The candy machine was broken again. Detective Sergeant Dave Starsky looked around the busy precinct to make sure no one had seen him kick the thing. By the front desk he saw someone who looked familiar, but who couldn't possibly be there, in the Metropolitan Division of the Los Angeles Police Department, talking to the desk sergeant. No one else he'd ever seen had hair like that. It had to be her. He went over for a better look.

"I know you, don't I?" he said.

"I doubt it," said the woman, turning. "I'm from out of . . . wait, Divit? Is that you?"

"I knew it! I knew that hair, it had to be you." He remembered acutely how, as a child, she'd followed him everywhere, always staring at him with adoration, begging for attention. She was no child now, and the adoring gaze was replaced by a self-confident twinkle, but her hair looked exactly the same, dark and curly, out of control, falling in her eyes. Even as a boy he'd admired her hair. His younger brother had teased him–"If yours was as long as hers, it would look exactly the same. Probably why you like it so much." Maybe, but still, he was very happy to see her.

"This is my partner, Ken Hutchinson," he said, calling him over. "Hutch, this is the little monkey who lived upstairs from us. I'm sure I've told you about her." He'd never told Hutch about any of the other kids in his neighborhood, just about the one with the amazing hair and eyes, who'd had a four-year-old's crush on a ten year old boy. No one else had ever looked at him the way she had. He had a flash of the last time he'd seen her, she would have been around 10 or 11 herself, and he'd told her he was leaving. She'd said nothing at all, just looked at him as she always had. He hadn't seen her since, or really thought much about her, for all these years.

"All good things, I'm sure," she said now, smiling and putting her hand out to Hutch, "but I don't know what there was to tell. I haven't seen Dave in years." Hutch, about to shake her hand, was shoved aside as Starsky pulled her in for an enormous hug. He remembered her as such a little thing, but now she was his height, more than his weight., breathless in his bear grip, laughing over his shoulder to his partner, trying to pull away.

Hutch said. "Does the little monkey have a name?" he said, amused.

"Of course. Hutch, this is. . . is. . . Oh man, I'm so sorry. . . "

He was embarrassed, but she just said with a laugh, "It's Cathy. Cathy Chase." She tried again to shake hands with Hutch, this time managing it nicely. Starsky noticed her noticing Hutch's grip. "I used to call Dave 'Divit," she said. "Remember that, Dave? You pushed me on the swing and I'd yell 'higher, Divit, higher!'"

"I was always afraid I'd get blamed if you fell."

"Getting blamed was your major worry? But you did it. You pushed me higher."

"And you never fell."

Starsky felt like he'd been given a time machine, and wanted to jump in and head straight back all those years ago, to visit with his neighbors and family. To where he'd been adored by a little girl, this woman from his past.

Cathy was delighted. He'd been her first case of hero worship, her first crush, had followed him everywhere, and he'd been kind to her, tolerant and protective. She couldn't believe he had told his partner about her. She'd heard news of him occasionally from one of her aunts, but had hardly spared a thought for him, had certainly never told any friends about him. Yet she felt the oddest sense of coming home, a deep sense of comfort, completely unexpected, never before experienced.

Hutch, watching their interchange, suddenly felt like an outsider. Not a sensation he was accustomed to. He said, "What are you doing in L.A.? And here at the station? Let's go get you some of our world famous coffee, and you can tell us. Let me take those for you."

A struggle ensued between the two men, leaving Cathy entirely sidelined. Starsky, triumphant with her suitcase, grinned widely, and Hutch, with only her jacket said, "You won't need this here, anyway."

"It's still cold in Boston," she said, and he nodded.

They led her through the station, one on either side, acknowledging other officers or saying hello. To Starsky, she seemed completely at ease in a strange place, and unperturbed by the speculative glances thrown her way.

Behind them, their captain shouted their names, startling Cathy, and stopping them in their tracks. "Where the hell are those two . . . Oh." As soon as he saw them, he stopped yelling

"My apologizes, ma'am." He was always courteous to women, but he needed to speak to the detectives. "If you could wait in the squadroom for a moment, I need to speak to my men." He turned to them, voice rising again. "In my office, now."

