Chapter 2

The crash site was far enough away from the residential area that no-one could have observed it. The hour of the day – around 10am also meant that most of the neighbourhood was either at work, or doing small, comforting, domestic things, like walking the dog or taking the kiddies to the park. There was no rush of help to the scene and no crowd to fuss over the two bodies. As the wheels on the bent and battered Torino stopped spinning and the metal settled back to earth, only one other car stopped and two dark suited men got out. They didn't rush as onlookers will sometimes rush to aid a crash victim. Instead, both the suits donned black leather gloves, checked the safeties on their Browning pistols and stuffed them into the front waistbands of their pants. Then and only then did they saunter over to the red and white car and its two passengers.

The two men nodded competently at each other and bent down without opening the Torino's doors to peer inside the wreckage. The car lay on its roof, the underside offered up to the sky like a sacrificial lamb. Inside there was a mess of limbs and bodies and it took a moment to figure out which arm or leg belonged to which cop. As the taller of the two suits reached into the interior of the car, Hutch managed to turn his head. Blood ran from a cut on the side of his face and from a split lip and his crystal blue eyes were dazed and confused.

'Help?' the blond managed to croak.

'Sure thing pal' the suit closest to him grinned. The man reached in through the smashed window, kneeling carefully to avoid the broken glass. He managed to take a hold of Hutch by his shoulders and pulled him free of the car just as the second man dragged Starsky's now unconscious form out. They lay the cops side by side on the rough ground and looked down at them.

Hutch tried to sit up, groaning at some internal pain. His breath left him in a rush and he sagged back against the rocky ground, turning his head towards his partner.

'Starsk?' he rasped through smashed lips. There was no answer from the brunet. Starsky's face was pale where the skin showed through the slick film of blood. The steering wheel seemed to have caught the smaller cop across the bridge of his nose and a large gash spilled bright red blood down over the centre of his face. Starsky's eyes were closed and he seemed to have great difficulty breathing, the breath rasping through his throat. The white shirt beneath his black jacket showed a bright bloom of blood and it was obvious to even the untrained eye that the same wheel that had caused the head wound had also caused a severe chest wound. Hutch tried to inch closer to his partner to check him over, oblivious to his own injuries. He squinted up at the two suits.

'Help him?' Pale blue eyes looked beseechingly at their rescuers.

The suits ignored him and instead conversed amongst themselves.

'Are they bad enough Mr Hill?'

'The curly one seems to be Mr Jones.'

'The pretty one could do with some attention. Mr L won't like it if he has work to do when we get them back.'

'What do you suggest?'

'We never like to do a sloppy job do we Mr Jones?'

Mr Jones smirked. 'We're always thorough Mr Hill.'

Almost carefully, Hill stepped forwards until he towered over the body of David Starsky. The brunet lay where they'd left him like a broken doll waiting to be given some attention. The "doll" didn't need to wait too long as with a loving look Mr Hill looked down at the body, pulled back his foot and kicked Starsky full force in the side. The brunet's body rolled sideways and yet there was no other response from the curly haired cop save for an agonised bubbling intake of breath. Jones leaned down over the inert form and reached inside Starsky's jacket. He removed the Smith and Wesson, stuffed it into his pocket and then stepped over the body, ignoring the brunet now that the body had been dealt with.

Besides his partner, Hutch watched, sickened by what he saw and despite being hurt himself, he tried to force himself to his feet, intent on stopping any more brutality. Jones stepped forwards and placed a boot in the centre of the blond's chest, forcing Hutch back down.

'Stay put' the suit growled.

'Fuck it' the blond managed to spit, still struggling.

Mr Jones grinned. 'Are you going to stop me?'

'Yeah.'

A slow chuckle raised the hairs on Hutch's neck. 'I don't think so. Your friend there is the lucky one.'

'Huh?'

'You see, our boss needed you both pretty badly broken. Curly over there fits the bill, but you? You're just too damned healthy.'

'Who the hell are you?'

'That's none of your concern.'

Hutch's eyes blazed with anger, but at the back, lurking like some feral beast, there was also just a little fear. Had he been whole, had he not just gotten himself hauled from a car wreck, the blond might have stood some sort of chance of fighting. Had his head not ached viciously and had his body not felt like he'd spent the last thirty minutes beneath a pile driver, Hutch felt he could have taken both men. With his resistance low there seemed to be no way that he could protect both Starsky and himself. But he'd die trying.

The kick his partner had received had been a telling blow. Fortunately Starsky had been unconscious. What had the suit meant – that he was too healthy?

Not good Hutch, not good.

There were two ways the blond could go – easy or hard. He'd just survived a car crash and now he was convinced that the Torino's brake lines had been cut. How much harder could he go?

In for a penny….

'Ya gonna get blood on your pretty, shiny shoes?' Hutch muttered.

Jones smiled wolfishly. 'You bet' he smirked. 'Mr Hill, if you would?'

Hill stepped forwards, all friendly and helpful. 'Of course Mr Jones. Anything to help.' The suit bent down and took a hold of Hutch's arm, forcing the limb out and away from the blonds body. Hutch struggled and Hill knelt on his chest, almost stopping the cop from breathing in order to keep struggles to the minimum. He took no notice of the blond, treating him almost like a side of beef. Hill stretched Hutch's right arm out and placed a small rock beneath the arm, just above the blond's elbow. Hutch struggled to dislodge the man, receiving a vicious kick from Jones that had the breath whistling through his teeth. Jones walked around to the other side of Hutch's body and positioned himself by Hills side. He looked down into burning crystal eyes.

