While Hutch was finishing up getting dressed, Starsky
wandered out of the bedroom and started looking for their house
guests.  He could overhear Jim's voice, in what seemed to be a 
one-sided conversation, out on the deck.  Spotting him out there leaning
against the railing, talking on the cordless phone, Starsky confirmed his
assumption and then went to the den, where he found Blair, entranced
by the bookshelf-lined walls.

     "See anything interesting?"  Starsky asked, coming up behind
him in the small room.  It was only about 10x12, and contained two
nearly threadbare old recliners, an old stereo and a myriad of books;
books on shelves that lined the walls, books in boxes, books in stacks
on the little table between the chairs, and even a couple of books on the
window sill.

     "I could *live* in this room," Blair said, running his finger
along the spines of the books on one of the shelves.  "Where'd you get
all these?"

     "We've been collectin' 'em on our own all our lives, and when
we got together, our collection had to get married too," Starsky said,
grinning.  "We were gonna put bookshelves out in the living room, but
then we decided we'd stuff 'em all in here where we could be nice and
messy and not worry about what it looked like."

     "This is great, man.  Which ones are yours?"

     "We knew that when we first moved in, but now, it's pretty hard
to tell anymore."

     "Who's this?"  Blair took a small framed photo of a woman off
the shelf to examine it more closely.  She was young, pretty, with
brown hair and a pleasant smile.  

     "Terri," Starsky said softly, smiling at the photo.  At Blair's
questioning gaze, he added, "We were going to get married, and...she
died."

     "Oh, man, I'm sorry..."  Blair looked back at the pretty young
woman again, then at his father.  "Hutch is okay with the picture?"

     "We were all good friends.  Hutch knows that my loving Terri--even now--
doesn't change anything about how much I love him."

     "What happened?"

     "It was a revenge thing."  Starsky leaned against the shelves and
sighed.  "George Prudhomme, a psycho Hutch and I put away, got out
on a clerical error.  He had it in for me--I arrested his son, who ended
up being murdered in prison.  He came after me once, and we nailed
him, but he escaped, and while he was out, he shot Terri."

     "Oh, man.  That's horrible."  Blair set the photo back on the
shelf.  "You were engaged?"

     "Well, not officially.  We hadn't really said the words yet, made
the commitment to get married, but we were thinkin' about it.  She
went into a little store a few blocks from her apartment, and
Prudhomme and his goons showed up and made it look like an armed
robbery attempt.  She was shot in the head, but she didn't die right
away," Starsky swallowed, looking at the pretty, smiling face in the
picture.  It was scary how fast the old pain could crest again, after all
these years.  "The bullet lodged in her brain, and the bizarre thing was
that she was able to walk and talk and...except for a little bandage on
her forehead, it was like nothin' ever happened."

     "How long did she go on like that?  Was she in pain?"  Blair
asked.

     "I know she had some pain, but she didn't let on too much.  She
tried to live every moment she had to the fullest.  She survived about a
week, and then we were out on the playground with the kids and she
lost her sight."  Starsky paused, looking away from the picture.  "She
died at the hospital later that day."

     "Oh, man."  Blair paused.  "On the playground with the kids?"

     "She was a special education teacher.  She loved working with
kids, especially kids with problems.  She was so great with them,"
Starsky recalled with a fond smile.  "One of the last things she was
worried about was that one of her students would retreat back into her
shell--made me promise to make sure she didn't."  Starsky sighed. 
"Hutch and I still went there and played basketball with the kids once
in a while, and tried to help them understand what happened with
Terri--the best they could, you know, without having to know anything
that would have been too upsetting."  Starsky paused.  "I asked her to
marry me after it happened, but we didn't actually get married.  I guess
I mainly wanted her to know that's what I wanted, and I would have
liked to have married her before...   But she had so much to deal with, I
didn't want to pressure her."

     "I didn't mean to bring up something painful, but thanks for
telling me about her."

     "It's a nice memory--nice to talk about her again.  I still think
about her, wonder what if..."  Starsky gestured a little, then let his hand
drop back to his side.  "You know, when I found out about you...it was
like a second chance?" Starsky smiled.  "Terri and I would have had
kids--probably a bunch of 'em.  She loved kids, and she'd have had
beautiful babies and been such a great mother...  I thought that wasn't
in the cards, and then there you were.  Smart and healthy and perfect." 
Starsky patted Blair's face.

     "I don't know about the perfect part," Blair said, chuckling and
blushing a little.

     "If I could've ordered a kid outta the catalog, I wouldn't change
anything."

     "You mean that?"  Blair asked, his voice almost faint with the
impact of what his father had said.  He'd known Starsky accepted him,
was proud of him, loved him even...but he'd never realized just how
thrilled his father really was with him.  Truth be told, even his mother
had never given him such a carte blanche endorsement.

     "Yeah, I mean that," Starsky said, smiling, then accepting the
bear hug that earned him.  

     Blair stepped back and cleared his throat.  

     "Now, who picked this one out?"  He pulled a book off the shelf
and Starsky laughed when he saw it was one of his favorite old cheesy
trivia books--one he had quoted from for days until Hutch had been
ready to strangle him.  

     "Hutch," he lied, grinning.  "Be sure and ask him about some of
those facts in there.  He loves trivia."

     "Jim's on the phone with Simon--I guess there's some big case
that just broke that Jim and I were working on before we came here,"
Blair explained as he thumbed through the book, chuckling and
shaking his head.  "Oh, wait a minute--*Hutch* picked this one out?" 
Blair looked up at his father, one eyebrow raised.  "I just came across
this passage about that tribe who ate their political candidate."

     "Okay, busted--but you gotta promise me to quote at least one
thing outta that book before you go home.  It'll drive Hutch up the
wall."

     "Consider it done," Blair said, laughing.

     "Hey, we've got a few minutes.  There's somethin' out in the
garage I wanna show ya."

     "Yeah?"  Blair followed his father out to the large garage, and
paused near the sleek, bright red Firebird.

     "That ain't it," Starsky said, moving past the nearly new car to
whatever was shrouded with a large gray tarpaulin.  "Now *this* is a
car," Starsky announced, pulling the tarp off a  beautifully restored
bright red Ford Torino with a wide white stripe.  

     "Wow...man, it's *perfect*!"  Blair enthused, moving over to it
and examining the flawless paint job.

     "We were short on money for quite a while workin' on the
house, so it had to sit here and fester.  But I got the body back in shape
over the last couple years, and I've done a lot of work on the engine."

     "Does it run?"

     "According to Hutch, it doesn't run, it *crawls*.  But that was
before Huggy sent a friend of his over to finish up the transmission
work a few days ago.  She's as good as new now."  Starsky smiled as he
looked at his pride and joy--not Blair this time, but the Torino.  "I never
had another car I liked as much as this one."

     "That one doesn't look too hard to take," Blair gestured at the
Firebird.

     "It's a good car--has lots of speed.  This one has *power*. 
Substance.  The new cars...they're just not the same."

     "This one's a real *muscle car*," Blair opined, opening the
passenger door and looking in at the black leather interior.  "That radio
is *old*, man," he said, chortling.

     "Before we got the hand held mic, we used to have an honest-to-
God telephone receiver to take the calls."

     "Oh, wow."  Blair sat in the passenger seat and started
examining the interior of the car with great interest.

     "Hey, Starsk!  Ready?"  Hutch called out the door.

     "Is that a '74 Torino?"  Jim moved past Hutch to join the other
two men in the garage.  With a roll of the eyes, Hutch followed.  "Big
V8 engine, right?"  Jim asked, joining Starsky at the front of the car as
he put up the hood.  "I bet this baby really flies."

     "We could give it a whirl and you can find out for yourself." 
Starsky grinned, crossing his arms over his chest.  "And no more outta
you makin' fun'a my car," Starsky admonished Hutch, who just chortled
a little evilly.  

     "You drove this on the job back in the 70s, huh?"  Jim looked
over the large engine with great interest.  "Guess you had some
difficulty blending with your surroundings on stakeouts."

     "I finally had to get a different car for work in '82--this one had
a lot of miles on it and the body was getting a little whipped," Starsky
explained, cheerfully ignoring the aspersion regarding his car's
impracticality for plainclothes police work.  "So I put it up on blocks
for a few years, and it really was put on hold while we were fixing up
the house.  A few years ago, I started working on the body, and more
recently, the engine."

     "Jim, get a load'a this radio," Blair said from his spot in the
passenger seat.  Jim walked around to where Blair sat and looked in the
open door of the car.  

     "That goes back a few years."

     "Laugh all you want.  It works.  It's got new guts in an old body. 
Merle knows this guy who's into electronics--"

     "Merle the Earl," Hutch clarified for their puzzled guests.  "The
Customizing Pearl," he added, curling his lip.  "His idea of style is fur
interiors."

     "Now there's a scary thought," Jim responded, laughing.

     "It was more than a thought.  He made it a reality in Hutch's
car."

     "I'd have paid good money to see that moment," Blair said,
laughing.  "Man, you must've been pissed off."

     "I was a bit upset, yeah," Hutch said, chuckling.  

     "It was a toss up who he wanted to kill more--Merle for the fur,
or me for taking his car there."  Starsky slid into the driver's seat.  "So,
we gonna stand around all day or take this baby out for a ride?"

     "Have you guys taken it out since they finished the work on it?" 
Jim asked.

     "I had the pleasure of going on the first high speed road test,"
Hutch said.  "I foolishly thought age might tame him a little."

     "I'll get in the back," Blair offered, figuring he had the shortest
legs of the group.

     "Can we trust you two kids in the back seat together?"  Starsky
teased as Jim slid into the other side of the back seat next to Blair.

     "If you hear anything strange, just don't check the rearview
mirror," Jim quipped.

********

     Starsky leaned back in the seat, windows down, his arm resting
on the car door as he steered the Torino through the mid-morning
traffic.  Hutch was in the passenger seat, pointing out a few landmarks
to their visitors.  Thinking he couldn't remember enjoying a drive to
work quite so much in years, Starsky finally spoke up.

     "Whaddya think?"

     "Engine sounds great--you must've done a hell of a lot of work
on it," Jim said.

     "I guess if it sounds good to you, I know my mechanic was on
the up and up," Starsky responded, and Jim smiled at the good-natured
teasing.

     "That's me.  On the spot engine diagnostic services," he
retorted.  "So how fast does this baby go, anyway?"  Jim asked, leaning
forward a bit.

     "In the old days, I topped 100 a few times.  The old man over
here got nervous when I pushed it past 85 last week, so I didn't go for
the gusto," he said, jerking his head toward Hutch.

     "The 'old man' wants to get even older, Gordo," he replied,
unruffled by Starsky's needling.  "Although if I survived twenty-some
odd--*very odd*--years of your driving, I daresay very little could kill
me now."

     "I thought it was eating all that sea kelp and butterfly bones that
kept you goin' so long," Starsky prodded.

     "Butterfly bones?"  Blair asked, laughing.

     "Banana chips, Blair.  Your father has the palate of a
longshoreman."

     "Now tell me, Ellison, how many grown men do you know sit
around eating little dried up banana flakes?"  Starsky looked in the
rearview mirror for reinforcement from the other junk food aficionado
in the group.

     "I'm more of a potato chip man myself."

     "See?"  Starsky said triumphantly, as if the comment were all
the validation he needed.

********
     
     "Things ought to just get more interesting now," Hutch said,
rejoining the group gathered around Starsky's desk.  Returning from a
meeting with their captain, he didn't look happy.  "We had a leak to the
press.  The story's due out in the afternoon edition."

     "The story?  About Fordney?"  Jim asked.

     "We don't know the extent of the leak yet, or how much detail is
involved, but we do know that they've blown the whistle on the fact
that we're hunting for Fordney and all the salient details of the murder."

     "That's just great," Starsky groused, leaning back in his desk
chair.  

     "Maybe it's not so bad--the publicity might get people looking
for him.  I mean, as it stands now, nobody knows there's a killer on the
loose," Blair said.

     "Think lurid headlines--'investment broker is homicidal stalker'. 
It's the Bay City Beacon that's running the story."  Hutch rubbed his
forehead, sighing dismally.  "That's about a step down from the
National Enquirer running it."

     "Any ideas on the leak?"  Jim asked.

     "Well, a lot of people knew the details after we went through
the cabin.  Between the crime lab folks and the other cops, the county
sheriff...hell, it could be anybody," Starsky said tiredly.  "We'll get a
better feel for it when we see just how much detail they've got."

     "This ought to bring every crackpot out of the woodwork. 
Probably have more sightings of Fordney now than we do of Elvis." 
Hutch shrugged.  "Oh, well.  Shit happens."

     "Maybe we'll get a lead on Fordney this way.  I mean, as it
stands now, we don't have anything new to go on," Blair said.  

     "He's got a point," Hutch said, nodding.

     "Yeah, but when he combs his hair right, it doesn't show too
much," Starsky said, cuffing his son on the back of the head.  

     "I understand those points are hereditary, *Dad*," Blair
retorted, and Starsky just chortled, finishing off the cup of coffee he'd
been nursing along since they arrived.         

********

     The headlines were as lurid and tasteless as they were
anticipated to be, maybe slightly worse.  Not only did they include
every unpleasant detail of the homicide itself, but made some ugly
allusions about the victim's lifestyle.  

     "Somebody who knew this case inside out leaked this
information to this piece of shit rag of a newspaper."  Starsky rolled up
the paper and threw it angrily in the wastebasket.  "Outside of the four
of us, who knows all this stuff?  When this is over, we're suin' their
ass."

     "Minnie dug up a lot of information in records on Fordney
when we were looking for priors, and when she found the property
listings," Hutch said.

     "Minnie isn't an option.  She wouldn't do that, Hutch."

     "I didn't mean *she* did it, but maybe she had someone helping
her look up the information.  There's Ginny's staff--they always know
all the details."

     "How well do you know all those people--in Records or the
M.E.'s office?"  Jim asked.

     "Pretty well, but new people come and go all the time in entry
level jobs.  You can't know everybody," Starsky ran his hand tiredly
over his face.  "No leads and now it's a press carnival."  Starsky stood
up.  "I'm goin' downstairs and talk to Ginny."

     "Starsk."

     "What?"  Starsky frowned, moving to look over his partner's
shoulder.  Hutch had fished the paper out of the wastebasket and
persevered to the end of the sensational article while the others had
been lamenting the damage it would do.  

     "This is going to get worse before it gets better.  'Detectives
Kenneth Hutchinson and David Starsky are heading the investigation. 
As an interesting side note, Detective Starsky fathered a son with the
victim, creating what our insider termed "a potential conflict of
interest".  At this time, the Bay City Police Department has declined
comment on the case.'  That's just great."  It was Hutch's turn to toss the
paper aside.  

     "We'll be lucky if we still have this case after lunch."  Starsky
sat on the edge of the desk.  "I'd like to get my hands on the son of a
bitch who wrote that piece of shit."

     "If you guys lose this case, we'll have no link to work on it,"
Blair said, a note of panic in his voice.  "They can't do that now."

     "Oh, they can do it."  Hutch sighed.  "We'll do everything we
can to throw our weight around and hang onto it.  Generally, given our
participation in the serial killer task force--"

     "Hutch's writing and seminar work bein' pretty well-known,"
Starsky interjected.

     "...we've made a reputation for ourselves here," Hutch
continued, "and when we're dealing with a disturbed stalker, it would
be ill-advised to remove us from the case for the sake of a one-night
stand Starsky had over thirty years ago."  Hutch held up a forestalling
hand.  "I'm not calling it that, but that's the best line of defense to use
with the boss.  If we make Starsky's connection to you or Naomi sound
like it's of any great emotional importance, Blair, we *are* dead meat."

     "We're dead meat anyway.  It's going to be a little tough for me
to dismiss my connection to Naomi--and Blair--as no big deal after I've
done all but hand out cigars around the precinct."  

     "We have to level with Taylor," Hutch said, referring to their
captain.  "Shit, these are the days when I *really* miss having Dobey in
that office."  Hutch shook his head.  "I was thinking of a song and
dance for the Chief."

     While Starsky and Hutch spent the afternoon on damage control
within the department, Jim and Blair took an unmarked police sedan
Starsky signed out for them and made a side trip to a local museum.  It
was determined that the smartest thing was for Blair to be as scarce as
possible around the PD while Starsky's conflict of interest was being
debated, and neither of them had a clue of where to look next for
Fordney.

     Blair wandered from exhibit to exhibit in the museum, which
was boasting artifacts from several significant recent digs, showing
little interest in anything displayed.  By the time they were standing in
front of a group of mummies, and the most profound comment Blair
could come up with was "those are smaller than the mummies I saw in
New York two years ago", Jim slid his arm around his partner.

     "I know this isn't easy, Chief.  Waiting around is driving me
nuts too."

     "What are we gonna do, Jim?  We've got no leads, and we've
got three of the best cops on the *planet* working on this case, and
we're still *nowhere*."

     "Three cops and the nation's only crime-fighting
anthropologist," Jim amended, smiling and squeezing Blair's shoulders. 
"I know we're in a slump right now, but something'll turn up."

     "You want to get some dinner?" Blair asked blandly, turning
away from the mummies to look at Jim--a view he preferred
immensely.

     "What about your dad and Hutch?"

     "They haven't called us, so they're probably tied up at
headquarters.  My dad didn't answer the message I left him at
lunchtime yet."

     "Okay," Jim said, then added, "I think there's a little restaurant
across the street.  How about that?"

     "Fine, whatever," Blair shrugged, following Jim out of the
museum and down the long set of front steps to the sidewalk.  

     "Hey, why don't you go get us a table--looks like they're getting
crowded.  I want to see if the other papers picked up on anything in
their late editions."

     "Okay."  Blair crossed the street and headed into the restaurant
while Jim scanned the papers on the newsstand, finally picking out a
couple of more reputable ones to scan for any reference to the story the
sleazy little "Beacon" had printed earlier that day.