Starsky said, "Cap, this is Cathy Chase, an old friend of mine."

"Oh, well, pleased to meet you, Dr. Chase," the captain said. Starsky's eyebrows went up fast. "In fact, you're the person I was actually looking for." He extended his hand to her, friendly, collegial.

"You must be Captain Dobey, then," she said. "Thank you for letting me do this." Starsky stopped dead in mid-grin, and his partner went still.

Dobey's office was pure regulation, personalized only with a few photographs, mostly of other cops. One of himself accepting an award, and a small one on his desk of his wife, Edith, and their two kids. He wasn't one to bring his personal life to his office, but he liked being able to see his family during the day.

He watched the two detectives try to outdo each other in offering Dr. Chase a chair, and mentally rolled his eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd seen them play that game. Hutchinson moved just a little faster this time, and taking Cathy's arm, guided her to his chair, letting Starsky beat him out for the other one. Cathy seemed to be amused by their display, while trying not to show it. Hutch went to lean casually against the wall.

Starsky said, "What's going on, Cap? This have something to do with one of our cases?".

"Dr. Chase is a forensic psychologist. She's here to interview your suspect, John Madson. He's wanted in Massachusetts on kidnapping, rape, and murder charges."

"What? We got him here for murder. What's this about? Extradition? No way, Cap. You can't be serious."

"Very serious," Cathy said. "There's more to this. I guess you don't know yet."

"Know what?" Hutchinson pushed himself away from the wall and stood up straight. What was she doing here, anyway? He felt vaguely threatened, and couldn't figure out why. He put her jacket down on a table near him. "Know what?" he said.

To Starsky, Cathy said, "Do you remember the Hunters, upstairs in the next building?"

"Sure, of course I do."

"Soon after you left the neighborhood, Adelle Hunter was kidnapped and raped."

Starsky felt poleaxed. No one from home had ever told him anything about it.

"She had just turned 12, " Cathy continued. "I was about the same age. He let her go after almost a week, no one knows why he did. But she was never OK, never got her life back. They never caught the guy even though she was able to describe him." Starsky sat forward, watching Cathy's face.

"Three months ago she came to visit me and decided to stay on in the Boston area. She said she wanted to get past what had happened to her, to start her life after almost eighteen years of being dead. She asked for my help."

She stopped for a moment and Starsky touched her knee in support.

"Two weeks ago she was murdered."

Starsky sat back and stared. Cathy looked down at her hands, trying to unclench her fists. She didn't seem able to do it. "I'm pretty sure it was Madson."

When he could speak, Starsky said, "Why do you think so?"

"Madson was arrested just before that, for a B and E on a private residence. Some poor couple came home and found him naked in their apartment. Several evaluators tried to assess him, and he wouldn't talk to anyone, literally wouldn't speak. I finally got assigned to him, and got him talking right away." She stopped again. "They let him go, though. The couple didn't want to press charges, and he hadn't stolen anything or done anything to them."

Hutch's vague sense of threat had evaporated. She did have good reason to be here.

She said, "I went . . . out for the evening. Adelle was going to watch some old movie on TV and go to bed early. We. . . I got home around midnight and the lights were still on, the TV was on."

Starsky wanted to hug her again, hide her from her own story somehow. Hutch went to the water cooler and got her a paper cup of water. She drank it right down, and he got her another. Dobey said nothing. He already knew the details.

"She was lying on the floor in the bathroom. At first I thought she'd fallen and hit her head, but her eyes were open, dull. And then I saw what had, well, I saw she was dead."

Dobey spoke to his men. "The victim of the murder you arrested Madson for was in a similar condition."

Starsky looked over at Hutch. They had both seen what had been done to the victim. Hutch ran a hand over his face and pressed in on his eyes with his fingers.

Cathy said, "I think he recognized me as soon as he saw me, and that's why he talked to me. I think he must have seen me outside the jail the day he was released, and followed me home. He saw Adelle, and–and I went out for the evening."

"You're going to talk to this guy again? Here?" said Starsky. "Why? Why not let someone else evaluate him?"

"He's not talking to anyone here, either, Starsk," Hutchinson said. "Are you sure you want to see the guy?"

