You Can Take the Boy Out of Brooklyn
Chapter Two
It was an upscale restaurant. The fact that Vanessa had chosen it was no surprise to Hutch. It was, after all, Van. As a junior cop he'd had to stretch his beer and pretzel pay to meet her champagne and caviar tastes. Why now, when he'd made Detective Sergeant, a position of some worth, would she expect anything less of him when out on a 'date'?
Determined to enjoy the ambience and the food, he gazed at the impressive wine list.
He'd picked her up from her hotel and had driven them to the downtown restaurant where she'd made their dinner reservation.
Glamorous as always, Vanessa was poured into a silky slip of a silver dress with matching accessories, her long hair coiled at the nape of her neck. Hutch still had an objective eye for her flawless presentation and had complimented her when he'd seated her in the car. He regretted it two minutes later when she made a derogatory remark about his car. Good manners had been ingrained in him since childhood. Vanessa had a similar upbringing; she'd been born into money, but had a tendency for sharp-tongued judgments, reminding Hutch that class could not buy manners.
He let it pass. Her opinions had ceased to matter to him a long time ago. Or so he hoped.
They were climbing out of the car outside the restaurant, the valet taking the keys from Hutch, when she tried to repair her earlier comments. "Umm - Ken, you know that I was only joking about your car before?"
He took her elbow as they walked toward the entrance, but didn't answer.
She went on. "I just don't know why you need to be so - so contrary - driving around in something so - so trashy. It's like your apartment. It looks like - "
"Van," he cut in as he took her arm more roughly than he intended and escorted her toward the restaurant. "Quit while you're ahead, okay?" He knew she could hear the anger in his tone.
She had the grace to color as they entered the foyer and waited to be escorted to their table.
Neither of them spoke as they waited and the silence stretched to the point that Hutch wanted to turn on his heel and walk out the doors he had just entered.
He looked in at the plush interior of the main dining area. What was he doing here? He wondered if Starsky would be true to his word and spend the evening by himself. He had to resist the urge to send him a text. He was saved by the arrival of the Maître D', who led them to their table. Of course, it was near the window, offering them an uninterrupted view of the cityscape.
Naturally, Hutch thought. Vanessa would have arranged it just so.
They'd been seated for five minutes, perusing the menu and wine list, before Hutch broke the icy silence. Putting the wine list aside, he asked Vanessa, "Do you still prefer white meat for your entrée?" He could hear the formality and emotional distance in his voice. When she nodded coolly he asked, "Are you happy with a Sauvignon then?"
"Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you, Ken," she answered demurely.
After ordering, Hutch turned back to face her. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his water glass. "Vanessa. I agreed to dinner so we might talk. There are things you don't like about me or my life; you make that clear. However, we're no longer responsible for each other. So, let's try to start again. I'm concerned about you. I'm here to offer whatever support I can while you're in LA for your - your - ah - medical problem. So, can we just have a relaxed evening together?"
Vanessa ran a manicured finger down the starched white dinner napkin, and gave him an orchestrated look of meekness. "Of course. I came to LA to see you because I'm scared. I don't want to fight with you. Let's just drink a glass of wine and share a quiet meal."
"Do you want to talk about what's happening with you? This medical - problem? Have you been given bad news?" He paused while watching her.
"I'm scared, Ken. Simply scared and unsure how to cope."
Her vague comments only elevated his frustration. "Van-" He halted as the waiter appeared with the wine.
It was a minute or so before they were alone again. He turned to her, determined to broach the medical issue head on.
But Vanessa raised her wine glass and dipped it toward his. "Ken - I've had a stressful few days. We're at this lovely restaurant, and I just want to share the evening with you and put all my worries away for a few hours. Can we do that?"
Her expression and words brooked any attempt to delve deeper. He recalled Starsky's words. He knew then that this dinner would not be useful in getting to the bottom of his ex-wife's visit.
He could see her measuring him up, waiting for some sort of response - her face wary enough to show she would block him from pushing the boundaries. Vanessa was scared alright. However, Hutch felt it had little to do with her health. There was more to this, as Starsky suspected. As Hutch himself knew when he first laid eyes on her at his door.
Tired of confrontation and antagonism, he ignored his concerns. Picking up his glass, he completed their toast. "To a relaxing meal then. Remember though, if you want to talk about it, I'm here sitting right across from you."
"Thank you, Ken. I appreciate that, but tonight, more than anything, I just need to unwind a little and think of something other than my worries."
They spent the next half hour in small talk, Vanessa sharing a little about her last two years in New York working in the fashion industry, and briefly, her failed relationship.
Hutch reciprocated by filling her in on his family's latest news, keeping it superficial.
The waiter moved away after serving the main course, and Hutch poured them each more wine, relaxing just a little more.
Vanessa picked up her fork. "You don't see much of your parents then? How about David? I always got the impression he was extremely close to his mother?" she asked idly.
"Starsk?" Hutch answered, a little surprised that she had raised his name. "Sure - if his mother had her way she would see her 'Bubelah' every weekend." He smiled at the Yiddish endearment Starsky's mother used to refer to her hardened LA cop son. "But New York is a hell of a distance for him to travel, and with our hours and schedule, it isn't easy. Still, he's finally taught her how to use Skype," Hutch laughed fondly, "and now he wishes he hadn't."
Vanessa didn't share the humor, instead looking intent. "But he has his brother back there, too, doesn't he?"
"Nick? Yes, but he does manage to get over here from time to time." Hutch refrained from saying what he thought of Nick's random and - from his point of view at least - far from welcome visits.
He had little time for Starsky's younger brother.
"I heard about that mob boss that got killed here some time ago. You and David were involved with the case, weren't you? I saw it on the news... Durniak - Joe Durniak, wasn't it?" He was aware of Vanessa's watchful eyes as she asked the question.
Hutch paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. Her question had come from left of center, confusing him. Something in Vanessa's eyes as she waited made him cautious. "Didn't know you were interested in our cases, Vanessa. But yes - Joe Durniak was gunned down." He said it quietly, aware of their public setting.
"David knew him well, didn't he? I remember years ago when you two were talking about him at dinner one night. That must have been hard on David - his death, I mean?"
"I suppose it was. Difficult for him. But as a cop - well - " Hutch picked up his fork again, suddenly uncomfortable now that Starsky was the subject of the conversation.
"How's your trout? Cooked the way you prefer it?" he said, deflecting the subject.
"It's fine thanks." She waved her hand at the plate, obviously not interested in the meal, as it remained largely untouched. "So does David still see Durniak's family? I know it said in the papers that Durniak had a son about David's age? Must be - umm - hard for David, like you said - being a cop and knowing - well, having connections with that side of the law - "
The relaxed mood that had only just begun to settle on Hutch shifted. Vanessa's questions concerning Starsky, and the intensity with which she pursued them, had him more than confused.
"I really don't know much about Durniak's family," he told her. This was partly true. There were aspects of Starsky's past involvement with the Durniak family that Starsky kept to himself. Hutch respected that. "Anyway, like you said, Starsky's a cop. That comes first - always will for him, no matter what or whom he knows." He said the last words with just enough edge to make Vanessa pull back.
She closed her mouth against whatever else she was about to say. She started paying attention to her meal.
Hutch was left with another layer of concern about Vanessa's sudden desire to be back in his life.
What exactly did she want?
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Starsky waited as long as he could before asking Hutch about his dinner with Vanessa. Ten minutes after he'd picked Hutch up for work, his partner had still not mentioned of it, absorbed in the same pensive state he had when he'd climbed into Starsky's Mustang.
"Okay, I'll bite. Are ya' gonna tell me how it went?"
Hutch looked at him vaguely, which earned him Starsky's elbow to his shoulder.
"Last night with Vanessa? It went okay, then?"
