite marks that didn't look like they've been taken care of and we-"

"He was bitten by a Doberman," Hutch interrupted him in a flat voice. "Tod...I-I mean yesterday. Yesterday morning."

"I see." Van Norden nodded. "Well, we gave him rabies shots, just to be on the safe side."

"Yeah. Uh-um...Doctor, what d'you mean Starsky seemed disoriented? He was fine, when I talked to him."

"Well, first of all, he wasn't able to answer some of the standard questions, like the date, etc. And then he kept on asking if we knew any cure for...insomnia?" An inquiring look found the blond.

"Oh." Hutch pursed his lips, then slowly nodded. "Yeah, that sounds very disoriented."

Van Norden cast him a suspicious glance, but didn't comment on the topic any further. "All things considered," he said instead, "I'd say David should make a full recovery, but..." He added quickly, as if wanting to stop Hutch's hopes from even starting to go up. "It will show in the next few days. As I said, his condition is worrisome. I think it's better to keep that in mind. For you, I mean."

Hutch watched the man through narrowing eyes. He didn't think he liked Dr. van Norden. "Can I see him?"

"Yes," van Norden replied hesitantly, "sure, but I don't think-"

"Thanks, Doc," Hutch cut him off and left the room.

He found a much nicer (and much nicer-looking) nurse to ask about Starsky's room number and found it without difficulty. He peeked inside, before quietly entering, not sure whether his partner was asleep.

A padded bandage covered a large part of Starsky's forehead, right above his bad eye, which looked even worse than Hutch remembered it. Starsky's splinted arm rested on the blanket. One bare foot showed out from under it.

Silently, Hutch stepped up next to the bed and gently tucked the foot back in.

One startled blue eye snapped open at that, but was instantly squeezed shut again in a wince. Starsky groaned and drew in a small breath.

"Hey," Hutch greeted him ruefully, keeping his hand on the now-covered foot. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"Nah," Starsky replied wearily, not trying to look, again. "I wasn't sleeping. It's just...everything's spinning, when I look, 'sall."

Hutch caught him absently brushing his fingers over the sheet on the blond's side of the bed.

"Don't look then," he advised, while dragging yet another plastic chair closer to sit down next to the bed, one hand lightly resting on Starsky's good arm. "Nothing much to see here, anyway." As if to underline his words, he yawned.

An unhappy expression settled on Starsky's face. He did not move his head, but kept it still with palpable care, closed eyes facing the ceiling.

"Sorry about Monopoly," he said sadly.

Hutch laughed softly, gently squeezing his partner's arm. "Hell, yeah, Babe, you should be."

As he watched the faint smile on Starsky's face being almost instantly replaced by yet another wince, he frowned, concerned. "Did they give you anything for the pain?"

The ghostly smile returned. "Yep. But I'd have to be dead for a week for my head to stop hurting. Didja talk to the doctor?"

"Oh, yeah." Hutch nodded. "Lovely guy. Scared the hell outta me."

At his partner's sarcastic tone, Starsky managed a weak snicker. "Thought he would. Don't let him, though."

"What?"

"Scare ya. I'll be fine."

"Yeah," Hutch said softly, "I know. Care to tell me what happened now?"

Starsky frowned. "Haven't I?"

For once, Hutch was glad that his friend's eyes were closed, so that he couldn't see the worry on his face betraying his words, as he replied, "Not if you don't count bad jokes." His tone grew more serious then. "D'you know who did it?"

It looked like Starsky was about to nod, but was hit by a flash of wisdom and halted the motion. "Yes," he said and swallowed dryly. "There were four, I think. They jumped me after…after I left this place Rawdon keeps on dragging me to."

"Who?" Hutch urged, failing at hiding his impatience.

"Scave," Starsky replied. He sounded confused, as if convinced he had already told Hutch that.

"Who?"

"Scave. Michael. Whatshisname."

Hutch furrowed his brows. "Scavio? Michael Scavio attacked you? Why?"

There was a very long pause, and Hutch almost thought Starsky had drifted off, when suddenly his friend slowly blinked his left eye open and moved his head on the pillow to look at Hutch.

"I have an idea," he said dryly. The expression in his eye was meaningful.

Hutch did not get it. "What d'you mean?"

Starsky made a face, drew in a small breath. "Well...before he knocked me out, he told me to 'stay away'." As if that should make it all clear, he lifted his brow.

Hutch stared at him blankly. "Stay away? Stay away from what? The case?"

A wry grin crossed Starsky's lips. "Could be. But...I did some thinking." As if to underline his words, he winced.

Hutch comfortingly tightened his hold on Starsky's arm. "D'you think that's a wise move right now?" he joked.

The strain left Starsky's features. He looked at his friend again. "Smartass. No, y'know, the whole thing reminded me...of something." He had to pause, here, to catch his breath. Apparently, the medication could not mask all of the pain in his chest, either. "Just before I was drafted, I was seeing this girl...Sheila Something."

Unsure of where a little storytelling would lead them, Hutch settled for listening, albeit with a frown. "Okay. So?"

"What I didn't know," Starsky continued, "was that she was seeing this other guy also. You know the type: six-feet-much-more, built like a wardrobe...Yeah, well, one day after work, he and his buddies waited for me outside to let me know that he'd appreciate me letting things...cool off...with Sheila."

The frown on Hutch's face deepened. "They beat you up?"

"Not much," Starsky answered half reassuringly, half regretfully. "I ran. If I'd known I'd be drafted two weeks later, I'd have let them, believe me."

Hutch smiled wryly and gave the arm he held a gentle squeeze. "Okay," he said, "but how does this...Wait. Scave's...jealous of you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"But...you didn't date anyone but Hope O'Tavish, who..." Under his partner's expecting gaze, Hutch trailed off, his eyes widening along with his understanding. "Oh," he finally said. "Y-you mean..."

Starsky blinked affirmatively.

But Hutch still had to say it. "You mean Rawdon?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You mean Rawdon Jones and Michael Scavio are... ?"

Starsky blinked again.

"Wow." As if he needed a moment to process the gained information, Hutch averted his gaze, then looked up again. "Did Rawdon hit on you?"

"No," Starsky replied. "But whenever we met Scave, he wasn't too happy about seeing us together. I just thought he generally didn't like new colleagues. Or, dunno, me, or that he was just not very social."

There was a short pause, before Hutch asked, "Didn't Rawdon tell you he and Rick Attlee were friends?"

"Yeah, I know," Starsky said in a meaningful tone. "Thought about that, too."

"No wonder your head hurts," Hutch commented and smiled at the scowl he earned. "Okay, so what d'you think? Rawdon cheated on Scavio, and Scavio killed Attlee?"

"Maybe. But..." Starsky very carefully shook his head. "I don't believe Rawdon cheated on Scave. Maybe he was...well, maybe he liked Rick, but I don't think he went for it."

Hutch frowned. "Why?"

"Just..." Trying to find the words, Starsky started anew, stopped. Finally, he said, "You didn't see them together, Hutch. Y'know... maybe Rawdon didn't lie to me, after all, about Rick's death. Maybe that's what he believes."

Hutch listened, his brows furrowed.

"Because," Starsky continued, "Scave told him. Nothing proves that Rawdon knows about Rick being murdered. Maybe he does think it was just an accident and is totally clueless, that his boyfriend killed his pal."

"If he killed him," Hutch pointed out.

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, he didn't kill you. Or at least," he added with a grimace, "he didn't want to. He beat you up."

"Maybe..." Starsky started, but had to interrupt himself to draw in a small breath against the pain. He closed his eye again. "Maybe Rick didn't 'stay away'."

"Right," Hutch said, hit by a sudden thought. "Because he couldn't. Because he and Rawdon weren't lovers, but business partners."

In the silence that followed, Starsky blinked his good eye open again, realization pushing away the pain. "Scave doesn't know about their pictures."

"Exactly," Hutch nodded. "Rick didn't tell Rawdon about Scavio's threats, 'cause he was afraid Rawdon wouldn't have the guts to tell Scavio the truth and instead get out. But he needed Rawdon's connections. So he just ignored Scave. And that was a mistake."

Triumphantly, Hutch lifted his hands in an 'easy!'-kind of gesture, smiling. When he didn't see the same emotions expressed on his partner's face, he hesitated. "Starsk?"

Though Starsky's eye was open, he didn't look at Hutch, but up at the ceiling. "I don't...Rick was shot six times, right?"

"Yeah," Hutch replied, unsure. "So?"

"Why do you shoot someone six times? Either in anger...or in a rush..."

"Or because you're not the best shot," Hutch added. "But where're you heading here, Partner? I'd say a jealous boyfriend is as angry as it gets."

Starsky didn't answer right away, but when he did, his voice was soft, like a whisper. "If you take mine, I take yours," he mumbled.

"What?" Hutch asked, concerned. "Starsky?"

"That's what Scave said to me," Starsky explained quietly and looked at Hutch, "when he pointed the gun at my heart."

"He did what?" Hutch snapped dismayed. He'd paled a shade "You didn't tell me he had a gun."

Ignoring the shocked comment, Starsky continued, "Rick was already down, when he was shot. Maybe he was even unconscious, he took some blows to the head." He bit his lip, his gaze drifting off, as if he was looking at a scene in the far distance. "Scavio wouldn't have shot him six times. He'd have shot him once." His hand brushed over his bandaged chest. "Here."

Hutch watched him doubtfully. "Don't you think you're granting the man too much of a romantic streak? I mean..." He smiled with no humor. "Look at you."

"My point exactly", Starsky replied. He had closed his eyes again and was breathing in flat, deep breaths, obviously distressed by a new wave of pain washing through him.

Instantly pushing all thoughts about the case aside, Hutch bent in closer. He frowned, worried. "Hey, Buddy? Y'okay?"

Starsky didn't answer right away, but weakly squeezed Hutch's sleeve to let him know he had heard. His face was once more scrunched up.

