Part Two

CHAPTER FIVE

Starsky wondered if he'd ever get used to looking at a dead body.

Some were worse than others, of course. A hairless, bloated corpse fished out of the water after three months was bad. Or someone like the man who'd died in an unventilated bathroom in July and went undiscovered for a week. Starsky had thrown up at that one.

Now he looked at his partner across the recently deceased body of one Patrolman Richard McGowan and he could read Hutch's face like a book. Murder dismayed his partner. That sounded obvious, but it wasn't. Many cops could view the killing of one person by another with something like professional detachment. Probably that was the best way to be. Starsky, in fact, liked to think of himself as being that way. Cool. Professional. He thought that no one knew how hard he had to work at being casual. He did fool a lot of the people all the time.

But Hutch was different, Starsky thought. Hutch couldn't see things in that objective manner. He took murder very personally. Starsky sometimes thought that Hutch liked to see himself as the White Knight, punishing evil and protecting the innocent of the world.

"Damn," the Knight-in-Shining-Armor said now.

At least this body wasn't in bad shape. It had scarcely had time to cool off and McGowan's blue uniform wasn't even mussed. They could see why Dobey had labeled this crime an assassination. McGowan's hands were fastened across his chest with his own cuffs. His wallet, I.D., and gun were piled neatly by his side. Tidy. It all looked carefully arranged.

Hutch stepped aside to let the police photographer snap some more pictures. McGowan looked very young. His chestnut hair stirred lightly in the muggy breeze. He might have been sleeping, except for the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

Starsky crouched down for a better look. I wonder if this was in his life itinerary? he wondered idly, staring at McGowan's face. It was as if he thought that by looking long enough and hard enough, he might learn who had killed this man. Unfortunately, no such message was forthcoming. "What do we have, Cap?" he asked finally.

Dobey's expression was that of a black avenging angel. "Not much. McGowan disappeared about four hours ago. Just vanished out of the patrol car." Dobey paused, watching as the team arrived to remove the body.

Starsky grunted a little as he tried to get up; his body was stiffer than he'd thought. Hutch reached down, took him by one hand and pulled him up. "Thanks," Starsky said.

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"You okay?"

"Yeah. What do you mean, Cap? Nobody 'vanishes' from a zone car."

"His partner was in a diner picking up coffee. He was inside maybe ten minutes. When he came back, McGowan was gone."

Starsky wiped a line of sweat from his upper lip. "Who found him?"

Dobey sighed. "That was rough." He gestured toward one of the black-and-whites parked nearby. A uniformed cop was leaning against the car, his head down. "His partner found him. He'd been searching, of course, since it happened. He was coming through the park when he spotted the body."

They were all silent for a moment.

"Shit," Starsky said eloquently.

Hutch shrugged and started toward the patrol car, with Starsky following. "Think the partner's on the up and up?" Starsky muttered.

Hutch gave him a look. "I can see where somebody might be tempted to shoot his partner. Maybe he ate tacos and chocolate ice cream together."

"Ha, ha." But then Starsky shook his head. "I guess that was a dumb thought. Nobody would kill his own partner."

Hutch wondered how Starsky managed to keep alive that streak of naiveté. It was his own experience that, given the proper circumstances, anyone would do anything. But his partner somehow seemed to go through life expecting the best of people. He must have been disappointed any number of times, but he always seemed to bounce back and give the world a twisted grin that said, "Screw you, I'm not beat yet." The funniest part of it all was that Starsky liked to think of himself as a cynic.

The cop straightened as they reached the car. "Hi," Starsky said. "Officer--"

"Powers. Mike Powers," he said. It was obvious that he'd been crying. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand and then extended that hand to them.

"I'm Detective Sergeant Starsky and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Hutchinson."

Powers nodded. "Hi. Dick . . . Officer McGowan was my partner."

"We know. This must be rough." Starsky wished he could think of something to say at times like this, but he never could. He glanced at Hutch, but for once even he seemed at a loss for the appropriate words.

Powers didn't seem to notice. "We went through the Academy together. Then, finally, last month, we were both assigned to the Ninth Precinct. The lieutenant says we make a good team." His voice cracked and he began to cry again as they watched McGowan's body being loaded onto the meat wagon.

Starsky was fiddling with his notebook, trying not to look at Powers. Hutch leaned against the car, feeling the droplets of sweat that were trickling down his armpits.

Powers suddenly banged one fist down onto the hood of the car. Hutch jumped six inches. "Damnit," Powers said furiously. "I just went inside for coffee. A fucking cup of coffee. That's all. How can this have happened so fast? How come it happened at all? Jesus, it just doesn't make any sense." He took hold of Hutch's arm. "How can he be dead like that when I just bought him a jelly doughnut?"

Hutch patted the young man on the back awkwardly. Young? He's probably only five years younger than me. But I feel old. Christ, I feel old. Finally Powers moved away and took a deep breath. "Okay?" Hutch asked quietly.

"Yeah. Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

Starsky had been watching the Crime Lab team. "Sure," he said. "Don't worry about it."

Powers was calm now and there was something even more painful in his sudden icy steadiness than there had been in his tears. "It's just that . . . well, Dick wasn't just my partner. He was my best friend. And to find him like that . . . ." He looked at the two of them. "Maybe you don't understand, but it's like a part of me was laying there dead, too."

Neither of them answered. They both stared at the ground.

Finally Starsky flipped open his notebook. "What can you tell us, Mike? Did you and . . . Dick have any trouble on patrol just before this?"

"No. Nothing." He shook his head. "It was a quiet tour." He managed a rueful half-smile. "In fact, we were bitching about being bored. Wishing something would happen." He fell silent.

"So you stopped for coffee?" Starsky urged gently.

"Uh-huh. At Petey's Cafe. That's about five blocks from here. It's where we always stop."