"Okay?" Hutch seemed to be evaluating that. "I guess you could say that."
"You guess?" Starsky gave him a sidelong glance.
"Well, she was less emotional than that first night."
Starsky didn't miss his partner's distracted look. Something about the previous evening was clearly niggling at him.
"And?" Starsky wanted more, especially given the quiet consternation hovering over Hutch like an ill-fitting jacket.
Hutch shrugged. "We caught up on what each of us has been doing since we split. It was - I don't know - an innocuous evening with a woman I used to be married to. What more can I say?"
Starsky felt impatient. "Did she fill you in on how things went with the tests she's had?"
"She said she'd rather not talk about it. She wanted an evening to take her mind off it."
Starsky rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses, making sure Hutch would hear his slight grunt of disbelief.
Hutch frowned at him. "Starsky. You and I have no idea what she might be going through. It could be just too much for her to open up about."
"I can understand why she might want to share this stuff with you - since you've been her husband, it gives you, well, certain rights to the big worrying stuff in her life - hell, like being really sick. But then, to come on strong the first night with all the drama, and then just clam up... Makes no sense, Hutch."
It was Hutch's turn to look sideways at his partner. For a moment, he looked like he might argue the point but then conceded. "I was thinking the same thing all through dinner. But she started to get defensive when I focused on it, so I backed off."
"Humph." Starsky made sure it was a little more pronounced than his previous grunt.
"You're still not buying it, are you?" Hutch asked.
"Just that none of it adds up, buddy."
Neither of them spoke for a moment, Starsky concentrating on traffic, Hutch scrolling through his phone messages.
"So, when's she leaving town?" Starsky finally asked.
Hutch looked up, seeming surprised at the new question. "Not sure. She really didn't make that clear. Anyway she never mentioned wanting to meet again, either."
"Well, if that's the case, then tonight, you and I are on for dinner at Hug's." Starsky wasn't in the mood to nudge Hutch anymore on the subject. "It's been ages since we've hit his joint."
"Hey - I've been hitting Huggy's joint plenty, pal. By myself. You're the one who's been shackled to a date every night. Huggy's beginning to think you're boycotting him to avoid paying that humungous bar tab you racked up."
"You still haven't cleared that tab?" Starsky kept a straight face and made sure to keep looking straight ahead.
"Not when seventy percent of it is yours."
"Hug knows I'm good for it. Anyway - dinner? Tonight? Since you want me to cut down on indiscriminate dating, it's your duty to keep me on the straight and narrow."
That got a laugh out of Hutch. "It's never worked before, buddy, but I'll try. I won't let you pick up any strange women - unless I'm interested in them, too."
"And here I was thinking we were too old for a threesome. Well, you anyway babe, with that bad back of yours and all," Starsky teased.
"Starsky - no threesomes." Hutch said emphatically. Starsky turned to see if he was serious or joking, but before he could, Hutch spoke again, more softly this time. "In fact, no women at all, okay?" Hutch rubbed his forehead and looked away. "I'm tired of watching you." Starsky couldn't miss the sadness that crept into those last words.
Starsky felt his breath hitch. The words alone seemed superficially jokey. Hutch's delivery was not. What sat between them in the drawn out pause was no longer funny to Starsky.
"Tired of watching me, or tired of watching me with women?" Starsky felt he might be uncovering something crucial with the question.
There was another pause from Hutch, and Starsky waited.
Hutch gave him a measured look and a strained smile. Or was it a sad smile?
While Starsky was trying to figure that out, Hutch broke the quiet, avoiding the question. "So, dinner is on you. Huggy's got a great new piano player doing sessions 'til the end of the month. He does his last set by nine, and I'd love to hear him again. If we can cut out of work on time tonight, we'll catch most of it and get fed at the same time." Hutch was looking at him again, the sadness replaced by a lighter mood. Whatever he might have revealed was safely blanketed again.
Huggy, piano players, and dinner plans. Safe ground. The status quo of their relationship.
Starsky went back to concentrating on traffic and Hutch to his phone messages, but Starsky sensed they were both thinking about the indefinable ripple that had just passed between them.
How desolate safe ground could feel. He was as tired of the status quo with Hutch as he was of changing his bed linen every morning.
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"Just leave it there, and I'll get it in a moment," Vanessa told the room service waiter. "Thank you."
She waved a handtoward the hotel's waiter who had just carried in her breakfast tray. Pulling the phone away, she scrabbled in her handbag and held out a few dollars to the young man as a tip. He left quietly, closing the door behind him.
Taking a steadying breath, Vanessa resumed her conversation. "I'm back. No...no, nothing to worry about. Just room service. I - I haven't run into any trouble since I've been here. Yes, I know, I know. I'm being careful, and I'm keeping my eyes open."
She paused and listened for a while, then rolled her eyes in frustration. "I'm not a fool, Jake." She looked down at her hand as she listened; her brow furrowed at the chipped manicure. She knew her irrational annoyance over it was out of perspective given the situation she was in. However, the familiar focus on her grooming took her mind away from her increasing anxiety.
She paced the room. "Jake, stop it, will you! Don't talk to me like I'm one of your dumb little admin assistants. I know my way around life. I was married to a cop for nearly five years, you know. Just because I haven't got Marco beside me anymore doesn't mean I can't work a few things out for myself. I would know if someone's onto me. There's been nothing. Besides, the only time I've been out, I've been with my ex. Trust me; he'd soon realize if someone was lurking behind doorways. He's a cop twenty-four-seven. Okay? Good. No, I haven't found the opportunity yet, but I will. I have an idea of where - yeah, I'm sure it's safe." Her impatience rose as she listened to him. "God, Jake! Will you stop worrying? I haven't even talked to him about it yet."
She wandered over to the breakfast tray to walk away some nervousness. Disinterestedly, she lifted the lid. Uncovering the contents of the hot meal did nothing to entice her appetite. She picked up a triangle of toast and nibbled the corner as she listened to her caller.
"Ken seemed to believe me. He dropped me at the Specialist Center and was very sympathetic - offered to stay and wait with me. I tell you, it was hard enough getting him to leave...I was getting worried he would just stay and - "
Nodding and listening, she put down the toast to pour black coffee from the heated carafe.
"I told you - I'd already booked a consultation with a specialist in case he checked up on me. Why? God, you can be stupid. I needed to give him a reason why I was in LA, that's why. I could hardly just show up without a back story."
She listened for a few more minutes.
"Of course, I didn't tell him about Marco! You think my detective ex-husband wouldn't get suspicious if I told him my boyfriend had been killed? I embellished the truth - told him Marco recently dumped me when I found out I was sick. Added to the overall effect and worked in my favor."
The coffee was strong and hot; she sipped appreciatively as she listened.
"Yes - yes. I've already told you that. It went - well, it went as I expected. No, not yet. Look, I haven't had the chance. It's not that easy, you know. I can hardly come out and throw it at him when I just got here. This guy - he's different from my ex-husband."
She could feel the tension in her hand as she gripped the phone, tension caused by just the thought of dealing with the man who always made her feel like he could see right through her. The man who had always (if she was honest) intimidated her, and she prided herself on not being easily intimidated. "He's - well, he's not the easiest man in the world to deal with, and I am not exactly one of his favorite people."
That was an understatement, but there was little point in alarming Jake anymore than he already was.
"I just have to find the right time and place. Jake, I feel like you're pushing me on this." She dropped the coffee cup with a clatter and jumped as the hot liquid sprayed the back of her hand.
"Alright. Alright! I'd like to see you manage this situation. You're calling the shots, but I'm the one who has to pull this off. I don't feel comfortable taking this to him. He can be - let's just say you don't know him like I do. If anything, he seems - more difficult than he used to be, and he was always unpredictable, even then."
She pressed her hand on a folded napkin, but it needed ice water.