"He's apparently demanded to see me. He said that he'll talk to no one else. He's a first class manipulator, and somehow he seems to get what he wants. And yes, I am most certain I want to see him."

Starsky stood up. "We'll go with you. You can't go in there alone with a guy like that." He felt solicitous again, just like he'd been with the little girl who lived upstairs, whom he'd let follow him everywhere. Protective. It had been his self-appointed job. She looked up at him and smiled as if she knew something he didn't, and wasn't going to tell him.

Cathy thought: He has no idea how often I've gone into jail cells alone with guys like that. Including Madson. The first time she'd interviewed him was just typical of her working day–bare gray cell, painted over and over, lewd drawings and words scratched into the layers. Toilet behind a low wall, eye-blinking smell of urine. Madson sitting naked on the floor next to a bare mattress, staring at his own penis bobbing around in his lap. Sideways look to make sure she'd noticed. Saw that she had and stood up. The officer standing by the cell door had moved fast and shoved her behind him, and she'd had to conduct the rest of the interview from behind his back.

She looked up at Starsky, and smiled. Starsky responded with a grin and shake of the head. "Let's get that coffee, first, catch up and stuff. Put your things over there, we'll get them later."

Hutch said, "You two go and talk. I'll meet you in the dungeon." Starsky started to protest, and shot him a look that was ignored. With a smile for Cathy, and a nod to Dobey, Hutch was out the door.

Starsky said, "Well, Monkey, what'll it be? Apple juice? Popsicle?"

"Very funny, Divit. Lead the way."

The cafeteria in the basement was uninviting. More green walls like upstairs, orange plastic chairs. Plain tables with chrome legs. A few people in uniforms, one couple in a corner, heads close, hands clasped together, no food or drink in front of them. They had lost a son recently in a gang-related shooting, and kept hanging around the precinct trying to make sure the cops were doing their jobs. Some of the guys were annoyed, but Starsky felt bad for the couple, and tried to give them information whenever he could. He carried a tray with coffee and some dry looking donuts over to a table by the window. He pointed out to the parking lot.

"See that car?" he said.

"I see a lot of cars."

"That one, right there."

"That red thing with the white stripe? Yours?"

"Mine. It's a Torino."

"Were you always into cars, flashy ones like that?"

"Nope. Not till I saw that beauty."

"Well, whatever it takes for you, dear."

"You calling me 'dear'? You little monkey, you're just a baby."

"What? I am not a baby." How many times had she said that to him in the past, in exactly that tone?

"No," he said without emphasis. "No, you sure aren't. I can't believe you're here. Tell me how you became you." He sat easily in the uncomfortable chair, sprawling his long legs a bit, leaning back, open, interested.

"I don't know . . . I grew up, went to school in Boston, got a degree in psychology, started working, got quickly disenchanted with private practice, became a consultant in forensic psychology. What about you, beyond the obvious. The last thing I heard was that you'd gone to the police academy. And then nothing."

"Not much to tell." He drank some coffee, then stared into the cup. "After my dad died, as you probably know, I came out here. Got a street education. Eventually went to the Academy, partnered up with Hutch, ended up here. We sure know how to make interesting conversation about our lives, don't we?"

She laughed. "What else is there to tell you?"

"What about family, friends, hobbies? How's your parents?"

"No family, no kids, no entourage. My parents are doing great—they're somewhere in Arizona in a megacamper. It's just me and the work. It takes me over."

"Yeah, I hear that. Me and Hutch and the work."

He looked inside for a moment, thinking about Hutch, wondering where he'd gone and why he hadn't come down with them. He said "More coffee, Monkey?" She seemed to like him calling her by the old nickname, and he liked using it. It helped him to bring the past up here with him into the present.

She nodded, and watched him as he went to get it, and someone grabbed her hair from behind, pulling her up and back, out of her seat. A loud sharp sound of chairs falling, or a table, suddenly a room full of cops, and Starsky turned fast, dropping the coffee cup, reaching for his gun. Cathy's thinking went haywire, imagining what was behind her: Godzilla, or King Kong, maybe.