"Y-you want me to call the nurse? I'm sure they can give you something stronger than-"

"'Mfine", Starsky's thready voice cut off Hutch's panicked question. The corners of his mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles. Hutch thought he looked even more white than before. "Probably just all this...thinkin'."

Even though Starsky couldn't see it, Hutch forced himself to smile. "I keep telling you, Babe. How about you leave the thinking to me for a while and try to get some rest, hmm? I'll be here, when you wake up."

Starsky snorted softly. "How's that gonna help us solve...solve the case?" he joked through a wince.

"Mushbrain", Hutch shot back lovingly. As if too smooth away the pain, he brushed a feather-light touch over the less damaged side of Starsky's face.

"There's a perfectly funny remark to that...somewhere inside my head," Starsky informed him in a breathless whisper. Maybe the meds were kicking in after all, for he seemed to be fading fast now. "Think it for me, will ya?" he asked, and his head lolled a bit sideways, so that the tip of his nose rested against Hutch's hand.

He was asleep.

Hutch drew his hand away. Starsky wrinkled his nose, as if in protest, but didn't wake up.

When the familiar light snoring started, Hutch stood up and walked over to the door. There he stopped, looked back over his shoulder. He patted his pockets for his notebook and pen.

'Be right back. Go back to sleep,' he scribbled onto one small page and put it onto the plastic chair he'd sit on.

Then, he left the room, heading for the public phones.

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A groan caused Hutch to glance up from his book. It sounded different than the occasional moans his injured partner had occasionally uttered throughout the night. Somehow, this one sounded more...alert. Though Starsky's eyes were closed, when he looked, Hutch thought he could sense his friend was awake.

Still, he kept his voice soft, when he bent closer and asked, "Starsky? You awake?"

"Depends," Starsky replied through a wince. "Are you a dream?"

"No."

"What a relief," Starsky said and cracked his good eye open. "Morning."

Hutch smiled. "Hi there. How're you feeling?"

A small gasp escaped Starsky, when he tried to look around, probably trying to determine how much time had passed. Bright morning light flooded through the paper-thin curtains. Apparently, bright morning light wasn't what his head needed right now. He closed his eye again.

"Like..." A frown crawled over his bruised-up face, then gave way to closed-eyed frustration. "Like I'm not yet fit for clever lines." He moaned once more, one hand feebly coming up to rub his eyes.

Gently, Hutch grabbed the hand, before Starsky could cause more damage, and put it back down on the blanket. "How about 'awful'?" he suggested sympathetically.

"Yeah, that's it," Starsky replied. "Anyone ever tell ya you'd make a great writer, Hutch?"

"Sure. Everyone, all the time. Think you need something for the pain? Want me to call the nurse?"

"Maybe later," Starsky replied. Under Hutch's careful observation, he lifted his hand to rub only his good eye. "I'm not fully awake, yet. Guess that makes it bearable. What time is it?"

"Eight."

Turning his head on the pillow, as if he was looking at the blond with closed eyes, Starsky asked, "You get any sleep?"

"On this chair?"

"You know, this is an opportunity, Blintz," Starsky lectured, lifting one brow. "I'm sure they could give ya something to-"

"Yeah, I'll think about that," Hutch cut him off dryly. "You just worry about yourself for a while now, all right?"

Starsky grimaced slightly. "Okay," he muttered, as if to himself, but loud enough for Hutch to hear. "'Sjust that no sleep makes ya grumpy, 'sall...Did you talk to Dobey?" he then asked a bit louder.

"Yeah. We did some brainstorming. His theory is that Urbaniak is our man."

"How come?" Starsky asked.

"A reason is not part of his theory," Hutch remarked, "but I guess it's because if Urbaniak was in on the porn business, he had an interest in Attlee keeping his mouth shut."

Starsky frowned. If in thought or in pain, Hutch couldn't tell. Then again: where'd be the difference? "So what, Attlee wants out, Urbaniak drops by one night, they fight -- and then he shoots him six times?"

Hutch shrugged. "It's not my theory."

"Okay, so what is your theory?"

"You first."

"Nah, I'm hurt. I don't have one."

Hutch snorted a laugh. He patted Starsky's arm comfortingly. "If that isn't a first."

"You think it was Corey Niles, don't you?" Starsky asked. When no answer came, he blinked his eye open. "Hutch?"

The humor had vanished from Hutch's face. He shrugged sadly. "Like you said, Buddy -- why do you shoot someone six times?"

Their eyes met.

"It could've been someone we don't even know yet too, y'know? Maybe it was a coincidence. Husband of a client." Starsky shrugged and winced at the movement, squeezing his eye shut again. "A robber..."

"The milkman," Hutch continued. "Aliens from outer space. Sure."

"Hutch-"

"Look, Starsk, this isn't getting us anywhere. Right now, we have four suspects. Well, three for the shots, I guess. If you're right about Michael Scavio." He paused, let go of a deep breath. "The judge will go for extenuating circumstances with Corey."

Starsky muttered something unintelligible.

There was a short silence. When Hutch spoke again, his tone was helpless, almost pleading. As if he wanted for his partner to tell him he was wrong, that Starsky knew the killer wasn't Corey Niles. "If it was Corey, we'd be helping him by arresting him, you know that."

He bowed his head, drove a hand over his pale features. A sudden tug on his sleeve made him look up into Starsky's face again.

"Hey," the brunet said gently, "stop that. You don't make the kid a killer by thinking he is one."

Hutch smiled grimly. "Yeah, right. But if I'm wrong, I'm an asshole, and if I'm right..." He trailed off. Waved dismissively. "We're forgetting about Norman Kheen," he said, a bit too quickly to give the image that he had been thinking about Norman Kheen. "Which is why I'll go to the Marrinon Mansion again today, after the arrests."

"I totally forgot about those two," Starsky said, confused. He slightly shook his head about himself -- but was stopped in mid-motion by the pain. Ignoring Hutch's -- almost chidingly -- squeezing his arm, he asked, "Anything happen yesterday? You were there last night, weren't you?"

A shadow crossed Hutch's eyes. He looked away. "Yes and no. Just the usual...weirdness."

Starsky's gaze stuck to him for a moment. "Liar."

Hutch laughed softly and nodded. "Guilty as charged." He sighed and wiped a hand over his face. "Man, I'll be glad when this is over. If I never have to see that woman again, it'll be too soon."

Even with his eyes closed, he could feel Starsky's worried glance on him. About to add a calming wisecrack, he was kept from it by a soft knocking from the door, which was then carefully opened.

"Ally!" Starsky exclaimed surprised. His own voice being at too great a volume, he winced. "Hey! What-"

"Aw, God, Dave." Leaving the door open, Allison hurried to his side and took his hand, her other one reaching up to carefully stroke his face, just above an ugly, black bruise. She cast him a concerned frown, then pressed a soft kiss to the spot she'd just touched. "You didn't need to do that, y'know," she joked. "I would've talked to you again, eventually." She smiled.

Starsky hadn't even listened. "Wh-what're you doing here?" he asked. "How..." From the corner of his eye, he caught Hutch's wink and grinned. He looked at Allison again and squeezed her hand. "Glad you came."

"Hi, Al," Hutch greeted her.

"Oh, you two!" she exclaimed. "I don't tell you to be careful every morning for fun, y'know!" She sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping Starsky's hand in hers. "Now, what happened?"

"Jealous boyfriend," Hutch explained.

Allison furrowed her brows. "What, hers?"

Starsky smiled dryly. "No. His."

For a moment, Allison just stared at him.

"It wasn't my fault," Starsky eventually felt compelled to point out.

"I figured," she replied. Brushing a stray curl off his forehead, she shook her head. "Guess I should feel flattered. My boyfriend's irresistible to men, too..." Her gaze wandered up to Hutch, whose amused grin faded into mock indignation.

"Don't look at me, lady. I've resisted him for years."

"And was it hard?" she countered.

"Incredibly."

"Hey, I'm hurt!" Starsky complained in a whine. "Okay? Stop smart-assing over my head!"

"Poor baby," Allison muttered soothingly and stroked his head. Looking at Hutch again, she asked, "Did you talk to the doctor?"

The grimace crossing his features matched the grim little smile that curled Starsky's lips. "Um...yeah. Yeah, I did. He, um...he thinks the irresistible hero will make it."

"His exact words," Starsky added.

Frowning, Allison looked from one to the other. "What-"

"Ally," Starsky cut her off, his hand moving to hers as if to pat it, "I'll be okay. It's just a concussion."

"Well, maybe not 'just' a concussion," Hutch said, "but I've seen him look worse." He smiled reassuringly.

Talking over Starsky's grumbled "funny", Allison cast him a dry-humored glance. "If you say so. Speaking of 'looking worse'..." She lifted her brows.

"Don't you start too!" Hutch warned her, his index finger flying up. At the two innocent looks he received, he sighed annoyedly, then stood up from his chair. "I gotta go prepare our arrests."

Slipping into business tone at that, Starsky asked, "What's the plan?"

"Dobey and I think it'd be best to not blow my cover. So I can get a good look at their reactions and if we have to let one or two or all of them go later, it's not a total loss. Now, you be a good little quiet patient," he told Starsky, pointing his finger at him, "and you," the finger wandered up to point at Allison, "keep watch that he doesn't confuse the doctor more than he already has. Ya hear?"

The couple nodded. That is, Allison nodded and Starsky blinked.

"You be careful," Hutch heard them both call after him, when he left the room.

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"So what do the academics say?" Dobey asked, after Hutch had given a short summary of Starsky's condition.

The blond smiled ironically, as he lifted his coffee mug. With an assuring blink at his captain, he answered, "He'll be okay."

They were sitting in Dobey's office, just in case any of the three suspects that had been arrested at Urbaniak's escort services could glance into the squad room and see Hutch. Only Urbaniak, Rawdon and Scavio had been there; none of them seemed to know about Corey Niles' whereabouts.