Although Powers didn't mention it, they stopped there every tour because Petey gave them free coffee. Everybody got free coffee somewhere. Well, almost everybody. Except these two detectives, Powers suddenly remembered. It dawned on him then that this was the Starsky and Hutch, the infamous team of hotshots. Rumor had it that they took nothing from nobody. In fact, rumor had it that Starsky had once poured a cup of steaming hot coffee over the bald head of a cafe proprietor who had tried to insist that the pair take coffee on the pad. Of course, the cafe was fronting a dope ring and the coffee offered was probably symbolic of future considerations, but still Starsky's action seemed a little rash. Word had it that he could be pretty mean when he wanted to. He seemed pleasant enough now, though.

Starsky, blissfully unaware of his reputation for meanness, stopped writing. "And you went in?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I went in. We tossed for it and I won."

Hutch raised his brows curiously and Powers smiled again. "The waitress. A really built little blonde. We always flipped to see who got to go in."

Hutch returned the smile. "Got'cha."

Starsky just waited, pencil poised.

Powers nodded, acknowledging that he knew what was expected of him. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, took a deep breath, and continued in a monotone. "So I went in and got two cups of coffee and a jelly doughnut for Dickie. He can eat anything and it never shows. Me, all I have to do is look at the stuff and I get fat. Dick is always after me to go jogging with him." Starsky just let him talk. "Says it'd make me feel better. Probably he's right." He stopped suddenly. "Sorry. So I got the coffee and went back to the car."

"And?" Hutch said.

"And nothing. He was gone."

"Gone?" Starsky repeated, glancing up.

"Yeah. The car was turned off. His door was shut. He was just . . . gone." Powers sounded like a bewildered child.

"So what did you do?" Hutch asked.

"I looked for him. See, I figured maybe something was happening in one of the buildings on the block and he went to check it out." Powers was in total control now; the facts came out as he had been taught at the Academy. "See, the rest of the block is all empty. The buildings are supposed to be torn down to build a bank or something. Petey's is the only place still open. We get a lot of vandals in the other places."

"You checked all the buildings?"

"Yessir. And I yelled for him. I did everything I could think of and then I radioed headquarters and they sent out three more cars." He stopped as a thought came to him. "Goddamn. I guess Dickie was already dead. When I was yelling for him and looking for him. He was probably already dead and I didn't know it." He shook his head. "Damn. I should have known."

"You had no way," Hutch said gently.

"But . . . I should've known."

"I understand you found the body?" Starsky asked.

"Yeah." Powers rubbed one hand back and forth across the car. "I was driving through the park, you know, just looking, and I saw something laying by the side of the road. I thought . . . well, I don't know what I thought, but I got out to take a look. And it was Dick. Shot. Dead." He shrugged. "That's all."

"Okay, Mike," Starsky said, shutting his notebook. "We'll be in touch."

"Yeah . . . hey, we'll find this bastard, huh?"

"Sure," Starsky agreed, not knowing. "We'll find him."

"Okay." Powers put on his hat, straightened his tie, and wiped his nose. "It's just that I don't know what's going to happen," he said vaguely. "I don't have a partner anymore, you know?" He shook his head and opened the car door. "I guess they'll give me a new partner. Won't they?"

"Sure," Hutch said. "Sure they will."

Powers paused getting into the car, watching as the M.E.'s car pulled away. "Won't be the same, though," he murmured. His voice was so soft that they could hardly hear him. "Just won't be the same." He slid behind the wheel and slammed the door.

They watched him light a cigarette--disregarding for the first time the rule against smoking while on duty and in "conspicuous view of the public"--check his cap in the mirror, and drive off. Starsky shoved the notebook back into his pocket, flinching a little as his muscles protested. Hutch glanced at him. "Sure you're okay."

"Uh-huh. Yes, mother, I'm fine."

The scene was beginning to empty now. Dobey, looking tired, came over to them. "Are you back to work, Starsky," he asked, "or just sightseeing?"

"I'm back, Cap."

"Good. You two are catching this one."

In police parlance, that meant they would be in charge of the investigation. This case was different, though, because a cop had been the victim. Not that such a case was necessarily handled by the investigating officers with any more skill or dedication than the murder of an ordinary citizen would have been. What it did mean was that every other cop on the force, from traffic control to the commissioner's office, would be doing whatever he or she could to help apprehend the killer. Even those who were off-duty would be drifting into their respective precinct houses to see what they might do.

None of which would probably help Starsky and Hutchinson one damned bit.

Starsky took the wheel of the Torino. Hutch opened his mouth to suggest that perhaps prudence would dictate that he continue driving, but then he kept quiet and climbed into the passenger seat. Starsky acknowledged the concession with a slight smile as they left the park behind.

"Petey's Cafe?" Hutch said.

"Right. Let's check out the waitress."

"I like a man who gets right to the heart of a matter," Hutch commented.

As Powers had said, the cafe was on a street destined to be demolished in the cause of urban renewal. In Starsky's opinion, that was not a bad idea. The empty buildings gave the place a desolate appearance, especially at night. "Don't think I'd come here for coffee even if it was free," Starsky said as they approached the cafe.

"Why? It looks just like your kind of place," Hutch replied. "Don't you love restaurants where you can't see in through the windows because of the dirt?"

Starsky hurried a little to keep pace with his partner. "This street is scary. Looks like a ghost town."

Hutch grinned, ducking his head so Starsky wouldn't see, and pushed the cafe door open.

The person behind the counter was definitely not the "really built" waitress Powers had spoken of. He was an overweight, dirty T-shirt-clad, cigar-smoking slob. He was also sadly lacking in the proper Chamber of Commerce attitude. Although the place was empty and looked in serious need of customers, he didn't greet them cheerfully. In fact, he scowled when they came in, barely bothering to glance up from the scratch sheet he was perusing. Of course, it was possible he might have been one of those people--who number in the millions--that claim an ability to smell a cop a mile off. Maybe he knew they weren't customers.

Starsky, feeling a not entirely-unjustified wariness toward someone who outweighed him by about one hundred and fifty pounds, lingered at the far end of the counter, studying some pie that was displayed in a grimy plastic case. The pie was either cherry or apple. Or peach. He couldn't tell.

Hutch walked over and tossed his I.D. open-faced, onto the counter. "Evening," he said.

The man deigned to look at the badge, then at Hutch. "Yes, sir," he said, meaning absolutely no respect at all.