'Say ouch' he smiled as he brought his booted foot down on Hutch's arm, just below the elbow, using the rock beneath it as a kind of fulcrum. The blond screamed as the arm gave across the rock. His elbow simply slid apart, the arm broken and at an odd angle where the elbow had dislocated. Hutch writhed on the ground as the two men towered above him. He watched them through semi closed eyes as together the two suits set about kicking him into unconsciousness. Twice he tried to roll away. Twice they laughed and followed his agonised movements until all the blond could do was curl himself into a ball, reach for his partner, and allow the darkness to take him down the long lonely ride to oblivion.

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The cemetery on the south side of the city was the largest Bay City had to offer. It was also the most prestigious and it was here that the city's rich and famous came to be buried. Headstones stood in serried ranks along fresh white gravel walkways. Across a large expanse of green lawn the larger headstones looked on. Angels with their wings held out in protection, marble archways, likenesses of the dead at their feet; the stones creations looked down silently from their stony plinths.

In another part of the cemetery, mausoleums lined wider roads. Each small stone crypt held the family name above the door. Each had angels or cherubs scrambling across their pure white marble or creamy limestone, and each spoke of money with a capital M. This part of the cemetery was also cut into neat sections. Catholic; Episcopalian; Jewish. Each had their own "village" of crypts and each their own style.

It was in this part of the cemetery that the huge gathering now stood.

Joseph Durniak's funeral was the largest that had ever been seen in Bay City, and arguably the most important. Whilst the host of more than 200 mourners stood like a black tide around one of the largest, freshest mausoleums, a uniformed police cordon stretched around them at a respectful distance. Further out still, but with just as good a view of the proceedings, police snipers stood guard. Was Bay City expecting trouble? Too right they were. With gangland bosses flying in from all quarters of the States, and with some coming from further afield, the BCPD were taking no chances at all.

The funeral cortege made its solemn way down though the cemetery. In front of the coffin on its black, horse drawn catafalque three of the most powerful Dons walked slowly, leading their comrades body on its final journey. The neat roadway was lined with black coated figures. This was not a Jewish funeral; this was a gangland funeral, with all the trappings.

The body came to rest in front of the chosen, brand new and hastily erected mausoleum. The horses stopped, their breath pluming in the cool air and the black feathers that adorned their heads tossing nervously. There was an air of tension in the crowd and the animals had picked up on it. They danced nervously as their owner tried to quiet them. Joe Durniak's body was lifted in its simple ebony coffin by eight of the Dons and they proceeded to walk slowly to the door of Durniak's last resting place.

At the back of the crowd closing in around the mausoleums door, a tiny woman and a much taller, younger man stood quietly. The man was around 6' tall, with a mop of unruly, curly, mahogany coloured hair. Sparkling blue eyes danced around the crowd nervously and he put an arm around the tiny woman's shoulders.

The woman herself stood no more than 4' 11". She too had tightly curled brown, almost black hair, covered for the moment in a black headscarf. She leaned into the man's side and looked up, tears in her eyes and a white handkerchief in her hand. Rachel Starsky laid her head on her son Nicky's chest and sighed.

'Where is he? Davey should be here by now. It's not like him to miss Joe's funeral.'

Nicky, Starsky's younger brother by four years shook his head. 'Police business, he's probably out booking jaywalkers as we speak Mah.'

Rachel Starsky hit her younger son in the chest. The blow was not hard, but it was meant as a warning.

'Don't speak of Davey like that. He would be here if he could.'

'Mah, he hated Uncle Joey. He always blamed him for Dad's death, or at least he didn't like that Joe helped us when Dad had died.'

Rachel had the grace to blush. 'Joe was good to us. It's the least we could do to be here.'

'Just how good was he Mah?' Nicky asked. This time Rachel slapped his face.

'Be careful son. I won't have ill spoken of the dead.'

Nicky scowled but wisely kept his mouth shut. He looked expectantly up the now empty road, expecting to see his brother's car speeding down at any minute. The road remained obstinately empty. He turned his attention back to the last part of the funeral – the interment. The rabbi spoke some words, the coffin was carried reverently inside and then the Dons emerged, the door was locked and the crowd began to break up.

Rachel shook her head. 'Something is wrong. Davey would have been here. I can feel something is wrong.'

'You're imagining things Mah. Listen. I'll take us back to his house. You know, kinda surprise him huh? Would you like that?'

The small woman smiled up. 'You're a good boy Nicky…..sometimes. Come on, lets go before we get caught up in the crowd. I don't like to be a part of these….these men.'

The two made their way back to Nicky's hire car. They'd come down at Durniak's family's request to pay their last respects and they had a ticket back to New York for the following day – all paid for by "Uncle Joey", or at least his estate. Nicky drove quickly out of the cemetery, following the signs back to the freeway. Rachel was quiet in the car. She couldn't stop the nagging feeling deep in her chest that something was wrong. However much her eldest son disliked Durniak, he would never have disobeyed her wishes for him to join her at the cemetery.

When Nicky finally pulled to a stop outside the apartment at Ridgeway, Rachel got out, used her spare key and opened the door. The apartment was tidy as ever, clothes folded from the washer, pots draining on the board, but no other signs of life.

Telling herself she was worrying unnecessarily, Rachel made tea and sat down to wait. Two hours later though, with the fingers of the clock showing afternoon, her patience finally wore away. With a shaky hand, she dialled a number on the phone and waited until a deep voice answered.

'Dobey.'

'Captain Dobey, its Rachel Starsky. Is my son there?'

'No, he was at Durniak's funeral this morning with Hutch. They didn't report back so I kinda assumed they'd taken the rest of the day off.

The small woman's heart plummeted. 'Then I think we may have a problem' she said quietly.