     With the papers tucked under his arm, Jim pulled his wallet out
of his jeans to check on his cash, frowning at the dearth of it, and
hoping Blair still had a little pocket money to cover dinner.  He was
getting hungry, and a hike to the ATM didn't hold any lure.  He walked
into the small, stylish restaurant and scanned it for Blair.  Seeing that
there were a couple of empty booths, Jim sat down in one and tried to
separate the sounds and smells of the restaurant and its patrons, making
a sensory sweep of the place looking for his lover.  Uneasy when he
could discern nothing familiar, he got up again and walked to the men's
room, where he assumed Blair had probably gone.  There were two
other men using the facilities, but no sign of Blair.  

     Growing more and more uneasy, Jim walked back out to the
front of the restaurant and approached the hostess who had not been at
her post when he entered.  Taking out his wallet, he located a photo of
Blair and held it up.  

     "Did you see this man come in a few minutes ago?"  he asked.

     "I sure did.  He's seated right over--" she frowned, puzzled.  "I
seated him in that last booth over there by the window.  Did you check--"

     "The men's room?  Yeah, I just came from there.  He's not here. 
You didn't see him leave?"

     "*I* didn't.  Just a second."  She walked back through a pair of
swinging doors, and a moment later returned with a man in his early
twenties, who appeared to be a manager.  "He's got a picture of the
guy," she said to the man by way of explanation, and Jim held out the
picture of Blair for the young man's inspection.

     "Oh, yeah, he left with an older guy."

     "Can you describe the other man?"  Jim asked.

     "He was taller than this guy, with brown hair...looked like a
business-type...suit and tie, real conservative-looking.  When they left, I
remembered thinking it looked a little weird because he had the guy
with the long hair by the arm."

     "Could you identify the man if you saw him again?"

     "Probably.  They were only the distance away from me from
here to the door."

     "You'll be here all evening?"

     "Sure.  I'm closing tonight."

     "I'll be back with some photos for you to take a look at," Jim
said, already knowing with a sick, sinking feeling who the man was
who'd hustled Blair out of the restaurant.  Still it would have to be
confirmed by a witness.  Walking out onto the sidewalk, feeling the
heavy sick weight of panic in the pit of his stomach, Jim dialed the PD
number.  When he got through to the Captain's secretary, she informed
him that Starsky and Hutchinson were in a meeting with the
Commissioner and couldn't be disturbed.  

     "This is a police emergency relevant to the Fordney case, so I
think you better put me through, lady," Jim snapped back.

     "Your name again, sir?"

     "Detective Ellison, Major Crimes, Cascade PD.  Detective
Starsky's son was just abducted by our homicide suspect, so I think you
better interrupt that meeting."

     "One moment."  She put him on hold, and in a heartbeat,
Starsky was on the phone.

     "Where the hell are you?"  he demanded.  

     "I'm across the street from the National Archaeological
Museum, in front of The Grillworks Cafe.  Blair went in to get us a
table, and while I was still across the street, Fordney walked out of here
with him.  We need an APB--"

     "I know what we need, dammit.  How did this happen?!  What
in the holy living Hell were you doing *across the street*?!"  Starsky
shouted.  

     "We don't have time for this.  Blair's life is in danger, and we
need an APB out on him and to get some black and whites combing
this area."

     "Thanks for the advice," Starsky retorted sarcastically.  "We'll
be right there."  Then he banged up the phone loudly.

     Minutes later, while Jim was questioning the other patrons in
the restaurant, the Torino squealed to a stop, siren blaring, red light
flashing on top of it.  Starsky was out of the car in a flash, with Hutch
close behind him.  Jim met them at the door as the customers and wait
staff watched the anxious cops with great interest.

     "Fordney was driving his Navigator--no surprise there.  One
lady said she thought the plates were missing," Jim said.  "Everyone
who saw the guy Blair left with has described him essentially the same
way.  It's definitely Fordney."

     "I just wanna know one thing," Starsky said, barely controlled
rage evident in his voice.  "What was my son doing alone when that
psycho is still out on the streets?"  he asked through gritted teeth.  

     "Starsk, he walked across the street," Hutch interjected.  "The
most important thing for us to do now is focus on finding him."

     "You got some new idea you've been holdin' out on us with?" 
Starsky challenged his partner.  "'Cause unless you do, that's fucking
*useless* advice, Hutch. *Useless*.  We couldn't find the son of a bitch
before, and we've got nothin' else to go on now."  Starsky strode
through the door and back outside.  As the other black and white units
arrived, he was giving them their orders, directing them which parts of
the city to spread out and search.  

     "I picked up a couple newspapers to see if the story was getting
picked up by the respectable press," Jim explained to Hutch.  "It looked
like this place was getting crowded, so I suggested that Blair go grab us
a table while I picked up a paper or two.  It never occurred to me that
he'd be in danger.  I watched him walk into the restaurant safely."

     "Starsky's blowing off steam.  He'll settle down."

     "He's right.  I shouldn't have left him alone.  It just didn't occur
to me that there'd be any danger in the middle of a crowded restaurant
for *five minutes*.  That's how long I was over here while he was over
there."  Jim shook his head.  "And I don't even know where the hell to
start looking."

     "The cottage is out," Hutch stated, motioning to Jim to sit at an
available table nearby.  Without being asked, the hostess came over
with a thermal pot of coffee and three cups.  A pretty young woman
with red hair and a pleasant smile, she glanced out at the teeming mass
of police personnel that were gathering outside, all being given their
marching orders by Starsky.

     "If you or the other officers would like anything, just let us
know," she said.

     "Thank you very much," Jim responded.  "You've all been very
helpful."

     "There won't be a street in a fifty mile radius without a cop on it
before too long.  We've alerted the county sheriff, and I just put in a
call to the FBI field office," Starsky said, joining them at the table. 
"We've got an old friend over there who can push the paperwork
through and call it a kidnaping case even without the wait."  After a
long pause, he poured himself a cup of coffee and took a gulp.  "I'm
sorry about rippin' you a new one," he said to Jim.  "If Blair were here,
he'd remind me he wasn't five years old and was allowed to cross the
street by himself."  Starsky laughed a little sadly.  "Sometimes that's
what makes me feel the worst.  I'd give anything if he was five years
old now.  I guess it's just...*weird* getting this kid all of a sudden, and
he's too old to look out for him."

     "I'd give my life before I'd even put Blair's in danger," Jim said
evenly, not looking up from his own cup of coffee.  "Because if I lose
him, my life is over anyway, so there wouldn't be a hell of a lot to
lose."

     "There's gotta be something we're overlooking," Hutch said,
rubbing his chin in contemplation.  "Sitting here and lamenting the
situation isn't going to fix it.  We've got to go over every single thing--"

     "Wait."  Jim frowned a moment.  "The phone records.  Wasn't
there another number...dammit, something on the print out.  What color
highlighter was Blair using when he went through the print outs?"

     "Is this going anywhere specific?"  Starsky asked, obviously
puzzled over the importance of the marker color in solving the case.

     "I remember there was a phone number highlighted in
orange...it showed up on Harold's phone records probably a half dozen
times, always on days when Fordney's numbers *didn't* show up.  And
Naomi's cell phone record--it showed up there about a week before she
died.  We were going to check it out and then didn't, because things
broke with Fordney."

     "All that stuff's back at the precinct.  Let's go check on it." 
Hutch got up and the others followed him as they hurried out to the
Torino and piled in, Starsky employing lights and siren all the way
back to headquarters.

********

     The long ride to their destination had been tedious if not
terrifying.  With his hands tied behind his back and compressed under
his butt as they rode, Blair had little or no feeling in them anymore. 
Sitting on a straight chair provided some marginal relief, though it
manifested itself in needles and pins throughout all his fingers.  They
were in some sort of pole barn, in the corner of it, where Fordney had
assembled a couple of cots, a space heater, a table and chairs and a few
boxes of supplies.  The interior of the building was barren and huge--a
cement floor stained with numerous oil and paint splotches, and
endless expanses of gray metal over wood frameworks.  The lighting
was dull at best, provided by a few grimy light fixtures that hung down
from a wood beam that ran the length of the building.

     Fordney had refused to speak to Blair for the duration of the
two hour drive, ignoring his questions and only responding long
enough to threaten to gag him if he didn't shut up.  Now that they were
in this strange location, Blair decided to try again.

     "You want to tell me what we're doing here?"  Blair asked,
tugging at the ropes that kept his hands tied behind his back.   When no
answer was forthcoming, he tried a different tactic.  "My hands are
asleep," he complained, hoping to appeal to Fordney's humane side, if
in fact one existed.

     "Nice try.  The ropes aren't that tight."

     "I'm telling the truth.  My hands were asleep all the way here,
and now they're sort of half asleep, and they hurt.  Can't you just untie
me?  Where am I gonna go?"

     "I have plans for you, Blair."  Fordney sat in the other straight
chair, which was across the corner of the somewhat scarred square
wooden table from where Blair sat, ignoring Blair's pleas about the
ropes.  "You're my son--I'm sure you realize that by now, after having
discovered what you did at the cabin.  Thanks to Naomi, I was kept
away from you until now.  But things are different now, and I intend to
do everything I can to re-establish that relationship."

     "By kidnaping me and tying me up?"

     "You wouldn't have gone willingly, would you?"

     "You never asked," Blair said.

     "I have a feeling it wouldn't have been a successful proposal. 
At any rate, you're here now, and that's what's important."

     "I'm here, *tied to a chair*.  How is that going to lead to father-son bonding?"

     "Well, first things first.  First I had to get you here.  The rest
will follow from there."

     "They did a paternity test.  I know who my father is," Blair
ventured, knowing he risked riling the murderer who was holding him
prisoner, but also wanting to know just how delusional the man was.

     "Oh, I'm going to put a lot of stock in that.  You had the tests
run in a cop shop.  Starsky slips 'em a few bucks, and miraculously, the
results come back positive.  What a surprise."

     "Why would Starsky slip them money?  Why would he care? 
We just met back then--I mean, I could understand if it were a custody
issue--"

     "Now look!"  Fordney bellowed, standing up.  "You are not to
mention that man's name again.  Is that clear?"  he shouted at his
captive.  "The first thing we need to do is lay down a few ground rules
around here, and that's the first one.  Do you understand me?"  He
watched Blair, his face flushed with anger.  Blair stared back at him, a
little puzzled at what to say next.  He was stunned when Fordney
backhanded him, hard, across the face.  "When I ask you a question, I
expect an answer, you snot-nosed little bastard!  Now, *do* *you*
*understand* *me*?"  he demanded, leaning in close as Blair regained
his equilibrium, tasting the coppery tang of blood inside his mouth
from the blow.  

     "Yes," he muttered.

     "Yes, what?"  Fordney prodded.

     "Yes, I understand you," Blair said, a bit louder now, flexing his
jaw a little.  He raised his head just in time to receive a sharp blow
from the other side.  

     "Yes, *what*?!"  Fordney hissed into his face.  Then it dawned
on Blair what he was driving at, and what response was expected.

     "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

     "That's better.  And speak up when you answer me."  Fordney
stared at him and raised his hand again.

     "Yes, sir," Blair said firmly and as evenly as he could.  This was
not going well. //Dear God, no wonder Naomi wanted to keep me away
from this bastard,// he mused.  "Why did you ever fall in love with my
mother?  I can't see you as a hippie."

     "You wanna know why I spent time with those losers?" 
Fordney asked, and Blair didn't answer, praying he had called this one
right as a rhetorical question.  Fortunately, it was.  Fordney strolled
away from him.  "Because while my friends were chasing after these
virginal little socialites-in-training whose legs were locked together at
the knees, I was gettin' some every night of the week.  I'm telling you,
nobody came across like those hippie chicks.  All you had to do was
ask, and they were floppin' on their backs."  Fordney laughed
derisively.  "I would pick the one little slut that cried rape."

     "You bastard.  Don't you talk about my mother that way," Blair
shot back angrily.  

     "What did you say to me?  Huh?"  Fordney strode over and
grabbed a handful of Blair's hair, pulling it painfully as he yanked the
younger man's head back.  "You wanna repeat that, boy?"

     "I said, *you BASTARD*," Blair shot back.  "Which part of that
didn't you understand?"  Blair wasn't even surprised by the next blow,
or by the fact the blood started trickling out of his nose.  The next
blow, he knew, would result in a shiner to shame a prize fighter.  His
head pounded, and the blood was trickling over his lip now.  

     "Look at you."  Fordney resumed the painful clutch of Blair's
hair.  "What could I expect outta you?  You look like a goddamned
piece of hippie trash.  Or some kind of faggot.  But then you *are*
some kind of faggot, aren't you?  And so is that asshole cop who's
walking around masquerading as your father.  No son of mine is going
to be some kind of queer, so you can get that straight right now."  He
let go of Blair's hair and backed away from him.  "I really don't blame
you for what you've become, Blair.  Given your mother's lifestyle, I'm
not surprised you ended up...*deviant*.  But we can fix that."

     "Deviant?"  Blair prodded.

     "A little fairly who takes it up the ass every time his boyfriend
says 'squat'.  It figures Naomi would take up with some Jew faggot and
pass him off as your father."  

     "If you think I'm such a piece of trash, why do you want
anything to do with me?"

     "Because you're my son.  You're a smart kid, and if you applied
yourself to something besides a pile of musty old books that won't lead
anywhere, you could amount to something."

     "So you're just going to ignore the fact that a DNA test proves
that I'm Starsky's son?"

     "I'm asking the questions here.  You speak when spoken to.  Or
do you need a refresher?"  Fordney raised his hand as if to backhand
Blair again.

     "No, sir," Blair said quickly.  There was little point in goading
the other man into beating him further.  

     "That's better."  Puffed up with his own authority, Fordney
started pacing.  "I already told you what I thought of that test, and I also
told you not to bring up his name again."  Fordney picked up his truck
keys.  "I have some errands to run to get ready for our trip."

     "Trip?"  Blair asked, frowning.  

     "We're going on a trip, son.  First thing I have to do is make a
few arrangements, pick up a little traveling money...  We'll be out of
the country by this time tomorrow."

     "Where?"  Blair cringed just before the backhand blow snapped
his head sideways.  

     "What did I just tell you?!"  Fordney bellowed into Blair's face. 
"You will learn to respect me!"  Something snapped inside of Blair at
that comment, and at the constant abuse and degradation.

     "When hell freezes over, you sick, perverted bastard.  You
killed my mother.  And you know what?  You can beat me as much as
you want, and you can even kill me if you get off on that, and when it's
over, I'll still hate your fucking guts and I'll still be David Starsky's
son," Blair said through gritted teeth.  He was too angry to be as afraid
as he should have been at the rage building in his captor.

********

     "You find it yet?"  Starsky leaned over Jim's shoulder as the
younger man sat at the conference table, sifting through the phone
records.  "Figured you'd be ready for a refill," he said, setting a cup of
coffee next to the empty styrofoam cup on the table.

     "Thanks."  Jim paused.  "Letting Blair go into that restaurant
alone was a really dumb move," he said, shaking his head.  "I don't
know where my head was.  Up my ass, apparently."

     "No matter how much *stuff* you go through, sometimes you
just forget to be paranoid enough," Starsky said, sitting in one of the
other chairs.  "Hutch is talking with Taylor--this is getting dicey, Jim." 
Starsky shook his head.  "I'm not stopping workin' this case, but our
official blessing to do it is really slipping.  God, I miss Dobey
sometimes."   The older detective looked more drawn and worn out
that Jim ever remembered him looking before.  Starsky's usual energy
and presence--very much like his son's--seemed to defy time and age. 
Not so tonight.  Starsky was tired, stretched to his limits with worry
about Blair, and frustrated beyond words with the hunt for a killer who
seemed to have managed to vanish completely--with Blair.  "You
know, twenty years ago, we wouldn't'a been wastin' valuable time
playin' politics."  He swallowed, looking down at his hands where they
twined on the table top.  Then he smiled slightly.  "There were times
we did things in ways that would get us kicked off the force now. 
Times when Dobey helped us tap dance around procedure, the feds, the
press...it was like havin' a third partner."

     "His retirement had to be a body blow.  I know I don't relish
seeing Simon move on to another job or retire--though he's still pretty
young for that and not making noises about bailing when he has his
twenty years in."

     "Sometimes I think Hutch is right, you know?  Maybe it's time
to hang it up, let the younger guys take over while we...what?  Put in
another vegetable garden and take up croquet?"  Starsky smiled,
thought it held little humor.  "I'm not ready for it to end yet.  I still feel
like I've got a lot of good miles left on me, and on Hutch too, but
sometimes it feels like the time just went by so fast, and here we are,
and nothin's the same, and I'm spendin' more time fillin' out forms
and...what's the right term? *Massaging* the brass to get things done--
than I am doing what I'm supposed to be doing.  This is a kidnaping
case.  Hutch shouldn't be in there beggin' Taylor to let us keep it.  It
woulda been a non-issue with Dobey."

     "Then it's not so much that you're ready for the rocking chair as
it is that you're disillusioned with the brass now?"

     "I guess that's it."  Starsky rubbed the bridge of his nose. 
"Enough belly-achin'.  Any luck yet?"

     "Not yet, but I think I'm getting warmer.  It took me a while to
find the pattern here that includes Fordney's calls."  Jim scanned the
sheet.  "This is it."  He pointed out the number to Starsky.

     "Great.  I'll get it checked out," he said, scrawling the number in
his notepad and hurrying to the door of the room.  Jim's voice made
him pause.

     "You're not the only one who gets frustrated with procedure and
politics, Starsky.  I think it's less an issue of being ready for retirement
than it is an issue of being choked on litigation paranoia from upstairs."

     "Yeah, I think maybe you're right," Starsky said, smiling slightly
as he left the room to go check the number.  

     Jim leaned back in his chair and sighed.  It was rare to glimpse
a moment of vulnerability in Starsky's facade, least of all around Jim. 
He hoped this meant the undercurrent of competition between himself
and Blair's father was waning a bit.  He knew he fed it himself at times,
irritated by Starsky's arrogance or maybe just feeling a bit jealous of
how much Blair seemed to admire his father.  That was juvenile and
stupid.  The relationships had nothing to do with each other in terms of
jealousy.  But Jim had to admit, if only to himself, that he liked being
Blair's hero, and maybe defending that role made him strive to prove
himself as good--or better--than the one other man who might
challenge him for it. 