"A cop got killed tonight," Hutch said.

"I didn't do it." The fat face, which lacked all semblance of jolliness, quivered in what Hutch guessed was supposed to be a smile. It was distinctly unpleasant. "Unless he ate the hash. I never recommend the hash."

"You're funny," Hutch said flatly. "Hey, Starsky," he said, raising his voice a little.

"Yeah?" Starsky replied, still studying the pie.

"We got us a regular Bob Hope here. Remind me to laugh later, will you?"

"Sure, partner, I'll make a note of it."

Hutch picked up his I.D. and replaced it in his pocket. "Look, Mr . . . ?"

"Petey."

"Look, Petey, the cop who got iced was sitting in front of your place when he was snatched. His partner was in here getting coffee."

"Yeah?"

"You've got a waitress? A blonde?"

"Yeah."

Hutch sighed. "Petey, are you really all that hot to take a trip downtown?"

Petey sneered. "Rubber hose time? You can't haul me in. I ain't done nothing."

"Haven't you? Well, you better start doing something right now. You better start talking to me."

Petey only looked down at his scratch sheet again.

Starsky had perched on a stool at the end of the counter and was playing absently with the sugar packets. "Health Department been around here lately, Petey?" he inquired in a friendly tone.

"I'm clean," Petey protested.

"Yeah?" Starsky lifted the plastic cover off the pie case, smiled sweetly, and smashed the cover against the edge of the counter. "It's illegal to have food sitting around uncovered," he said amid the clatter of plastic falling to the floor. "Isn't that right, Hutch?"

"That's right, buddy."

Petey, his face mottled red with anger, glared at Starsky and took a step in his direction. Hutch leaned across the counter swiftly and grabbed a handful of quivering flesh. "Don't do it, Petey," he said gently. "Don't even think about it."

Petey stopped.

Starsky relaxed, trying not to let it show how much it had hurt his arm to destroy the damned piece of plastic.

The fat man spoke to Hutch, still eying Starsky malevolently. "I don't know nothing about any cop getting killed. I just got here an hour ago. Sometimes the beat cops stop here for coffee. I believe in cooperating with the fuzz."

"Yeah, sure, you're going to get the good citizenship award. Now what about the waitress?"

"Name's Candy something . . . Gable, that's it, Candy Gable."

"Good boy, Petey. Got an address?"

"Yeah, somewheres." There was a pause and Petey sighed. "You mean, I gotta go look for it?"

"Bingo."

"Just a minute," he said, disgruntled. He lumbered into the back.

Hutch walked over and stood next to Starsky. "Bet that hurt."

"Huh?" Starsky said, feigning ignorance.

"Your Tarzan of the Jungle routine. Bet it hurt your arm."

"Oh, that. Nah," he lied.

Petey came back finally, holding a slip of paper delicately between his fingers. "The broad lives at 67 Milgrim Avenue. Apartment 4-B."

"Thanks for your fantastic cooperation, Petey," Hutch said, already heading out the door.

"To hell with it. Hey, you, punk," Petey yelled at Starsky.

Starsky stopped. "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna write a letter to City Hall about that cover you busted."

"Oh, are you? Well, make sure that you spell my name right. H-u-t-c-h-i-n-s-o-n. Ken." He smiled and went out.

Hutch was standing on the sidewalk, glaring at him. "Why'd you do that?"

"Do what?" Starsky said innocently.

"Give him my name like that?"

They got into the car. "Did I give your name? Hell, I'm sorry, Hutch. But you know how people are always getting our names wrong? Calling me Hutch and you Starsky?"

"Yeah, well, I've never been able to understand that. I don't look anything like somebody named Starsky. And, anyway, what's that got to do with it?"

"Well, I guess I just got a little mixed up about which is which. Sorry about that."

Hutch only growled in response. He didn't say another word on the journey over to 67 Milgrim.

This street, though not destined for razing, should have been. It was not the kind of place one would like to visit on a dark night alone--or even, in one curly-haired detective's opinion, in the company of one's partner.

The lobby of number 67 was redolent with the distinctive smells of human poverty--heavy grease, spilled wine, urine. Starsky and Hutch were so used to it that the atmosphere only vaguely penetrated their consciousnesses. Rather doubtfully, they got into the creaky elevator. While it moved reluctantly upwards, Starsky entertained himself by reading the graffiti scrawled on the walls. One colorful anatomical suggestion made his forehead wrinkle. "Hey, Hutch," he whispered, nudging his partner in the ribs.

"What?" Hutch replied, still ticked off.

Starsky pointed. "Is that possible? I mean, could somebody really do that?"

Hutch read the eloquent phrase. The elevator door slid open. "Not everybody," he said archly. He stepped out of the elevator, leaving Starsky gaping.

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Starsky jumped out after him, almost getting trapped in the closing doors, and followed Hutch down the hallway.

The door opened at the first knock. Obviously, however, they were not who the girl inside had been expecting to see on her threshold. Her bright smile of welcome slowly faded. "Yeah?" she said.

"You Candy Gable?" Hutch asked, showing his badge.

"Yeah. What's wrong?" Her figure was everything promised by Powers, and as was clearly visible through her lemon-yellow negligee, it was all real. The hair showed black roots beneath the blonde, but the body was all real.

"Can we come in?" Hutch said. "We'd like to ask you a few questions.

She moistened her already moist lips. "Well, I'm expecting company . . . ."

"We won't be long," Starsky assured her.

She stepped aside and they went in. The room was furnished in early Woolworth, with at least six pictures painted on black velvet hanging on the walls, each worse than the last. It was clean, at least. Candy perched on the sofa and tried to cover herself demurely. It couldn't be done. She was definitely not a genuine blonde, Starsky noted.

"You know a couple of cops named Powers and McGowan?" Hutch asked.

She looked determinedly thoughtful for the length of time she apparently thought the question warranted, then smiled. "Oh, you mean Mike and Dick? Sure, I know them."

"Were they into Petey's earlier?"

"Yes. Well, Mike was. He came in for coffee, like always."