"You just make sure you're doing your bit like we discussed, and I'll do mine. I need to go. No - I'll call you. Don't call me again; wait for me to contact you when and if I have something definite to tell you, because all you're doing is making me anxious. I'm doing my best here, Jake, and your leaning on me isn't helping. I don't remember Marco appointing you the boss if something happened to him."
She sighed, and listened for a few moments more.
"Okay - I'll try for tonight, but it won't be easy to convince him. I'll let you know as soon as I talk to him again. "
She ended the call, and pushed her hair off her face before running a hand across her brow. She swore she could feel the pressure in her forehead, her skin bunched and tight with worry and fear.
Shoving the breakfast tray away, she picked up the phone again. Before she could change her mind, she entered the number she had jotted down before. The time had come to do what Jake pushed her to do.
As she waited, she caught her reflection in the desk mirror. There it was - just as she had felt it. All over her face. She was afraid and becoming more frightened with every moment.
She readied herself for the call and prayed he would be available to talk to her. Prayed he would beprepared to talk to her. And getting him to agree to meet with her? That was going to be the real hurdle.
The line buzzed. She waited.
Damn you, Marco...why did you have to leave me in the middle of this mess?
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"Hey, Starsky!" Slattery, one of the older detectives in the squad room called him as soon as Hutch and he walked in."Check out your desk. Call came in on your extension, twice already. You two never seem to be at your work stations."
"That's because we're out on the street where the real action is, Slattery. You should try it some time. Not too many perps pop outta' the computer screen, ya know."
"Well then, tell the people who are calling you to get you on your cell. I'm tired of picking up your calls."
The day hadn't even begun, Starsky thought, and officers were bitching already. The real 'bull pens' were in the squad rooms, not down in the holding cells.
Starsky raised his eyebrow at the grouchy officer. "So who asked ya to?"
"And by the way," Slattery threw in for good measure, "Dobey's been looking for the two of you."
Starsky stripped off his jacket and straddled his office chair, picking up the scribbled phone number.
Hutch came in behind him in time to hear the comment about Dobey.
Starsky thumbed the piece of paper on his desk. "Slattery - who'd you say this call was from?"
"Some woman. She wouldn't give me her name or any other information. Sounded pretty determined to talk to you - and only you." Slattery wore a sarcastic grin before moving closer to Starsky, making a theatrical show of looking about to ensure he was out of earshot of other staff. "Thought maybe it was one of your lady friends. We all know how ya got the ladies on the run lately, Starsky."
Starsky flicked the note aside, and didn't miss the chilled look that Hutch threw at Slattery. "Shut it, Slattery. I'll call her later. Gotta see the Cap' now. We're late as it is with that damn traffic." He moved to pick up files from the desk to report to their captain.
He was surprised when Hutch put his hand on the files and shook his head. "No. Just take a minute to call her back." He lowered his voice and stepped further into the partitioned workstation, blocking out Slattery's curious gaze. "It's probably your date from the other night. The one you left in a not-so-happy state when you came to see me. Sort it out - quickly. I'll start with Dobey."
Starsky was a little nonplussed at Hutch's attitude. "Thought you were full of good advice about me not wasting my time with one night stands," he whispered back, giving Slattery a narrow-eyed warning to walk away.
As Slattery did, Hutch picked up the phone and handed to him. "I meant it. So deal with her, and put it behind you. Then we can deal with our day and whatever Dobey has waiting for us." He jerked his head toward the other cubicles. "Don't give Slattery any more reason to rib you about this stuff." He stood up, taking the files. "Come in when you're ready. I'll cover for you. Five minutes."
"I don't even know that it's Lydia," Starsky said. "Could be anyone calling me on this line."
Hutch shook his head. "She knew you'd have to respond to a call coming into the squad room. Just talk to her, and figure out what you have to do to move on."
Before Starsky could argue with him, Hutch took the files and walked off toward Dobey's office, fixing Slattery with a withering look before pulling open the captain's door.
Starsky was left looking at the scrawled number on the note. The number meant nothing to him, but then how many new numbers had he stored in his cell in the past month - most of which he never used again?
He hesitated. Lydia had his cell number, but like Hutch said, she probably thought he'd dodge her calls, so called him at work. Maybe. But despite Hutch's advice, he was reluctant to return the call. Punching in the number, he braced himself for Lydia's tirade.
When the call was finally answered, he was shocked.
Hearing Vanessa's voice made him automatically glance at the captain's door, as though Hutch could hear her voice across the distance. He spoke quietly, but with a decided edge. "Vanessa? Were you looking for Hutch? They gave the message to me by mistake."
"No, David. I wanted to talk to you. I didn't want to risk you answering your cell in front of Ken. I thought leaving a message at the precinct was the best way of going about this. I don't want him to know about this call. Please." He could hear something frantic in her voice.
"Know what?"
"Is Ken with you?" she whispered urgently.
He already didn't like what was happening. "Not right now." He looked again toward Dobey's office, feeling guilty for even admitting that much.
"I need to see you."
"You did see me. Only yesterday. Where you and I are concerned, once was enough." It came out before he could censor it.
"Please. Don't make this harder for me, David. It's hard enough just making this call to you."
He frowned at the stress in her voice. "Make what hard? You're not making any sense."
"Will you meet with me? I'll tell you then. Please, David. I didn't make this call lightly. This is very important."
"What about Hutch?" Starsky was increasingly unsettled by the secretive nature of her call.
"He can't know. I - I don't want him to know. Please." Vanessa's voice bordered on frantic.
"Does this concern him?"
He heard her blow out a breath. "Indirectly. I need your help, and that will help Ken, too. But meantime, you can't tell him." Her voice hitched. "I know you don't believe I have feelings for Ken, but I do. I really do. I don't want him to know about this as it could be - well, it wouldn't be good for him."
Starsky leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his forehead. "You've got to do better than that, Vanessa. You want me to meet with you about something without Hutch's knowledge, then I need to know why. I don't like the sound of any of this."
He heard her suck in a deep breath. "David, I'm in real trouble. But if I can't sort it out, Ken could get dragged into it, too. And if he does...it could mean his career...everything. Worse than that, it will put him in real danger."
Unsteady now, he looked again at the captain's closed door. "What the hell do you mean by danger?" He thought of the evenings Hutch had spent with Vanessa and how little he'd really said about it. How little he'd really revealed about Vanessa's surprise visit.
Did Hutch hold back on what he'd told him about Vanessa's sudden re-entry into their lives?
Absorbed in his own maelstrom of worries, he was jerked back by Vanessa's voice.
"Please, David. Just hear me out." Starsky thought she might be crying. Theatrics or not, he couldn't be sure. He was still stuck at the mention of Hutch at risk.
Dobey's office door opened suddenly, and Hutch's head poked out. Seeing Starsky still on the phone, he pointed behind him indicating Dobey's impatience with his delay.
Starsky held his hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "Be right there." Hutch remained in the doorway, letting him know his time was up. Starsky spun his office chair away from Hutch's gaze. He couldn't look at him while he decided what to say.
"Okay, my place. Tonight. Eight o'clock." Starsky could see Hutch waiting for him, concerned that the call was taking so long. He mumbled low into the phone. "I'll text you the address later, okay?" Starsky hung up the phone, and avoided Hutch's eyes.
"Dobey wants your input on the case," Hutch said, although it was obvious his mind was more on Starsky and his phone call than the case. "You done with your call?"
"Yeah, all done." Starsky walked over to him.
As he got closer, Hutch said, "You don't seem too happy about it."
"What?" Starsky was still thinking about Vanessa's warning.
Hutch stopped him from entering Dobey's office. He lowered his voice. "The phone call? I gather that our dinner tonight at Huggy's is off?"
"Sorry, I didn't see any other way out of it. Rain check?" He felt nervous, as though Hutch could see right through his lie.