Someone yelled "Hold it, he's got her by the hair," and the room went dead silent. With her head yanked backward, she looked around wildly and saw eyes staring, guns drawn, pointed at whoever was holding her—pointed at her—the sad couple, hands still clasped, mouths open. The cafeteria staff in stop motion behind the counter. The incredible brightness of the room, and someone big and hot, breathing hard behind her on her neck, clutching and pulling at her hair. She reached up and grabbed hold of a wrist, pulling it toward her head, tight against her scalp. If he is going to move, she thought, my head is sure going to stay with my hair. He just grabbed tighter and it felt to her like her scalp was going to come right off and make a mess on the floor. She had an insane urge to wave at the people.

Starsky was already half crouching, gun in both hands straight in front of his chest, brain on overdrive, calculating distance, evaluating whether to talk or to shoot. The rest of the room and its occupants seemed to dissolve and disappear around him. Cathy looked straight at him.

"Don't," she said. "Don't."

Don't what?, Starsky thought. He ignored her. To the man behind her, he said quietly, "Let her go, man. Let her go. Everything's OK." The man's grip tightened even more in her hair, and he put his other arm around her neck with his face right up against hers. To Starsky's amazement, she now looked more annoyed than anything. He hoped she was annoyed at the guy behind her, not at the one in front of her.

"Does he have a gun?" she said distinctly to Martin, one of the uniforms standing closest to her. Martin's face was pasty, and Starsky wondered if he'd been the one to let his prisoner get loose.

"No," said Martin.

"Knife?"

"No."

What was she up to? Whatever it was, Starsky didn't like it.

"No one's going to get hurt here," he said, both to Cathy and to her captor. Decided to lower his weapon, and try to talk the guy into letting go of her hair. He was too late; she was already taking her own line. With fascination, Starsky watched her shove an elbow into the guy's ribs, and ram her foot backward into his kneecap. The man dropped like a stone, hollering and shrieking, pulling her down on top of him. The uniforms rushed them, and Starsky stood still, his gun still trained on the guy's face.

Cathy said, "He's still got my hair—don't pull me—wait."

Someone convinced the guy to let her go. Starsky took two fast steps and yanked her up and off. He watched her push her glasses back up into position, and look straight on at her attacker, now pressed flat against a wall, arms out, four cops on him, cuffing him, pushing him around roughly. Starsky couldn't take his eyes off her. Incredibly, she raised a hand to her attacker, as if she were saluting him. I can't believe she just did that, he thought, and wondered what on earth she was thinking. His body started to loosen a bit, and, looking at her still-raised hand and at her face, he grinned hugely.

Cathy thought, with a bit of an inward swagger, that it was taking four cops to control the guy, and that it had only taken one of her. The man seemed a lot smaller now that she could see him. She didn't know why she'd raised her hand that way, some kind of acknowledgement she couldn't quantify.

The room was full of noise and people. Everyone stood a few feet away, looking at Cathy like she was some kind of alien. One didn't often get to witness a female civilian taking over for her own safety, while a bunch of uniforms could think of nothing very useful to do by way of help.

"You all right?" he said.

"Yes."

"Your hair OK?"

"You tell me." She turned to let him look, and he pushed it around a little, fussing at it. He couldn't think of any other way to offer support to someone he wasn't sure needed what he wanted to give. He wanted to sit her down, get her some sweet tea, and wrap her in a blanket, but he thought she might do to him what she'd just done to her attacker. And then she simply started laughing, and suddenly they were friends, had known each other forever, minus about three quarters of their lives. It didn't matter, they knew each other now—again. He felt elated.

"Oh man, Hutch, you shoulda seen her. She laid him out like nothing. A room full of armed cops, no one has a clue what to do. She says, does he have a gun? A knife? Martin told her no, so she just decked the guy. Checks first to see if he's armed, and then takes him down like I would have. Or you. Unbelievable. Hey, Monkey, does your mother know you can do that kinda stuff?"

Cathy, unused to being around men who treated her like one of them, accepted, admired, was enjoying herself immensely. She said, "Want to see my scar?" and showed them the ragged white mark on her left forearm. Explained how, when she'd worked in a psychiatric hospital, she'd been knocked over and dragged by one arm down a hallway by a psychotic patient.