Starsky, whose attention had wandered, struggled to concentrate. "Anything unusual?" was the best he could manage in the terms of a question.

"Unusual? Like what?"

Hutch decided that the simple approach was the best one in this particular instance. "Candy, did anything happen tonight that didn't usually happen?" he asked slowly.

Again, she thought. Her chest heaved. The two actions seemed somehow connected. Starsky had never found the thought process so fascinating. "Oh, yes," she said finally.

They both leaned forward eagerly.

"There was a whole lot of cop cars parked out in front. But that was after Mike left. And somebody came in to ask if Dick had been in, but I said no, because he hadn't, only Mike." She was pleased with herself. They were pleased with her. Everybody smiled.

They walked slowly to the door. "Was there anybody suspicious hanging around tonight?" Hutch asked.

"No . . . just the regulars."

Starsky tried fervently to think of another question, one that would call for a great deal of deep thought, but he came up blank. Too soon, he was back in the elevator, staring at the suggestion that was still on the wall. Again, it gave him pause. "Hutch," he began.

"Don't ask, Starsk," Hutch said. "Just don't ask."

So Starsky didn't ask.

They went to headquarters next. Late as it was, there were a number of officers, some off-duty and dressed in civvies, with I.D.s hanging from their shirt pockets, milling about. A cop had been killed, and everybody wanted to help. Admittedly, their motivations were mixed. Yes, it made them angry and they wanted to nab the son of a bitch. But it also scared them and made them feel painfully vulnerable. If there was a copkiller on the prowl, who might be next?

Hutch got the files of both the dead officer and his partner from Personnel and brought them into the squad room, where Starsky sat drinking a Coke. "I wish they'd put Dr. Pepper in the soda machine," he complained, not for the first time.

"Get up a petition," Hutch replied unsympathetically, handing him Powers' file while he sat down with McGowan's dossier.

"That's not a bad idea. Will you sign it?" Starsky asked, propping his feet on the desk and opening the file.

Hutch only looked at him, his blue eyes guileless, then started to read.

It didn't take long to finish. Neither file held much beyond Academy reports. The two officers hadn't been around long enough to accumulate much of anything else. There was something sad in that, but they did not allow themselves to dwell on the fact.

They straightened at the same moment and looked at one another across the desk. "Damn," Hutch said, massaging his neck.

"You didn't really expect to find anything, did you?"

"No. But it would have been nice." He picked up Starsky's Coke and finished off the last warm, flat swallow. "We better go get some sleep," he said, standing. "I think tomorrow is going to be a very long day."

Starsky nodded, but didn't get up. He swiveled the chair back and forth slowly, his face closed and unreadable.

"What' s wrong?"

"Nothing." He shook his head and finally stood. "Nothing's wrong. I was just thinking."

"That' s a refreshing change. What were you thinking about, mushbrain?"

Starsky was searching for his car keys. "About Mike Powers."

"Don't." Hutch's voice was strangely harsh and Starsky looked at him in surprise. "I mean it, Starsk. Don't think about Powers. It won't help him and it won't help you. It won't help us."

"I know . . . but . . . well, I was just wondering what's going to happen to him now."

"He'll get a new partner. Nothing else. Nothing else," he repeated firmly.

"Yeah, but he . . . ." Starsky's voice dwindled off. For a long moment, fear was a palpable thing, hovering in the room between them, touchable and much too real. Starsky stared at Hutch, wondering what was going on behind the cloudy eyes that he could usually read so well. "Hutch," he said tentatively.

"Let's go home," Hutch said. He broke the mood, dispelled the fear, chased away the hobgoblins, by crashing out through the swinging doors.

Starsky took a deep breath and followed him.

**

Louis bought a morning paper and some food and drove out to his new home. It was a long drive, but he didn't mind, because when he got there the place was so perfect. And it all belonged to him.

He had spent one whole morning searching for a place. A place that was isolated so that he could go about doing what had to be done in privacy. Someplace secret. Then, having taken a wrong turn and trying to find his way back to the highway, he stumbled across the deserted amusement park. It seemed like an unbelievable stroke of luck until he realized that it was more than luck--it was divine intervention. More proof that his cause was being backed in heaven. Oh, yes, he was the holy avenger and God and all the angels wanted him to punish Kenny.

He parked his car behind the entrance wall and carried his purchases into his favorite building, the one called MAZES OF FUN. He wound his way to the center of the twisted passages, wondering how they managed to make the floor do such funny things. At first, he had hardly been able to walk in the building because of the way it was built, but now it didn't bother him at all. He thought it was funny.

When he reached the center, he spread a blanket on the floor and stretched out, opening the newspaper. Eating cold Big Macs and drinking watery root beer, he read the front page story carefully. Front page. That pleased him. His mood was so cheerful that even the mention of Kenny's name brought forth only a chuckle.

Sauce from the hamburger dribbled out and fell onto the page. He wiped it away impatiently so that he could finish the story.

Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson refused to comment on any leads the police might have.

Big deal, Louis thought. Damned big deal, ain't he? Well, he and I both know they don't have any leads. All they got is one dead cop.

Louis finished two of the hamburgers and wrapped up the third to have later. Then he lit a cigarette and leaned back to think. To plan. A man had to have a plan--like a map along the road of life, as Dr. Goldbaum used to say.

So. Yeah, they had one dead cop. But that wasn't enough. No, not enough. Had to be at least one more corpse before he could get down to the real point of it all. One murder, well, that might be anything. A killing done just for kicks, maybe. That happened, although Louis couldn't understand it. Killing just for the fun of it was crazy.

Or it might have been a grudge killing. Even a mistake. But two identical murders . . . that began a pattern. And when the pattern was apparently continued beyond two . . . he chuckled.

Yes, there had to be another death. But not quite yet. Give them a couple of days to worry. Not to rush, as old Goldbaum would have said. All in good time.

Meanwhile there was a lot to be done. Preparations. Louis looked around his new domain proudly. He still couldn't believe his luck in finding this place. The only disadvantage was its distance from the city--it was a good forty-five minute drive. But that slight inconvenience was more than offset by the positive aspects. And even the fact that it was so far from the city was good, in a way. It meant that nobody else would be around to bother him.