     "Well, hero, it's time you got off your ass and did some decent
police work," Jim chided himself under his breath, heading out to find
Starsky and see what he'd learned about the odd phone number.

********

     Blair raised his head, unsure of how long he'd been out.  All he
knew was that his face and head throbbed, and he was stained with his
own blood, from his nose and from a split in his lip which he probed
carefully with his tongue.  The beating had been wild and rapid, and
he'd lost consciousness somewhere along the line.  

     //Stupid, I'm stupid, stupid, stupid,// Blair berated himself as he
opened his eyes, finding that one didn't quite make it, pressed partially
closed from the swelling.  He found himself alone in the building, or at
least, he figured he must be alone.  Fordney and his truck keys were
both gone, and all that remained was the dim light of the grimy bulbs in
the fixtures that hung from the beams overhead.  

     He pulled on the restraints again, finding that while the ropes
were tight, there was some play in them, as long as he didn't mind
gouging a considerable amount of flesh off his wrists.  It was a
significant battle, avoiding tears as the pounding in his head joined
with the searing pain of tearing his flesh with every twist of his wrists. 
His arms ached from the prolonged restraint, and his hands were
mostly numb.  He'd have given ten years off his life at that moment just
to see Jim, to be untied and held and cared for...

     Biting down on the uninjured part of his lower lip, Blair
returned to his painful task of working at the ropes.  He had no idea
how long Fordney had been gone or when he'd be back.  He only knew
that he wanted to take this one golden chance to escape, and he
couldn't do that without getting free of the ropes around his wrists. 
Only then could he untie himself from the chair which was bound to
him by ropes that went most of the way up his calves, securing them to
the chair legs.  

     When he'd reached the point he felt he could endure no more
friction on his bloodied wrists, he felt a loosening, and with one hard
yank, teeth gritted against the pain of tearing flesh, he had one wrist
free.  Offering up a brief thanks to the heavens, he used his liberated
hand to free the other, and tried not to concentrate too much on the
damage he'd done in the process.  He rubbed at his hands furiously,
trying to get enough feeling and dexterity back to undo the knots
keeping his legs bound in place.  

********

     "Any luck?"  Jim approached Starsky, who was sitting at his
desk with Hutch perched on the edge of it.  

     "Taylor pulled the plug on us," Hutch said grimly.  "We're off
the case.  It's been reassigned."

     "That's the most asinine thing I've heard yet," Jim said.

     "Keep your voice down.  Your visitor status can be revoked in a
heartbeat--he didn't hesitate to mention that."  Hutch exhaled loudly.  

     "The phone number was disconnected," Starsky said dejectedly,
staring at the desktop.  "Phone company's calling me back with a name
and location."

     "So we're off the case because...?"

     "Of the newspaper article and the fact that Starsky is Blair's
father.  Taylor said if it hadn't been for the publicity on that point, he
would have let it slide, but even then, it would have been risky in 
court--could have given Fordney's attorney something to hang his hat on for
an appeal--that the cops were out to get him."

     Starsky snatched up the phone on the first peep of sound from
it.  Scribbling down a name and location, he hung up again. 

     "Fremont Airfield.  Isn't that about fifty miles or so from here?" 
Starsky asked Hutch, who nodded.  

     "It's just a little rural airstrip, nothing fancy.  Matter of fact, I
think it's closed down now." Hutch's expression changed to one of
dawning information.  "Didn't one of Fordney's pals say he used to have
a rickety little twin engine plane he played around with on the
weekends?"

     "Let's go."  Starsky got up, and headed for the door, the other
men close behind him.

     "We should be handing this off to Richards and Hanson," Hutch
reminded, no visible sign that he had any intention to play by the rules
and include the team who were now officially assigned to the case. 
They were already halfway to the police garage.

     "Really should update Taylor, too, I s'pose," Starsky said as they
got off the elevator and hurried toward the Torino.

     "And contact the feds--it *is* a kidnaping case, after all," Jim
added as the three men piled into the car and sped out of the garage in
a squeal of tires.

********  

     Standing was a little more of a challenge than Blair had
planned.  His head spun, and his legs were almost as numb as his hands
had been a few minutes earlier.  Staggering forward, he leaned heavily
on the table, catching his breath and hoping the building would stop
rotating. //Now I know how Dorothy felt when her house was spinning
up in the air over Munchkinland,// Blair thought, closing his eyes and
finding the spinning didn't lessen that way, but instead was more
surreal.  Swallowing hard, he began staggering toward the door where
they'd entered.  He grabbed the knob and turned it, and found it locked. 


     Resting his head against the metal of the door, Blair fought hard
against the inclination to just fall on the floor there and sob in defeat. 
All that struggling and now this--and when Fordney returned, he would
no doubt punish his captive for the escape attempt.  From where he
stood, leaning against the door, he could see the huge expanse of doors
at the end of the building, but he could also make out some sort of
chain arrangement that kept them closed.  

     Getting his second wind and pushing away from the door,
guiding himself along the metal wall of the building, he was
determined to find another way out.  There was another door coming
into view now, but this one looked like a wood door, and there was a
window in it.  Encouraged, he hurried to it, and found it led into an
interior office.  He opened it and went inside, finding an old desk and
black vinyl desk chair, a few dusty old papers--and a telephone.  He
pounced on the phone and raised it to his ear.  There was no dialtone.

     He grabbed onto the cord and followed it to where it was,
indeed, still connected to the wall.  Still, apparently there was no phone
service.  A slight smile spreading on Blair's swollen, pain-wracked
face, he weighed the heavy old black receiver in his hand.  

     "Maybe I'll give that son of a bitch a little 'phone service' of my
own," he mumbled, disconnecting the receiver from the base, and
positioning himself behind the door of the office, which he left slightly
ajar.  

********

     "You know, Starsk, we might be more help to Blair if we get
there alive," Hutch said, noting that the rebuilt Torino's speedometer
read 94 at the moment.  Starsky, for his part, remained intensely
focused on the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

     "We'll be more help to Blair if we *get there*," he retorted,
swerving out to miss a car in their lane on the country road, swerving
back in with a squeal of tires to avoid an oncoming pick-up truck.  

     "Better put the flasher on," Hutch said, sticking it up on the roof
of the car.  "We don't want to pick up county sheriff's deputy out
busting speeders," he clarified.  

     "Just can it before we get near there," Jim suggested, watching
the landscape fly past the window, somewhat relieved that Hutch was
riding shotgun in the front seat with the madman behind the wheel.  In
that moment, he could picture how Blair felt, clutching the interior of
the truck with bugged eyes whenever Jim started out on one of his
trademark hair-raising chases.  One thing that apparently wasn't
hereditary was a taste for speed.

     "We don't even know that this means anything, Starsk.  He
might not be there."
     
     "He has to be there.  He *has to be*," Starsky repeated.  "We've
got nothin' else to go on."

********

     There was finally some sound of movement from the outer part
of the building.  Blair tensed, his hold on the phone receiver tightening. 


     "BLAIR!"  The shout echoed loudly through the building.  "I
know you didn't get out of here, so you might as well come out and
face the music!"  Fordney bellowed.  "Guess you learn obedience as
fast as you learn respect!"

     Fordney's footsteps echoed on the cement floor, the hard soles
of the dress loafers he wore with his sweater and slacks keeping a
steady cadence as he came closer and closer to the door of the office.
//Guy looks as harmless as an off-duty accountant,// Blair thought,
recalling how incongruous Fordney's appearance had been with his
violent outburst of brutality against Blair. 

     "There's nowhere to run, Blair.  We're out in the middle of
nowhere.  You'll never find your way back in the middle of the night,
even if you get out of here.  We're miles in the middle of nowhere."

     The office door creaked a little in the deathly silence of the
building, and Blair prayed the thundering of his heart was only roaring
in his own ears, and not giving away his location to Fordney, as he
began to move slowly through the door.  
     
     Raising the receiver high above his head, Blair brought it down
with all his strength on the back of Fordney's head.  The man stumbled
forward, landing on all fours on the floor.  He made a feeble attempt to
get up, turning, and then started to lurch forward toward Blair.  The
younger man brought the receiver back in a resounding backhand that
connected with the side of Fordney's head, sending him sprawling flat
on the floor.

     Not pausing to gloat over his victory, Blair rifled the pockets of
the unconscious man and pulled out his keys.  He knew the gun was
probably in the folds of the tan jacket Fordney wore, but since the man
was very much alive and only unconscious, he didn't have the steely
nerves to linger and frisk him.  Blair clutched the keys tightly in his
hand and made his way through the building to the outside door. 
Hands shaking as he tried the various keys in the deadbolt lock, he
finally found the right one and opened the door, feeling the fresh night
air hit him, helping to clear a little of the fog induced by the beating
he'd taken earlier.  

     Fordney's Navigator was parked only a few yards away, and
Blair rushed to it, climbing inside and starting up the engine.  As he
pushed the accelerator to the floor and departed the place of his
captivity in a spray of gravel, Fordney staggered to the door of the
building, blood dripping down the side of his head, shouting after the
retreating vehicle.

********

     "Looks pretty abandoned," Hutch said as they pulled up to the
series of three large buildings that comprised the hangar facilities of
the Fremont Airfield.  

     "Fresh tire tracks," Jim observed, and then smiled when the
other two looked over the front seat back at him, puzzled.  "I can see
them on the road up there.  Somebody just pealed out of here like a bat
outta hell."  Starsky and Hutch looked at each other now, and back out
at the road.  "If it were daylight, you'd see them too," Jim conceded.

     "Whatever you say.  Just tell me where to drive so I don't mess
'em up in case we need to match tire patterns later," Starsky said.

     "Just drive on the grass over here," Jim said.  "Hey, slow down. 
There's somebody over there."

     "Over where?"  Hutch threw his hands up in exasperation this
time, seeing nothing but darkness between the buildings.  There were
outside light fixtures, but none of them were lit.

     "Come on, let me out and I'll show you.  There's a man on the
ground over there."

     "My God," Starsky muttered, pulling out his gun and checking
the clip.  

     "It's not Blair," Jim said levelly as Hutch got out of the car and
stepped aside for Jim to unfold out of the back seat.  Jim started toward
the form on the ground in a light jog, followed by the other two
detectives.  He crouched by the fallen man and checked his pulse, then
turned him face up.  "He's still alive," Jim said as they all stood looking
down at John Fordney.  "Blair was here," Jim added, heading toward
the building behind where Fordney was sprawled. 

     "I'll call it in," Hutch said, hurrying back to the Torino to call
for back-up and an ambulance.  Meanwhile, Starsky yanked the
unconscious man's arms roughly behind him and handcuffed him.  

     "Ellison!"  he shouted, and soon, Jim reappeared in the
doorway.

     "Blair's not here now, but he was."  He paused.  "It looks like he
got away.  There's a chair in there with pieces of rope still attached to
it, and some...some bloody rope on the floor.  There's blood on the
floor and in the office, and a bloody telephone receiver on the floor of
the office."

     "Thank God," Starsky let out a long breath.  "If he got away,
where the hell is he?"

     "Fordney most likely didn't fly here, so I'm assuming if Blair
brained him enough to get away, he probably took his keys and took
the truck."

     "Any sign of Blair?"  Hutch rejoined them, and Jim recapped
what he'd told Starsky.  

     "We've already got an APB out on Taylor's vehicle, but we
better amend it to alert them that the hostage probably has the vehicle
now.  I don't want some hot dog rookie shooting at my son by mistake,"
Starsky headed back to the Torino to radio in the new development.  

     "He's not looking too good," Hutch said of their prisoner,
nudging the unconscious man with the toe of his shoe.  

     "Blair swings a mean phone receiver," Jim said, chuckling a
little.  At Hutch's puzzled expression, he explained, "He used that
maneuver once before to get away from a serial killer who had him
cornered.  Didn't knock the guy out, but Blair got away from him that
way and ran like hell.  At least he didn't have to resort to baseballs this
time," Jim said, feeling the relief wash over him now that it was just a
matter of finding Blair and the vehicle he had commandeered.  There
wasn't enough blood spilled in the building to suggest and serious
wounds to Blair, and he'd been strong enough to flatten out Fordney.

     "Baseballs?"  Hutch asked, joining Jim in the humor.  "Now
that's a story we've gotta hear sometime."

********

     //Damn lousy country roads.  Not a fucking house in sight.//
Blair rubbed his pounding head again, wishing he had the full use of
both eyes wide open, and wishing he had his glasses.  The road was
little more than a blurry strip in front of him, and given the dizziness
that plagued him, the strip had a tendency to move from time to time. 
Fordney had no phone in the truck; that was most likely something he
carried on his person.  As dangerous as it felt to drive, Blair knew he
couldn't make it far walking without getting hopelessly lost off the road
or passing out.  As it was, he had the sinking feeling he was driving in
the wrong direction.

     The sound of gravel and the swerving of the truck jerked him
back to a better level of consciousness, and he did his best to
concentrate on steering the truck.  There was the sound of a siren in the
distance, and finally, a pair of headlights appeared in the rearview
mirror, along with a flashing red light.  Feeling relief wash over him
like a tidal wave, Blair pulled off the road and waited, turning off the
ignition and resting his aching head against the headrest.  He jerked a
little when the door opened, but soon found himself scooped out of the
seat into gentle and very familiar arms.  

     "Jim," he said against his lover's neck, too tired and sore to do
anything more than just rest his head there and hold on.

     "I'm here, baby.  It's over.  We're all here."  Jim started moving
away from the truck, and Blair felt another hand gently stroking his
hair. 

     "You did good, kiddo.  We've got Fordney in custody," Starsky
said softly, a definite note of pride in his voice.  "Rest now." 

     "I love you, Chief," Jim said, squeezing Blair gently as he made
his way back to the Torino with his armload.  Those were the last
words Blair heard before he let himself drift.

********

     Blair fought to open his eyes, and finally gave up, just opening
the one that would cooperate.  Jim was slumped in a chair near the bed,
his head hanging at an angle sure to give him an immobilized neck if
he didn't move soon.  It was obvious he was in the hospital, and he felt
the I.V. attached to his arm.  Great.  More fucking needles and tubes.  

     "Jim."  He waited as the sleeping man stirred, then raised his
head with a jerk and a pained expression as the abused neck muscles
protested.  Despite that, the face broke into a smile at the sight of
Blair's open eyes--well, *eye* anyway.

     "Hey, there, beautiful."  Jim leaned over and kissed Blair's
partially swollen mouth gently.

     "Beautiful?  That's pushin' it, Jim.  I must look like an elephant
trampled my face."

     "You're a little colorful and a little swollen, but you're beautiful
to me."  Jim sat on the edge of the bed.  "Doctor said you had a mild
concussion.  Other than that, just a lot of unfortunately painful facial
bruising.  He said you should be fine in a few days."  Jim planted a
feather light kiss on Blair's swollen eye.  "You got him, sweetheart. 
We're all so damn proud of you."

     "I didn't do anything special, man.  I just got away from him."

     "Downplay it all you want, Chief.  You nailed him."

     "I blew it.  I provoked him.  He was going on and on about my
mom and about Starsky and I just lost it and started chewing him out. 
That's when he went ballistic and beat the shit out of me."  Blair
sighed.  "I *know* better."

     "It's pretty hard to just sit there and let someone insult your
parents.  You snapped.  I think a lot of people would."

     "When I was trying to get out of those ropes, all I could think of
was this...you being there, holding me..."  Blair trailed his fingertips
over Jim's cheek, and Jim gently took the hand, kissing the fingers and
the palm, then enclosing it in both of his and planting a kiss on the
white gauze that wrapped the wrist.  

     "I'm here now, baby.  Go back to sleep a while.  There's nothing
to be afraid of anymore."

     "Don't let my dad kill Fordney.  Go keep an eye on him, will
you?"

     "Hutch'll do that, honey.  He's been doing it for years.  I think he
can handle this one."  Jim nuzzled the soft hair on the pillow.  "Right
now, I want to be here."  He rested his forehead lightly against Blair's,
not wanting to cause him any pain with the contact.  "God, I love you,
Blair."

     "I love you too, love.  More than you'll ever know."  Blair
smiled the best he could around the swelling, licking at the split in his
lip.  He smiled when Jim took over that activity, the gentle touch of his
lover's tongue seeming to have healing properties all its own.  Jim
carefully kissed the sore spot.

     "I'm better off staying here, angel.  Because right now, I wanna
kill Fordney myself."

********

     Starsky stared through the window of the ICU room at their
prisoner, who still lay unconscious in his hospital bed.  

     "We could trust the two uniforms Taylor sent to guard this guy
and go home and get some rest," Hutch suggested.  "He's not going to
get out of here, Starsk.  Taylor sent two of the best.  Chandler and
Marshall won't take their eyes off him," Hutch referred to the two
veteran officers who were standing guard on Fordney's room.  

     "I'm all done, Hutch."

     "What?"  Hutch frowned. 

     "You win.  I'm ready to retire."  Starsky looked away from the
prisoner's room to his partner.  "The department was ready to sacrifice
my son's life for the sake of appearances.  For the sake of what some
rag like the Beacon had to say in a cheesy article they oughtta be sued
for.  If we'd followed orders, Blair might be dead, or wandering down
some back road tonight with a concussion and no medical help." 
Starsky shook his head.  "It's no good, Hutch.  I can't do this anymore."

     "Taylor was under pressure from upstairs."

     "Yeah?  And how many times was Dobey under pressure from
upstairs?"  Starsky paused.  "Taylor's a puppet."

     "Things change, Starsk.  It's life.  It's inevitable.  We always
knew that Dobey's retirement was going to mean a *big* change." 
Hutch rubbed his forehead tiredly.  "I don't think this is the right time
to decide this."

     "You know we haven't had an easy time of things here for
probably the last ten years."

     "We could have gotten worse.  Taylor hasn't made an issue out
of our relationship, he's overlooked plenty to let us work our cases
together.  We're the closest thing to free agents as we can be and still
wear a badge."