"Yeah," she said, when Starsky and Hutch made some shocked-sounding noises. "The hospital had just opened up and no one had any non-violent restraint training."

"So what happened, then?" Starsky asked, not sure he wanted to hear.

"Oh, well, first he kicked the staff psychiatrist in the nuts and put him out of the picture pretty thoroughly. When he got to the end of the hall with me, he must have felt like a trapped animal. Gave me some good kicks in the kidney, then he just started to choke me. That's when I started to worry a little."

"A little," said Hutch.

"Then the emergency staff finally showed up and rushed him, and he bit my arm, want to see it again?"

Soon after, she'd gotten some training on defensive maneuvers, and de-escalation techniques, and hostage negotiation.

"Stand up," she said, "and I'll show you a few things I learned afterward. Little late, but still useful."

Starsky and Hutch took turns as she showed them how she could get out of hair holds and strangle holds, deflect knife attacks and punches, and how, when grabbed from behind, she could put each of them down on their knees, and keep them there. In return, they showed her their souvenirs, bullet holes in both of them, burn scars on Hutch's hand, a crease in Starsky' scalp. Told her how they'd collected them. She was an appreciative audience.

Starsky thought, How does she manage to make all that horror seem funny? And Hutch thought, She's just devoured my worst nightmares like they were Starsky's junk food.

To them, she seemed completely at ease, used to being around men who admired her. Size medium-large, with forever-slipping glasses, she wore no makeup or jewelry, and, from the way she was dressed, didn't seem to care much about clothes. She was nothing at all like the women they usually entertained. No flirting, no coy games, no playing one of them off the other.

Starsky was still having trouble connecting this woman with the child he'd teased endlessly about her cloud of hair. He felt a strange sensation deep in his gut, the old tolerant affection for the little girl changing, growing up. He shoved it away. She was not his type of woman, but she was pretty close to his type of guy. That he could handle.

Hutch gave Cathy a beer without asking if she'd prefer something else, just a beer in a bottle. He had a feeling she was enjoying being treated like one of the guys, though he was having a hard time thinking of her that way. He wished intensely that he had seen the action in the cafeteria, seen her in action. She didn't look capable of doing what Starsky had described, even though she'd just shown them pretty clearly that she could take on either of them, and come out in control.

They'd all gone to his place after dinner because it was closer to her cousin Adam's house in Venice Beach, where she was staying. They had taken her first to introduce her to Huggy Bear, who had served them up his specialty burgers, and had admired Cathy's lack of self-consciousness and her obvious gusto while she ate. Most of the women Starsky and Hutch brought to The Pits pretended they hardly ate anything at all. He'd taken to Cathy right off. She was friendly and funny, and he'd thought maybe he'd like to get to know this one a little better. He had said he'd join them all later at Hutch's after the bar closed for the night.

Starsky took Cathy around Hutch's living room, showing her Hutch's things—gifts he'd given him, the plants in the greenhouse, pictures of things they'd done together, photographs of both of them.

"That's Terry," Starsky said, showing her a photo of himself with a lovely girl with light brown wavy hair. "Hutch took that picture of us just before she died." He suddenly wanted to tell Cathy about Terry, tell her things he'd only ever said to Hutch. For a moment he thought she was going to ask him, but it wasn't the time. She touched his shoulder, and he gave her a very small smile. He was grateful she'd known enough to let it go. Even as a little girl she had been in tune with others' needs, had always known what to say, or not to say.

She turned to Hutch's piano. "Who's going to sing for me?" she said. "Have you got a guitar? I'll play guitar and you two try to keep up with me." The evening went away in beer and song, and by the time Huggy arrived, Starsky and Hutch were both calling her Monkey, and teasing her mercilessly.

They all took Cathy to her cousin's house in the very early morning, in Hutch's car because it was bigger, trying to be quiet and not quite managing. Suggested she get some sleep while they went off to save the world from bad guys. Starsky said he and Hutch would see her at the station when she went back to write her report on Madson.

Outside in the quiet side street, Starsky asked Huggy to check on her later. "You know, take care of her," he said.