He stretched and craned his neck so that he could make out part of the sign that hung over the park's entrance through a hole in the roof. --UNLAN--.

FUNLAND. Oh, yeah. Fun and games for Kenny. Time for Kenny to find out who was really King of the Mountain. He'd be sorry. So sorry. Him and his good friend, David. It was all going the way Louis wanted it to.

Louis belched.

The hamburgers had filled him to the point of repleteness and the rest of the day stretched before him. He lit another cigarette. Later, he would have to make a complete tour of the park and find out just where would be the best place to entertain a guest. A real important guest. He chuckled. Fun and games for Kenny. The chuckle grew as he thought about what he was going to do.

The sound of his laughter echoed hollowly through the MAZES OF FUN.

**

CHAPTER SEVEN

The investigation was going nowhere.

Starsky sat in the squad room reading the same skimpy reports for the fiftieth time in the past two days. He already knew what he would find there. Nothing. There just wasn't anything to give even a hint as to who might have killed Richard McGowan and why. But when he couldn't think of anything else to do, reading reports was better than just sitting. At least he looked busy.

When he realized that he'd been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes, he gave up with a sigh and leaned back to pour himself the latest in an uncounted number of cups of coffee. It tasted even worse than usual, but his senses were so numbed that he hardly noticed.

The door to Dobey's office suddenly swung open and the Captain appeared. "Starsky, where's your partner?"

Starsky shrugged. "Don't know." He glanced at his watch and frowned. It was later than he'd thought. "I do not know," he repeated slowly, realizing that Hutch was ninety minutes late getting back from a meeting at the D.A.'s office.

"You don't have any idea?" Dobey pressed, his face solemn.

"No." Starsky set his coffee cup down with deliberation. "Probably the meeting just ran long."

But Dobey shook his head. "I just called Hartland. He said that Hutchinson left right on time."

At the most, it was a fifteen minute drive.

Neither of them said anything for a long time. Someone in the room was typing slowly and painfully, and Starsky listened to the tortured sound for a moment. "Probably he just stopped for something," he said finally.

"Sure," Dobey agreed.

They didn't believe it, but neither of them knew why they couldn't just accept that simple, safe explanation. "Look," Starsky said, "just because somebody ices one cop, that doesn't mean that every time a guy is late . . . "

"Right, right," Dobey said.

Starsky reached for the phone and dialed Communications. "Patch me through to Hutchinson," he said, skipping the preliminaries. "He's in his car."

A moment later, the voice of the radio operator came back. "Sergeant Hutchinson does not answer."

"Try again," Starsky said tightly.

''There is still no response."

Starsky hung up very carefully. The sound of the typewriter went on in the background. Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . . "Why the devil doesn't that bastard learn to type?" he burst out. Then he slammed to his feet. "I'm going to find him."

Dobey nodded, but Starsky was already gone.

He literally ran all the way to his car and then set out to cover the route between the station and the office where Hutch's appointment had been. He drove slowly, tapping the steering wheel, his eyes darting from side to side, missing nothing. He was a little bit scared and a whole lot angry at himself for being afraid. Hutch would laugh when he found out.

Starsky tried not to think about Mike Powers.

Powers must have felt this way, too. Angry and scared and embarrassed. Thinking that everything was all right, had to be all right, just had to be, so why worry? Powers had probably felt that way right up until the time he'd found his partner's body.

Damn.

Starsky was praying in Hebrew, words he thought he'd forgotten a long time ago. The radio crackled and he jumped. "Zebra-3, Zebra-3."

He grabbed the mike. Hutch must be trying to reach him. Damnit. He'd probably stopped at the health food store to replenish his supply of goat's milk or something equally disgusting. "Yeah? Zebra-3 here."

"Stand by for a patch-through to Captain Dobey."

Dobey. Not Hutch. The hand that held the mike was suddenly slippery with sweat. Starsky didn't say anything.

A moment later, Dobey's voice filled the car. "Starsky?"

Something in Dobey's tone made Starsky's mouth go dry. "Yeah, Cap, I'm heading east on Bellaire now, but there's no sign of--" He spoke quickly, hoping desperately that he could keep Dobey from saying anything else.

"Starsky," Dobey broke in, "we've got another body. Corner of Malvern and Wrigley."

Starsky was silent, waiting, not even breathing.

"Male. Cuffed. Shot once in the head."

"And?" he said finally, not even recognizing his own voice.

"That's all I have. I'm en route to the scene."

"Shit." Starsky slammed the mike back into place and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Making a U-turn, he sideswiped two cars and didn't even know it. "It's not Hutch," he said aloud, angrily.

He could feel his heart beating with such intensity that it was almost painful. Concentrating on that pounding, he tried not to think about anything else.

Hutch . . . .

It wasn't fair. It wouldn't be fair if Hutch was dead.

Starsky remembered when his father died. That had been a terrible time. Grief then had been all mixed up with anger at the manner of the death, fear for what would happen next, and a chilling, almost physical sense of betrayal.

How could my father die and leave me all alone?

Of course, he wasn't a kid now. He knew that his father had not chosen to die, had not willingly betrayed him. That had been a child's reaction to something beyond his comprehension. The hurt had been so great that there was no room for logic. Now he could be logical.

How could Hutch die and leave me all alone?

Something came back to him, something he'd not thought of in years. When they came and told him about his father, he went a little crazy. He grabbed the old man's service revolver from its holster and charged out into the street, ready to kill. It was nearly two hours before his uncle found him in an alley, still clutching the gun, trying to find the punk who'd murdered his father.

Of course, now he realized that such personal vengeance was not the right way. There were laws and he was sworn to uphold those laws. Justice must be served. Even a killer of cops deserved a trial. Even Hutch's killer . . . .

He knew that he would kill the one who murdered Hutch. Knew it in the deepest recesses of his mind and heart. He wasn't a kid now. They wouldn't be able to stop him. Nobody would.

"It's not Hutch," he said again. "Please . . . ."

From a block away, he could see several zone cars parked on the shoulder of the road. People milled about on the sidewalk, staring down into a hollow ravine.