     "Maybe that's what we need to be--free agents."  Starsky
shrugged.  "We talked about bein' PI's before."

     "Following unfaithful husbands around?  I don't think so,
Starsk."

     "It wouldn't all have to be like that."

     "That's the bread and butter work, babe.  It's not all Columbo
stuff."

     "Be a good retirement job, though, doncha think?"  Starsky
asked.

     "Let's think this through when we've had a good night's sleep,
Starsk.  Why don't you go say goodnight to your kid and we'll go home
and catch a few hours' sleep?"

     "Goodnight?  It's dawn, Hutch.  Besides, last time I looked,
Ellison was sprawled over him like a barnacle."

     "Sounds familiar.  We'll leave a message at the nurses' station
and head home."

     It was near seven in the morning when Starsky and Hutch
finally fell into bed for a few hours, having left a set of house keys, as
well as keys to an unmarked police sedan, at the nurses' station for Jim. 
Hutch spooned up behind Starsky, resting his head against the soft
curls.  He smiled, thinking that the slight difference in their heights
made Starsky fit perfectly to the curve of his body.  It was a thought
he'd had many times over the past twenty years.  While neither of them
had any energy to do more than snuggle and sleep, Starsky had crawled
into bed naked, and Hutch had taken the cue and done the same, and
was now soaking up the warmth of the skin-to-skin contact.  

     Their tenure with the BCPD had been a long an tumultuous one,
and looking back, Hutch had to admit the most enjoyable years of that
tenure were long past.  The years when Starsky and he wrote their own
rules, and Dobey coordinated things and ran interference and damage
control with the brass.  Hutch smiled as he wondered if Dobey owned
stock in one of the major aspirin companies.  God knows they'd given
him enough headaches until he retired, at Edith's urging.  Dobey
himself hadn't really had any great desire to end a good thing either, but
his wife wanted them to have some time together while they were
young enough to enjoy it, and Dobey did love his wife and family more
than anything.  

     The Dobeys were still their closest friends, their two children,
Cal and Rosie, having grown up to be like the kids Starsky and Hutch
themselves couldn't have.  Cal had grown from a gangly teenager into a
tall, handsome man with a wife and two little girls of his own, and a
junior partnership in one of the area's top law firms.  "Little" Rosie was
a single career woman, a computer whiz who worked as a programmer
for a major corporation in Sacramento.  She and Starsky still shared
their inside joke about being "lefties", and she still greeted her two
"uncles" with the unrestrained enthusiasm of a five-year-old, despite
her usual polish and decorum in her neat business suits and upswept
hairstyle.  

     Starsky mumbled something in his sleep and stirred, then
became a bit more agitated.  He started writhing a little in Hutch's grip.

     "Babe, wake up, it's a nightmare," Hutch whispered against a
nearby ear, and Starsky jolted awake then.  "Starsk?  You okay, babe?"
he asked gently, running a hand up and down Starsky's arm.

     "Oh, man."

     "What is it?  What's wrong?"

     "Marcos."  Starsky relaxed a little now, letting out a long
breath.  "Son of a bitch.  I haven't thought about him in...a *long*
time."

     "You're shaking, babe."  Hutch tightened his hold, kissing
Starsky's neck, then his shoulder.  "Nasty one?"

     "Yeah, almost like when it first happened," Starsky said tiredly,
running a hand over his face, finding it damp with perspiration. 
Twenty-three years earlier, Starsky had been abducted by a Satanic
cult, held prisoner for twenty-four hours before Hutch could find and
rescue him.  His experiences fed the occasional nightmare for many
years after, but very seldom in recent years.  It was an old demon that
rarely was resurrected.

     "Must've been Blair being kidnaped like that."

     "Musta been."  Starsky shifted and turned over, seeking out
Hutch's embrace again, winding his arms and legs around his lover,
feeling the strong arms close around him.  "'course, in real life, it wasn't
so bad--got to see my white knight ride in and rescue me."

     "Yeah, a white knight riding on a red tomato," Hutch said,
earning himself a sharp smack on the ass.  

     "What'd I say about makin' fun'a my car?"

     "Same thing you've been saying for years and I've been ignoring
for years."  Hutch hugged his partner close.  "Go back to sleep, lover. 
You need some rest."

     "So do you, darlin'."  Starsky sighed.  "I love you a whole lot,
Hutch."  Hutch felt his heart turn to mush at the very honest, open,
Starsky-like statement.

     "I love you a whole lot too, Starsk."  

********

     "We're turning in our badges, sir," Starsky said calmly, laying
his police ID on the captain's desk.  Taylor, a middle-aged man with a
stocky build and receding gray hair, looked at the ID as if it were some
living entity on his desk.  Hutch's soon joined it.  Both men stood on
the other side of the captain's desk, looking very calm and composed.

     "This is a little sudden, isn't it?  Look, I know you're pissed off
about being pulled off the Fordney thing, but there's nothing I can do
about that.  That ruling came from upstairs."

     "I'm sure it did, but the fact remains that any department that
would put catering to a sleazy rag like the Beacon over the importance
of my son's life is a department I can do without.  I'm not a politician. 
I'm a cop.  I don't care if the press likes me, and I don't think
departmental policy and assignments ought to be controlled by yellow
journalism.  If that's the way it's going, then it's time for us to know
when to bow out."

     "I think this is a little drastic.  Blair's been rescued, Fordney's in
custody--"

     "But if he hadn't been, and if Fordney wasn't in custody, we'd be
off the case because of what some gossip-monger printed in a two-bit
rag newspaper," Hutch spoke up.  "And of course, there's the fact that
this case is not tidied up yet and ready for the DA.  A lot can happen
between an arrest, a trial and a conviction.  This case was ours,
dammit, from beginning to end, and pulling us off mid-stream
was...*unconscionable*," Hutch concluded.  "We have every intention
of being involved in this case until the end, until Fordney is behind bars
for the rest of his miserable life.  Since we've been ordered off the case
as cops, then we have to do it as private citizens.  The department made
that choice for us."

     "So this is a power play to get your way, is that it?" Taylor
challenged.  "Look, you two, I'm not disputing your arrest record, your
effectiveness, your years of service--those are all reasons why I keep
looking the other way about the fact we have life-partners working as
cop partners, which is about as major a violation of procedure as
anything else you could cite.  But there are times the brass hands down
a ruling--"

     "That proves they've got their heads up their asses, and quite
frankly, maybe it's up to you to yank them out once in a while and
make them see the light," Starsky said emphatically.  "They're up there
in their nice posh offices with no concept of what goes down on the
street, or even what goes down in a real department.  If they were ever
at this level, they forgot about it years ago.  Or they were paper-pushers.  
You were a street cop, Taylor.  You know better."

     "Yes, Starsky, I know better."  Taylor leaned back in his chair,
exasperated.  "And I know that Dobey had some way of working
miracles with the brass, but I'm not Dobey, this is ten years later, and
the folks upstairs aren't all the same now either.  It's a different
situation."  He was quiet a moment.  "I don't like manipulation," he
said, looking up to pin Starsky with an intent gaze.

     "This isn't manipulation, sir.  This is a simple statement of our
intent to retire, based on our inability to comply with your orders,"
Hutch responded.  

     "Should those orders change, however, you would reconsider
your retirement plans?"

     "It's more than just these orders, Captain.  It's this department's
attitude.  As long as muckrakers like the Beacon crowd can dictate how
this department operates, our decision stands," Starsky concluded.

     "Take your ID's back.  I'll call Richards and Hanson and tell
them you're back in charge of the investigation."  Taylor straightened. 
"Look, there's nothing I can do about the fact that it isn't twenty years
ago, and that the administration upstairs is a hell of a lot more exacting
than the boys Dobey juggled.  I also can't help the fact that we have a
much greater concern these days with lawsuits and appeals and
suspects' rights.  Those are facts of life."  Taylor rubbed his chin a bit
thoughtfully.  "I wasn't comfortable with basing case assignments on
fall-out from that rag article, but there were some valid conflict of
interest concerns there.  I'm not promising you two a rose garden, or
some return to the glory days, but you can have your case back, and
your input regarding the impact of the Beacon article on departmental
decision-making will be passed along upstairs."

     "Guess we can't ask for much more than that, sir," Hutch said,
picking up his ID.  Starsky followed suit.

     "Thank you, Captain," he said, opening the door for Hutch and
then following him through it.

********

     "There's gotta be some mistake," Starsky said as Ginny removed
her glasses and let them hang from the fine gold chain around her neck.

     "No mistake, guys.  Naomi didn't have sexual relations with
Fordney the night of her death, and it wasn't the boyfriend--" she
checked the file, "Bloomfield, either.  It was someone else.  Fordney's
blood type isn't consistent with the type of the man whose semen we
recovered during the autopsy."

     "There's no margin for error here?" Hutch asked hopefully,
though in all the years they'd worked with Ginny, they'd never known
her to make a careless error with evidence testing.

     "There's almost always a margin of error in every lab test.  But
not a statistically significant one.  This guy you've got in custody might
have killed her, but he didn't have sex with her--at least not the night
she died.  Also, you're going to be looking for a guy who's sterile,
judging by the semen sample."

     "Actually, I don't suppose it matters much.  Given the evidence
we've got, we can nail Fordney without that," Starsky said.

     "I thought you two were off the case," Ginny clarified.

     "Well, we were, but that decision was re-evaluated," Starsky
said, smiling a little.

     "I didn't figure you'd go down easy on this one," she said,
putting her glasses back on.  "I'm sorry these aren't the results you'd
hoped for."

     "Yeah, we are too.  Thanks, Ginny," Hutch said.

********

     Blair looked at his reflection in the mirror in the hospital
bathroom.  His left eye was still badly swollen, but he could get it most
of the way open now.  His mouth was swollen as if he'd packed it with
cotton on the right side, and his face bore several other purplish,
smudge-like marks from the blows.  He'd managed to shave without
killing himself, and after a shower and hair washing, he felt like a new
person.  Well, a new person with an old face.  Best of all, his mother's
killer was in custody.  It didn't bring her back, and it didn't change
anything, but at least he'd realized justice for Naomi.  

     "Doing okay, Chief?"  Jim poked his head in the door, and Blair
smiled at him.  If his head wasn't still playing a subtle symphony, he'd
have capitalized on the fact that being there, freshly washed and naked,
before the scents of the world had found a way to attach themselves,
was always a turn-on for Jim.  Instead, he behaved himself, not wanting
to think of how he'd feel if he got that excited just yet.  Maybe a few
hours, and several painkillers later...

     "Yeah, I'm fine."

     "You sure are."  Jim wrapped his arms around Blair from
behind and kissed his temple.  "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you in
some clothes before I have my wicked way with you."

     "Promise you'll have your wicked way with me when my
headache's better?"  Blair looked back at Jim with a grin.

     "Repeatedly."  

     "Any word from Dad or Hutch?"  Blair stepped into his boxers
and Jim pulled them up, allowing him to avoid hanging his head
forward.  

     "They left us a car, and I've brought it up front so we're ready to
go.  I haven't talked to them since last night."

     "How's Fordney?"

     "Still out of it.  The doctor said there's swelling on the brain,
probably from the second blow, so it could be a while before we know
for sure."

     "I had to hit him again.  He was coming after me--"

     "Blair, honey, nobody questions that."  Jim pulled Blair into a
gentle hug.  "You did what you had to do to get out of there alive."

     "My mom must've been so...*scared*," he said, his voice
breaking a little.  "There's so much...*hate* in him.  For her, for my
dad, for me...for everything I am."

     "I know, Chief.  But it's over now.  He's history, and when he
gets his head together, literally, he'll be going away for life."

     "I keep thinking maybe some technicality is gonna come up and
he'll get off.  I couldn't stand that, Jim."

     "He won't get off, and he won't get away.  And he'll never touch
you again."  Jim's vow was said with a solemn certainty that let Blair
know that if the justice system failed, Jim wouldn't.

********

     Blair was curled up in his father's favorite leather chair in the
living room, napping, when Starsky and Hutch finally got home from
the precinct.  Jim was in the kitchen, making spaghetti for dinner.

     "Something smells great in here," Hutch said as he came
through the door.  Starsky was close behind him, carrying a take out
bag.  

     "Oh, man, you brought take-outs?  We should've called and let
you know," Blair said, looking at his father with sleep-bleary eyes.

     "They'll keep.  Make great snacks," he said, patting Blair's
shoulder as he handed the bag off to Hutch and sat on the chair's
ottoman next to his son's stocking feet.  "How're you feeling, kiddo? 
You don't look so great."  He patted Blair's leg.

     "My head hurts a lot, and the pain meds made me really sick. 
Jim called the doctor to get something different but the prescription's
not in at the pharmacy yet."

     "The smell bothering you from the kitchen?"

     "Nah.  Smells like home.  Jim makes spaghetti a lot.  Besides,
now that the pill's wearing off, I'm getting a little hungry.  My head just
hurts too much to do anything."  Blair's eyes drifted shut again.  

     "Just rest, son."  Starsky moved a couple stray strands of hair
back from Blair's face.  

     "Everything okay with the case?" Blair asked a little feebly, not
opening his eyes again.

     "Everything's under control and just fine.  Don't worry about a
thing."

     "Okay."

     Starsky joined the other two men in the kitchen, and sniffed at
the pot of bubbling sauce on the stove.  

     "I never would've pictured you as a cook," he said to Jim, who
just chuckled. 

     "Well, I lived alone for quite a while, and even when I was
married, my wife didn't cook, so necessity is the mother of invention."    

     "What's up with Blair's pain meds?"  Starsky asked.

     "The doctor is calling something else into the pharmacy.  I
checked ten minutes ago and it wasn't in yet.  He said the severe
headache isn't unusual, and just to let him rest.  I was a medic in the
Army, so I've been watching him for any signs of anything more
serious."

     "Where's the doctor's number?  There's no reason he can't get
somethin' called in before this."  Starsky looked at the numbers tacked
up under various refrigerator magnets and found the one for "Dr.
Stinson".  

     "I just spoke to him an hour ago.  The last three times I called, I
got a busy signal--I've been trying every ten minutes the last half hour
or so."

     "That's easy enough to solve."  Starsky opened up the phone
book and found the address of the doctor's office.  "I'll be back in a
while."

     "He might not still be in--it's probably his staff, Starsk.  It's
almost six-thirty."

     "I don't care who it is.  I'm not sittin' around here while my son's
in so much pain he can't keep his eyes open."  Starsky headed out of the
kitchen and toward the garage.

     "Is he always this impatient?"  Jim asked, taking a drink of the
beer that was sitting on the counter near the stove.

     "Only when it's important to him.  He's never been good at
sitting around and waiting when it involves somebody he loves."

     "He'd have probably had a stroke by now if he'd raised Blair
from infancy."

     "There's no question Starsk would have taken kids very hard--he'd 
have died a thousand deaths with every childhood illness, no doubt
about it."  

     "Hey, if you want to grab the garlic bread out of the oven, I'm
going to check on Blair."  Jim left his post at the pot of spaghetti sauce
while Hutch rescued the garlic bread before it could get too dark.

     Blair was curled up in the chair, not sleeping, but essentially
incapacitated from the headache.  

     "Hey, Chief," Jim said softly, kissing the younger man's
forehead.  

     "Dinner ready?  I don't think I can sit up that long.  My head's
really pounding."

     "Your dad went out to get your prescription from the doctor--probably 
at gun point," Jim added, and Blair had to snort a little laugh
at that, though the motion was painful.  "Maybe he'll have better luck
than I did by phone."

     "You didn't want to leave me alone," Blair said, taking a hold of
Jim's hand.  Jim smiled at that, at the fact that Blair just trusted that
Jim was taking the best course of action for him, without question.  

     "Never want to leave you alone," Jim said, bumping noses--albeit 
very lightly--with Blair.  "Don't worry about dinner, sweetheart. 
If you're hungry, I'll bring something in and feed you."

     "I'm not a baby, Jim," Blair protested weakly.

     "I know that, honey.  But that way you wouldn't have to move
around or focus on anything--just swallow like a good little boy when I
tell you to," Jim teased.  

     "Don't I always?"  Blair countered, and Jim laughed, feeling
himself flush a little.  

     "Like a pro," he retorted, chuckling.

********

     The next time Blair came to, he saw Starsky sitting on the
ottoman with a glass of water and two pills.  

     "Got the knock-out pills right here, kiddo," he said, grinning.  

     "You didn't shoot the doctor, did you?"  Blair joked weakly,
taking the pills and swallowing the water.

     "Maimed him a little, but he's still upright," Starsky responded,
taking back the half-empty glass.  "Head still hurtin'?"

     "Yeah, pretty bad.  Hope this helps."

     "You're gonna feel a lot better soon."  

     "What's going on with the case?  What time is it, anyway?"

     "It's seven-fifteen."  

     "You better go eat while it's hot."

     "You want some food?"

     "Mm-mm," Blair frowned.  "I think I'll nap some more.  I can
eat later."

     "Sounds like a good plan.  Get some sleep, and we'll talk when
you feel better, okay?"

     "Okay, Dad," Blair let his eyes droop shut again, hoping that
when he opened them the next time, the jungle drums in his skull
would have settled down to a dull roar.  

********

     "So, *is* the doctor still standing?"  Hutch asked as he divvied
up the pasta, leaving a portion for Blair.  Jim brought the pot of sauce
to the table and started adding it to the plates.  

     "He's okay, but his nurse is a little flattened," Starsky said,
opening up the foil keeping the garlic bread warm.  

     "Blair's not eating?"  Jim asked.

     "He said he wanted to nap a little more," Starsky responded.  "I
hope the pills help.  I'm gettin' worried about him."

     "If he's not feeling better with the meds, we'll take him into
emergency.  But I don't want to drag him back there for nothing," Jim
sat at the table himself and started digging in, though with Blair down
for the count, his appetite suffered considerably.  

     "My only regret is that he didn't hit that son of a bitch harder,"
Starsky responded, taking his hostility out on the pasta.  