Never one to refuse to help out with a damsel, Huggy agreed. Hutch dropped him off at the Pits, and he took Starsky back to his place to pick up the Torino, and then they would try to get in some sleep and showers. They would have a chance to talk later, while they watched outside the shabby apartment building of the latest drug king wannabe dirtying up their beat. They were very close to a collar, and wanted to make sure they didn't screw it up by falling asleep on the stakeout.

Starsky watched Hutch in the rearview mirror as he drove off. Why doesn't he go inside? he wondered. They hadn't had a chance to talk about Cathy, and he was sure Hutch would have a few things to say. For once he was looking forward to a stakeout.

Hutch watched his partner drive away in the Torino. They'd both had plenty of women in their lives, even shared some of them, had come to blows over one or two, but there was something different about this one. Some subtle difference in the way Starsky treated her, looked at her. He understood quite a lot about why, and hoped Starsky was going to be able to handle this girl, this woman. She might prove to be more than a match. Hutch grinned to himself. It could only get more interesting.

By late morning, Cathy had resurfaced and was thinking about getting over to the station, when Huggy appeared at the door. Adam let him in, and she introduced them. Huggy seemed to recognize him, but didn't ask, and neither Adam nor Cathy offered confirmation. Her cousin, for all his fame, was shy, and preferred to live quietly under the radar. Heading out, he said he would see her later, take her to dinner. Gave her a raised eyebrow, nodded a friendly goodbye to Huggy and was gone.

"Thought I'd bring Wonder Woman here some fancy L. A. cuisine," Huggy said.

She examined what he'd brought: pancakes, muffins, scrambled eggs and bacon, some gorgeous looking potatoes. Two huge cups of coffee.

"Starsky said you'd be starving by now, and all Hutch would have had would be some vitamin B and maybe a tofu pie. Asked me to come rescue you. Didn't know what you'd like, so I made up a smorgasbord for you."

"It was pretty thoughtful of him. Of you."

She cleared away some piles of her cousin's music to make space for them on the table and hunted around for silverware and plates.

"You sit here, my lady. I will serve thee," said Huggy. He was flirtatious and respectful, humorous and serious, all at once. She could see why the guys liked him, included him in their lives. The way he dressed and spoke, though–indescribable clothes, colors she didn't even recognize, bizarre lines and layers. She speculated on what planet he was really from.

"I sure do like a woman who likes her food," he said, watching her eat. He ate a muffin, but more to keep her company than for hunger. Cathy wondered if he ever really ate—he was bone thin and wiry, moist-looking black skin on long and elegant bones. He drank his coffee in small sips, straight out of the paper cup. He'd poured hers into a mug he'd found. "What's a pretty lady like you doing around here with those two, anyway?"

What was he thinking, she wondered, sitting there so out of place in a stranger's house in a quiet street away from the inner city, from the scene he would be used to. He seemed perfectly comfortable.

"I'm here for work," she said. "A client of mine from Boston was arrested here, and I need to evaluate him." It was clear to her that Huggy was in the inner circle, but she didn't know how much she could tell him, and opted to say as little as possible.

Huggy nodded. He knew about the arrest, and he left it at that. He figured anything he needed to know he could get from Starsky or Hutch later.

She said, "Now tell me about you. What is your back story, and how do you know the guys?"

"I have no real what you call back story. I make my way. This moment in time I am a Restaurateur." She repeated the word in his mock accent. "Restauratoooer." They grinned at each other.

"Starsky and I go way back. Known him longer than Hutch. They met up in the Academy. They been partners about 8 years, now, I guess. You couldn't ask for better friends, they've been real friends to me." He went into his head for a moment–remembering.

"What were you just thinking about, Huggy? Something good?"

"Something bad. I got in some trouble a while back, had the mob after me. Starsky and Hutch put themselves on the line. Saved my life, maybe not literally, but definitely saved my life. It's not the only time they've risked everything for me. That's how they are. It's how we are."

"I see that. Already I see that in all of you. I suspect you've done the same for them. Maybe Captain Dobey, too? He's more than just their captain, isn't he?"