It had been pretty hard for Hutch to hang around the office all morning -- his excuse for his early appearance had been a long and wordy complaint about Lady Marrinon's seemingly exclusive rights regarding him -- and watch Michael Scavio drink his coffee. Scavio eventually sent a few side glances at Rawdon Jones, who had been in the office before Hutch had arrived.

There was a longish, raw bruise on Scavio's right knuckles.

Hutch could have killed him. But the only satisfaction he could take was in informing his colleagues about what Scavio had done to Starsky. So they could...well...watch out for him during the arrest...

So as to not endanger Hutch's cover, he had been arrested with the rest. The charge: dealing in child pornography.

The look Michael Scavio cast his boyfriend, when the cuffs were put on them both...that almost covered the need for revenge Hutch had felt earlier. He and Starsky obviously had been right about it: Scavio didn't have a clue.

"Hmm," Dobey muttered gruffly at his detective's answer, then, after a long look at Hutch, asked, "Does that go for you too?"

The initial surprise quickly left Hutch's features to leave an annoyed expression behind. "Cap'n, I'm-"

"Seriously, Hutchinson, I've seen corpses looking twice as fit as you. What's the matter, you sick?"

Tiredly, Hutch rubbed his eyes. "No," he answered, irritated, "I have insomnia. Big deal."

"Oh." Dobey nodded. "I had a little insomnia, when I was still working the streets. Almost got me killed."

Hutch glared at him over the hand on his face, then drew it away. "Thanks for the warning," he said sarcastically.

"No charge," Dobey countered, unimpressed, without looking up from some papers he was busy signing.

Hutch watched him for a moment. He lifted his coffee mug, but looked into it, put it away. "How did you get rid of it?" he asked.

"What?" Dobey asked, glancing up.

"Your insomnia. How did you get rid of it?"

"Slept if off." Dobey shrugged.

Hutch stared at him, then nodded slowly, his gaze sliding aside. "Yeah," he said tonelessly. "Of course."

In the following pause, a knock sounded on the door.

"C'min," Dobey announced.

Hutch turned on his chair to look into the tired face of Adam Gleason, the arresting officer who had been, for the last hour, interrogating Rawdon Jones.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting anything," Gleason said, glancing down at Hutch and earning a wry smile for his sarcasm.

"Did I mention already I appreciate your doing my job, Adam?" Hutch asked innocently.

"No."

"Funny thing."

"Okay," Dobey cut the little quarrel off, "that's enough. Now," he looked at Gleason, "anything?"

The detective gave a large shrug. "He's convinced the other one did it. And, believe me, it wasn't easy to get him to admit that."

Hutch frowned up at the man. "Jones thinks Scavio's the killer?"

"Yep." Gleason nodded. Leaving the door slightly open, he marched over to the vacant chair next to Hutch's and sank into it. "I believe him," he added after a moment's thought.

"Why?" Dobey and Hutch asked, simultaneously.

Gleason sighed. "Because it's rare that you see someone fighting tears over the fact he's not the killer in here," he told Hutch, then let his gaze wander over to meet Dobey's. "Jones' not our man. I guarantee that."

"And I," another voice, belonging to Detective Jake Berube, announced from the ajar door, "guarantee that it goes for your boss," he smiled at Hutch, "too."

"What?" Hutch asked.

"Mr. Urbaniak," Berube said slowly, as he stepped into the office, "has an alibi. Which I just checked. Her name is Zelda." He made a little pause, like a story-teller would to raise the suspense, then finished in an almost triumphant tone: "She's his mother."

Hutch blinked. "Urbaniak has a mother? Go figure."

Dobey, apparently, did not see the humor. "Why do we arrest a man, whose alibi is his mother, Hutchinson?" he barked. "What did you two-"

"Cap'n," Hutch interrupted him quietly, "it wasn't our case to begin with. We got the files from Doward's men, remember? It said 'no alibi in sight anywhere for anyone'. In those exact words," he added sarcastically.

"Aw, what?" Gleason whined. "I'm sacrificing a day off for that Doward flake?"

He was ignored. "Starsky doesn't think it was Scavio," Hutch muttered, as if thinking loud. "If he's right, that only leaves-"

"Smart partner you have," he was interrupted by yet another intruding voice from the door. The three detectives turned to watch Cliff Miller, the last of the arresting bunch, stroll into the office. He, for one, closed the door behind himself.

At Hutch's questioning look, he shook his head, arms folded in front of his chest. "It wasn't Scavio." He was about to say more, when Hutch interrupted.

"Wait, lemme guess. He thinks Rawdon did it."

"Oughta be a detective," Miller joked. "He admits that he dropped by this Attlee kid's place to…'deliver a little personal message' as he puts it." He grimaced. "Probably of the kind Starsky got, huh?"

Hutch nodded.

"Yeah," Miller continued. "He says Attlee was unconscious, when he left. But alive. Just…'scratched.' Again, his words."

Feeling watched by everyone else in the room, Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose in the attempt to push back a forming headache.

"Looks like that leaves only your least favorite suspect," Dobey finally said quietly.

Hutch nodded without looking up at him. "Yeah, I know." Dragging the hand over his features, he turned to his three colleagues. "Thanks, guys. Store them somewhere until we…until we find the kid. 'Cept for Scavio they're probably all going to get it for dealing with children pornography. And Scavio…" He glanced up at Miller, who nodded, understanding.

"My pleasure." Absently patting Hutch's shoulder as he passed him, Miller left the room, followed by Berube. Only Gleason remained sitting where he was.

"You gonna go look for the boy, Hutch?" he asked.

Hutch cast him a smile. Gleason was a bit older than he and Starsky were, and he had the rare gift to be able to read cops. Not people in general -- but cops. "Nah, I have a date. But I thought you would volunteer, Glea."

As if he had anticipated that, Gleason nodded. "Yeah," he sighed heavily, when he pushed himself up and out of the chair, "I thought you thought I would, Kid. Cap'n." He nodded his goodbyes and left, once more with the door standing open, as if saluting.

Hutch stood to close it and remained standing, gaze bowed as if he was searching the floor for answers.

"Niles must've dropped by after Scavio left that night. Maybe he even saw him leave. Wonder why he had a gun." He looked up, found Dobey's understanding eyes. "Maybe…maybe he wanted out. Thought he needed protection, when he went to tell Attlee. Maybe…" Trailing off, the blond detective waved in frustration. He sighed, pressed his eyes shut with two fingers.

"Hutch."

Hutch didn't look at his Captain immediately, but when their eyes met, he nodded. "Yeah." As if he was answering a question. "Yeah. I better go now. Promised the patient to update him, before I leave for the last Marrinon date." He cast Dobey a grim smile.

The Captain frowned. "Why d'you want to go there again?"

Already at the door, Hutch thought about the question, then shook his head. "Dunno."

He left.

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"Well, don't you look stylish," Hutch grinned.

He leaned in the doorway to Starsky's room, arms folded across his chest, and when his partner had finally managed to turn his head and look at him, Hutch lifted his chin in a little pointing gesture. "Got a wooden leg too?"

"You bet," Starsky slurred, his eye that wasn't covered by an eye-patch closing again. "'N if you get on my nerves, I'll kick you with it." His voice was little more than an exhausted whisper. His head lolled back against his pillow. "How's the case?"

Concern having replaced the humor on his face, Hutch stepped closer. "Better than you look," he replied. Out of reflex, he laid one hand on Starsky's arm.

At the touch, Starsky opened his good eye again and smiled. "Oh yeah?" He visibly struggled to appear less weak. "So who did it?"

"Uh…dunno," Hutch answered absently. "Didn't they give you something for the pain, yet?" The worried frown on his face only deepened, when he took in his partner's too pale and strained features.

"What d'you mean you don't know?" Starsky asked instead of an answer. "I thought you had the whole place arrested. Boy, I can't leave you alone with anything, can I?" An exaggerated sigh marked the last sentence a joke.

Hutch cast him a quick glance, then looked around, as if searching for someone. "Apparently no, so next time try to be less charming to the wrong folks, and we'll all be better off. Where's Ally?"

When there was no immediate answer, he looked down to see Starsky watch him knowingly.

"Why, so you can discuss my condition with her?"

Hutch blushed. His fingers on Starsky's arm squeezed slightly. "No, 'course not. Just…you haven't answered my question, yet."

Starsky smiled. "Hutch, relax. I'm fine. Just a bit tired from-"

"- ditching his meds for so long," a stern voice from the door cut him off.

Half-turning, Hutch smiled at an entering Allison. "Hey, Al."

For an answer, Allison sighed in relief. She came to a halt next to him, leaning against his side, as if for support. "Thank God, my ally has arrived. Tell him to go to sleep," she ordered Hutch.

Starsky's gaze wandered aside in dry humor. "Hutch tellin' me to go to…Anyone else get the irony here?"

Ignoring him, Allison explained, "They gave him a shot, like, hours ago, but he refused to go to sleep, until he'd heard from you.'

Understanding, Hutch nodded. "We didn't get Corey, yet," he told Starsky. "Adam Gleason is out searching for him." Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Allison again, "What about…" In an unmistakable gesture, he drew a circle around his eye with one finger.

"He's supposed to keep his eye shut, but whenever he opens his good one it opens along with it, so…" Catching her boyfriend's glare, Allison smiled. "I think it looks cute."

"Yeah, thanks, Honey," Starsky growled. "Now, will you two stop talking about me like I'm not there?"

"If you weren't there," Allison told him, "we wouldn't have to talk about you."

"If I," Hutch quickly started to ask, before Starsky could snap a reply, "update you about the rest of our suspects, will you promise to go to sleep, then?"

Starsky threw him a scowl, grumbling, "Why didn't I think of that? Yeah, go ahead," he then added.

"Promise," Hutch and Allison ordered in unison.

"All right, all right, promise. Now shoot."

In a few sentences, Hutch told Starsky everything they had learned from the interrogations.