Starsky squealed to a stop, nearly tail-ending one of the black-and-whites. He was out of the car before the engine died, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd. "Get out of my way!" he yelled. "Damnit, let me through!"

He half-ran, half-slid down the grassy incline and reached the bottom on his knees. The group of cops standing there parted so that he could get to the body. He realized that his eyes were closed and that he was afraid to open them.

He said the prayer again, took a deep breath, and looked.

The body lay face up in the grass, hands cuffed in front, blond hair stained with blood pressed against the ground. The dead man wore a blue uniform. A cop. Another dead cop. But not Hutch.

"Not Hutch," he whispered. "Oh, god." He clutched at the grass, relieved, and at the same time guilty because he was so damned glad it wasn't Hutch. Glad it was somebody else. Anybody else. Just anybody but Hutch.

"Starsky?"

He turned his head and saw Dobey. "Cap," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "I think we've got a maniac on our hands." His voice was hoarse.

Dobey just looked at him, not saying anything, then handed him the I.D. on the victim.

Starsky took one more look at the dead officer. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're dead. Really . . . please believe that. He walked back up the incline and slumped behind the wheel of his car. All of those people whose job it was to record the scene were scurrying around doing just that. Everything they jotted down, or photographed, or picked up would be added to the files he and Hutch already had. More reading material.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand and watched dully as a car from the M.E.'s office pulled up next to his. Hutch climbed out, said something to the driver, and came over. "Hi," he said, sliding into the passenger seat. "Another one, huh? This really stinks."

Starsky didn't look at him. "Where the hell have you been?" he asked, his voice very soft.

Hutch was watching the photographer. "Ahh, my damn car broke down. By the time the tow showed up and--"

"Why didn't you call in?"

"I called the tow. Didn't Paulson in the garage let you know? I asked him to. Or anyway, I meant to. Maybe I forgot."

Starsky was a little awed by the intensity of his own anger, so he fought to keep his voice totally devoid of emotion. What he really wanted to do was grab Hutch and beat the shit out of him. "Goddamnit, you should have called me. We've got another murder here."

Hutch was trying to clean an oil stain from the front of his shirt. "Yeah, sure, I know; that's why I'm here. By the time I got back to headquarters, you were all over here, so I hitched a ride with Knopf." He rubbed at the stain with his handkerchief. "I think this shirt is ruined." He didn't really care about the shirt, of course. Sometimes, though, you had to concentrate on the small, unimportant things or become totally overwhelmed by what was happening. He cared deeply, passionately, about the dead cop, but it wouldn't do any good to sit here crying about it. So he bitched about a ruined shirt. "Same M.O., is it?" he asked.

When there was no answer, Hutch glanced at Starsky. His partner was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Starsk?" Hutch said hesitantly. He glanced out the window as the body was carried by and a terrible thought struck him. "Hey . . . Jesus, is that somebody we know?"

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"I thought it was you!" Starsky burst out.

Hutch looked surprised. "What?"

Starsky forced himself to relax, slowly loosening his fingers. "You were late," he said flatly. "I went out looking for you, because you were late and I couldn't raise you on the radio. I tried. But you didn't answer. And then the call came across about a body being found cuffed and shot. I thought . . . I thought . . . ." He shrugged and fell silent.

Hutch sighed, shoving the handkerchief away. "God, Starsk, I'm sorry . . . I . . . ."

"It's okay."

Hutch swore under his breath. "No, it's not okay. I just never thought . . . well, I didn't know there would be another murder."

"Forget it." Starsky wanted to forget it, to put the whole thing out of his mind. He didn't want to think about Hutch being dead or his own frightening anger or any of that.

"Damn, you must have been . . . I know how I would have felt."

"Do you?"

Hutch had no answer for that. They sat in silence, watching the Crime Lab team outside. "It's hot," Hutch finally murmured. Then: "What the hell is going on here?"

"Vendetta?" Starsky suggested.

"A specific grudge, you mean? Or against cops in general?"

"Who knows? Guess we'll have to find out if there's any link between McGowan and this guy. Maybe there's something to connect them." Starsky started the car.

"Maybe."

"Of course, I won't hold my breath."

Hutch heard the softening of Starsky's tone and knew that his partner was coming down from the peak of anger and fear. He relaxed against the seat. "Well, if it's there, we'll find it, buddy."

"Yeah." He glanced at Hutch. "What's wrong with your car?"

"Don't know. It overheated and started smoking. I bailed out. Thought the whole thing was going to burn. But it didn't."

"That's good."

"The guy at the garage said that he wouldn't even be able to look at it until Wednesday. So guess you're stuck with being the chauffeur until then."

"S'okay. At least, I'll know where you are all the time." He was grinning as he said it, but the smile did not reach his dark eyes.

"Maybe we should drop in on Huggy," Hutch said after a moment. "Could be there's some talk going down on the street."

"Worth a try." Starsky wheeled the car around and headed for the Pits.

That establishment was jammed with lunchtime business and Huggy Bear looked less than delighted when Hutch gestured at him to leave the bar. Nevertheless, he followed them to the back. "Make it snappy, my new centurions," he said. "I've got customers to keep happy."

Starsky perched on a table and starting shelling and eating peanuts. "Cut the jive, Hug," he said mildly. "We've got another dead cop."

Huggy whistled softly. "Numero duo? Someone does not like the boys in blue this week."

Starsky was engrossed in his peanut shelling, so Hutch took up the conversation. "Any idea who?"

"You mean has any word come along the grapevine concerning some dude with a king-sized grudge?"

"Exactly."

Huggy shook his head. "Nary a word, my friendly flatfeet."

"Nothing?" Starsky said, unable to hide his disappointment.

"El zippo. Sorry. But rest assured that I shall keep my diligent ear pressed to the ground."

"Yeah, do that," Hutch said.

"Hey, Hug," Starsky said between peanuts, "which ear is the diligent one?"

Huggy, already on his way back to the bar, stopped short and looked around, a pained expression on his face. "The way things is," he said, "I would suggest that you officers of the law avoid aggravating what few friends you have left."