     "It'd only be worse for him if he did.  This way, the DA's
convinced Blair was within his rights for self-defense to do what he
did, and he's letting it drop without making a big thing out of it," Hutch
said.  "If Fordney had died, it's not to say Blair would have been
charged with anything, but it could have gotten stickier."

     "He's not going to take the new development very well--or at
least, the fact we have to pursue it at this stage."  Starsky was busily
chewing as Jim looked up.

     "What new development?"

     "Oh, that's right.  I came in and got worried about Blair and
forgot.  Fordney wasn't the guy Naomi was with the night she was
murdered--and this guy was probably sterile, according to Ginny."
     
     "So she slept with someone else, before Fordney killed her?" 
Jim frowned.  "That makes the timetable problematic, doesn't it?  I
mean, how much can one person accomplish in one evening?  The
drive out to the cabin by itself is significant."

     "Harold was gone on business, so he wasn't a factor.  She was
on her own, so she must have seen Mr. X earlier in the evening, before
she hooked up with Fordney," Hutch assessed.

     "Ginny said she figured the guy was Caucasian, probably with
graying black hair," Starsky added.

     "When'd she say that?"  Hutch looked up, puzzled.

     "She left a message on my voicemail--I checked it out while I
was on the way over to the doctor's office."

     "Well, that narrows it down to about 25% of the male
population," Jim said.  "But at least it's a start."

     "She also had some concerns about the marks on Naomi's neck. 
Fordney has short, stubby fingers.  The killer had large hands with long
fingers--or so the marks indicate."  Starsky shook his head.  "I just
know his lawyer's gonna be all over a couple of details to sabotage this
case.  I really want to find that other guy she was sleeping with so we
can explain him."

     "This probably isn't going to be a very popular suggestion, but is
there any danger Fordney didn't kill Naomi?"  Jim asked.  "We found
her scarf in his house, we know he's been stalking her and Blair both,
but we don't have any physical evidence that he killed her."

     "You said you smelled her perfume at the cabin, and Forensics
confirmed her prints were found there."  Starsky paused for a drink of
his beer.  "He did it."

     "That doesn't make his fingers any longer and we all know my
smelling her perfume there won't hold up in court.  How worried is
Ginny about the finger thing?" Jim asked.  

     "Not terribly.  She just said she thought it was possible that his
fingers were too short to have made the bruising pattern on Naomi's
neck.  She'd have to measure his fingers and compare it to her records. 
She took measurements of all the bruising patterns, so she can compare
the two.  Unfortunately, he has to be awake to cooperate with such a
process," Starsky said, chewing, his expression pensive.  "Well, at least
for us to do it *officially*."  He shot a sly look over at Hutch, who just
rolled his eyes.

     "It wouldn't be admissible anyway, Starsk."

     "So?  It'd be nice to know, wouldn't it?"

     "If we get nailed for this, Taylor's not going to be happy," Hutch
pointed out.

     "If we don't get a conviction on this case, he ain't gonna be
thrilled either, Hutch."  Starsky looked down at his food as if just
realizing he was eating.  "Hey, this isn't bad."

     "Yeah, thanks for making dinner.  That was a nice change of
pace," Hutch agreed.

     "No problem.  I didn't want to leave Blair alone, and he didn't
feel good enough to go with me to pick something up, so I thought this
beat pizza--*again*."

     "No arguments there," Hutch responded, smiling.  "Look,
Fordney's not going anywhere, we're all running on empty.  Let's just
take the evening and get some rest, and start out first thing in the
morning.  We'll check out Fordney's hands somehow, and then we'll
start running through Naomi's contacts to find a man with graying
black hair."

     "I'm for that.  I'm wiped out," Starsky agreed.  "Hey--let's open a
bottle'a wine, maybe play a little music, kick back...?"  He looked
hopefully at Hutch, who just smiled and nodded.  

     "Sounds great, partner."

     "As soon as I get some food down him, I'm sure Blair'll be ready
to hit the sack, and we can give you guys some space," Jim said,
finishing up his spaghetti.

     "Oh, hey, come on, I meant all of us.  We've got enough wine. 
Maybe we can even get the old blond blintz over here to play us a
song."

     "The old blond *what*?" Jim repeated, chuckling.

     "Blintz."

     "Oh.  I thought you said 'blitz' with adenoid problems."

     "No," Starsky explained smiling.  "A blintz is basically a Jewish
cream puff.  All sweet and golden and mushy on the inside," Starsky
concluded, loving the discomfited look on Hutch's face at the
somewhat embarrassing explanation.  "Oh, lighten up, babe.  They've
probably got some love names dumber than ours."

     "Not likely," Hutch retorted, grimacing.

     "Don't count on it," Jim countered, smiling to himself as he
thought of a few of them.

********

     The painkillers did their business for Blair, and by mid-evening,
he was curled up on the couch with a plate of reheated spaghetti and a
bottle of spring water, eschewing the wine because of the pills.  Jim
was stretched out next to him, sipping his wine, with Blair tucked
against his side.  Hutch was perched on the edge of the leather loveseat
that matched the couch, guitar in hand, with Starsky sitting on the floor
next to him, taking the occasional sip of wine while he watched his
lover with what could only be called open adoration as the other man
began strumming the first few notes of a song.  

     The soft acoustic strains of the guitar were joined by a voice
that seemed surprisingly soft, gentle and sweet to be coming out of a
veteran homicide cop.  And when that veteran cop sang, and his eyes
met the other pair of blue eyes watching him, it was obvious that
nothing else existed in either's world.  Neither Jim nor Blair could ever
remember seeing Starsky as still, quiet and mesmerized as he was
when Hutch was singing, as if he were hypnotized by it.  

     "Don't give up on us, baby, 
     Don't make the wrong seem right, 
     The future isn't just one night, 
     It's written in the moonlight, 
     And painted on the stars, 
     We can't change ours," 

     Hutch managed a quick caress to the dark curls before his hand
returned to the guitar.  Starsky didn't seem to remember anyone else
was there as he rested his arm on Hutch's knee, and his chin on his arm,
looking up at his lover.  

     "I really lost my head last night, 
     You've got a right to stop believing, 
     There's still a little love left, even so, 
     Don't give up on us, baby, 
     Lord knows we've come this far, 
     Can't we stay the way we are, 
     The angel and the dreamer, 
     Who sometimes plays a fool, 
     Don't give up on us, I know, 
     We can still come through."

     Hutch finished out his song, and then, exchanging a bright
smile with his lover, leaned down and kissed Starsky, pulling back with
an even bigger smile on his face.

     "Hutch played that song for me when I was in the hospital--after
I was shot.  When he decided to start winnin' and wooin' me in my
hospital bed," Starsky needled, patting Hutch's knee.

     "This turkey almost died on me.  Put a lot of things in
perspective in a mighty big hurry," Hutch said, a look of infinite
sadness passing over his features, as if the pain of nearly losing Starsky
was as raw today as it had been over twenty years before.

     "Hey, babe, cheer up--*almost* is the operative word here,
remember?"  Starsky punched Hutch's knee and then turned back to
look at their visitors.  "You feelin' better, kiddo?" he asked Blair, who
just smiled a little drowsily from his niche against Jim.

     "I just took two more pain pills.  I feel *really good*," he said,
grinning.  "That was a really nice song.  I never seemed to be very good
at songwriting myself--I can play the guitar a little, but that's about it."

     "C'mon, Gordo.  You made me embarrass myself here.  It's your
turn."  Hutch passed the guitar down to his partner.  

     "No thanks," Starsky said, chuckling and trying to pass it back
to Hutch.

     "Go on.  Give us a little of your Jim Croce routine, huh?"

     "You know, if you put on a fake mustache, it could work," Jim
observed, and Blair let out a little snort of a laugh, his amusement at
the line partially drug-induced.  "Those are pretty good pills, aren't
they, sweetheart?"  Jim asked affectionately, kissing Blair's forehead.  

     "The best," Blair agreed, letting his eyes drift shut.  

     "Come on, Starsk, before your son's down for the count, let's
have it."

     "I'm not as good as he is," Starsky said, jerking his head back
toward Hutch.

     "That's true, but muddle through something anyway, buddy,"
Hutch goaded, chuckling.

     "I'm kinda outta practice--"

     "Starsk."

     "Okay."  He started a little hesitantly, but before long, he was
playing an old Jim Croce song they all knew well.  

     "I know it's kinda late
     I hope I didn't wake you
     But what I gotta say can't wait
     I know you'd understand
     Every time I tried to tell you
     The words just came out wrong
     So I'll have to say I love you 
     In a song."

     Starsky looked up at Hutch on the last line, his fingers moving
with surprising grace over the strings of the guitar.  Starsky hadn't
struck Jim as hopeless romantic, and certainly not as a musician given
to serenading his lover, but these two seemed full of surprises.  But
then, it didn't really surprise Jim that the man who fathered Blair would
be a study in contradictions, a mixture of hard and soft, of almost aged
wisdom blended with a sort of eternal youthfulness.  A sage in flake's
clothing.

     When Starsky had finished his song, he set the guitar aside and
nodded at Blair, who was snoring softly and completely oblivious to his
surroundings as he slept on Jim's shoulder. 

     "I think we'll turn in, guys."  Jim got up and before Blair's
mumble of protest could become full blown agitation, he scooped the
sleeping man up in his arms.  

     "You need a hand?"  Starsky offered.

     "I've made it up the steps with him before, so this is a piece of
cake," Jim said, chuckling.  "He's a solid little critter," he said with a
little strain in his voice.

     "If he's anything like his old man, I have the number of an
excellent chiropractor," Hutch said, ruffling Starsky's hair.  

     "Shut up, you asshole," Starsky retorted, laughing.

     "Don't tell me to shut up, dickhead," Hutch countered,
whapping Starsky on the back of the head.  

     "Whatsa matter, Mr. Decimated Liver?  The old shakes not
givin' you as much strength as they used to?"

     "That's *desiccated* liver, Einstein."

     "Have a little more'a that wine, and it'll be decimated, babe,"
Starsky countered.  Neither man noticed at first that their guests had
given up and headed in for bed while they sparred.

********

     Jim gently but efficiently stripped Blair down to his boxers and
tucked him into bed.  After making his own final evening ablutions, he
crawled into bed next to his softly snoring lover and turned out the
bedside lamp.  Blair stirred and opened his eyes. //Thanks a lot, Chief. 
You couldn't have done that before I carried you...//

     "How long've I been out of it?"

     "Just a half hour or so.  It's bedtime anyway, baby."  

     "I had a nice time tonight," Blair said, smiling.  "Like hanging
out with family."

     "Yeah, that's not all bad, is it, Chief?"

     "Something's going wrong with the case, isn't it?"

     "We've got Fordney nailed, honey.  Don't worry about it."

     "Jim."

     "He's going down for kidnaping and aggravated assault, as well
as stalking and a host of other charges.  He's *most likely* going down
for murder one.  But there are a few evidentiary things the M.E. needs
to verify, that's all.  Just technicalities."

     "Sounds like more than that."  Blair yawned, fighting his meds. 
"Tell me, please."

     "The M.E.'s not sure his hands are big enough.  She thinks his
fingers might be too short.  And Naomi was with a different guy the
night she died--not Fordney.  So we have another man in the picture we
can't identify--at least not yet.  But we know he's sterile, according to
Ginny, and that he's a Caucasian with graying black hair."

     "Hm."  Blair let his eyes drift shut again, then muttered sleepily,
"Sounds like Frederick."

     "Frederick...?"

     "Stanford--my mom's spiritual advisor," Blair said, starting to
rub his eyes before he groaned in pain and snatched his hand back,
having forgotten the bruising and swelling around both orbs. 

     "You okay, baby?" Jim carefully kissed each eyelid.

     "Yeah, I just forgot that rubbing my eyes wasn't going to feel
too great."  

     "Do you think your mom could have been having an affair with
Stanford?"  Jim figured the question would distract Blair from his
discomfort, and it did.  

     "It's not impossible.  I mean, they've known each other for
*years*, and they've always been real close."

     "We'll question Stanford tomorrow."

     "Go easy.  He's got a wife--and he cared about my mom."

     "We will, Chief.  But at least we've got a lead."  Jim cuddled
Blair close and nosed the soft curls.  "Thank God you're okay," he said
softly into them.

     "I knew you'd come and get me.  I always count on you, and you
don't let me down."

     "Your dad and Hutch had a little something to do with it,
sweetheart."

     "I know, but you're still my Blessed Protector," Blair said
drowsily, snuggling against Jim.  

     Kissing the bruised cheek, Jim felt the sting of tears behind his
eyelids.  

     "I always will be, Chief," he whispered.

********

     Frederick Stanford lived on a ranch, with a small one-floor
house, a horse barn and paddock, and an expanse of vacant land
surrounding it.  The driveway alone was a half mile long, leading
through a stand of trees before entering the clearing that was the ranch. 
When Starsky, Hutch, Jim and Blair arrived there in Hutch's sedan,
Stanford was in the paddock, riding a large, honey-colored horse with a
blond main.  He rode over to where the four men stood by the fence.

     "Blair, what a nice surprise--oh, my God--what happened to
you?" he asked with concern, taking in Blair's colorful face, which
defied hiding even with a pair of Starsky's larger-lensed sunglasses and
his hair loose.  
     
     "I, uh, got on the wrong side of a suspect," he said, hoping the
evasion would work, and Stanford would drop it.  He seemed to, since
thus far they had managed to keep the kidnaping by Fordney out of the
press.  "I'll be fine," he assured.

     "Jim," Stanford said, dismounting and reaching out to shake
hands with Blair first, then Jim, "and you were at our meditation," he
said to Hutch.

     "That's right," Hutch responded, smiling and shaking the
outstretched hand.  "Ken Hutchinson."

     "Frederick, this is David Starsky--my father," Blair introduced.

     "I saw you at the funeral home, but I don't think we met
officially," Stanford said, shaking hands with Starsky.

     "Actually, Mr. Stanford, that's why we're here--officially.  We
need to ask you a few questions about Naomi," Starsky said.  The other
man's face darkened.

     "What kind of questions?"

     "Is there somewhere we can talk?"  Jim suggested.

     "My wife's in town right now.  Let's go inside."  He led the way
to the house, and escorted them all to the kitchen where he went to the
refrigerator.  "Beer? Soft drinks?"

     "We're fine, thanks," Hutch said, smiling slightly.  Disconcerted
further that there was nothing remotely social about the visit, the man
settled in at the rectangular table for six, at the head of it, to talk to his
guests.  

     "I can't discuss personal issues about Naomi's sessions with me. 
It's similar to doctor-patient confidentiality--like priests and the seal of
Confession."

     "This isn't really about Naomi's spiritual growth," Starsky
responded.  "It has more to do with the night she died."

     "I don't follow," the other man said, giving them a blank
expression.

     "At the risk of sounding cliched, Mr. Stanford, where were you
on the night of October 3rd?"  Starsky clarified, pinning the other man
with an intent gaze.

     "I already told one of your associates that I was here at the
ranch, meditating."

     "You were alone?" Jim asked.

     "Yes."

     "Where was Mrs. Stanford?"

     "In San Diego, visiting her mother.  Am I a suspect again?"

     "No one ever ceased to be a suspect.  No arrests have been
made," Hutch said.

     "The newspaper said--"

     "The newspaper said a lot of things it'll most likely be held
accountable for later," Starsky retorted.  "But for now, we're still
investigating."

     "I was here meditating.  I was alone.  I'm not sure what more I
can tell you."

     "We have evidence that Naomi was with a man the night she
died--a man with graying black hair," Jim said.  "Now, aside from
yourself, can you think of any of Naomi's other male acquaintances
who might fit that description?"

     "Was she seen somewhere with this guy?"  Stanford asked,
looking a bit disconcerted.

     "We have evidence she was with such a man.  Anyone ring any
bells?"  Starsky persisted.
     
     "I thought if you could give me more of a visual description of
the man, I might be able to help."

     "Sorry, that's all we have to go on.  So when we do find the guy,
it would be better for him if he'd cooperated, because the longer he
waits to come forward, the guiltier he looks."  Starsky leaned back in
his chair.  "Now, do you have any idea who that man might have
been?"

     "All right, fine.  I saw Naomi that night."  He ran a hand
nervously over his pulled-back graying hair.  "We were...  Look, I've
been married for thirty years.  If you drag me through this
investigation, that's going to be over.  My wife wouldn't forgive an
indiscretion like that."

     "You were having an affair with my mother?"  Blair asked. 
Stanford looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he nodded.  

     "We were lovers on and off for about fifteen years.  It wasn't
something that happened often, but...there was a lot of love between
us..."  

     "What went wrong?" Jim prodded, hoping to trick the man into
saying more than he planned.  Not surprisingly, he didn't fall for it.

     "Why do you assume anything went wrong?  I was with Naomi
the night she died, but when all this came to light, I was afraid that I'd
be accused, and I was afraid for my marriage.  Since I don't know what
*did* happen to her, I couldn't do the police any real good coming
forward, and if I did, I knew I'd destroy my own life in the process."

     Jim stared at the man, knowing full well there was plenty he
wasn't saying, but unable to be sure *what* that additional information
was, and how guilty Stanford was.  Or if he was merely afraid of what
all this meant now that the police knew he'd been having an affair with
the victim.

     "What time were you with her, approximately?"  Hutch took out
his notepad.

     "Mid-evening sometime, I don't remember an exact time."

     "Mid-evening, by your definition, would be between which
hours?"  Starsky asked.

     "I don't know...I guess anywhere from eight to eleven."

     "Okay, so sometime between eight and eleven, you were with
Naomi.  About how long were you with her?"  Jim asked.

     "Probably a couple of hours."

     "Where?"

     "Her place," he responded.

     "Harold Bloomfield's residence?"  Starsky clarified.

     "Yes."  He rubbed his forehead.  "She was alive when I left
her."

     "You were both content to just continue the affair, despite your
respective living situations?" Jim asked.

     "Meaning what?"

     "Meaning you were married and she was living with another
man," Jim clarified.

     "That's why they call it an affair," Stanford snapped, his placid
demeanor fading a bit.