"Urbaniak has a mother," Starsky commented, when Hutch had finished. "Go figure."

Hutch smiled.

"So," Allison said, "that means you were right about the kid."

It wasn't a question, and none of them answered it.

"Okay," Hutch sighed after a moment of silence, lifting his hand off Starsky's arm to check his watch, "I'm off to the fun part of the night." He wiggled his brows in dry humor and earned two sympathetic smiles. "You stop fighting your medication now, you hear?" he told his partner in a stern voice. "Maybe you fooled Dr. Horrible, but I've been to med school too, and I'm telling you, you need rest."

"Yes, Doc," Starsky muttered.

Content, Hutch nodded. "Good boy. I'll drop by later, so don't let me catch you awake. Bye Al." He kissed her on the cheek and turned for the door.

"Bye. Uh, Ken?" Allison's voice stopped him in the open door. "Visiting hours will be over when you're done there."

Hutch merely lifted one brow. "Visiting what?"

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It seemed to have cooled down, when Hutch sat in his car, taking his time on the short way to the Marrinon Mansion, which was not far from the hospital.

A slight breeze was offering sweet relief after the days of brutal heat. The leaves danced high up on their trees, as if they, too, had been waiting for the temperature to find its mercy.

With the windows rolled down, Hutch more rolled than drove through the quiet, little, rich streets he had to pass, his thoughts jumping back and forth between his destination and Starsky in his hospital room.

Up until now, what with Dr. Insensitive and then the arrests and the interrogations of the triumvirate, there had not been time to acknowledge just how scared he had been at finding his partner huddled against his door. Only now did he notice that maybe his heart had missed a beat at that and now needed to catch up every now and then, when a little wave of panic washed through him.

If he had not driven straight home…If they had not wanted to meet at his place, anyway…

Curtly, Hutch shook his head. 'If'-thinkings never got you anywhere, he should know that. He had come to his friend's rescue more than once, damn it. In spots that put the looks of this one to shame. And yet…home was supposed to be a safe zone. Not for yourself, mind you -- Hutch held a city-wide record of break-ins into his place -- but that was different.

Being attacked yourself was always different from…this.

Hutch sighed. He stopped at a red light, ran a hand over his face. To hell with this case! It never was a good idea to have them work separately so much, anyway. Starsky should never have been out in the open like that -- and Hutch did not feel that he, himself, had been treated very fairly by this case, either.

As he absently watched the streetlight, a faint smile started on his lips. At least every cloud sky had a silver lining: it would be months before Starsky would have forgotten enough about it all in order to resume commenting on where his partner kept his key.

The Marrinon Mansion stood stark against the fading blue sky, as always. Huge and threatening and full of memories leaking out through the windows, through every crack in the walls. Palpable, almost.

Taking a moment to remember why he was doing this, Hutch sat in his parked LTD, looking up at the row of windows on the first floor. Curtained shut, every one of them. He felt his features slump into what had to be a comical look of resignation.

In college, he had once known a girl, who would probably have granted this house a 'bad Karma'. There would be no arguing that.

Norman Kheen looked different, when he opened the door for the detective. Not different in actual appearance, but somewhat…off. His eyes carried a different expression than his usual polite disinterest. They seemed guarded. Scared, even.

Nevertheless, he treated the visitor the same as always, presented him with a polite nod and a gesture towards the room where Lady Marrinon sat waiting for him, as always.

Walking through the hallway, passing the endless rows of silent faces on the walls, Hutch could not help thinking it had cooled down in there, too. Considerably.

Lady acted as if she hadn't seen him in years. Then again, Hutch thought sadly, she probably hadn't.

"Darling boy!" she called out for him, after the moment it took her to recognize him (or whoever she was seeing) through tired eyes so narrow it was hard to tell if they were open.

She was as pale as he had seen her the last time, her cheekbones so visible one could fear they might pierce her skin. When he reluctantly stepped closer, she moved forward in her armchair to reach out for him. It looked like liquid moving on a steep surface. As if she had melted with the chair.

Holding his hand in both of hers, she looked up at him, her eyes now wide and huge, like a child's. Quivery lips opened to say something, but suddenly, her eyes filled with tears and she trailed off, shook her head, resting it against their locked hands.

Hutch watched in dismay, too taken by surprise to find words at first.

"I'm sorry," her faint mumbles reached his ears, "I'm sorry, Love. I'm sorry." With a girlish sniff, she glanced up at him. He did not think he had seen so much sincere emotion on her face, before. "Can you forgive me?"

He swallowed, fighting the urge to tug his hand free. "S-sure," he stammered. A smile flew across his features out of reflex. "Sure I do. I-I'm…" The smile broke into a nervous little laugh. "There's nothing to forgive." He nodded reassuringly. "Everything's all right."

She held his gaze for as long as he could bear. When he averted his eyes, clearing his throat in an awkward display of embarrassment, she patted his hand. Her fingers were ice cold, like a puppet's.

Norman Kheen's entrance broke into the scene in a most welcomed way, at least on Hutch's part. When asked if he would like to join Lady Marrinon in a cup of tea, he nodded, desperately.

Anything that needed to be held, so he could not hold her hand, was fine with him. Five minutes later, he sat on the piano bench -- the piano was covered by a dark blue sheet, he had noticed with some surprise upon his entering -- nursing a steaming cup of rather strong tea.

Lady herself let her cup sink down onto her lap after a few tentative sips. She watched him for a moment, then smiled. "He said you'd say that," she said.

For a moment, Hutch wondered if she had heard a voice inside her head, but then realized she meant his earlier words. His forgiving her.

He frowned. It wasn't so startling, her changed behavior, he figured. She had shown severe signs of confusion and dementia the last time he had seen her, too. She was sick, had been when he had met her for the first time. Yet…something was startling.

He looked at her more closely. "Who did?" he asked.

"Norman," she replied and smiled. "I was so worried you wouldn't forgive me. But Norman knew. He said you surely would. He said you always do." As if suddenly shy, she bowed her gaze. "Because you love me." With her head still lowered, she peeked up again in a girlish way. "Always have."

"Why would I need to forgive you?" Hutch asked. It didn't seem to matter that he was gradually slipping into his interrogation tone. She heard it in someone else's voice, anyway.

"You won't leave me, will you?" she asked instead of an answer. Her thumb brushed over her cup as if stroking it. When she met his gaze again, sadness once more filled her eyes. "If you leave me now…we won't see each other again. You know that, don't you?"

Hutch felt the hairs on his neck start to rise. Something about this whole scene felt eerily out of place. Like he was really just watching it. In a horror movie.

"Why would I leave you?" he asked.

Her expression grew even more sad. She tilted her head to one side. "Don't frown," she begged. The hand that wasn't holding her cup lifted off her lap, as if to reach out for him, but all of a sudden she seemed too weak for that. Useless, it flapped against her thigh. "Don't look like that, Sweetie. You said you forgive me. You are not mad at me, are you?"

The alarm bells were deafening. Hutch shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Maybe it was not really alarm bells…but something inside his head was ringing. And loud.

Unconsciously he lifted one hand to feebly rub his temple, then cover his ear, his eyes. His own half-filled cup shook in his weakening grip.

A sudden touch to his shoulder made him flinch. His gaze snapped up to be met by the rapidly blurring image of Norman Kheen hovering above him.

"Are you all right?" the man asked, his gentleness cool as a breeze.

Hutch frowned. He cleared his throat. "I-I don't…" His wandering gaze brushed across the cup in his hands. He looked up sharply. "You know very well I'm not," he spat accusingly. Another wave of dizziness hit him, his free hand clawed at the bench. "What…what the hell's going on here?" His eyes searched for Kheen, but it was hard to find him in the thickening fog that spread all around.

"It wasn't supposed to work this fast," Kheen's apologetic voice appeared out of nowhere.

"Wha…" Hutch slurred, hating how weary his own voice sounded in his ears. 'Oh great. Fantastic. Step into the butler's trap, why don't you, Detective!'

Desperate to fight the increasing effects of whatever his tea had been spiked with, he shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. What were Kheen's intentions, he wondered. Kill him too? Why? What kind of human abyss was he looking down here, anyway?

Gripped by a flash of fury shooting through him -- at his own stupidity, really -- he hurled his cup away from him, though it looked more as if he had just dropped it out of weariness.

Through a blur, he could see Lady Marrinon, totally unimpressed, as if the other scene were happening behind a curtain, sip at her tea.

He frowned. Struggled to find Kheen again, who had not moved, but stood still at his side, as if unsure what to do next.

"What're you doing?" Hutch asked the man, heavily leaning back, only to be harshly reminded of the piano bench having no backrest. With a startled little yelp, he toppled over, landed on his back.

Everything snapped out of his vision for a moment, as if Kheen and Lady and the room had just been painted onto a screen that had been torn away. A sharp feeling of nausea hit him, as well as a stab of panic, as if he had in fact fallen from a cliff, with a bunch of half-starved wolves waiting for his helplessness.

Feebly, hands shaking with the effects of the drug and fear, he searched for his gun, finding it hard to even locate it on himself. Suddenly, there were hands on his arm, his shoulder, not hurting, but actually very gentle. Still, he flinched and jerked away.

"Get away from me!" he ordered in a voice hardly suitable for authority. He still could not find his gun!

"I'm truly sorry," Kheen said. Once more, he reached out for the downed man, once more his hand was shaken off. "I made a mistake with the calculations, I'm afraid." Hutch thought he could hear him smile, as he added, "You know, you seem a lot fitter than you obviously are."

As the blond stammered some half-audible insults, ever trying to create some distance to the crouching butler, Kheen patted his arm reassuringly. "Just calm down, kid. Nothing's going to happen to you."

Even through the blinding fog Hutch thought he could see, or rather feel, the distance in Kheen's voice. The man was still wrapped up in something, like everything else in the house. It suddenly hit Hutch that he had not heard a word from Lady Marrinon, ever since things had started to go downhill for him.