"Pretty perceptive, ain't you?" he said, grinning again. He drank some more coffee and started to gather up the plates. "Those two will do anything for anyone who matters in their world," he said.

Cathy thought maybe he was planning to wash the dishes, too. He was completely at ease in someone else's kitchen, chatting easily with someone he'd only known half a day. She had never met anyone like him before.

"And for each other. They matter very much to each other. I don't need to be perceptive to see that."

"No," he said. "That is pretty clear." He stacked the plates in the sink. She was going to be the one to wash them after all. Only fair.

To his back, she said, "Are they. . .um. . . " She couldn't finish the question, wasn't sure she really wanted to ask it.

He looked over his shoulder at her still sitting at the table, looking into her coffee. "Together? Is that what you're asking? I don't know. Prob'ly not in the way you mean, but yes, they're together. In a way I can't explain. Just, you know, together."

She understood. She had known it within seconds of meeting them in the station. She'd seen the way they looked at other, moved together, shared their lives. Touched each other.

"You've been through this before, haven't you, Huggy? Run interference for them with other people, other women. More than once, right?" She smiled. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's OK. You ain't like any of the others, and you already know Starsky. Longer than we do. You got a special in that the other ladies don't. Plus, you got a way with bad guys that they ain't seen before. They liked it, I can tell you that. Hope I get to see it for myself one day."

"God, I hope not."

"How long you here for?" he said. She wondered if he were asking for himself, or if he were probing on assignment.

"A couple of weeks, maybe. I decided to make a vacation out of the trip, and spend some time with my cousin. I'm on leave for a while. I, well, I needed a break." He nodded in understanding.

The moment was over, breakfast finished, connection made. "I have to go, Huggy, I need to change and get back to work. I've got a lot to do today."

"Want me to give you a lift to the station in my chariot?"

"Yes, I do, or, that is, do I dare?

"I'll introduce m'lady to the best ride in L.A." He gestured to the street where a monstrous golden Cadillac overpowered all the sedate station wagons and two-doors in her cousin's quiet neighborhood. She hoped her cousin didn't care what the neighbors thought.

Captain Dobey gave Cathy a desk in the corner of the detective's squad room. The background noise in there was fairly staggering. How did they get any work done? Everyone talking on phones, or to each other, or slamming an angry fist on a desk. Every desk covered with files and papers, telephones, typewriters, and here and there a wilting plant, or a jacket over the back of an empty chair, or a photograph of a smiling family. It was another plain bare room, like all the others in the building, but more full of life than any ultradecorated and warmly furnished room she'd ever seen. Every so often an officer or detective, and even some of the civilian staff stopped by her desk to chat, or gave her a thumbs up from across the room. She wondered idly if anyone would like to have her autograph.

She wrote the date, and location, and began her report:

She finished the report and massaged her neck, touching the sore spot on the back of her head, trying to decide whether to request another interview, or let it go, let the police do their jobs, deal with him. She would be at his trial as an expert witness, wherever it was held, but she knew enough about Madson by now to be able to fill the role. He was caught, jailed without bail, and he would not see the light of day again. Still, he held her with a morbid fascination. She wanted to try to get him to tell her that he had done what she believed he had done, and tell her why. And then she wanted to finish him off like he'd finished off Adelle Hunter, age 30, who'd died long before he'd killed her.

One of the detectives stopped at her desk, holding up a coffee pot. He was going to make a fresh brew, did she want some? He asked if she was enjoying her visit, and if she had any free time before she left. She smiled, and asked what he had in mind.

Inside Hutch's nondescript beige four-door it was hot. They had found a patch of shade but it had moved, leaving them roasting in the sun. They took turns getting out, going for sodas and food. Hutch had brought back a newspaper this time, but instead of reading it, he held it up in front of him, in a rather useless attempt to create some shade.

Starsky checked in with the other detectives on the watch–Carson was nearby in a filthy sweatsuit, apparently asleep on someone's front steps. Belson, on the roof of the suspect's apartment, stuck his hand up over the stone railing and waved his fingers. In another overheating car a block away, Davis and Meadows complained over the radio of boredom. They had heard about the scene in the cafeteria the day before and wanted to know when they could meet up with Kung Fu herself. Starsky thought of a few rude replies, but Hutch poked him in the side before he could deliver any of them.