     "Were you and my mom involved at all...back in the 60's?"
Blair asked a little hesitantly.  Then he moved in for the kill with an
ostensibly innocent question that delighted the three cops sitting
around the table.  None of them could have finessed the information
out of Stanford the way Blair was about to with one innocent little
question.  "I mean, I'm sort of surprised she didn't...you know...think of
you as a possible candidate..."

     "As your father?"  Stanford looked a little uneasy, then
shrugged.  "Naomi and I were together a couple times back then--I
think everyone was getting together at least once back then."  He
actually smiled a little.  "Janice wanted kids, and when it didn't happen,
they ran some tests, and I was the problem," he admitted.

     "You're sterile?"  Hutch asked, making a note in his notepad.

     "Thanks for clarifying it, Detective.  Yes, that's the clinical term
for it."  

     "What happened between you and Naomi that night?"  Starsky
asked.

     "Do you want lurid details?  Maybe photos?"  Stanford asked,
annoyed.

     "I don't know, Mr. Stanford.  Did you take any?"  Hutch
prodded, and the other man came up out of his chair.

     "Listen you son of a--"

     "Whoa there, Stanford, just back off," Starsky commanded,
rising at the same time the other man did.  "Now you can cooperate
with us or you can get cute about this and we can haul you down to
headquarters and go round for round down there, and you can explain
to your wife why she has to pick you up at the cop shop.  Your choice."

     "Naomi and I met mid-evening, we had a couple drinks, we
went to bed, and then I left," he said through gritted teeth.  "How much
would you like me to describe in front of her son, for God's sake?"

     "I want you to tell us anything you know that could help solve
my mother's murder," Blair said evenly.

     "That's all I know."  He sat back down.  "Well, that, and the fact
she was being harassed by Fordney, the jerk in the newspaper article."

     "You never mentioned that before," Blair said.

     "It felt like betraying her confidence.  Naomi had been having
problems being pestered by this guy off and on.  I kept offering to go
have a talk with him, and she kept turning me down, saying she didn't
need someone else fighting her battles.  Guess she was wrong."

     "What was the last thing she told you about her contact with
Fordney?"  Hutch asked.  

     "That he thought he was Blair's father, that he was a delusional
headcase who had a bunch of photos of them both...she was upset. 
That's the main reason we got together that night."

     "And you didn't consider this helpful information for a
homicide investigation?"  Starsky demanded.

     "I was with her the night she died, and I was having an affair
my wife didn't know about.  Coming forward with that information
wasn't going to bring Naomi back.  All it's going to end up doing is
ruining my life.  Not completely admirable and selfless, I know, but
still--put yourself in my place."

     "I would strongly suggest you put any out of town plans on hold
for now.  We'll be in touch," Hutch said, rising.  The others followed
suit.

     "So that's it?"

     "What did you expect, rubber hoses?" Starsky said, heading for
the door.

     "You will keep my name out of the papers?  Because let me
promise you this--if this ruins my marriage, you'll have one hell of a
lawsuit on your hands."

     "Mr. Stanford, we do our best to protect sensitive information. 
The article that appeared in the newspaper was not authorized or
confirmed by the department.  We can only guarantee our personal
integrity, not that of the press," Hutch said.

     "Thank you for your time," Jim added as they walked toward
the car.  

     "He's hiding something," Starsky said as soon as he'd sat in the
passenger seat.  Hutch started up the car.

     "He's jumpy, that's for sure," Jim confirmed from the back seat. 
"Of course, most people would be.  He was keyed up pretty much
through the whole discussion."

     "You think he did it?"  Blair asked, turning in the seat to face
his lover.

     "I don't know, Chief.  But I wouldn't be surprised if there was
more to his contact with Naomi than what he's telling us, and he said
they were at Harold's place together, which, if there was a struggle,
could explain the broken blue vase."  Jim paused.  "Think about it. 
Harold's out of town, and Stanford knows it.  It was safe enough for
Naomi to get together with him at the house, and it's pretty doubtful
she'd have done something like that if she'd had any concerns about
Harold returning early," Jim opined.  "Now, if they struggled, and he's
the killer, he could have disposed of the..."  Jim closed his eyes a
moment and swallowed.  "I'm sorry, Chief."  He didn't even want to
look at the stricken expression he felt sure he'd see on Blair's bruised
face.  
     
     "It's okay, Jim.  You have to talk about the case, and you can't
sugar coat everything."

     "He could have taken her out of there to where she was found,
and returned to the house and tidied up the signs of the struggle."

     "That's a lot of conjecture, Jim," Hutch said.

     "At this point, yes, but it fits."

     "I think we need to measure good old John's fingers."  Starsky
shook his head.  "I don't like Stanford, but I *really* get the creeps
from Fordney."

     "I noticed you didn't ask Stanford to submit to any kind of
testing to verify that he was the one," Blair said.

     "He admitted to it--and thanks to that sneaky, underhanded little
question you asked him, he pretty much hung himself anyway."  Jim
smiled at Blair and Starsky caught his son's eye in the rearview mirror.  
     
     "Nice police work, kiddo."

     "Besides, you really think he'd go along with it willingly?"  Jim
shook his head.  "We'll get a subpoena and search warrants.  You think
we'll have any trouble getting those out of a judge?" 

     "Not with the admission that he was with Naomi shortly before
the time of death," Starsky responded. "I hate to break this to
everybody, but given the coroner's established time of death, and the
time frame that Stanford claims they were together, she didn't have
time to make it out to Fordney's cabin after that.  Given what Stanford
said, she had already been there before they got together."

     "But what about Jim smelling her perfume there?"  Blair asked.

     "That could mean she was there at a another time.  Doesn't
mean she was there that night," Jim said.  "I was just assuming, given
all the other evidence, that she was."

     "I can't believe that somebody like Stanford--someone who
counsels people on seeking higher spiritual truth and inner peace--could...
could *strangle* someone--especially someone he loved."  Blair
rubbed an unbruised portion of his temple.  

     "Head getting bad again, Chief?" Jim asked gently, rubbing
Blair's shoulder a little.

     "Yeah.  I need another pill, I think, but I didn't want to be too
groggy to talk to Stanford."

     "How about we drop you off for some shut-eye while we handle
the paperwork and getting the warrants?"  Hutch suggested.  "For that
matter, Jim, you might as well bail out too for a while.  We'll stop by
and pick you both up if we do anything interesting."

     "Sounds like a great idea," Jim responded.  The thought of
stretching out with Blair for a while held a great deal of appeal.

********

     Starsky and Hutch set the wheels in motion to get the warrants
they would need to search Stanford's home and car, and then made a
side trip to the hospital, tape measure in hand, to check out John
Fordney's fingers.  The guard on his door didn't take any special interest
in what the two veteran cops were up to in the unconscious prisoner's
room, so the matter of measuring his hands was a fairly uncomplicated
one. 

     "Doesn't really look very long, does it?" Starsky opined,
measuring his own finger length as they strolled down the hall toward
the elevator.

     "Your fingers are longer than his, that's for sure."  Hutch sighed
and punched the button for the elevator.  Every now and then, visiting
this hospital brought back a stab of memory, and being in the ICU area
brought the images of Starsky's brush with death twenty years earlier
back to him still more vividly.  It had been in this very hospital, in this
very elevator, that Hutch had come to grips with the piercing reality of
Starsky's mortality, and had faced the ultimate demon--the realization
that Starsky was going to die.  There were times that the old pain was
acute enough that even the fact Starsky defied that reality didn't cause
it to dissipate.  

     "You wanna tell me what's eatin' you, babe?"  Starsky asked,
relieved they were alone in the elevator.  Hutch seemed preoccupied at
best, morosely depressed at worst.  He was just too silent and still as he
stood there, one arm braced against the paneled wall.

     "Just ghosts," he dismissed, forcing a little smile.  Starsky
reached over and hit the "stop" button.

     "This ain't no ghost, darlin'.  I'm right here."  Starsky pulled his
partner into a tight hug, letting his fingers trail up into blond hair that
was still as fine and silky against his skin as it had been twenty years
ago.  

     "This is stupid," Hutch protested, even as he held on tighter. 
"It's been years.  I just don't end up in the ICU wing of this particular
hospital too often, I guess."

     "I'm alive, babe.  And what started here ended in what we've got
now."  Starsky pulled back.  "I'd go through Gunther all over again for
that," he said solemnly.

     "Don't say that, Starsk.  Not for anything," Hutch said, laying a
hand on Starsky's chest.  "I wouldn't put you through that again for
anything."

     "Maybe not, but I would.  Because sometimes you gotta walk
through hell to get to heaven, you know what I mean?"  Starsky smiled
and rested his forehead against Hutch's.  After a moment had passed, he
spoke again.  "You think maybe we oughtta start up the elevator
again?"

     "I don't want to explain it to Taylor if we hold up some sort of
emergency so we can be alone together in the elevator."  Hutch reached
over and punched the button to start it moving again.  "Dobey just
would have said, 'don't tell me, I don't wanna know'."  Hutch chuckled
at the words that had become Dobey's mantra after he figured out the
direction their relationship had taken.

     The two men walked out of the elevator and started across the
lobby when Starsky darted back toward the gift shop.  

     "Wait right there."  He left his puzzled partner standing near the
entrance, obediently waiting for his return.  Starsky came back five
minutes later with a single yellow rose and handed it to Hutch, then
planted a big, noisy kiss on his mouth right there by the door to the
astonishment of a couple of nurses who were just walking in.  "Now
you've got something new to remember this place by.  Let's get outta
here, huh?"  He yanked on his startled partner's jacket sleeve, and
Hutch followed, stunned, the rose tightly in hand.  

********

     Jim leaned on one elbow on the bed, watching Blair sleep. 
While these painkillers didn't make him sick to his stomach, they
certainly flattened him into a stupor.  Fordney's repeated blows to
Blair's face had left him unable to talk, smile, chew or even blink
without hurting.  It was a small miracle that nothing was broken or
seriously damaged.  Fordney must have pulled his punches enough so
as not to break Blair's bones--probably his idea of fatherly love.  When
he heard Starsky and Hutch coming in, he carefully got up and slipped
out of the room, closing the door behind him.

     When he arrived in the kitchen, Hutch was putting a single
yellow rose in a bud vase and Starsky was merely a butt and legs
sticking out of the refrigerator.  

     "What'd you find out?"

     "How's Blair?"  Starsky asked, emerging from the refrigerator
with a rolled up piece of cold meat.  "It was your idea to skip lunch,"
he said to Hutch, who let his admonition about the greasy hunk of
sliced bologna go unspoken.

     "He's sleeping.  The pain pills really knock him out."

     "Poor kid.  As soon as that son of a bitch regains consciousness,
I'd like to bash in the other side of his head," Starsky said, chewing. 
"But, it's not good news from Ginny."

     "You measured Fordney's hand?"

     "Yeah, and it's not conclusive, because we're not the medical
examiner, and it's unofficial, but Ginny compared the measurements
we took to the bruising patterns, and she doesn't think he could have
gotten his hands around Naomi's throat in exactly that manner and still
had the strength to finish the job.  His hands would have been stretched
open too wide, if in fact they'd reached at all."

     "Shit."  Jim sat at the table.  "So we're back to Stanford."

     "Look on the bright side, gentlemen.  We have here a handy-dandy 
search warrant for our favorite guru's house and one for his
vehicles."  Hutch smiled.  "All is not lost.  Just a change in plans."

     "Hard to believe Fordney didn't do it."  Jim leaned back in the
chair.  

     "It's still possible--just really unlikely."  Starsky joined Jim at
the table.  "You want to stay here with Blair while we do the searches?"

     "I think he should be there for the searches," Hutch spoke up.  

     "Oh, right," Starsky agreed, nodding.  "So you could actually do
surveillance without the bugs?"  Starsky asked, leaning forward a bit,
intrigued.

     "I've done it before, but only in an emergency, because it doesn't
hold up in court.  But yeah, I can do it."

     "Wow.  So, suppose Hutch and I were havin' a conversation in
the other end of the house, you could hear what we were sayin'?"

     "I could if I eavesdropped.  Or if you raised your voices
unexpectedly.  That's the whole point of the dials Blair taught me
about.  Keeping things at a normal level unless I need to call on the
senses to do more.  Otherwise, I'd be in a constant state of
overstimulation, basically crippled by light and sound and smell."

     "You really could tell then that Stanford was lying?"

     "I knew he was lying about something, but not whether or not
he killed Naomi for sure.  I knew his heartbeat picked up pace, and his
respiration was getting labored.  He was nervous."

     "That's amazing," Starsky leaned back in his chair now,
grinning.  "Must make interrogating a suspect real easy."

     "It points me in the right direction, let's put it that way," Jim
said, chuckling.  Oddly enough, he felt very at ease talking about his
senses with Starsky and Hutch.  Starsky had the enthusiasm his son did,
though it was much more practical and less academic, and Hutch
seemed to just accept it as part of Jim, and now that he knew what it
was, it was no big deal.

     "You know, I get the means and opportunity here--Stanford has
large hands with long fingers, and he was with Naomi at the right time--
and in a position of trust to get close to her.  What I don't get is the
motive," Hutch said, joining the two at the table.  
     
     "Maybe she was breaking it off with him," Jim suggested.

     "Could be.  Of course, why now?  She was still refusing to
marry good old Harold," Starsky said, sighing.  

     "And where does Fordney fit into this thing?  You said you
smelled her perfume at Fordney's cabin," Hutch said to Jim.  "She
must've been there."

     "Or something that belonged to her that had her perfume on it
was," Starsky said.  "Do you know for certain it was *Naomi* who was
there, and not just something with her perfume on it?"  Starsky asked.

     "No, I'm not sure of that.  Even to me, it was only a trace scent. 
I wouldn't have noticed it if I didn't recognize it as hers."  Jim
considered the possibility a moment.  "So maybe Naomi was never at
Fordney's place at all.  Come to think of it, that scarf we found at his
house would probably have the same scent on it."

     "So he may have had that with him out at his cabin," Starsky
surmised.  "Or she might have been there a couple nights earlier."

     "I think we should go have a look around Stanford's place
before much longer," Hutch said.  "How do you want to work this?"

     "I'll go wake Blair.  I should change the dressings on his wrists,
and he'll want to come along."  Jim stood up.  "I'll tell him about the
hand-measuring thing with Fordney."

     "You mind if I take care of that?"  Starsky asked.

     "No, not at all.  The gauze and supplies are in the bathroom in
there.  I'll wait out here."  Jim sat back down as Starsky headed down
the hall and tapped on the bedroom door, then opened it a little.  Blair
was still sleeping, the knock not seeming to have roused him at all.  

     "Blair," he said softly, touching Blair's shoulder.  "Hey, kiddo,
time to wake up."

     "Mm," Blair grumbled, then opened his eyes.  The swelling had
gone down enough that they both opened now, though the bruising was
still vivid.  "How long was I out this time?"

     "Jim said a couple of hours.  We've gotta talk, and I need to
change your bandages."

     "You don't have to do that.  Jim'll give me a hand with it."

     "Do you mind?"  Starsky asked, retrieving the supplies from the
bathroom.

     "No, 'course not."  Blair straightened up and sat against the
headboard.  

     "Head better?"  Starsky asked, carefully unwrapping one of the
bandaged wrists.  He winced at the damage.  "God, that must've hurt
like hell," he said, carefully cleaning around the damaged area, then 
re-bandaging it.

     "My head's better, and yeah, it didn't feel too great," Blair
responded to the double question, smiling.  "I just figured I only had
one shot at getting out of there before he got back, so I had to take it.  I
guess I learned a few maneuvers hanging out with Jim."  Blair didn't
say anymore.  He'd reiterated the whole story to Jim, and then again to
his father and Hutch in order to make his statement.  

     "You probably did, but I have a feeling you knew a few of your
own before that."

     "Mainly from outwitting bullies," Blair said, smiling.  "I was
always smaller than the other kids--not just because I'm not very tall,
but because I was usually ahead a couple grades in reading and math--
so the older boys picked on me a lot.  I was a textbook nerd.  Little,
scrawny, big glasses."

     "Yeah, well, kids can be jerks sometimes."  Starsky shook his
head.  "Adults can be jerks, for that matter.  Sometimes they just gang
up on anybody who's different from them, you know?  For no good
reason at all.  But the weird part of it is, while those kids were pickin'
on the little nerds, the little nerds ended up with Ph.D.'s and big jobs
while they're probably slingin' hash someplace.  Or like me, waitin'
until 45 to get a college degree."  Starsky removed the second bandage
carefully. 

     "Don't put yourself down, Dad.  You *got* the degree, that's the
point, and even if you hadn't--doesn't make you any less smart.  Ow."

     "Sorry," Starsky said, wincing at touching one of the raw areas
with the edge of the cotton he was using to clean the wrist. 
"Sometimes, I'd feel really stupid around Hutch, ya know?  I mean, he
was valedictorian of his high school class, went to college and got good
grades, knows when to eat with all the right forks and all the right
words for when the ballerinas do their thing on stage or what kinda
caviar is better.  Me, I'm an expert on pizza and I was lucky to get C's
in high school."

     "Did you try very hard?"  Blair asked.

     "Not really," Starsky admitted, laughing.  "I partied a lot, got
into some trouble here and there."  Starsky carefully re-wrapped the
second wrist.  "You know, I really wouldn't mind killing that bastard,"
he mumbled in regard to Fordney.

     "You didn't have the same opportunities Hutch had," Blair said,
ignoring the last comment.  "I mean, you said your family wasn't rich--
so a free ride through college wasn't an option, right?"

     "Not unless I won the lottery, no."

     "You probably weren't taken to ballets and symphonies when
you were a kid."
     
     "My grandmother had a lot of old phonograph records, and I
used to listen to those with her sometimes.  I know quite a bit about
classical music, actually.  But no, we didn't go to any of that kind of
stuff."

     "You can't compare yourself with Hutch when it comes to
getting your degree or knowing all the cultural things so well.  A poor
kid in a single parent household doesn't have the chances a rich kid
does.  I just think it's really cool you went back and got your degree."