What the hell was going on here?

He was just about to accept being reduced to kicking at Kheen's hovering figure when, finally, he felt his weary fingers close around blessed steel. Like a shot, the feeling of the gun in his hand seemed to supply him with a much needed rush of energy.

"Police!" he announced, as he pointed the gun, shakily, but dead center, at Kheen, who backed away. "You…s-step away from me now!"

He did not like how soaked in fear his words sounded, but who cared what he sounded like, now that the situation was finally his again?

As if Kheen's touch had prevented him from it, he drew in a deep breath once the man's hand left his shoulder -- and everything turned black, just as if the lights were switched off.

The last thing Hutch heard before plunging into oblivion was a very resigned-sounding "oh damn" from Norman Kheen.

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As sleep withdrew from him like the tide going out, Starsky blinked his good eye open and moaned, annoyed, at the odd feeling of the other one staying closed. It had taken a while to get used to the irritating sensation of being able to see only half of what was going on in front of him, and now it felt like he would have to go through that all over again.

'Well…', he thought with a sigh, as he moved his head, not without a wince, to search the room for visitors. At least now he knew that he didn't like eye patches. Not at all. 'There goes my career as a pirate.'

Allison stood at his bedside, smiling down on him. Her sudden appearance in his line of view startled him and he flinched at the same time she announced a happy "hi there".

"God, Ally," Starsky chided her through a breath, his eye closed. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Stand where I can't see you. You gave me a heart attack."

"Oh," she muttered ruefully. "Sorry." She walked around the bed to now smile down at the uncovered part of his face. "Better?"

"Much," he replied without opening his eye. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight," Allison replied. Gently, she stroked his head, in a way that made Starsky wonder if she was trying to smooth down some unruly curls. "How's your head?"

"Over-present," he answered dryly. "Was Hutch here?"

"No. I guess his goodbyes took longer than he planned." A wicked chuckle made Starsky look up at her, just in time to catch her wink. "Maybe she won't let him go. You know how possessive those old Hollywood divas can be."

Starsky smirked. "Poor guy. Hope he didn't fall asleep behind the wheel," he added as an afterthought.

"Dave, I'm sure he's fine." At the glance he cast her, she shrugged. "Pissed off and spooked out, but fine."

Starsky sighed, but nodded, and feebly rubbed sleep out of his good eye. Now as the fog of waking up had cleared, his headache was returning with a vengeance. His patched up eye was starting to hurt too, but then that was probably a good sign.

"Pain bad?" Allison asked worriedly. "Want me to call the nurse?" Once more, she gently brushed her hand over his hair.

Starsky curtly shook his head, winced -- not only at the stupidity of that move -- and forced a reassuring expression onto his face. Maybe because her words reminded him so much of his partner, he could not help thinking that he missed Hutch. He was so used to the blond's well-trained bedside manners and the ever repeated lines Hutch would -- poorly -- mask his concern with. Besides, you could not very well whine in front of your girl, and he definitely felt like whining. Only Hutch would know that that was a good sign.

"Oh." Allison snapped her fingers like she had just thought of something. "I almost forgot. Your colleague called. The one who was after the kid."

"Adam," Starsky informed her. "What'd he say?"

"He found him."

Excited by the news, Starsky struggled to sit up. "He found Corey? Where? Did he bring him in?"

Absently, Allison steadied his shoulder, while he leaned back against the headrest, a strained expression already spreading on his face. She knew better than to comment on it, though. "Yes. He said to tell you that he doesn't think Corey is your killer."

Starsky frowned. "What? Why?"

"Corey says," Allison started, "that he was at…Whathisname's place-"

"Rick."

"Yeah. Rick's place that day to pick up his money…" She trailed off, studying Starsky's face expectantly, but he just gestured for her to go on. She shrugged. "Yeah, well. They were having some argument, Corey wanted more money or something like that, and then there was someone at the door, so Corey hid in the bathroom. Apparently, Rick didn't want anyone to see him at his place." Once more, there was a short pause, meant to be filled with information on the detective's side. It went by, unused. Allison rolled her eyes, but continued. "Okay, so, Corey says it was Rick's mother. He couldn't hear what was being said, but they were having a fight, and then-"

"Wait," Starsky interrupted her, "his what, his mother? Rick Attlee's mother showed up?"

"It's what the kid says," Allison replied.

A frown deepened on Starsky's forehead. "Okay, then what?"

"Then Corey heard a car park outside the building, and when he looked out the window in the bathroom, he saw…" Her gaze slid sideways, as she tried to remember the name. "Um…" She waved at him.

"Michael Scavio," Starsky helped.

"Yes. That guy. And two or three other guys, who followed him. Corey says they looked 'like business'." She wiggled her fingers to mark the quotation marks around the boy's words. "He got scared, and when they were out of sight, probably at the door, he climbed out of the window and ran. Oh, right," she added after a moment's thought, "he said he ran past a black car that he remembered because it looked too…out of place, I guess, for the area. Probably Rick's mother's car."

Starsky looked at her, as if waiting for more, then averted his gaze. He shook his head to himself and winced, one hand coming up to rub his forehead.

"So," Allison asked, "do we believe him?"

He chuckled lightly and glanced up at her. "That's my line -- Partner. But, yeah," he continued in a different tone, "yeah, we believe him. It's not the sort of story a junky could come up with."

"Why not?" Allison asked, puzzled.

He didn't look at her, but studied the ceiling as if awaiting answers to shower down on him. "If it wasn't true, he'd have said that it was Scave. This mother thing…" Trailing off, he wrinkled his nose. "That's not a lie. But she wasn't in any files. And where did she go, while Scave was in there, redecorating her son? It doesn't make sen…" He stopped sharply in the middle of the word, mouth still open, frown evening out to the smooth expression of fear. "Oh, my God."

As if she had caught it, it was now Allison. "Dave?"

He did not even look at her, but grew very busy all of a sudden, throwing off his blanket, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with visible effort, all the while muttering on. "No, no, no. We're such damn idiots! Al, where're my shoes?"

"What?" Gently, but determined, Allison had reached out to keep him from moving so much, but it was futile. "What're you…David. What are you doing? What's going on?"

At last, Starsky looked at her. "His mother. Corey never saw Lady Marrinon. He only heard the voice of an old woman telling Rick off and thought it was his mother."

"Lady…"

"She's confused, she's mixed up Rick with her dead husband before. She probably dropped by, making him a scene for something he had nothing to do with."

While he hurriedly spoke, Starsky clung to the railing of the bed, as he looked wildly around the room for his shoes. With the other hand, he peeled off the IV sticking in his arm, every now and then swatting Allison's interfering hand away.

"Then Scave appeared on the scene. Lady Marrinon probably hid too, maybe Rick told her to, when he heard who it was at the door. I'm sure Scave didn't just burst in, but knocked. He wanted to tell Rick why he was there and then deliver the message in his…own way. So Lady heard all that was being said, Scave's accusations, Rick's denying it, everything."

"And she believed it," Allison continued. As the information had sunk in, she had stopped getting in her boyfriend's way and sat on the bed, a little furrow on her forehead. "For her it must've been as if she listened to someone accusing…her husband of fooling around -- with a guy."

"Right." Starsky nodded. He winced, when he removed the IV, but didn't pay much attention to it. He still had to find his shoes. And it was getting harder than he had thought to remain standing upright. "So then she leaves her hiding place, Rick is lying there, unconscious -- and she flips. It was probably Rick's own gun that was lying around. She sees it, grabs it and doesn't even think before she shoots. Six times."

Leaning heavily against the wardrobe, Starsky had finally thought of looking for his shoes inside there, which was the right place. Before he could even draw up enough energy to bend down and take them, Allison snatched them away, holding them to herself as if for comfort.

"Ally…" Wearily, he reached out for her, but did not leave the support of the wardrobe.

"Okay, Marlowe, you solved the case. Now, where you think you're going?" she asked.

Starsky sighed. He let his arm sink down again. "What d' you think, Hon?" He paused, looking at her, then lifted one brow. "It's past midnight."

She understood, but then didn't. "Why can't you call the precinct, send someone else?"

"It's my case, I don't have proof, yet, and, hell, I don't even know if he is in trouble. Maybe he's fine. She probably doesn't even remember doing it. But Kheen does. Kheen drove the car that day. I'd bet everything that he knows." Once more, he paused, for the sake of the effect his words hopefully had on her. "And if he thinks something's wrong, when he sees the cops or anything -- he has the perfect hostage right there in his house."

"So what, you only trust yourself to play a situation like this?" Allison asked, only half mocking. Concern clouded her eyes.

"When Hutch's life is at stake?" Starsky asked for an answer. He reached out again. "Gimme my shoes."

Instead, Allison hugged them closer.

"Allison," Starsky growled. "Stop that. I'll call backup, when I'm there. Now give me my fucking shoes."

She swallowed visibly, then averted his eyes and held out his shoes for him.

"Thank you." But he almost collapsed when he bent down to put them on, and she rushed to his side to steady him.

"David, you can't-"

"I need your car."

"What?"

His tone was decidedly irritated, when he answered, already heading for the door. Yet, he did not keep her from walking with him, a supporting hand on his arm. "Don't start again. I need a car."

She stopped both of them, turned him to look at her. "Okay, listen, this white knight attitude is really sexy, but you can't drive. Hell, you can barely walk! And you're half-blind!" she added. It sounded like an insult.

Starsky let go of a small breath, meeting her determined gaze with an equally angry one. "I hate to do this, baby, but I'm a cop, you're a civilian, and I hereby confiscate your car." He hold out his hand. "Keys, please."

Allison huffed a laugh that held no humor. "No."

"Al-"

"You'll have to confiscate the driver too. I wouldn't let you drive my car if you weren't a one-eyed man, but like this…" She shook her head. At his surprised silence, she lifted one brow questioningly. "Well?"