"So which one of your ladies is this?"
Starsky was ready. "Lydia. You were right. The woman I so rudely walked out on to come to you. "
"I see. It seems you're not quite as finished with her as you said."
"I - look, we ended badly, and I was hard on her. Now I feel like every sort of heel. She started crying and..."
Hutch just looked at him, something indiscernible on his face. Had Starsky disappointed him?
"I get it, Starsk. You don't have to explain." The way he said it made Starsky realize Hutch was trying to hide his disappointment.
"We can make Hug's tomorrow night," Starsky offered, concerned that he had left Hutch feeling rejected. But, it couldn't be helped. He didn't want to drag Hutch into another round of worry about this thing with Vanessa. More than that, Vanessa had him stirred up. He hoped she was just using drama to draw him in. How the hell could Hutch be in danger?
Hutch continued to look at him closely, and Starsky wondered if he could tell he was lying.
Finally, Hutch nodded. "Sure. Tomorrow night. Come on. Dobey's waiting."
As Starsky followed Hutch into Dobey's office, he felt sick at the whole scenario. Sick and guilty.
The worst of it was, he didn't even know why.
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It was one of those evenings for Hutch, long and relentless. He felt dragged along its time span in a slow motion of self-recrimination. An evening so difficult to get through that even his haven, his semi-covered balcony filled with his "jungle" of plants, as Starsky like to call it, failed to give him peace.
Dejectedly, he turned away from the shadowed balcony and walked back inside his living room. It was late, far later than he realized. His unstructured evening had passed him by while he was submerged in circular thoughts. He wasn't hungry, felt too apathetic to pull a beer from the fridge and too wrung out to watch a movie. Despite his physical lethargy, however, he was too primed with anguish to consider sleep.
Besides, he needed to work through what was twisting his insides. He could not afford distractions or obstacles like sleep.
First, he had to push through resenting how Starsky had disappointed him once more. He'd had too many evenings like this, but tonight, somehow, it felt far worse. Starsky had gone off again in pursuit of some woman. Of course, it would end badly. The woman would be hurt, even more than she had been before, and Starsky would hide his feelings beneath another layer of denial. Starsky would come away with another notch on his bedstead and a fresh conviction that the women in his life caused him nothing but pain.
The darkness that had been steadily enveloping him since Clare and had ripped his ego to shreds was only going to grow. How bleak was that resentment going to get before Starsky would call a halt to his self-punishment? It had been so long since Starsky's lightheartedness had gone.
Tonight was really Hutch's own fault. He'd told Starsky to answer that call knowing full well it would end like this. Maybe he'd been testing Starsky? Maybe he'd hoped that his partner would refuse to return the call to Lydia. Choose instead to spend the evening with him over a quiet dinner as they had planned.
Christ, Hutchinson! Face it! You're simply jealous.
No. Even as he considered the simplicity of that admission he knew it was more complex than that.
So complex that sitting here in his own comfortable space was doing nothing to help with his tumultuous emotions. He felt like he was trapped in a box with all those parts of himself that he was too scared to examine.
He knew he was going to be like this this evening. As soon as he and Starsky had gone their separate ways and not on to Huggy's as they had planned that morning in the car. Those few moments in the car where the air was dense with all that bound them together and yet was keeping them apart. Unspoken thoughts and withheld actions. In those moments, Hutch sensed they were both being pulled toward something they were powerless to resist.
Hutch had come so close in that stillness to telling Starsky what he felt and had been feeling for such a long time now. But like most things fleeting – like pain and beauty – the moment passed him by, and he was once more left with the war of relief and sadness that he hadn't taken the risk.
Again.
How many times had he not taken the risk? Far too many to remember. For the prospect of throwing away caution and losing was just too frightening for him.
He had told Starsky in the car – in an ambiguous way – that he was tired of it all. And that much was true. The overload of Starsky's women did tire him. However, it was the other part of the question that Hutch had not answered that had him full of self-remorse this evening.
"Tired of watching me?" Starsky had asked him – so softly, so carefully.
And he hadn't the strength to answer him. The fear of loss was just too frightening again.
No, Starsk. No. It's not you I'm tired of watching.
For how could he ever tire of watching him?
What he was really tired of was his own state of inertia. So very sick of watching himself watching Starsky do what he was doing. Allowing Starsky to punish himself by hurting others. Standing uselessly on the sidelines while his closest friend, the most significant person in his life, cast about for some commitment of love, some antidote to his painful emptiness.
That was what Hutch was really tired of experiencing. That was what had really worn him down.
Especially when he believed he had the solution, had the answer to stop all of Starsky's self-destructive anger. When he had the power to pull him out of his self-imposed darkness and back toward the light that was the real Starsky. The Starsky he knew and loved.
His Starsky.
In the past few weeks he was getting closer and closer to taking the risk of disclosure.
And then Van showed up on his doorstep and put another obstacle in his path.
So now they each had their demons to deal with that held them back. Him with Vanessa and all that she dredged up; Starsky with his perceived failure with women – each of them working in the opposite direction to where Hutch knew they should be heading.
So here he was. And there was Starsky. And in between were all the women – in both of their lives – past and present. Failed, wasted, hurtful unions that Hutch was worried Starsky would keep repeating, over and over until he got so brittle, so hardened that he might be lost to him forever.
He had to make a choice. Take the risk and possibly lose it all. Or do nothing and keep the Starsky he had now. The Starsky who was fast becoming surly and bitter. Certainly not the jaunty, easy-going guy – but a version of Starsky nonetheless and better, far better than no Starsky at all.
Hutch knew it was time to move forward and step into the risk. It might get him all he wanted or lose everything he already had, but either way he had to step out of this place he was in and move forward.
SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH
It had been more than twelve hours since Starsky had spoken to Vanessa on the phone and when he opened the door to his apartment and saw her perfectly made-up face, styled hair, and figure-hugging dress, he wished he had never agreed to meet with her. The worrying guilt he had tried to hide all day from Hutch paled into insignificance with what was twisting his gut as he ushered her inside his apartment.
"David?" Vanessa said, as he closed the door behind her. "You managed to arrange this without Ken knowing?"
Whatever hell "this" was, he thought.
He locked the door behind her, not even sure why he felt the need to do so. After all it wasn't as though Hutch was likely to make one of his customary unexpected entrances – not when he believed that Starsky was spending the evening with Lydia.
"You think I'd be standing here if he knew?" Terse and abrupt, his cutting jibe reflected his mood.
Dropping her light coat on the nearest sofa, she surveyed his living room and ocean-side balcony. She walked toward the balcony and looked at the ocean view. "Ken told me about your new place. It's a long drive back into the city to your station though, isn't it?"
Her attempt at small talk seemed out of place, but he obliged her. "It's worth the commute. I like keeping work and home separate." Which of course was a fallacy as he and Hutch, as working partners, spent the majority of their free time together. Well, they had until lately…since Clare.
"And so close to Ken's studio in Venice," Vanessa put in, as though she had seen the contradiction herself in his proclamation about work and home.
Starsky shrugged. "It's convenient for us to live close. Makes sense."
"Hmmm…" she started, then stopped from saying anything more judgmental. "Ken loves that squalid little apartment for some reason." She moved about, gliding her hand over a display cabinet, touching a painting. Her eyes landed on a freshly stubbed out cigarette in the small ceramic bowl he used at an ashtray. Promising himself daily that he would give up the recently resumed habit (not having smoked since his days in the army ), he had refused to acquire an ashtray. He wondered if she was aware at the way she turned up her nose as she looked at the discarded cigarette. Disapproving, judgmental, and aloof.
Perversely, her non verbal censure made him want to light up in front of her there and then – but told himself to get over it, and instead picked up the bowl with the butts and turned toward the kitchen.