     "It was somethin' I wanted to do.  All set," he said, disposing of
the debris and returning the supplies to the bathroom

     "Thanks."

     "We've got a problem with Fordney," Starsky said, returning to
his seat on the edge of the bed.

     "What?"

     "We measured Fordney's hands--off the record, of course. 
Ginny doesn't think he could have done it."

     "Damn it."  Blair let out a long sigh.  

     "We got warrants for Stanford's house and cars, so we're going
to head out there as soon as you're upright again," Starsky said.  "You
need to be prepared that this could get a little sordid before it's over.  I
don't want you to be blind sided by people making implications about
your mother, or by Stanford spouting some kind of crap to cover his
own ass.  Just be prepared."

     "He couldn't come up with much worse stuff to say to me than
Fordney did."

     "About what?"  

     "Everything," Blair said quietly.  "My mom, me, my
relationship to Jim..."  Blair paused.  "You."

     "Whether he's the killer or not, Blair, we know he's a psycho
stalker.  He's going to say some really ugly things when he's cornered."

     "I blew it so bad, Dad.  I just snapped at the stuff he was saying,
and I started antagonizing him and telling him off."  Blair's distressed
expression changed to surprise when Starsky actually chuckled. 
"What?"

     "Sorry, son.  I think you come by that naturally."  Starsky
paused, finding that talking about the Marcos case, even now, was
chilling.  "A long time ago, Hutch and I busted this guy--a real 
pscyho-Manson-clone type who had a cult of loonies who ran around in black
dresses with big red inverted crosses on them.  On the day he was
supposed to be sentenced, on *nine counts* of murder--and trust me,
Blair, the things he'd done to people, and that his followers had done,
you don't want to hear about--some of his nuts grabbed me right outta
the john in the courthouse.  I was with those creeps for almost 24
hours.  But even tied up with them playin' kick-the-can with *my* can,
I was callin' 'em everything under the sun.  Some people have the
ability to play it smart and save their asses, and then others of us just
can't shut up to save our lives, literally."

     "That must've been awful."

     "It was right up there with gettin' shot three times as the worst
time of my life.  But my point is that even outnumbered like I was, and
good as dead, I couldn't keep my mouth shut either.  Maybe it's
arrogance or pride or...I don't know."  Starsky shrugged.  "I was a cop,
Blair, supposedly trained to handle myself in a hostage situation.  And I
did everything I could to piss 'em off.  Maybe because it was the only
power I had.  They could do whatever they wanted, and I couldn't stop
'em.  But I could drive 'em nuts, and I did, every chance I got."

     "How'd you get away?"

     "I didn't.  Hutch rode in on his white horse and rescued me,"
Starsky smiled at the memory.  "I always knew Hutch was a hell of a
fighter, but I never saw anybody come in and clean house the way he
did.  By the time the back up got up to where we were, all that was left
to do was carry out the unconscious scum, feet first."

     "Wow."
     
     "Yeah, wow.  He's a pretty amazing guy for a rich kid from
Minnesota."  Starsky laughed.  "He fights more like the guys in my old
neighborhood."

     "It's hard, you know, to hear things..."  Blair took in a breath. 
"This is dumb."

     "What?  Hey, you can tell me," Starsky coaxed. "You already
know you don't have a corner on doing dumb things in this family." 
Starsky smiled hopefully as Blair chuckled a little.

     "It's just really hard to have...for all that...*hate*
and...and...*disapproval*...to feel that, and to know somebody feels
that...and..."

     "Some of the shit he said to you hurt and made you feel lousy,
huh?"  Starsky surmised.  Blair nodded.  "Sour grapes."

     "Sour grapes, huh?"  Blair repeated, smiling.

     "Yep.  Because this beautiful, brainy kid he's been following
around for the last twenty years or so turned out to be *mine*.  Now
that's gotta piss him off beyond words."

     "But he kept insisting I was his son."

     "Sure he did, but even psychos have this place in their brain
sometimes that tells 'em what's really goin' on.  They just don't wanna
listen to it."  Starsky smiled, tugging on a lock of Blair's hair.  "He saw
all those curls and knew damn well they didn't come from him.  And he
saw that animation, that...*glow*, and he knew that came from your
mom--the woman who never wanted him.  He could see your real
parents in you, and he knew you weren't his, and he hated you for not
being his, Blair.  He hated you for what you are--Naomi's and *my*
son.  Not because you have long hair or because you're in a gay
relationship or because you're Jewish or because you're a student and
not a stockbroker.  But because you weren't his son, and in his heart, he
could force you to pretend you were--or try--but it was hollow, and he
knew the truth deep down inside."

     "How'd you know all the things he went after me for?"

     "Well, hey, that's not too hard to figure out.  My hair was never
as long as yours, but it was longer than people thought it oughtta be
when I was your age--and a cop.  And I didn't dress the way I was
supposed to.  And I was Jewish, and I was in love with my male
partner.  So I got a little idea of what people criticize you for."

     "It's really been bothering me, and I know I shouldn't have let it,
but still...it hurt."

     "You listen to me."  Starsky took the bruised face in both hands. 
"I am so proud of you, Blair.  Proud of the way you got away from
Fordney, proud of all those brains you've got...but I'm just proud of the
person you are.  You've got a good heart, kiddo.  You care, and you put
your all into the things that matter to you.  Don't let anybody ever make
you feel like less than you are."

     "Thanks, Dad," Blair said, his voice shaking a little.  

     "Anytime."  Starsky stood up, then gave Blair a noisy kiss on
the top of his head that made him laugh.  "Enough mopin' around. 
We've got us a killer to catch."

********       

     A thorough search of Stanford's home revealed nothing out of
the ordinary, except for his irate wife, demanding to know why he was
under suspicion.  Just as they were about to give up on the blue Pontiac
minivan, Jim crawled out of the back of it carrying a small plastic bag
containing two hairs.  Two red hairs.

     "I can smell her perfume in there," he said to Starsky, casting an
eye over to where Blair and Hutch were starting in on Mrs. Stanford's
Chevy Cavalier.  Starsky had searched the van himself, but the
evidence Jim found would have taken extraordinary senses--which was
why when he'd finished, Starsky happily turned the vehicle over to Jim
for a final scan.  

     "Those are red?"  Starsky held the bag up to the sun and
squinted.  "Looks like it.  Is the perfume scent strong enough to use in
court?"

     "Nope."  Jim sighed.  "It's faint, even to me.  All it proves
anyway is that she was in the back of his van at some point.  They were
having an affair.  We could go a number of directions with that
evidence."

     "I think that's enough to take this baby back downtown and let
the crime lab folks go over it for fiber samples.  If we could match
fibers from the clothes Naomi was wearing the night she died with
something we find there, plus the hair samples--assuming they match--
we could have some solid physical evidence.  Stanford said he went to
see Naomi at Bloomfield's house.  He never said they went out.  He
said they had a couple drinks, did the deed, and he left.  Now if that's
true, there's no reason for Naomi to have been in his van that night."

     "Guess we better go break the news to Stanford that we're
impounding his wheels," Jim said, tucking the hair sample bag into the
pocket of his jacket.  "I'm going to have a look at the wife's car before
we take off."

     "Good thinking," Starsky agreed, heading into the house to
break the bad news to Stanford.  

********

     Just as the evidence gathering was heating up against Stanford,
Fordney regained consciousness.  Since Blair's victim status made his
presence at questioning problematic, Blair waited at the PD for results
on the more thorough analysis of Stanford's minivan while Jim, Starsky
and Hutch made a sojourn to talk to Fordney.      

     "I want my lawyer present," Fordney grumbled when he saw the
three walk through the door.  

     "That's your right, Fordney.  But I gotta tell you, I'd be thinkin'
real hard about cooperating right now if I were you.  See, we've got
enough to charge you with murder one.  But if you talk real fast and
make real good sense, you might get out of it with kidnaping and
assault.  Your choice," Starsky said, leaning non-chalantly against the
wall of the room.  "But let me tell you this, Fordney.  No matter what
goes down here--you touch my son again and so help me God, I'll kill
you myself--is that clear?"

     "You heard him threaten me!"  Fordney said, pointing an angry
finger at Hutch and Jim.

     "We just got here, Mr. Fordney.  Didn't hear a thing," Hutch
said calmly.  "But if I had heard anything, I would advise you to take it
seriously.  Right now you're looking at kidnaping, assault and murder
one."

     "Murder...?  I didn't kill Naomi, if that's what this is about." 
Fordney raised a hand to the bandage that wrapped around his head. 
His display of pain was lost on his visitors.

     "You had surveillance photos of her in your home, and you had
one of her scarves in your possession.  How do you explain that?"  Jim
persisted.

     "I wanted to have a relationship with Naomi.  Killing her would
have been a bit counterproductive."

     "You raped her," Starsky said evenly.

     "You know, everyone keeps saying that, including Naomi--and
that's not how I saw it.  Hippie girls didn't say no--none that I ever ran
into."

     "Isn't that a rather broad generalization?"  Jim prodded, giving
Fordney a disparaging look.

     "Okay, so the *hippie girls I knew* didn't say no--at least not
very often.  I don't care what Naomi tells people, or what *she*
remembers, but she didn't say 'no' to me.  Not once.  She was high and
she was a little flaky acting, but she never said 'no'."

     "It never occurred to you that taking sexual favors from a
woman who wasn't capable of consenting wasn't the right thing to do?" 
Starsky asked.

     "Am I on trial for rape here?"  Fordney shot back.  

     "No, but you could be on trial for capital murder, so it might be
wise for you to quit stonewalling us before we really give you and your
overpriced lawyer something to worry about," Hutch added.  "You're
already going down for kidnaping and assault, probably for a host of
stalking and B&E charges, given the photographs we found.  You're
only going to help yourself by cooperating further.  Now if you want to
make this official, we can charge you with the murder of Naomi
Sandburg, and you can deal with us in that setting.  The choice is
yours," Hutch bluffed.  With the evidence piling up against Stanford,
arresting Fordney would have been folly--and never would have passed
muster with the DA.  Fortunately, Fordney didn't know that.

     "Think about your question, Starsky.  Apparently, you were
there, and you were with Naomi yourself that weekend.  Think about
the drugged out veggies you saw lying around on the grass or in the
tents or in the backs of vans.  Do you seriously think they were all
giving each other drug tests to make sure the women's consents were
valid?"

     "Naomi knew what she was doing when she was with me.  I
wouldn't take advantage of a nearly unconscious woman who was on
something that impaired her to that degree."

     "Well, then you're a boy scout.  Congratulations.  Nobody wants
to hear the truth about this situation--including Naomi.  She had me
painted as some sort of Jack the Ripper."

     "So why were you stalking her?"  Jim asked.

     "I like photography, and Naomi was my favorite subject.  She
had an interesting face, and a fascinating life.  So I took pictures.  Lots
of pictures.  I was hoping someday we could get back together again,
and that she'd come to her senses about that incident and see it for what
it was--a woman who was too high to remember what really happened,
and a guy who, okay, took advantage of a good opportunity.  But it
wasn't some violent rape of some sort."

     "You have interior shots of her various residences, and a scarf
of hers was found in your home," Hutch said.

     "Ever heard of a zoom lens?"  Fordney shot back.  "And she
dropped the scarf at the cabin."

     "So you admit to taking her to the cabin?"  Jim clarified.

     "No, she came under her own power.  I told her I had something
I had to show her, and that it was about Blair.  She wouldn't ride with
me, so she followed me in her own car.  I confronted her about him--I
figured he was mine, once I did the math."

     "You figured wrong," Starsky said firmly.

     "Yeah, well, that has yet to be proven to my satisfaction."

     "Your satisfaction isn't an issue here, Fordney," Hutch said. 
"You had photographs of Blair from ten, fifteen years ago.  Why wait
until now to confront Naomi?"

     "My mother died."

     "Excuse me?"  Jim raised his eyebrows, trying to figure how
even someone as warped as Fordney could make that particular leap in
subject matter.

     "I tried to get in touch with Naomi over the years, but I didn't
want to confront her about Blair until my mother died.  She was a very
old fashioned, conservative woman.  It would have broken her heart to
know I'd fathered an illegitimate child with someone like Naomi."

     "You're a real piece'a work, Fordney," Starsky said, shaking his
head.  "There's no amount of money I've got in this world that I
wouldn't've handed over in a heartbeat to have my son with me.  And
you sold his childhood for an inheritance.  Yeah, we checked out your
family history, pal, and a few of your friends were only too happy to
tell us you just collected in excess of $6 million from good old mom
when she cashed out.  So it stands to reason that you wouldn't want to
trade in all that money just to have a chance to be with the child you
thought was your son."

     "I didn't want to hurt her--she was an old woman, and not in
very good health."

     "Whatever," Starsky said, turning and staring out the window,
trying valiantly to contain his temper.  All those years Fordney had
known about Blair, thought the child was his, and done nothing, all in
order to preserve his inheritance.  All those years Starsky would have
given his every material possession to have back...

     "Mr. Fordney, I know damn well those photographs you took
inside my apartment were *not* possible with a zoom lens," Jim stated
flatly.

     "No, they weren't, but Blair had this fortuitous habit of keeping
a key over the door that made walking right in no problem at all.  I
wanted to get to know more about him, how he lived, what he was
doing...  Not that I was pleased with what I found--but then I didn't
expect much more from his upbringing."

     "If Naomi was such a lousy mother and Blair was such a poor
excuse of a child, why were you devoting your life to stalking them?" 
Hutch asked, keeping one eye on Starsky, who hadn't turned away from
the window yet.  His entire body was rigid, almost vibrating with
contained rage.

     "All Naomi needed was a man in her life who could take
control of the boy and turn him into a man who might amount to
something worthwhile instead of the weasley little long-haired faggot
he turned out to be."

     Hutch wasn't sure exactly how to restrain both Jim and Starsky,
who were launching from opposite sides of the room, but fortunately,
while Jim's leap was for Fordney's throat, Starsky's leap was meant to
help Hutch intercept.  Starsky managed to get a hold on Jim's shirt and
pull back just in time to keep him from making contact with Fordney's
person.  

     "Outside," he said evenly to Jim, who looked at Fordney, who
seemed, despite his usual arrogance, to be a bit disconcerted by the
momentary image of Blair's father and lover both assailing him in his
hospital bed.  He stepped back from Starsky and walked out on his
own, the older man behind him.  

     "You should've let me get one good shot in," Jim protested.

     "Oh, yeah, that would've worked just great.  Give the bastard
something to use to get out of the charges against him.  He's not worth
it.  I looked at that pathetic piece of shit in that bed, and he's not worth
it."  Starsky started pacing.  

     "I saw you in there--you were ready to strangle him yourself."

     "You're right, I was.  But I didn't.  There isn't any part of me that
doesn't want to kill that son of a bitch with my bare hands.  But you and
I both know that it ain't gonna solve anything, and when it's over,
whatever we do is just gonna end up bein' used to his advantage." 
Starsky sat down heavily in a nearby chair.  "We're still on this case by
a thread, Ellison, and it's a fucking thin thread that would take close to
nothin' to snap.  I don't want to have to go back to headquarters and tell
Blair that we screwed up and got pulled off the case."  Starsky rubbed a
hand over his face.  "And I'm outta trump cards to play on Taylor."

     "Meaning what?"

     "Meaning Hutch and I threatened to retire if he didn't put us
back on the case.  We've still got a hell of an arrest record, and with the
task force...Hutch has got a book comin' out next year..."

     "He didn't say anything."

     "I'm not supposed to either, so you don't know about it.  It's in
the negotiating stages now anyway, with the publisher.  The point is,
we've got reputations in this area--with Hutch and his seminar work
and now the book, it's gonna be national before long--so they don't
want us to go away mad--that's what it amounts to."  Starsky slumped
back in the chair.  "But smacking the shit out of Fordney would be the
last straw, and we'd be off the case no matter what we threatened them
with."

     "I know you're right."  Jim sat down in a nearby chair.

     "I feel the same way you do.  Maybe worse.  One of the biggest
losses in my life is Blair's childhood, as far as I'm concerned.  I would
do anything to go back and know about him when Fordney knew...to
have a chance to *be* his father when he needed one the most. 
Fordney sold that chance for an inheritance."

     "Naomi never would have let him near Blair."

     "No, probably not, but it's the principle of the thing.  If I'd had
that chance..."  Starsky gestured with one hand, then let it drop in his
lap.  "What if..."  He sighed.  "Gets you nowhere every time."

     "If it's any consolation to you, I don't think Blair could be any
more excited about this whole situation if he'd met you twenty years
ago."

     "Yeah, it's consolation.  He's a great kid."  Starsky looked up as
Hutch walked out of the room.  

     "I'm just glad you didn't both go for his throat," Hutch said,
joining them in the grouping of chairs that formed a small waiting area. 


     "Did he say anything else worthwhile?"  Starsky prodded.

     "He said that he showed Naomi the pictures and confronted her
about being Blair's father.  She refused, said she knew who the father
was and he wasn't it.  They argued, it got heated--he claims there was
nothing physical like blows or struggling, and then she ran out and got
in her car and that was the last time he saw her alive.  She dropped the
burgundy scarf on her way out the door, and wouldn't slow down long
enough to pick it up."

     "So maybe that's why she saw Stanford the next night--she
might have had the mistaken impression he could help her put things in
perspective," Jim said.

     "We better get back to the station.  Did you talk to him about
Blair and the kidnaping?" Starsky asked Hutch.

     "Yeah, and he's not holding much back about that now.  He
started skirting a few issues about the beating itself, holding out for his
attorney."  Hutch snorted a little laugh.  "For all the good it'll do him
with Blair's testimony."