With a resigned sigh, he started to continue on their way. "Okay, c'mon. I wouldn't wanna be seen driving this chicksmobile of yours, anyway."

It was mumbled in a half whisper, but still Allison cast him a scowl. "I heard that."

"Good."

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"That was one rookie mistake," Starsky grumbled -- to no one in particular -- as Allison started the engine.

It had taken a year or so to just get down the stairs, then another one to get to her car, and by now the detective wondered if he was in fact overestimating his momentary rescue ability. He desperately wished he had taken just one more pain pill -- for the road.

So, to keep from thinking about fainting, he had succumbed to mumbling and grumbling about how stupid Hutch and he had been to zero in on Corey Niles the way they had.

"It probably wasn't even Kheen, who killed her first husband, as they claimed. Fuck. That's," Starsky told his girl-friend, pointing a poor version of the Hutchinson Warning Finger at her for emphasis, "a not to be broken rule, Sweetheart: never scratch the old lady off the list, just because she's old."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," Allison promised. While maneuvering her car out of its spot, she cast him a worried side glance. "You sure you're-"

"Al, just drive," Starsky cut her off. For good measure, he threw in a smile meant to be reassuring, which looked more like a pain-filled grimace. With his bruised body protesting against being car-rattled and/or upright, he secretly clung to the side of his seat on the window side, trying to gather up enough strength to manage the pain and nausea for now.

It was all just a question of willpower. Once the situation was over, he could let himself fall again; Hutch would be there to catch him. Well…hopefully.

"In the glove compartment," Allison's voice tore him out of his worried thinking.

"Huh?" Puzzled, he looked at her. "What?"

"Look in the glove compartment," she ordered. They were just turning the corner onto the street which held the Marrinon Mansion.

Still confused, and frowning, Starsky fumbled with the glove compartment, opened it -- and found himself looking at an obscenely new-looking gun, snuggled up in a pile of rolled up magazines, audio tapes and what he would have described as 'girl stuff'.

A wide-eyed gaze found Ally, who smiled smugly.

"I know," she said dryly, "you're going to call back-up, when you're there, but…let's say I'd feel better, if you don't storm the enemy's house armed with nothing but an eye-patch."

"Uh…Al, why d'you have a gun in your car?"

"You kidding?" she replied, throwing him a glance. "My man's a cop. One who continuously reminds me of how dangerous the world as a whole, and this city in particular, is, I might add."

For the moment forgetting about how that was an unwise move, Starsky shook his head. "Since when does everyone listen to me?"

Allison was unimpressed. "You don't think all those gruesome stories you keep telling me just vanish into the air, do you? I bought this thing two weeks after I met you."

Starsky stared at her. "And you keep it in your car?"

"You remember this story you told me about this lady, who carried her gun along in her handbag, and then one day-"

"Okay, okay," he interrupted her, lifting one weary hand, with which he then grabbed the gun to inspect it closer. "I get the picture. No more 'How was your day, Darling?'-answers for you." Catching her expression, as he took a look at the gun, he winked. "Hey. Good thing you thought of it. Might come in handy."

His eyes wandered down to the item in his hands again, and his features slumped to a wry smile. "Um…That is, if the bad guys don't find out it's not loaded." For emphasis, he waved the empty ball bearing for her to see.

She shrugged. "Hey, a loaded gun is a dangerous thing to keep in your car. You keep telling me."

"Of course," Starsky said.

With Ally speeding the rest of the way, they reached the Marrinon Mansion five minutes later, both flashing the other one a pointed look, as they simultaneously recognized Hutch's LTD parked in front of the gate.

"Al." Starsky turned to her, as he stuck the gun into the waistband of the light blue scrubs he wore. "I want you to go over to that phone booth there," he pointed at one across the street, "call the precinct, ask for Dobey, and tell him to send backup here. Okay?"

Allison nodded repeatedly as if she was mentally taking notes. "Okay. But, Dave…" she added, when he had already opened the door.

"What?"

"Are you just gonna march over there…like this?" For emphasis, she waved a hand at him.

Following the motion, he looked down at the light blue scrubs he wore, then up again. "I'll think of something. Now, go."

She left the car and hurried across the street. It took Starsky some time to follow her example and get out of his seat, every nerve in his body protesting the effort. Once he stood, a wave of dizziness washed through him, and he had to support himself on the roof of the car for a moment. After a deep breath, he pushed himself into the direction of the house, determined.

He had yet to come up with the "something" he had told Allison he would think of, when he put one hand against the front door, drawing in another breath to brace himself for the show that lay ahead.

"Y'okay?"

Startled, Starsky jumped, whirled to his side, the hand now clawed at the door. Panting, he grabbed his heart.

"Allison! What…what're you doing here?"

"All done," she reported.

Still half leaning against the door, he stared at her. "All done?"

"Yeah. Delivered the message, as told." Seemingly out of the need to do something to help him calm down, she brushed a hand over the side of his forehead.

"Well…" Starsky said. He smiled, somewhat unsure, through a frown. "That was fast." He studied her for a brief moment, then smiled a real smile, told her, "Good work" and rang the bell.

"Yep," Allison agreed. "Told the secretary to let your Captain know the moment he's back from the meeting."

"Meeting?" Starsky repeated, his gaze snapping to her. "What mee… You mean you didn't-"

"Dave, you're still ringing the bell."

Starsky ignored the interruption. "You left a message? Why didn't you say it was urgent?"

"I did!" she protested. "I did, I-"

The door was opened. "Yes?"

Allison and Starsky turned their heads.

The tall, lean man holding the door open, studying them with a guarded expression on his pale face, looked tired. As if they had torn him away from an unpleasant family reunion. He didn't look as old as Starsky knew he was, his features still very smooth -- just not right now, when they were strained, his lips curling in the attempt to hide an annoyed grimace.

Sweat had done something to hair that he most likely kept neat. Nervousness oozed from his posture.

Quickly, he looked from Starsky to Allison and back. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," Starsky answered and smiled. "Yes, we're looking for a Ken Holland?" He cast the man, whom he supposed to be Norman Kheen, Lady's butler, a questioning glance.

For a split second, Kheen's expression became blank, the grimace evening out into pure, wrinkle-less shock, then he frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

Starsky opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short by Allison, who waved her hand at him to hush. "David, let me handle this. Sir," she turned to Kheen and held out her hand with an energetic motion, "I'm Dr. Pacero, Memorial Psych Ward. We have been informed that one of our patients has been using his leave passes to cheat his way into an escort service, which he used to…" She trailed off and exchanged a nervous look with Starsky. "Well…I guess you could say Ken has a sort of…Hollywood obsession. Mrs. Marrinon is not the first artist whom he has tried to get near."

Kheen's gaze wandered over to Starsky, who shrugged in a 'you know how they are' kind of way.

"We're terribly sorry we didn't find out about this earlier, Mr. …?"

"Kheen," Kheen mumbled automatically.

The way the butler seemed to process the information, for Starsky, was a dead giveaway. They had to get into that house.

"Yes, Mr. Kheen," Allison rambled on. "You see, Ken appears to be such a sweet, quiet young man, one can never be sure what his next steps are. He has this gift of…of, yes, sneaking into people's lives and…It's all my fault," she admitted with a guilty look. "I signed his passes. I was so sure of our progress…"

"C'mon, Doc, you did a great job," Starsky cut her off comfortingly, then glanced up at Kheen. "He didn't hurt anyone, did he?"

Mechanically, Kheen shook his head.

"See? That's huge progress. Okay, now, let's get him back and nicely drugged, so everyone can get some rest tonight." With the contented, casual smile of the experienced paramedic, Starsky held Kheen's gaze, so that the butler failed to react fast enough, when Allison walked past him into the house.

"Uh…Miss…Doctor…" he stammered, half turning to hold her back.

"Don't worry," Starsky's voice made him whirl to the other side again, where the Detective had now also sneaked inside. "I know this guy. Won't be a prob at all. We'll be gone in a second."

He blinked reassuringly and walked ahead to follow Allison into the hallway, his senses focused on Norman Kheen behind them. The moment of surprise, he knew, was vaporizing like gas, and sooner or later Kheen would be forced to act. If Starsky was right about what was going on.

"Ken?" Allison called out. Starsky had to admit he was impressed by her acting talent. She didn't seem to be nervous at all, her quick scanning of the hallway revealed nothing but a doctor's interest in locating her patient. "Um…where is he?" she now asked Kheen, not unfriendly or demanding, but as if it was understood he would tell her, since he surely wanted to help them.

When Kheen did not answer, Starsky glanced from him to Allison. Sweat glittered on the old butler's forehead, and his shadowed eyes seemed to follow events that were visible only to him. Like seeing something inside his head, in much the same way that people listen to inner voices.

"Why don't you check the living room, Doc?" Starsky suggested.

"Yes," Allison agreed. For the first time, her voice shook, if just a tad. With controlled urgency, she turned around. Her steps quickened.

"No," Kheen whispered.

Starsky looked at him. Saw a clenched fist. A determination he had seen a thousand times.

He tensed, told his nerves to shut up already about how much even that hurt, and in as normal a voice as he could muster asked, "Sorry, Sir, d'you say something?"

He waited a polite amount of seconds, then shrugged and started to walk past the butler, after Allison, who had just vanished behind the open door to the living-room.

Later, Starsky was unsure as to what he had heard first: Allison calling out for him or Kheen's hasty movements behind him. He felt the whiff of air on his face, where Kheen's fist missed him, when he whirled around, drew Allison's gun in the motion and miraculously managed to keep it pointed dead center, even as he felt the ground slide away from under him. A wave of sharp little needles seemed to hit the side he landed on. He could not immediately catch his breath, and he gasped repeatedly, never letting Kheen out of his sight.

"Po…" he started, but coughed hoarsely. His body's vengeance for moving too fast too soon was merciless. And, of course, could not possibly have had worse timing.