"You want a beer or something?" Opening the door of his fridge, he continued to watch her as she examined his apartment. He could sense her quiet distress buried beneath her cool facade. Vanessa was not her normal cool self. It was as though she was already wary of him.
Despite her quiet unease she aimed to project a shaky disdain with the way she prowled catlike from one corner of his living room to the next. He found her graceful moves almost theatrical. Pulling a six pack of cold beer from the fridge he eyed her more closely. Clearly beneath her veneer she was actually nervous and the orchestrated moves were an attempt to cover her unease.
"I – ah – don't drink beer." There it was again. The subtlest expressions of distaste flitting across her features. Beer and cigarettes, the antithesis to her social persona.
He clicked his fingers lightly as he set the beer on the counter. "That's right. I remember now. You never liked Hutch drinking it either. Showed a lack of class."
She frowned back at him. "It had nothing to do with class. It's strange that you choose to remember it that way. I just don't like the taste. I shouldn't need to apologize for what I prefer to drink."
She was ruffled, and he was surprised. Vanessa wasn't normally so easily displaced in conversation. He didn't want to argue over social preferences. Not now.
"I've got some white wine – chardonnay. Is that okay with you? " She nodded, and while he uncorked the bottle and poured her a glass, he was aware that she had turned away from him and was looking out at the rapidly darkening ocean. She turned as he approached and accepted the glass from him, his beer in his other hand.
"Ken told me you had bought near the beach. At least you have a nice view and it's quiet." She gave a small tight smile. "Not like his quaint home over that noisy little restaurant in that artsy district of Venice. It's so – well – so – "
He took a swallow of beer, cutting her off sharply as she cast around for a suitable derogatory descriptor. "Why'd ya' want to see me, Vanessa?"
She took a shaky breath before putting the wine glass on the coffee table. She clenched her hands together. "I need your help, David." Her tone was pitched to match the request.
"I thought we established that much on the phone." He knew he didn't sound sympathetic. "This help you need from me – is this the real reason you're back in LA? You're not really sick, are you, Vanessa?"
"It's more complicated than that."
"So, how about you uncomplicate it for me. What's the story? The real story, not the one you've given to Hutch."
She sighed, but wouldn't meet his eyes. She drank from her glass as though to fortify herself. "I have a friend back in New York. He's been helping me get through a difficult time since – I lost my boyfriend, Marco. Anyway, Jake, my friend – I told him you're from New York, that you have some connections there."
He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
"Ken told me about your life in Brooklyn, and that you sometimes mentioned your past when you'd come for dinner. Jake hopes you might use those – um, contacts to help us. He and I – well we both need to get out of a difficult situation."
Starsky looked at her flushed cheeks. This little speech was costing her. "Start at the beginning. This 'Marco' – is this the man you told Hutch walked out on you when he supposedly found out you were ill?"
"Hutch told you," she said accusingly before her accusation fell away to reveal resignation. "Of course he told you. He tells you everything. Seems as though nothing has changed with the two of you, has it?"
Starsky didn't even attempt to answer her. "Is he? The asshole who Hutch said walked out on you?"
"Yes – that's Marco. We were together for over a year. He got me involved in some things I wished I'd never heard of. He brought a lot of trouble into my life." She looked wistful. "Some good times, too – but in the end Marco brought me real trouble."
"He's out of your life now, though? For good?"
"You could say that." She nodded shakily, sadly. "Marco's dead."
He was startled by her flat-toned admission. "Dead? Hutch only told me he walked out on you."
"Of course he told you that. It's what I told him, after all. I'm fairly sure he believes it, too. I don't want him to know any of this, David. He can't help me."
"And you think I can?" Starsky raised his thick brows.
"I'm in deep trouble, David. Marco is not just dead – he was killed. He took something, and thought he could get away with it – thought we'd take the money and run. We were supposed to leave New York last week. Jake, his best friend, was helping us with the job. I saw Marco early Monday, and that night we were to take a flight. I was packed and waiting all afternoon. He never came back. Jake called and told me they'd killed him."
Starsky grabbed her by the shoulders. "Who is 'they'? What did he take? What was Marco into? Drugs? Coke?"
"Meth. Straight from the lab." It came out in a rush.
Starsky cursed. "Start at the beginning and give me the full story. How long had he been dealing in meth?"
"Probably just over a year. I didn't know. By the time I had feelings for him I knew something wasn't right. I started to put it together. His disposable cash flow was too high, his lifestyle was just too – too highbrow for what he must have been earning. I got suspicious and –"
"And yet you stayed with him? Knowing he was a drug dealer. Christ, woman!" Starsky shook his head in bewilderment, running his hand through his curls.
"He wasn't a dealer. Not really what you'd think of one anyway," she answered defensively. "He just fell into it. The business opportunity, I mean."
"Of course. A business opportunity." Starsky scoffed, with no attempt to mask his derision.
She gritted her teeth at his reaction. "I know how it sounds, but that's how it started. He just – fell back into contact with some old college friends. They gave him a taste of what he could have. But he never did the big transactions like they did. He was just on the periphery. He had a good career in a stock brokerage on Wall Street. He was smart, had two degrees in business and finance but –"
"But thought he'd make better money faster in the drug business?" he finished for her. "Vanessa, for God's sake, you were a cop's wife for some years. You know from your experience with Hutch's job what happens to people in that lifestyle."
"I never knew it would come to this! Marco had only ever dealt with small amounts…." She tapered off, sounding unconvinced herself.
"Until the packets he dealt in got bigger, the transactions of cash larger…." Starsky concluded, weary experience in his words.
She nodded, conceding to his insight. "This last one – I mean, this big last job. Marco had never done anything like this before. The two guys he knew – they worked for this big boss – and they decided to take off with one of the biggest hauls they had ever moved for him. They asked Marco to help them, but in the end they treated him like he didn't rate. They were going to walk away with more than ten million. The cut they offered Marco was ridiculously small. He deserved more. He and Jake hatched a plan to steal the parcel and clear the country before the other guys knew what he was doing. I don't know what went wrong – but it did. Very wrong. The two guys – they must have known what Marco was planning…"
"Ten million?" Starsky gave a small whistle of shock. "That's a sizeable load of meth."
Vanessa nodded. "Some big boss commissioned the stuff – he bought the services of a few corrupt industrial chemists and set them up in a fancy lab. The meth was different from the usual strength – potent compared to what was already on the streets. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."
"Modified meth. Very much the preferred thing right now," Starsky said. "You were going to run with Marco when he stole the parcel?" He knew his distaste showed on his face.
She shook her head. "I wasn't in on it. I only found out at the end – when Marco and Jake had it all worked out." She frowned at his reaction. "Don't look at me like that! I didn't want to lose him. He was leaving the country until it was safe…" Her voice trembled. "I couldn't bear to lose him." She started to cry.
He was unmoved by her emotion. "You sure it wasn't the millions you didn't want to lose?" he asked drily.
"I don't expect you to believe me." Her voice quavered as she fingered her damp eyes with care. "You only see me as a money-hungry woman."
He ignored her accusation. Now was not the time to go there. "So what happened?"
"I told you, they killed him! The two supposed college friends killed him. Under orders from the head guy, I suppose, but they still murdered him in cold blood. And it's just ripped me apart."
He was losing his patience. "This is a sad story, but I don't think you're here to get me to sympathize with your boyfriend's death. Why did you bring up my life in New York?"
She finished her wine. "May I have a refill?"
As he brought her the bottle, he realized her cool veneer was slipping away as the alcohol eroded her defenses. Topping her glass, he asked quietly, "You have the meth, don't you?"
She looked at him, surprised. "How –?"
"I'm a cop. Give me some credit."
"Marco never came back, but I know where he stashed it. So, Jake and I, well, Jake is trying to help me sort out the whole mess – "
"I bet Jake is."