They both grinned at him and walked out, Starsky scattering a trail of peanut shells in his wake. Back in the car, they were silent.

The street looked just as it always did--the people of the city were going about their various legal and illegal activities, sweltering in the heat a bit more than was usual, but continuing to love, laugh, kill, and fornicate. It all looked normal. But it wasn't the same.

It wasn't the same because there was a maniac out there killing cops. They were, by virtue of their job, the targets of an unknown, ruthless enemy. This was not a new feeling, of course, but the events of the past few days had intensified it. They were very aware of their position on the firing line.

Cops tend to be a clannish group; sociologists have studied the syndrome and arrived at many explanations, most of which draw negative conclusions having to do with paranoia and other character faults. That may well be because the sociologists have never been cops. Dave Starsky and Ken Hutchinson were most definitely feeling clannish as they rode the streets of their city, a city that had become a deathtrap. Theirs was an especially small clan. It consisted of just the two of them. It was them against . . . well, against everybody else. The killer could be anybody. Even, god forbid, another cop.

Hutch had once asked: "Who the hell can we trust?" Starsky's reply, "Like always, me and thee," was more than a flippant comeback. It was the truth. In those words was the very soul of their relationship. Me and thee. They trusted only each other and that trust had no boundaries. Although the trust was long-established, they never took it for granted. Each treated it as a treasured object.

Hutch leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the seat and staring out the window. He was wishing that Starsky would say something funny. The wish was so strong that he almost voiced it. "Starsk," he almost said out loud, "crack one of your rotten jokes, willya? Make me laugh. Please." But he glanced at his partner and kept the wish inside. Starsky's face was tired and pale, almost haggard. So Hutch kept quiet.

Starsky wondered what Hutch was thinking about. His partner sometimes tended to brood, a habit that came, Starsky maintained, from reading too many books by authors with long Russian names. Hutch thought about things too much. That wasn't all bad, of course. It was nice having a partner who was smarter than average. Average on the force was not that great to begin with, actually. But Hutch was . . . deep. The danger in that, Starsky knew, was that one could get too deep; one could drown. Which was why Hutch was lucky to have him for a partner. Because he always knew when to reach down and pull Hutch up.

"Hey, Hutch," Starsky said finally.

"Hmm?"

"Remember the other day when we were talking about going to Europe?"

"Yes, I remember. So?"

"Well, I was just wondering if we could go to Spain, too."

Hutch looked at him. "Senoritas, right?"

"Nope." Starsky grinned lasciviously. "Tacos."

Hutch laughed.

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**

Louis was well-satisfied. The second killing was receiving even more coverage that the first had. After all, the first one might have been a fluke. A mistake. Or maybe the cop in question had been playing around with somebody else's wife. But two dead cops, that was something else.

This time the newspaper even had pictures. Academy snapshots of both dead officers. A nice shot of Anderson's body lying in the ravine. And a fuzzy, through-the-windshield view of Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky, apparently "stymied" by the crime, according to the caption.

"Stymied, are they?" Louis chuckled. He was sitting just outside the front gate, perched next to the big blue wooden horse that for generations of children had been the very symbol of FUNLAND. Louis liked the horse; it was good company. "Pretty soon they're gonna be more than stymied. Pretty soon they're gonna be crazy. Kenny will be flipping out."

Two deaths was enough, he figured. A pattern had been set. Cop vanishes. Cop is found dead. Simple. So simple, Louis thought cheerfully, that Kenny would never be able to figure it out.

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Louis crushed out his cigarette and decided to walk around the park for a while before leaving to drive into the city. It was still early and such walks helped to relax him. Dr. Goldbaum had approved of walking. Every day, his sprightly little figure could be seen traversing the grounds of the hospital. Frequently Louis walked with him and Dr. Goldbaum would give him advice on how to live.

Once in while now, he sort of missed Goldbaum's advice.

The amusement park was a good place to be. It made him think of the summer he was sixteen and worked as a roustabout in a small traveling circus. In fact, he and Kenny had joined the Franklin Brothers Circus together. It had been a good summer, the best of his life. Long, hot days filled with hard physical work that left him sweaty and satisfied and seemed to help ease the bewildering and unnamed tensions that had begun to inhabit his body. And when the days ended, there were the nights. Lazy hours spent under the stars, sleeping on just a blanket out in the open and talking to Kenny. Kenny could identify all the stars. He knew all their names, and he could tell the most wonderful stories about ancient gods and heroes. Kenny knew such exciting things.

Louis loved that summer. Loved the work and the animals and the constant traveling from place to place. Loved eating all his meals in the mess tent with the other sweating, swearing roustabouts. But most of all, he loved Kenny. He wanted desperately for Kenny to be his friend and for a while that summer, he thought that they were friends.

But it was all just a lie. Kenny only pretended to like him, because when the summer was over Hutchinson had no more time for him. Once school started and big man Kenny was being elected to things and playing ball and getting good marks and all that other stuff, he had no more time for Louis Mitchell, who never got elected to anything and who wasn't so smart.

The pain of that rejection was still there.

Louis was walking too fast. He tried to calm himself. He couldn't allow himself to get so upset. That much emotion interfered with his ability to think. And now he had to plan and think more carefully than ever.

The first two murders had been almost too simple. The poor dumb cops never knew what was happening to them. But they were just preliminary to the main event.

Louis stopped walking suddenly and pulled the newspaper clipping from his pocket. Carefully he unfolded it. The smiling face of David Starsky appeared in front of him. In his eyes, though, David wasn't smiling at Kenny, but straight off the page at him. They communicated silently.