"Police," he suddenly heard Allison's voice from behind him, then felt her hand on his back, gently steadying. The other one appeared next to his holding the gun. "You'd better give me that, Detective," she said. Her voice still only shook slightly.

Starsky coughed. He tried to look up at her, but the room spun in front of his good eye.

Allison took the gun from him, her free hand remained on his back. "I found Mrs. Marrinon," she informed both men. "She's alive, but seems like she's been drugged. Sedated or…" She trailed off, glanced down at her boyfriend, when he, with much effort, moved into a sitting position. He was still panting heavily.

"Y'okay?" she asked.

He just nodded, coughed. "Hu…"

Allison understood. "Where's his partner?" she asked Kheen.

The butler sat on the ground, stiff, hands at his sides, knees bent. He, too, had lost his balance during the brief fight with the Detective. Now, he lifted his chin, hardened his features. "I refuse to tell you anything, until you've proven your identity."

"Why," Allison replied coolly, "he showed you his badge," she gave Starsky's back a friendly pat that sent him off coughing again, "for all I can tell. And me," she shrugged, "I'm not a cop. I'm just a worried friend with a gun."

Kheen watched her for a moment. At last, his gaze dropped. "He's in the kitchen," he muttered and pointed wearily in the direction.

Starsky was on his feet with impressive speed, considering his condition. More stumbling than walking, he entered the kitchen. It was dim inside. Pale, white moonlight sneaked through the large windows like an unwanted guest.

At first, leaning heavily against the doorframe, Starsky could not see him. When he pushed himself off the doorframe, he could make out the familiar form, slumped against a kitchen drawer. Blond hair glowed almost white in a sharply edged streak of moonlight lying on him like a blanket.

"Hutch," Starsky breathed. He more or less fell to his friend's side, still painfully out of air. He reached out to feel a strong, regular pulse that matched the man's deep breaths.

Relief calming his movements, Starsky checked his partner for injuries. Finding none, he leaned back, half-against the kitchen drawer, half-against Hutch's side, one arm securely around his partner's shoulders.

"He all right?" he heard Allison ask from above him. Looking up, he saw her securely holding Kheen with one arm. She was pointing the gun at his back, while leaning over the kitchen's island.

"I think so," he replied and shook Hutch a little, as if for emphasis. "He's out, though."

"Drugged, too?" Allison asked and looked at Kheen, as if she was asking him. Yet, before he had the chance to answer, her gaze caught a small pill bottle on the counter. Narrowing her eyes, she read the label without needing to let go of her prisoner.

"It's completely harmless," Kheen informed them. "He's going to wake up in a few hours and be just fine, I swear,"

Starsky watched him, then suddenly thought of something and after a little shoving and searching found Hutch's handcuffs; he held them out for Allison to take.

With Norman Kheen secured to a kitchen chair, Allison put the gun on the kitchen counter, visibly happy to get rid of it. "Honey," she told Starsky after letting go of a deep breath, "your job sucks."

Starsky just cast her a wry smile. "What about Lady?" he asked Kheen. "What did you give her?"

"The same," Kheen replied urgently. "They're her pills. She takes them when she gets upset. I didn't-"

"Why did you drug him?" Starsky cut him off. When only silence followed, he frowned. "What were you going to…Oh." His expression hardened. Revulsion lingered in his gaze, which he kept leveled on Norman Kheen. "So, were you going to at least leave a goodbye note? Something for the headlines? I can just see them now: 'Tragic Ending for Hollywood's Last Lady.'" As if listening to the echo of his own phrase, he tilted his head slightly to one side, lifted his brows. "Wow. Think I have talent."

"You've got it all wrong," Kheen snapped desperately. "I wasn't-"

"Wait," Allison said to Starsky, completely ignoring the butler, "you mean…What, he wanted to kill Lady and Hutch and…make it look like double suicide?"

"Classic tragic love story," Starsky replied dryly. "Only this Juliette was three lives up on her Romeo."

"But why?" Allison asked. "Didn't you say it wasn't him but her, who killed this Rick guy?"

"Attlee," Starsky helped out, his gaze still resting on Norman Kheen, whose expression reflected shocked understanding. "Yes, Norman, we know it was her. We have a witness who saw her in her Rick's apartment, before his colleague's bunch showed up. Did she tell you what she heard?"

Kheen did not answer. He did not have to.

"You know what I don't get?" Starsky continued. "If she hadn't hired another escort, we never would have suspected any of you two. We'd have checked Rick's clients, paid you an official visit and decided that Tinkerbell would be more likely to be his killer than her." He shook his head. "We would have completely forgotten about you. Why take the risk?"

A moment passed. Eventually, Kheen lowered his gaze. "Lady is a sick woman."

Starsky understood that Kheen did not mean the obvious. He nodded. "Her second husband's death -- that wasn't an accident, was it?"

Kheen shook his head.

"And it wasn't you, either."

"No." Old, tired eyes glanced up into the Detective's face, then shifted away, again. "You have no idea what it was like to watch her being eaten alive by her guilt. It destroyed her. She loved deeply. And she hated deeply, but -- in the end, it was always only herself, who was left to hate. I…" A ghostly smile crossed his lips, as he looked at Hutch's slumped figure leaning against Starsky. "I wanted her to know that she was forgiven, before…Sometimes you can't let people live on. Sometimes, it's better to leave. He…Your friend forgave her." His expression darkened. He looked away. "It was perfect."

"Aww," Starsky mocked grimly. "Isn't this romantic?" he asked Allison and looked at Kheen again. "A guilt-ridden old lady, too damaged to live on happily, a dedicated friend/butler, who helps her leave this world contently by having her victims forgive her…Very sweet. Only she was too far gone to kill herself. Actually, I doubt she ever would have thought of it."

"She-" Kheen started, but Starsky cut him off sharply.

"You knew she needed help. Two murders, and you just stood by and watched! Tell me, who inherits all this?" He waved his free hand, including the whole house in his gesture. "Maybe we should take a look at her last will. Hmm? I'm sure you know where it is."

Kheen opened his mouth, closed it again. Fury and fear danced in his eyes. "I refuse to say any more," he muttered.

"Yeah," Starsky said. "That sentence is always as good as a confession. And let me tell you something else, Pal. This story of yours, y'know, poor sick Lady, whom you loved all your life; poor old disturbed woman, who you couldn't stand to watch suffering any longer…That's in fact one great story to tell a jury. Has all the elements to save a guy's neck. 'Cept, of course -- only a damn coward lets someone else take their place." As if for emphasis, he drew Hutch a bit closer. "Out of all the mistakes you made, Norm, that was the one."

Kheen swallowed dryly, his gaze never leaving the Detective's. "I didn't know he was a cop," he said, but seemed to realize how that sounded the moment it was out. "I-I mean-"

Starsky's snorted laugh cut him off.

"Why don't you tell that to the jury?" Allison advised and shrugged in an exaggerated gesture. "Sure convinced me."

Into the following silence, the nearing sound of sirens broke like the sudden falling of a curtain.

Starsky and Allison exchanged a glance.

"I'll go tell them," she offered and was out of the kitchen before waiting for a reply. A second later, she was inside again, walking over to where Kheen sat with long, decided steps. "You're coming with me," she told him and unceremoniously grabbed his arm, while with the other hand taking her gun again. "Come on."

The first knocks at the front door could be heard. Allison pushed Kheen out of the kitchen, always holding onto his arm. A soft noise from Hutch, like a sleepy mewing, had her looking back over her shoulder.

"Ambulance?" she asked Starsky.

He nodded and was about to say something, when Hutch suddenly moved against his side, causing a wince and moan.

"Ambulance for three it is," Allison summarized.

Starsky did not protest. He watched his girlfriend leave, then allowed his head to fall back against the drawer and closed his good eye. With Hutch safe at his side, the case solved and the bad guy in custody, the adrenaline rush slowed down, leaving him tired, spent. The throbbing in his eye and the back of his head returned with a vengeance and got company from the bruised side he landed on earlier, as well as his injured arm.

Or, to put it simply: everything started to hurt like hell again.

"Hmn…Starsk?"

Startled by the drowsy voice at his side, Starsky blinked his working eye open and looked down at Hutch, who moaned again. The blond head moved ever-so-slightly.

"Yeah, Buddy, I'm here," Starsky assured, patting Hutch's limp hand. "Everything's okay."

"Huh?" Hutch huffed. He frowned, as he struggled to lift his head more. His eyes never opened. "Wha… ?"

"You're just a bit tired," Starsky explained gently and had to smile at that. "Go back to sleep, Hutch. I'll take care of everything."

The frown on Hutch's forehead deepened. "Can't sleep," he slurred. It sounded almost sulky, like a kid who was reluctant to admit how tired he was.

"Yes, you can," Starsky told him patiently and drew him in some more.

Hutch stubbornly shook his head against Starsky's shoulder. "Gotta water my plants," he mumbled.

Starsky laughed softly. "You can do that when you wake up, Blintz. They'll understand." He ruffled Hutch's hair. "Just sleep now."

With a deep sigh, Hutch breathed "okay" and was deep under again in a split second.

Starsky did not wait for Allison to show up again. He swiftly followed his friend's example.

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The thing about insomnia, Hutch thought, as he walked to the elevator, leaving little puddles of rainwater wherever he stepped, was that, though you were never asleep, you were also never really awake, either.

Only now that he slept again did it dawn on him that he probably should not have driven -- or carried a gun, for that matter -- over the past days. But only when you could rest again did it strike you just how different you had felt before. Like walking through thick fog.

Thank God that was over! After having awakened at the ER two days ago -- and after pretending to have the strength to tell Starsky and Allison off about the hospital escape -- he had gone home and slept in his own bed for twelve hours straight. Through a thunderstorm.

Yes, sleep was good.

Come to think of it -- life was good. He could sleep again, the heat had stopped, the yellow-leafed problem plant finally took a turn to the green, Starsky had miraculously managed to not hurt himself any further, but in fact had improved to the point where he no longer needed the eye patch, and Hutch would never again set foot inside the Marrinon Mansion. Plus, he had good news to tell his partner.