"He's my friend," she cried out. "He was Marco's best friend. He doesn't want to see me get hurt."
He had to impress upon her the gravity of the game she was playing. "You'll get more than hurt – you could wind up exactly like your boyfriend. You and this Jake. Dead."
"That's why I need your help, David. That is why I came here to LA."
It all started making sense. "You think I can help you? Why? Just because I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Brooklyn?"
"It's closer to you than you realize. I remember hearing you and Ken talk about you and your father's relationship with him. He was fond of you."
Starsky stood up straight, his face intent. He knew exactly whom she was referring to. "The man these college buddies worked for? You mean they were Durniak's men?"
"Yes." She watched his face, then looked down as though the reaction in his eyes was more than she could take.
It was clear why she had come to LA, why she had wheedled herself back into Hutch's life, why she was standing in front of him. She'd used Hutch just to get to him. He had something that Hutch didn't have – a connection to Durniak. It was clear now, very clear, just how much trouble Hutch's ex-wife was in.
"Even if I could help you, why should I?" But, he already knew the answer. Manipulation. It was always Vanessa's best skill.
"You think Ken would want me to die? What would that do to him? His ex-wife killed because she was caught up in a drug deal gone badly? He feels – deeply."
"Yes, he does. And you hurt him deeply. You killed the part of him that cared about you a long time ago."
Her slight laugh enraged him. "Maybe I did. But still – it would be disastrous for his career."
He paced across the room before he could lash out at her for threatening Hutch. "Look, Vanessa, even if I could – Joe Durniak is dead. You know that, I'm sure."
"But his son has taken over control of his organization."
"Tony Durniak is not Joe." He tasted the bitterness in his words.
"You knew him, though. You must have. He's close to you in age. Lived in the same neighborhood. You must have grown up with him, must know of each other." Her eyes were desperate.
"You're wrong." But he was too quick with the denial, and he knew Vanessa heard it.
"I saw photos in the papers. You went to Joe's funeral," she persisted. "You flew back to New York for it. You were photographed with Tony and his family."
"Simple social formality. Joe's death and funeral sold newspapers. The paparazzi were out in force. Lots of people were photographed. Like I said – Tony is not his father. I knew Joe. Tony and I – we weren't friends."
For the briefest moment he forgot Vanessa and let himself be taken back to a squalid room in New York with resentment flaring in Tony's eyes as he faced Starsky down. "Whatever history we had wasn't good," Starsky said firmly.
He saw disappointment in her eyes as though she had just opened a gift box to find the present inside was not what she had expected. "I don't believe you. I know you were significant to the Durniak family – just like your father was."
His eyes narrowed. "What the hell do you know about it?"
"Ken talked about you so much. I know a lot more about you than you realize, David." She hesitated as if deciding what else to say. "You always mattered more to him than I ever did."
That had cost her. The Vanessa that he knew, the cold, selfish Vanessa would never willingly admit that she was second place to Starsky when it came to Hutch. She was showing how much she needed to sway him over.
His gut clenched as though she had just disclosed something that he only recognized emotionally for the first time.
So close and yet always so far.
She was looking at him strangely. "You don't think I learned a lot about your life from Ken?"
"I don't believe Hutch would have shared that much with you. Of course, I don't doubt that you tried to find out." He looked thoughtful. "So this why you strung Hutch along for dinner? To pick his brains about me and the Durniak family?"
She shruggedand he knew she would never admit that Hutch had not shared details of his life with her. "I've researched Tony Durniak and his dead father well enough to find a connection between the two of you, no matter what you're trying to deny now."
"Have you been paying for information in New York?" He already suspected she had been.
Her expression said it all. "Jake, not me. He has a lead in the NYPD. You were our only real hope of getting out of this mess."
Starsky shook his head. "Then your friend. Jake, is a stupid bastard. The only information he needs to know I'd have given you both for free. Your friend doesn't need to pay an inside cop to tell him that Tony Durniak will kill him. You two have taken Durniak's mother load – he'll track you down one way or the other."
"Not if you help us," she said, her voice strangled. "I know you've never liked me, but I hoped that for Ken's sake you would – "
"What? Wipe your slate clean? You've made an enemy of the Mob, Vanessa. You have to go to the police – lay it on the table. Hand over the meth, hand over Jake, and plead your case with them for protection. They might be favorable since you'll be giving them a portion of Durniak's dirty business on a platter." He pulled at her forearm insistently, needing to drive home the point. "There's really no other way out of this for you."
"NO!" She backed away from him. "No way will I destroy my life by taking this to the cops. They'll only use me; they can't stop Durniak from getting to me. But you could. I know you could! Why won't you help me?"
He almost laughed. "I'm a cop, not a mobster, Vanessa."
"You're not just a cop – you have a past." Her tone was accusatory.
"Regardless of where I've come from and who I was, I'm a cop now."
"If you won't help me, I'll have to run. Ken will never know what happened to me – and if I do die, it'll be on your head because you refused to help me."
"I'm not Hutch, Vanessa. When it comes to you, I have objectivity."
"Ken would hate to hear the way you're treating me." The petulance in her voice sickened him.
"Oh honey, that is so not going to work with me." He half laughed as he shook his head at her. "Remember this is me you're talking to, not Hutch."
He pulled his cell from his pocket and brought up the contact screen. Holding it up, he offered it to her. "Here. Why don't you call him? Let's bring him over. You can tell him all about how I'm treating you."
She all but recoiled from the phone. "NO!"
"No? I think yes," Starsky pressed. "I'm not happy about this secret meeting anyway. I don't like keeping the truth from him. It's not how Hutch and I work, not who we are."
"He doesn't need to know. I – " she seemed to be grasping for the words. "I'm worried enough about how all of this will affect him."
He wasn't surprised at her attempt to fabricate concern for her ex-husband and he felt his jaw hardening at her deceit. "Yeah, I'm sure you're losing sleep over that."
"Look David –"
"No, you look, Vanessa. You haven't changed one single bit. You're still as selfish as ever. Now your greediness and scheming has landed you in trouble. So, you've blown back into Hutch's life to dump the danger on his doorstep." He stepped closer to her as his voice rose in anger.
She lunged for him, striking out with her nails. They caught him across the top of his open-necked shirt. He felt the scratch run deep across his skin. Wide-eyed at her impulsive strike, she stepped back as though frightened he might retaliate physically.
He was strangling with indignant rage but kept his distance. "Ah, of course, the Vanessa specialty. You like doing that, don't you?" He touched the gouge and looked at the blood smeared on his fingers. "Do you know how many times I had to see scratches like this on Hutch's face and arms?" he demanded, his voice low and fierce. "You won't do that again. Not to me – not to Hutch. Not ever you understand?"
She was stepping back even further, her eyes round with fear from his threat, when the stillness between them was shattered. Starsky whirled at the crashing boom of breaking wood behind him.
His apartment door smashed open wide, banging against the wall with tremendous force, the jamb splintering and the walls around it vibrating with the jarring impact.
Two large men in dark clothes and ski masks waving semi-automatic weapons dominated the entrance to the room. Starsky pivoted and reached for his own gun automatically. His left hand came up empty. In his rush to prepare for his meeting with Vanessa, he'd shoved it in his closet when he came home without taking the time to secure it. Now, all he could do to protect Vanessa was shove her behind him. As the intruders kicked the broken door partly closed, they quickly entered the room.
Vanessa, crying out in shock, cowered behind him.
"Try to stay calm," he told her, holding her back behind him with one hand while he faced down the masked men. Their ski masks were well secured, one navy and the other black, their clothes nondescript dark and their feet in boots. Starsky noted their fine fitting black gloves.