********

     Blair couldn't believe it had come to this.  He was actually
playing Solitaire on his father's computer, trying to kill time until the
three men returned from questioning Fordney.  Finding even his score
on the computer game dismal, he closed the program and leaned back
in the chair, scanning the desk top.  There were a few framed photos
there--a 5x7 of Starsky and Hutch together, looking like it was several
years old, a smaller snapshot of Hutch on what must have been the
newly-finished deck, arms spread in a "ta-da" pose, and finally another
5x7--an enlargement of the photo Jim had taken of Blair and Starsky
outside the Cascade Country Club on Father's Day.  Tucked in the top
edge of the desk blotter was one of Blair's baby pictures--he'd been
about six months old, dressed in a tiny pair of overalls and a white t-shirt, 
giving the camera a huge, toothless grin.  Blair had to chuckle at
the photo in spite of himself.  Starsky wasn't going to be daunted by a
thirty-year delay.  By God, if he had a kid, he was gonna show off baby
pictures.

     "Penny for your thoughts, junior," Starsky squeezed the back of
Blair's neck as he passed him to sit on the edge of the desk.

     "My mom always liked that picture too," Blair said, pointing at
the baby picture.

     "Yeah, she told me.  It got the most 'awws' of all the photos I
showed, so I put it there.  I keep meanin' to get a frame."

     "How'd it go?"

     "Well, Fordney is a class A asshole."

     "Thanks for the news bulletin."

     "Aside from that, he said he confronted Naomi about the
paternity issue the night before she died, and that they never struggled
or had any physical altercation.  She said it wasn't him, but of course,
he doesn't put any stock in that, as usual.  Then he spouted off more of
crap, but he admitted to taking all the photos of you and Naomi."

     "So why did he wait all this time to come forward?"

     "Because his mother was pretty Victorian in her attitudes, and
she held the purse strings on a $6 million inheritance.  So he didn't
want to acknowledge any illegitimate children while she was still alive
for fear of losing the loot."

     "Great guy.  Trade in what you thought was your kid for an
inheritance."

     "Well," Starsky stood up, picking up the phone and dialing an
internal number, "he won't be spendin' much of it where he's goin'."  He
waited for an answer to his call.  "Yeah, Tony?  Are Hutch and Ellison
down there yet?"  He paused.  "Yeah, it's me.  Anything?"  A somewhat
predatory grin spread over his face.  "Great.  Okay."  He hung up the
phone. "The lab found some fiber samples in the back of Stanford's
minivan that match the blouse Naomi was wearing the night she died. 
And..."  Starsky paused.  "You know I told you your mom had some
bruises from a struggle?"

     "Yeah," Blair said, nodding.

     "Well, Jim found a flake of dried blood on that carpeting too,
which matches Naomi's type.  DNA testing is underway, but I don't
doubt it's hers, given the other evidence."

     "Wow.  We really got him then?"

     "I'm callin' the DA's office right now.  I'm hoping we can get a
warrant and go get the son of a bitch."  Starsky picked up the phone
again and dialed another number.  

     The district attorney gave the case his blessing, and a warrant
was issued within an hour for the arrest of Frederick Stanford for the
murder of Naomi Sandburg.  Not only did they have physical evidence
which put Naomi in Stanford's van the night she died, but he had
contradicted his own statements to police that they hadn't left the
Bloomfield residence that night.  

     Just as they were about to leave headquarters with the warrant
in-hand, a phone call detained them.  Harold Bloomfield was on the
phone when Hutch answered it.

     "I wondered if there were any new developments on the case.  I
haven't heard from anyone about it for a couple of days..."

     "Actually, Mr. Bloomfield, we're on our way to make an arrest
right now."

     "An arrest?  Who is it?"  he demanded immediately.  While
Hutch could understand the other man's fervor, the last thing he wanted
to do was jeopardize the safe capture of Stanford by having a third
party muddying the waters.

     "I'd rather not say at this juncture.  We'll be making the arrest
tonight, and I'll ask Blair to give you a call later and fill you in."  He
glanced at Blair, who raised his eyebrows a bit inquiringly.  Hutch
mouthed, "Harold", and Blair nodded.  Jim and Starsky were already
standing at the door of the squad room, both men practically vibrating
with impatience at waiting for the phone call to conclude.  

     "It's not me, is it?" he asked, finally.

     "No, that much I can tell you.  At this stage, you're in the clear,"
Hutch said, rolling his eyes.  

     "I'd never have hurt Naomi.  I loved her."

     "I really have to be going, Mr. Bloomfield.  I'll ask Blair to call
you later," Hutch repeated, hanging up the phone.  "He was worried we
were going to arrest him," he said to Blair as they joined Jim and
Starsky and started out for the parking garage.

     "Guess you can't blame him for being nervous," Blair said,
shrugging.

     "Look, we're going to drive out there in two cars, because we
need a secure spot for the suspect.  Hutch and I'll take the police sedan
with the cage in back."  Starsky handed Blair his car keys.  "Think you
can handle the Torino, kid?"

     "Oh, I think so, yeah," Blair said, beaming.  On the way to
arrest his mother's killer, driving a nifty car wasn't of much
consequence in and of itself, but he recognized the gesture for what it
was--not only was Starsky entrusting him with his most treasured
material possession, but it was his father's best attempt at making a
painful situation just a tad less grim for his son. 

     "We'll have a black and white following us out there too." 
Hutch held the door as the other three passed through it into the
parking garage.  "I don't want any slip ups on this."

     Starsky and Hutch started out, with Jim and Blair in the Torino,
behind them.  Blair was getting the feel for the big red and white car
with its powerful V-8 engine, and he could understand its lure.  He had
little doubt he could push the pedal to the floor and there would be
almost nothing he couldn't catch.

     "I can't believe your dad actually handed over the keys to his
baby," Jim said, smiling a little as he looked over the interior of the
car; black leather, contrasted only by the white on the vintage--but
functional--police radio.

     "He wanted to make this easier," Blair said, pulling up behind
the other two cops at a stoplight.  Starsky gave him a "thumbs up" as he
looked in the rearview mirror, and Blair chuckled, returning the
gesture.  "I'm glad we're closing the case, making an arrest...but
Frederick?  God, she trusted him with, like, *everything*--she confided
in him, they knew each other for years."  Blair shook his head.  "I just
really hate that it's him."

     "I know, Chief.  But at least we know now.  As much as I
wanted to pin it on Fordney, I'm glad we didn't go after the wrong guy--well, 
wrong at least in terms of the murder charges."

     "I just gotta wonder what happened between them that made
him kill her.  It doesn't make sense."

     "We have the physical evidence--besides, a lot of murders don't
make sense in the cold light of day.  That's why they're called 'crimes of
passion'."  Jim paused.  "If Stanford isn't guilty,  how did fibers from
Naomi's clothes and a sample of her blood end up in the back of his
minivan?"

     "Maybe she was in the back of his van, alive."

     "Why?  He said he visited her at Bloomfield's place.  What
would she be doing in the back of his van?  And why would she leave
trace evidence of blood if everything was all right?"

     "I don't know.  I didn't say I had the answers--just a lot of
questions."

     "Turn here, Chief," Jim instructed, somewhat unnecessarily,
since Blair knew they were at the entrance to Stanford's ranch.  They'd
lost sight of Starsky and Hutch in traffic previously, but now caught
sight of the unmarked police sedan waiting just off the road in
Stanford's driveway.  The black and white unit that had followed them
from headquarters pulled in behind the Torino, and the three cars
traveled up the winding drive, past the paddock and the stable, to the
house.  It was dark now, and in addition to the outside lighting around
the stables, a the porch light was illuminated at the sound of
approaching visitors.

     "Okay, Starsky and I are going to make the arrest," Hutch said
to the group of men gathered near their vehicles.  "Jim, you and
Higgins go around back and keep an eye on the back door.  Blair, I
want you out of the line of fire.  Stay out here with Lopez and keep an
eye on the house.  Starsky's back-up .38 is in the glove compartment of
the Torino," he added.  "Let's do it."

     Starsky knocked on the front door, and before long it opened,
Frederick Stanford silhouetted in the light spilling out from his living
room into the foyer.  

     "This doesn't look like a social call," he said flatly.

     "May we come in?"  Hutch asked curtly.  Stanford pushed the
screen door open and stood back, letting them enter.  

     "Frederick Stanford, you're under arrest for the murder of
Naomi Sandburg," Starsky announced.  "Please turn around and brace
your hands against the wall," he said coldly, pulling out a pair of
handcuffs.  

     "Look, you've got this all wrong!  I loved Naomi!  I didn't kill
her!" he protested.  
     
     "Save it, Stanford.  We found her blood in the back of your van. 
Give it a rest!  Now turn around and spread 'em before I do it for you."

     "I brought her some herb plants, for God's sake-- she took them
out of the back of the van when I got there!  She cut her finger on one
of the containers and--"

     "Isn't that convenient?  I'm not gonna tell you again, Stanford. 
Save the defense for the trial."

     "Could I have a moment to speak to my wife?  She's been very
upset about this.  She's resting in the bedroom."

     "We'll have to come with you," Hutch responded.  Starsky
seemed annoyed at that much of a concession, but Stanford nodded,
and the three men walked back through the house to the bedroom area,
where they stood in the doorway while Stanford approached his wife,
who was lying, fully-clothed, on top of the bedspread.  There was a
noise that resembled the sliding open of a drawer, and given Stanford's
proximity to the night stand, Starsky immediately called him on it.

     "Hands were we can see 'em, Stanford," he said, pulling his gun. 


     "Frederick?"  Mrs. Stanford seemed to jolt awake then, and
Stanford straightened up, holding a revolver to his own head. 
"Frederick, NO!"  she shouted, two shots ringing out almost
simultaneously--Stanford's shot to his head, and Starsky's shot aimed at
Stanford's shooting arm.  Starsky's shot was too little, too late.  It
grazed the man's arm as he lurched and fell, but it wasn't in time to stop
him from pulling the trigger.  A hideous splotch of blood marred the
wall behind him, and Mrs. Stanford's screaming, as well as the shots,
brought Jim and Higgins into the house, with Blair and Lopez only a
few steps behind.  

     "Shit," Starsky mumbled, letting out a long sigh.  "We never
shoulda let him move outta that entry way!"  he shouted, bringing
Hutch up short a little.  

     "Somebody call an ambulance!!"  Mrs. Stanford shouted.  

     "I'm sorry, ma'am," Hutch said, checking Stanford's pulse.  "He's
dead."

     "Oh, man," Jim muttered, moving out of the room to intercept
Blair before he made it all the way there.  "Stanford shot himself," he
said by way of explanation as he pushed Blair gently backward.  Lopez
continued past them into the room.  

     "No," Blair said grimly.  "Oh, God, Jim, what have we done?"

     "Nothing.  He shot himself, Chief.  We didn't do anything."

     "What if we were *wrong*?"

     "Then Stanford shouldn't have blow his brains out before we
had a chance to find that out in a court of law.  That's what trials are
for."

     "Starsk, you need to calm down here," Hutch said evenly as he
followed Starsky, who stormed out of the room, past Jim and Blair, on
his way outside.

     "You wanna know somethin'?  I didn't give a flyin' rat's ass if he
wanted to talk to his wife! We were bustin' him for first degree murder! 
For killing my son's mother!  What the hell is the matter with you?!" he
shouted back at Hutch.  "The only concern we shoulda had about his
wife is whether or not she was gonna resist his arrest!"

     "Forgive me for having some sensitivity to a woman whose
entire world was torn in half overnight by this investigation," Hutch
countered.  "I didn't see the harm in letting him speak to her before we
took him away."

     "Well, ya see it now," Starsky shot back, continuing outside.  

     "Son of a..."  Hutch let the mumbled curse trail off.  "Starsky!" 
He went out the door after his partner.  Meanwhile, Higgins, a tall,
slender cop in his mid-twenties, led Mrs. Stanford out to the living
room sofa.  She was verging on hysterical, some blood staining her
blue t-shirt and jeans.  Lopez hurried out of the bedroom area and went
to the nearest phone, calling for the coroner's wagon.  

     "What did you people say to him?"  she demanded, pinning Jim
and Blair with an angry glare.  

     "Mr. Stanford was under arrest for the murder of Naomi
Sandburg," Jim explained as Blair moved away, sitting down in a
nearby chair.

     "Murder?  That's absurd!  Not only was Frederick the most non-violent 
person I ever met, but..."  She fought to regain control over her
emotions, "but he...he admitted he was...in love with her," she choked
out.  "Why would he kill her?  How could you people do this to him?!" 
she shouted bitterly before dissolving into tears again.

     "Is there someone you'd like us to call, ma'am?"  Higgins asked.  
     
     "My brother.  His number's...by the phone...in the kitchen..." 
She took in a couple sharp gasps.  "Wayne."  Higgins nodded and
headed into the kitchen.  Blair got up and followed the other man into
the kitchen, leaving Jim in the uneasy position of being alone with the
grieving woman.  She seemed rather oblivious to his presence, and he
was thankful for that as he went to the side window to see what had
happened to Starsky and Hutch.  The two men were still going at it out
by the Torino, fighting like cats and dogs, until Starsky made one final,
rather dramatic gesture with his hands and then got into the unmarked
police sedan and roared down the driveway.  Within a few moments,
Hutch walked back into the house.  He looked haggard and upset, but
he said nothing about the argument with Starsky as he walked into the
living room.  

     "The coroner's people are here," he announced grimly as he
joined Jim in the living room.  Blair re-appeared then, carrying a cup of
something steaming, and approached Mrs. Stanford.

     "This might help a little," he said hesitantly.  She looked up at
him with a devastated face, but nodded, taking the cup in both hands. 
"I'm really sorry about what happened.  If Frederick was guilty, then I
wanted to see him go to trial, but not this."

     "You didn't have him tried and convicted already, then?"  she
managed, taking a sip of the hot herbal tea.  

     "My mother trusted him for years.  I know the nature of their
relationship...that it had to hurt to hear that...but my mom had good
instincts.  I'm not saying I necessarily think he's innocent, but it
surprises me that there was so much evidence that he killed her."

     "He didn't do it, Blair."  She took in a deep breath, managing to
calm the storm of grief for a moment or two.  "Frederick was gentle,
non-violent.  He could get angry, but he never got physical."  She
swallowed hard and looked away, "The way he grieved for Naomi...it
was more than the loss of an old friend.  And it wasn't the grief of the
man who murdered her."

     "Most murder cases don't have conclusive proof, and this one
didn't either, though the evidence was pretty compelling," Blair said,
looking over at Jim and Hutch, who were talking quietly now, several
feet away.  "I want to know the truth about the night my mother died. 
I'm not going to let that die with Frederick.  If he did it, so be it.  If he
didn't, I want to know who did, and I want them to pay for it."

     "It won't be Frederick, when all is said and done."

     "Then why did he commit suicide before there was even an
opportunity for a trial?"  Jim asked, rejoining them and sitting on the
edge of a leather wingback chair.  Hutch leaned on the back of it,
waiting for her response.
     
     "Frederick would have never survived prison," she said
tearfully.  "He was so afraid of being arrested, of being locked up.  He's
claustrophobic, for one thing--that's why we have so many windows, so
much open space around us...  Not to mention what a prison
environment would have done to someone like him.  He said he'd
rather die than go to prison."  She wiped at her eyes and took another
sip of the tea.  "I had no idea he'd...do it that way."

     "An arrest is a long way from a conviction," Hutch said,
somewhat softly.

     "Well, if you're on trial for murder, and you're kept in custody,
you don't have the same means handy to..."  she gestured toward the
bedroom.  "He didn't want to go to jail," she concluded sadly.  As if to
punctuate the statement, the coroner's team moved through the house
with the gurney bearing Stanford's remains.  

     "Frederick said he was taking Naomi some herb plants the night
she died.  Do you know anything about that?"  Hutch asked.

     "We have an extensive herb garden out back.  He didn't say
anything to me about taking them to Naomi then, but I knew he'd given
some away to some of our friends at various times.  It's possible."

     "Mrs. Stanford, we *are* sorry about what happened.  It wasn't
what any of us anticipated--or wanted.  Your husband asked us for an
opportunity to speak to you before he left, and my partner was right, we
should have refused," Hutch said honestly.  "We were both there, with
him in sight...I didn't see the harm in it."

     "Your motives were good on that point," she conceded, wiping
at her eyes again with tissues from a box Blair found on a nearby
coffee table and handed to her.  "Frederick was a firm believer in
destiny, that certain things were meant to happen, and that everything
happened for a reason.  He wouldn't have held you responsible," she
said.  "I don't know if I can be as magnanimous when you were about
to arrest him for a murder he didn't commit," she said, standing up and
walking past them into the kitchen.

     "Where'd my dad go?"  Blair asked, frowning and looking
around now, very aware of his father's absence.

     "Back to headquarters," Hutch responded tersely.  

     "He'll cool off," Jim assessed, then turned to Blair.  "You ready
to go, Chief?"

     "Yeah, I guess.  I don't think I can do any good here.  I feel so
sorry for her," he said, looking toward the open kitchen door where
Mrs. Stanford had expelled a couple of cops from the room and was
now sitting alone at the table, staring out the window there.  

     "Higgins and Lopez will wait here until her brother arrives,"
Hutch said.  "You two mind giving me a lift back downtown?"

********

     As Blair drove the Torino back toward headquarters, Hutch
dialed his partner's number on his cell phone.  

     "Starsky," came the bland reply.

     "It's me.  We're on our way back from Stanford's."

     "The corpse beat you.  Ginny's got him downstairs."  There was
a long pause.  "Hutch... I...  I said some things back at the house..."

     "We'll talk about it later, Starsk.  The main reason I called is
because I figured we should stop over at Bloomfield's and see if Naomi
had any herb plats like Stanford described.  His wife said they had an
herb garden, and he sometimes gave them away to friends.  We've gotta
know if we were on the wrong track here."

     "I'll meet you over there in about twenty minutes."  Starsky
paused.  "Hey."

     "Yeah?"  Hutch stopped, about to break the connection.

     "I love you, babe."  It was said softly, almost whispered into the
phone, and Hutch had to smile as he could picture Starsky hunched at
his desk, looking like a kid with a secret, whispering the "three little
words" into the phone.

     "I love you too, partner.  We'll talk later, huh?"

     "Okay."  Starsky broke the connection then, and Hutch followed
suit.

     "Awww," Blair teased.

     "Smart ass--just like your father," Hutch said, shooting Blair a
look of affectionate exasperation.

********