The elevator stopped. Hutch stepped out into the hallway to Starsky's room. Instantly, he was the target of three distrusting scowls. Only a bit nervous, he smiled at the nurses, but their reaction seemed to be to scowl even more.

Shuddering behind their backs, the blond detective hurried on. 'Angels of mercy,' hell.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw Dr. van Norden's pessimistic figure standing just outside Starsky's room, scribbling on some chart with the seriousness of a man signing a death certificate.

Then again, everything Dr. van Norden did looked like he was signing a death certificate, much like everything the man said sounded like a worst case scenario come true. Every time he had to talk to the man, Hutch wondered if at some early point in his career, van Norden had helped raise the hopes of a relative, only to have to tell him hours later that hope was not stronger than death. Happened to a lot of doctors.

Then again, maybe Dr. van Norden just genuinely disliked good news.

Slowing his steps, willing the good doctor to enter some other room, before he passed him, Hutch approached -- and was saved by an antique wardrobe of a man in his late sixties who left Starsky's room, taking the doctor's arm to lead him to some quiet spot, where he spoke urgently to him.

Hutch frowned. He did not think he'd seen the man before. No doubt he instantly liked him, though, as he swiftly passed both him and van Norden, closing the door of Starsky's room behind himself. He breathed in relief -- and sneezed.

"Gesundheit," Starsky announced from the bed. He lay with his head propped up on an extra pillow, so he could stare at an empty TV screen.

"Thanks." Hutch sniffed, coughed a little, and sat down in his usual chair next to the bed.

Starsky rolled his head on the pillow to cast him a glance. "You're not getting sick now, are you?" he asked, almost accusingly.

Hutch smiled knowingly. "What, and leave ya here alone with them?" he asked, meaning the nurses. "Don't worry." For emphasis, he patted his friend's arm. "I just spent too much time in the rain. Gonna sleep it off, when I get home later." He grinned.

Starsky returned it, but let a slightly worried look wander over Hutch's dripping appearance. "Maybe you should ask them for some dry…" At the change in the blond's expression, he trailed off. "Right. Maybe we should just keep very, very quiet instead." He sighed. "They're still giving ya the looks?"

Hutch nodded mutely. Oh, yes, they were. And they were not the usual ones.

"Well," Starsky tried to offer some comfort. "Be glad you're not Ally. They distrust everyone, who comes to visit -- but they hate Ally."

Hutch smiled. "Where is she, anyway?"

"Her father dropped by for a visit," Starsky replied matter-of-factly.

Understanding, Hutch nodded, then looked at the closed door. "Oh. So that was Mr. Pacero I saw talking to Dr. Horrible."

"Yep. They get along real great."

Still studying the door, Hutch nodded again. "Go figure. Oh, hey…" He turned to his friend again with a happy grin. "I talked to Liz today."

Liz Kendall was a social worker they knew, and she ran a pretty impressive project for street kids, including homes, an employment agency, etc. She had people at most schools in the poorer areas and all in all cared for about a hundred kids like a mother.

As with all such things, it was hard to get a place in the project. More often than not, Liz was forced to send needy kids to other, less promising projects or orphanages. So when Starsky had suggested that they send Corey Niles to her, it had not been more than a faint hope that they had harbored.

Sitting up a bit more, Starsky looked expectantly at his partner, a careful grin spreading on his face, mirroring the one he saw on Hutch's. "And? What -- she'll take him?"

As if the question was too unnecessary for words, Hutch nodded with a shrug. "Sure she will. Did you doubt my diplomatic abilities?"

"That's great!" Starsky exclaimed and grinned even through the wince that followed his movement. He sank back against the pillow, eyes focused on Hutch. "You're brilliant, Blondie, know that?"

Hutch turned his head in mock shyness. "Gleason drove Corey over there this morning. Said he was gonna check on him every now and then. Y'know, I think the kid hit some soft spot within him."

"Who'd have thought?" Starsky grinned. "Up until now the only soft spot Adam seemed to have was his belly. Y'know, I'm proud of you, Blintz. I admit I had my doubts. Liz can be hard to negotiate with."

Hutch blinked in surprise. "Really? Didn't notice. Oh, before I forget," he added, his innocent gaze wandering up to the black TV screen, "when you're out of here, you have a date."

He ducked his head a little, awaiting the reply.

But there was only a resigned sigh. "Whole case's been about being sold, anyway. Did she say anything about wearing 'something nice'?"

Hutch laughed. "Knowing Liz, whatever you wear will be too much."

It looked like Starsky wanted to throw him a scowl, but somehow it got caught up in a wry grin breaking through, as if against his will. "Yeah. I'm just gonna ask them to give me back my eye-patch." For emphasis, he shrugged. "Ally liked it."

As though that remark reminded him of something he had planned on checking, anyway, Hutch reached out to gently turn Starsky's face to him and look at his eye, while with an absent nodding he replied, "It sure held a certain je ne sais quoi. So, how're you feeling, anyway? Are you up for trying to guess fingers, yet?" Playfully, he shifted his hand to cover Starsky's working eye.

"No."

Instantly, Hutch's hand was withdrawn. "Tomorrow then." He smiled apologetically.

"Yeah," Starsky nodded. "Let's say I think I'm doing a bit better than my doctor thinks I am," he then answered the earlier question.

Hutch's expression took a turn towards dismay. "Oh, my God."

His friend laughed and clumsily patted Hutch's arm. "Kidding. I meant way better."

"Don't scare me like that," Hutch chided dryly. He was about to say more, when yet another cough cut him off. Catching Starsky's look, he lifted his hands defensively. "I'm not getting sick, I promise." He swallowed the next cough. "Did they tell you when you're getting out of here, yet?"

"Haven't asked, yet."

"Why not?" Hutch asked.

"Because I'd've to ask Dr. van Norden. You wanna ask Dr. van Norden?"

There was a short pause, then Hutch waved dismissively. "I'm sure it won't be longer than a few more days, Buddy. When you're up to guessing fingers," he added as an afterthought. A sudden, overpowering yawn cut off whatever else he had planned to say. "Sorry," he apologized through it.

Starsky cast him a curious glance. When he spoke, though, he had found a new topic. "Any news on Lady?"

"Last I heard, they're going to release her on Sunday. To some place for the elderly confused." He thought for a moment, then added, "Confused and rich."

"Spending poor Norman's inheritance," Starsky observed dryly.

At the mention of Kheen's name, Hutch grimaced. "I hope she lives long enough for him to inherit the depths, when he gets out," he muttered darkly.

Starsky raised his brows. "I see you're not taking it personal," he quipped.

"It's not that," Hutch replied. "I'm okay with him trying to kill me, happens all the time. But for him to believe he would actually get away with…that story…" Out of words worthy to describe his hurt pride, Hutch trailed off. He shook his head curtly. "Uh-uh."

Starsky smiled amusedly. He vividly remembered Hutch's dumbfounded look when they had told him about the goodbye letter they had found in Kheen's room, signed with 'Ken Holland'. It appeared that Kheen had planned for the alleged lovers' double-suicide to be set in the airtight garage.

Only Hutch's showing his badge had saved his and Lady Marrinon's lives, for it had surprised the old butler, who had been so determined and so very inexperienced with murder.

"Aw," Starsky said, winking at his morose friend, "c'mon, you gotta give it to the guy; he did have a sense of romance." At Hutch's glare, he grinned even more, rolling his eyes as if following the feather-light words that followed. "True love till the end, stronger than death, or guilt, or-"

"Please!" Hutch cut him off.

Starsky laughed.

"There's nothing romantic about suicide," Hutch pointed out.

"What about Romeo and Juliet?" Starsky asked.

"A guy who's too plain dumb to realize his girl isn't really dead and who commits suicide in a tomb, that's romantic to you? Not to mention he was three times her age."

As if considering that, Starsky pursed his lips. "I see a pattern there," he observed and grinned at the glare he received. "Don't you?"

Hutch shook his warning finger at him, but the effect was ruined by a yawn.

Starsky tilted his head to one side, as he watched the blond blink his eyes a couple of times. "Y'know," he finally said, "you should be grateful to the man, though. After all, he cured your insomnia."

Hutch cast him a glance, then looked up at the TV. "I didn't have insomnia, I had trouble sleeping."

Starsky rolled his eyes.

"And you can't cure insomnia," Hutch continued his lecture. "It just goes away."

"I see. So your…trouble sleeping going away had nothing to do with the fact you almost involuntarily overdosed on a sedative?"

"Nothing at all," Hutch said matter-of-factly.

"Mm-mm," Starsky mumbled, watching another yawn. "But you're past that now, yeah?"

Surprised, Hutch blinked his eyes at him. "Sure."

Starsky nodded in slow-motion. "Yeah." He paused, while Hutch slid down in his chair. Not much, just a tiny tad. Just so he could rest his arms on the armrests more comfortably.

"Tired?" Starsky asked innocently, when the next yawn was over.

"You kidding?" Hutch replied, his voice only a bit slurred. "I've been sleeping for the better part of all day yesterday. I've…yawn…I've collected enough sleep to last me the next few months. You know," he added in a tired, lecturing tone, "the body doesn't need as much sleep as you think, Starsk."

"Oh, no?" Starsky asked.

"No. It's the regularity it needs. If, say, you haven't slept for a week…yawn…then you obviously can't catch up on that, so all you need is…" The next yawn was mingled with a slight cough -- and as that faded, it seemed to drag Hutch with it, his head lolling forward to rest on the chest that rose and fell with even, deep breaths.

"That's so interesting, Hutch," Starsky muttered around a soft smile. "Why don't you tell me all about that later?"

With a chuckle, he turned his eyes from his sleeping partner to the TV again, and sighed. He really, really wished the nurses hadn't taken away the remote control. Really.

THE END