The two intruders didn't speak; the one with the navy mask held his gun so he had a clean shot at either of them if they moved. Vanessa's earlier soft tears gave way to choked wet gasps. Starsky stepped sideways, putting himself in front of Vanessa, facing the navy-masked man directly. "It's alright, Van. Just stay quiet and say nothing."
The other one, the black-masked man, split off to search the apartment. As Starsky watched him move through the place, he could tell that he was not adept at his role. And the one pinning him and Vanessa had a stance that suggested he was nervous. Starsky was sure these were not seasoned pros, so not likely to be Durniak's hit men. Not that it made them any less dangerous. If spooked or threatened, they could be lethal. He wondered if they were the two buddies Vanessa's boyfriend had double-crossed.
The man with the black ski mask returned with Starsky's Beretta and holster in his hand and held it dangling from his finger like a trophy. "Pretty fancy piece you got here." He backed away, keeping his own gun leveled at Starsky before sliding Starsky's weapon onto the table behind him.
Starsky raised his hands as the semi automatic was jabbed toward him.
Behind him, Starsky could feel Vanessa trembling. He wondered if she recognized them, even masked, as Marco's buddies.
"You gonna tell us what this is all about?" Starsky asked.
"Shut up. Sit in this chair." Black mask shoved Starsky toward one of the dining room chairs.
Vanessa gasped when they were separated and tried to go toward him.
"You!" the navy-masked man said, pointing to her. "Stay where you are." He moved closer to her and grabbed her arm roughly. "So, Vanessa – where is it?"
That answered Starsky's question about whether the three of them knew each other.
Vanessa was falling apart, any traces of her usual bravado gone. She was rigid with fear. "Marco never gave it to me – never even told me where he stashed it."
"Bullshit!" black mask said. "We know you both had tickets to leave New York. As soon as we took care of him, you grabbed it and ran. You think that LA was far enough away for you to hide?"
"No, I wasn't trying to hide. I wasn't. I – I'm here to see my ex-husband," she stammered.
"How nice, a marital reunion," the black masked man said, turning toward Starsky and assuming he was the ex-husband. He turned his masked face back toward Vanessa. "Marco said you were married before – to a cop. So that explains the holster and gun."
Vanessa started to shake her head and splutter something to correct him, but Starsky quickly interrupted her, his voice now assuming more of an edge. "I didn't invite her, ya know. Every time she drops in, it reminds me why I divorced her in the first place."
The two men laughed at Starsky's derogatory slant at Vanessa.
Starsky could feel Vanessa's desperate eyes on him, not understanding what he was trying to do. He did his best to warn her with his eyes to play along. He had to keep these thugs away from Hutch.
"So – you're the cop she came running to with the meth? Guess she thought you'd be able to bury it deeper for her." Black Mask poked his gun at Starsky's shoulder.
"I told you, I don't have it," Vanessa insisted tearily. "I came to see Dav – ah – my husband for support because I was frightened of what Marco had gotten me into. I swear I don't know anything about where Marco stashed the meth."
The navy-masked man backhanded her in the face, dropping her to the floor. Black mask turned away from Starsky to see what had happened. With his attention diverted, Starsky leapt up, plowing into him, taking him by surprise. The suddenly blow forced the criminal to drop his gun. It skidded away on the floor as Starsky drove his fist into the startled man. Scrabbling on his knees, Starsky lunged for the gun, but was stopped when the bigger man kicked him hard in the chest. The blow drove Starsky back against the coffee table. His rib cage ached; he gagged on bile. Struggling to catch his breath, he felt the gun's cold barrel pushed against his throat.
Blinking tears of pain from his eyes, he tried to assess the situation. Vanessa was sobbing quietly on the floor; her nose was bleeding and her cheek red from the harsh blow to her face. The black masked man who Starsky had toppled was upright again, rubbing his lower gut and looking at Starsky like he wanted to kill him.
He was outraged – his eyes bulging as he pressed the barrel harder against Starsky's jugular. "One of you had better start talking. Where the fuck is the stuff? Spill it."
Leaving Starsky, he wrenched Vanessa up from the floor, his fist bunched in her hair. "We can leave her pretty face intact or, Mr. ex-husband, you can watch us beat her to pulp. She came here to get you to help her move the stuff. So you must know where it is. We're not leaving LA without it."
Before Starsky could come up with another move, Vanessa spoke up. "I never had it. Marco left it with Jake."
Starsky knew that he shouldn't have been shocked that she would sell out her friend so easily. Did she think she could actually succeed with this strategy? Did she really believe that she could bargain her way out of this?
"And who is Jake?" asked navy mask.
Starsky could hear genuine curiosity in his question. So, they hadn't done their homework. Green at their game. But green players could be dangerous – very dangerous.
"Marco's best friend," Vanessa choked out. "He and Marco stole the meth. I wasn't involved. He's back in New York. You think I'd fly over here with that much meth for God's sake? My – my husband knows nothing about where it is."
The two men looked at each other.
"Details," said black mask.
"His information is in my purse…let me get it for you. Please."
Navy mask plucked up her handbag and, holding the gun directly to her head, he pushed it roughly at her chest. "Get it."
With shaking hands, she pulled out a business card from her wallet. "Jacob Webster…his business contact is – please – please…" She handed it over to him, and watched him look at it before he slid it into his pocket. Starsky could see her chalky face beneath the blood. Something in the masked man's eyes had obviously alarmed her. With the man's back to him he couldn't know what she was staring at, but whatever it was, was scaring the hell out of her.
"Okay, Vanessa, you're coming back to New York with us and help us find this Jake and Durniak's meth." Navy mask smoothed down Vanessa's hair with one hand and kept his gun trained on her with the other.
"No, please! Just leave me here. Jake has it, I told you already. It's the truth!" She whirled around and cried to Starsky, "Don't let them take me!"
Starsky knew that once they located Jake and the meth, they'd kill both of them. Starsky saw Vanessa's frantic expression. She knew it, too.
She was crying in earnest now, her face streaked with mascara and blood. Her show of weakness made the man holding Starsky under gunpoint chuckle.
It was only a slim opportunity, but Starsky took it. He shoved his arm up, deflected the gun away from him while kicking out at black mask's legs. For a brief moment, Starsky had the upper hand, toppling his opponent to the floor. He rammed his knee hard into the man's chest. They were both struggling for the gun still clutched in his opponent's hand.
As he grappled physically on the floor, Starsky caught a peripheral view of Vanessa. She screamed, thrashing about wildly to pull away from the navy-masked man. Starsky saw her aim a wild kick at the man's groin. His bellowing howl rang out as he doubled over, clutching at his wounded balls. His gun clattered to the floor as he cursed and writhed in pain. Then, while Starsky focused on his own struggle, he heard Vanessa scuffle as she scrambled to her knees some distance away from him.
Then navy mask yelled, "Drop the gun, bitch! Now!"
Starsky frantically tried to pull away from the stranglehold black mask had on him, the gun still wedged between their bodies. He twisted violently under the grip of black mask trying to see Vanessa. Freeing his head enough to turn, he caught sight of her again. She was on her knees, sobbing and hugging a gun possessively to her chest as she aimed it toward her attacker. She was pointing it upward, directly into the gut of navy mask as he swayed above her still clutching one hand to his groin.
Navy mask yelled again. "Drop it, I said!" He kicked her in the chest. She careened to the side, the gun now loose in her hands. He threw himself at her.
"Vanessa DON'T!" Starsky called out at the same moment his grip on black mask's gun slid away. He went for the man's neck, but never made it.
A blinding blow to his head made him crash against black mask's body. Pain and light exploded all around him.
He started losing consciousness as nausea flooded him. Vanessa screamed again, the sound raw. Even as the room and the action receded, he heard the unmistakable sound of his own Beretta being fired at close range. Once and then a second time – the crack of gunfire echoed around him before crushing pain took everything away.