Louis smiled tenderly. Soon now, David, he thought. Soon.

~~~

A frightening pattern was developing. Bureaucracy felt obligated to respond. Meetings were held at the highest level. Orders filtered down. Subtle pressures were applied.

It all came to rest, eventually, on Starsky and Hutchinson.

At 1 A.M. two days after Anderson's murder they were still in the squad room. Most of their time had been spent poring over police records looking for a potential copkiller. Maybe someone who had threatened the police lately. Someone, in particular, who liked to cuff people and shoot them in the head. It was all coming to nothing. They could feel the hot breath of Dobey and the chief and the commissioner and the mayor and everybody else in the damned city on their necks. That didn't make the work any easier. Tension was building in both the detectives. They exchanged fewer and fewer words as the hours passed and those few were primarily profane and said irritably.

Finally Hutch pushed the pile of reports away in disgust. "We're wasting our time," he said bitterly.

Starsky yawned. "I know," he agreed, "but what else is there to do at 1:30 in the morning?"

Hutch tapped the desktop. "I think we should backtrack Anderson's beat again. Talk to everybody."

"Now? Hutch, everybody's in bed. Except you and me."

"Damnit, Starsk, somebody saw something. Anderson arrived at Glassner's Drug Store right on schedule. Twenty minutes later, he does not show up at Phillips Hardware. What happened? A few hours later his body turns up in a ravine. Why? How?" Hutch's voice was intense. "I want to know."

Starsky rubbed his face wearily. Christ, sometimes . . . sometimes it was hell having a friggin' knight in shining armor for a partner. "Ahh, Hutch . . . I want to know, too. But I'm asleep on my feet. I don't even know what I'm doing. I need to go home and get some sleep."

Hutch looked at him for a moment. "So? If it had been me lying dead in that ditch, would you still want to go home and sleep?"

Starsky, in the process of putting his holster on, froze, his face suddenly white with anger. "No, man," he said finally, his voice granite-hard. "No, I wouldn't. If it was you dead, I'd shave my head, don sackcloth and ashes, and mourn for thirty days and thirty nights. Does that make you happy?" He turned and stalked out the door, not looking back.

Hutch grabbed his jacket and gun and followed him.

Starsky didn't stop until he reached the car and even then he didn't say anything. He barely waited until Hutch was inside and had the door slammed closed before pulling away from the curb.

Hutch sat hunched in the seat, gnawing on his thumbnail, risking an occasional glance at his partner. Starsky's face was white marble in profile. "Aren't you going to say anything?" Hutch asked finally.

"No."

"Okay." He watched out the window for a moment. "Hey, why don't I just crash at your place tonight?" he suggested, determinedly cheerful. "It would save some time."

Starsky shrugged.

Hutch tapped the back of the seat with his fingers. "If you don't mind."

Starsky' s only reply was to make a sharp right turn and head toward his own apartment.

"Well, fine," Hutch mumbled. "Or maybe I could just sleep on the sidewalk out front, if you'd rather. Whatever."

Starsky stopped short at a red light. Resting both arms on the steering wheel, he leaned forward so that he could see the signal. "Why'd you make that crack back in the office?" he said quietly.

"I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

The light changed, but the Torino didn't move. "That was a really lousy thing to say to me, Hutch. I think that was the worst thing anybody ever said to me."

"I know, Starsk." He touched Starsky's shoulder lightly. "I'm really sorry." He wondered why he seemed to spend all his time lately saying that. "I'm just so damned tired."

"So am I, or I would've decked you," Starsky replied, easing through the yellow light.

"I deserved it," Hutch said ruefully. He beat a tune on Starsky's shoulder. "It's just . . . I've got a funny feeling about this whole case, Starsk. It bothers me."

"'Cause it's cops getting wasted?"

"No. Well, not entirely. It's . . . well, I feel like if we don't catch this guy now, it'll be too late."

"Too late? What do you mean?"

Hutch shook his head. "Hell, I don't know. Maybe I'm talking in my sleep."

"Yeah, well, that might explain some of the dumb things you've said lately." He smiled a little as he spoke.

"Right," Hutch agreed.

They didn't say much during the rest of the ride. Hutch kept his eyes closed until the car pulled to a stop in front of Starsky's. "Did we ever eat dinner?" he asked as they got out.

"I don't remember."

Hutch stopped abruptly and sat down on the back of the car. "Starsk . . ."

"Huh?" Starsky said, trying to find his apartment key.

"Before we go in there, I want to ask you one very important question."

Starsky looked at him. "What?"

"I won't have to eat salami for breakfast, will I?"

"Naw," Starsky said.

Hutch sighed in relief.

"---you can have pastrami." Starsky turned around and then gave a yelp as Hutch kicked him in the butt.

They went into the building.

~~

Louis saw them arrive at David's.

He stood in the doorway across the street and watched as they got out of the car and paused briefly, talking. Their voices were a soft murmur of words that he couldn't quite understand. The sight of them standing together in the circle of brightness from the street light made Louis feel strangely isolated. For a moment, he wanted desperately to step out of the shadows and be in the brightness with them. He wanted to touch and be touched. He yearned to be a part of them.

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Kenny suddenly lifted his foot and kicked David, who gave a sharp holler that Louis heard clearly. Then they both laughed, easily and affectionately, and disappeared into the building. Louis, sharing their joke, grinned.

Kenny must be spending the night, he decided after a moment. Hope he doesn't do that tomorrow night, too. That would mess up all my plans. David had to be alone when it happened.

He yawned. It was time to go. He had the long drive home yet and tomorrow would be a very busy day. Nevertheless, he stood there a little longer, long enough to see the light go on upstairs, to watch two dark shadows moving behind the curtains. One of the curtains was pulled back suddenly and David appeared at the window. He stood there for a moment, apparently tinkering with the air conditioner. Louis stepped further back into the shadows, but David didn't even glance his way. He only pulled off his shirt, stretched, and said something over his shoulder before vanishing behind the curtain once more.

In a couple more minutes, the light went off.

Louis stared up at the dark window. "Sleep tight, Kenny," he whispered. "Sweet dreams."

Oh, yes. Sweet dreams. Tomorrow Kenny's nightmare would begin. Tonight he could fall asleep feeling safe and secure, probably listening to the sound of David's breathing, as Louis used to listen to Kenny's breathing years ago when they were stretched out under the stars. Sometimes he would stay awake for an hour, propped on one elbow, watching Kenny sleep.

Well, let Kenny sleep tonight. It was all about to end for him. After tomorrow, Kenny would be alone like Louis was alone now. After tomorrow, Louis would never have to be alone again.

**

Part Three

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