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The pain in Starsky's head was familiar enough. He rolled his head gingerly and felt the brush of carpet fibers against his cheek and a light dampness.
Blood. His blood. From a scalp wound that had been busted open by a gun butt to the side of his head.
Oh yeah, he'd felt this pain before, more than once over the course of his career.
The fact that he couldn't remember details of the event concerned him until flashes and images started pouring into his brain.
Crying. Screaming. The sound of a gunshot. Gunshots.
As the memory took hold and the images became clearer, he gasped and closed his eyes. The smell of blood, metallic and cloying, filled the room. It was too strong to be just from the gash on his head.
Steeling himself against the pain, he rolled gently onto his side.
Vanessa lay close by. Her shining hair fanned out around her beautiful face; her graceful limbs were almost artistically arranged, like a ballerina who had dropped dramatically to the stage. Beneath her body, the carpet was heavy with fresh blood. The skin on her face was not yet mottled pink. The blood spilled all around her was still moist and glistening. So, she'd been killed only a short time ago. Sitting up slowly, his head spinning, he looked around as he began to remember what happened.
Turning his head further, he took in the damage done to the living room. His apartment had been ransacked. They must have searched for the meth before taking off.
Shifting his weight, he attempted to get to his knees. As he did, his hand brushed something hard and cold.
His Beretta. Equidistant between Vanessa's body and him, where the killers no doubt left it. She'd panicked; tried to run for it, so they shot her.
Hutch's ex-wife was dead on his living room floor, killed by his gun.
He had to call Hutch. Then, he'd call it in. But first he had to talk to Hutch.
Reaching into his coat pocket for his cell phone, he battled to stay upright as nausea and dizziness assailed him. Just as he wrapped his hand around his phone, pounding footsteps sounded at the damaged doorway and he jerked his head painfully toward the commotion. For the second time in the evening his apartment was being stormed. Two uniformed cops charged into the room, their weapons held in front of them. Santa Monica Police – not LAPD. He was outside of his own jurisdiction – outside of everything that was familiar and normal.
"Police. Get your hands in the air. Drop that phone, too. Now!"
Starsky did as they ordered, letting the cell fall to the rug as he slumped to one side, falling listlessly against the couch. For several seconds he feared he would lose consciousness again.
He recognized one of the two officers straight away and, despite his clouded head, his name came to him. Perez, a young Hispanic officer who had served some time in his and Hutch's precinct. Perez clearly remembered him, too. He could see his dawning recognition.
"Jesus, Sergeant Starsky!" Perez looked sideways at his partner. He moved in closer to where Starsky sat hunched against the couch. His gun out in front of him, his eyes swept across Vanessa's body to the gun lying beside it before scanning the apartment.
"It's just me here, Perez. And the victim. The men who trashed my place and killed her are long gone. They knocked me out cold."
Perez nodded but walked off anyway to do the sweep, stepping around Vanessa's body carefully, as Starsky knew he would. The cop he didn't know continued to cover him while Perez moved through his rooms. He was as pale as Perez was dark, his skin lightly freckled and his hair copper colored. He eyed Starsky with wariness.
When Perez came back and stood in front of Starsky, he nodded briefly at his partner and holstered his weapon. "All clear, though like Sergeant Starsky said, the place has been overturned."Perez looked at Starsky. "You're bleeding from a head wound. You don't look too good, Sergeant. We'll need to call the paramedics when we call this in." He turned to his partner "You want to do that, Cassidy?"
Cassidy nodded while re-holstering his weapon and walking to the side with his radio. Starsky heard him asking for a homicide team, crime lab, and medical examiner as well as the paramedics. The whole thing seemed surreal. Was he really crouched on the floor beside Hutch's dead ex-wife? Starsky thought of Hutch hearing about this through police channels, not through him. He wished he'd had a chance to call Hutch himself, but right now that wasn't possible. He doubted they would give him the chance.
Perez was watching him with concern. Crouching down on the floor beside Starsky, Perez asked, "What the hell happened here? We got called in for a domestic with gun shots."
Starsky touched his bleeding head gingerly, frowning with the effort of concentrating. Despite his confusion, he had to present something coherent. "I was with her," he motioned toward Vanessa's still body, "when two men in masks crashed in through the door. They were armed. We engaged, and they knocked me down." He raised his hand wearily to his still bleeding head wound. "One of them whacked me with his gun, the other tackled Vanessa with mine. I was barely conscious when they shot her with my weapon. I think – she grabbed it before…." He shook his head to clear it. "She - she panicked and tried to run. I – I couldn't stop her…" His voice faded out, his throat raspy with anguish.
He lowered his head against the couch, closing his eyes. "How long ago? When did the call come in?" he asked weakly.
"Ten minutes. We responded as soon as we got the call, but were a few blocks away and then had to locate the apartment." Perez scribbled notes on what Starsky had told him.
"That means I was out for at least five minutes."
Cassidy was briefly examining Vanessa's body while Perez wrote and looked about the room."These men you say that attacked you both? You knew them?"
"No. But I know who they might be…probably from…east coast. They were connected to – to Van – to the victim." He struggled to make sense of his own thoughts. He knew these first moments when cops entered a crime scene mattered. "She didn't know them personally, but knew what they wanted."
Cassidy raised his eyes and looked at Perez. Perez continued to take notes as he asked. "Your place has been turned over. What is it these men wanted?"
Despite his pounding head, Starsky knew he had to be careful with what he said without any legal representation. "I don't know all that much. Drugs – they were looking for a stolen stash of meth that Vanessa was somehow involved with back east." Starsky could see Perez's consternation. "I had nothing to do with any of it. First I knew of it was tonight."
From where he was crouched beside Starsky, he gave Vanessa's body a long look. "And the victim?" Perez asked. "You knew her? You said she was here with you when the intruders broke in."
Starsky's gaze went back to Vanessa. "Yeah, I know her. Her name's Vanessa Hutchinson."
Perez did a double take at the name.
"Yeah...she's Hutch's ex-wife. My partner's ex-wife," Starsky clarified for Cassidy.
A look passed between the two uniforms, and Starsky felt the air thicken with their unspoken thoughts.
Even as scrambled as his head was Starsky knew what those unspoken thoughts would be. Still he had no strength to correct their misconceptions.
Perez stood up and turned to Cassidy. He was obviously going to limit his questioning of Starsky beyond the initial summation. "No problems with the call in, Cassidy?"
"A homicide team is on the way. The crime lab team will be here soon. Paramedics as well. I gave the details to Communications and asked them to alert Sergeant Starsky's captain."
"I need to call…my partner." Starsky moved his hand to reach for his dropped phone.
"Sorry, I can't let you do that," Perez said. "Not until you talk to the attending officer from Homicide."
"I can't let –" Starsky sucked in a breath. "Hutch needs to hear this from me."
"Come on, Sergeant." Perez was gentle but insistent. "You know this is standard procedure. The victim is your partner's ex-wife. I can't allow you to talk to him at this point." Perez held out his hand for Starsky's phone, and Starsky slapped it into his palm.
He struggled to his feet only long enough to sink down onto to the couch. His rib might be busted, and his head hurt. His body was one indistinct blur of pain.
He thought of how Hutch would feel when he was told Vanessa was dead. And how he would feel when he learned that she was killed in his partner's apartment.
He thought of Hutch and how much he wanted to have him here beside him to make this living hell go away.
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The quiet night was wearing on Hutch. He'd had enough of his own indecision. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell. He noted the time – well after ten. Late enough that Starsky should be finished with Lydia. His finger hovered over the keypad. Telling himself he was only checking on how things had gone for Starsky, he decided not to delay any further.
The phone buzzed several times before going to voice mail. Disappointed, Hutch tossed the phone on the coffee table and rubbed the back of his stiff neck.
He was ready for that beer now.