They were helping out some buddies from Vice. For once no one was dead, no children had been abused, no one was missing. It was going to be a relatively simple bust–a lower level drug ring, and the prize would be information on some higher-ups. They wouldn't have to worry about that, it wasn't really their case. They'd been invited to join the fun because one of the perps was well-known to them, had been running them ragged for years. They looked forward to being rid of him, even if only for a while.

Starsky said, "So what do you think of the little monkey, huh?"

"I think I'm more interested in what you think, Starsk."

"I don't know what to think. I keep remembering her as that little girl, and all the times I was stuck with her, when she wouldn't go away, and no matter what I said or did, she just kept looking at me with those violet eyes." He had never seen that color since. He was silent for a minute, not even eating his burger, watching with half an eye for their perpetrator to come out, half hoping he wouldn't. "And that hair. It looks exactly the same."

"Sounds like she meant more to you than just a little pesky kid."

"It was when she got older, stopped following me everywhere, started talking like a real person. But she would still look at me that way, and when she did, I don't know, I just felt better."

"I can see why."

"Really? You should have seen the look she gave me the day I told her I was leaving. That was a bad day." It had been the first of many bad days, the end of his childhood. She had said nothing, had just sat there.

"And you walked away."

"Yeah. I walked away." It had taken a while to shove that memory down into his deepest places. He had rarely thought of her since. "I mean, what 16 year old boy would have given a second thought to a 10 year old girl who lived 3,000 miles away in New York? Huh?"

Hutch could think of no good response. He waited for Starsky to continue.

"I never heard about Adelle Hunter," he said. "I wish I'd known. I would have gone back. Maybe that's why my mother never told me."

"Starsk, there he is," Hutch said.

Instantly returning to the present, Starsky scrunched down below the dash, and spoke into the radio handset. "All units, suspect just came out of the building. On my signal . . ."

Hutch started up his car. "Wait a sec," he said. "Something's not right."

"What is it? I can't see from here."

"That's not Weston, damn it. That's Starvin Marvin wearing Weston's coat. Weston wouldn't be caught dead in those shoes." Starvin Marvin, one of their snitches, was prone to wearing chunky brown platforms.

"All units, all units," said Starsky into the radio, "hold back, repeat, hold back. Wrong suspect." He sat up for a look. "You take him, I'll go around back." The car was already moving as he got out, and he stumbled and fell, swearing. Rolled and stood up, ran for the alley, hoping it wasn't a dead end.

Hutch spoke into the radio, to the detective who had waved from the roof. "Watch the back of the building, Belson–Weston's pulling a dodge. Starsky's on his way around back."

"On it," said Belson. And then, "Shit, he's up here. I don't think he saw me."

"Got that, Starsk?"

"Got it. Halfway there." Starsky put the radio in a pocket and climbed up and over a chain link fence, grabbing hold of a balcony railing, reaching overhead for the bottom of the building's fire escape. He wished he'd sent Hutch around back–he hated climbing fire escapes. Always felt vulnerable from above, and afraid of heights, too, though he would deny it to his grave. He didn't care much for roof tops, either, and was glad, at least, that it was daylight.

Hutch, driving slowly after Starvin Marvin on the street, felt bad for his partner. He should have gone around back–he knew Starsky wouldn't be happy up there. Too late now to switch.

Marvin spotted him, started walking faster. Hutch pulled up just ahead and opened the car door in front of him, blocking his path. He stepped out of the car behind him, trapping him, smiling broadly.

"What's up, Marvin? Heading out for some lunch? Want some company?"

Marvin turned to face him. "C'mon, Hutch, cut the crap. Knock me over or something, quick. You gotta arrest me. Look, I got a gun." He put his hand in his right pocket and stuck a finger out inside it, pointing it at Hutch. "You gotta arrest me, I'm attempting to kill a police officer."

"OK, relax, Marv. I'll arrest you. Put that, that thing down, we don't want anyone getting hurt." Hutch, trying to maintain his position of authority, choked down his laughter.

Marvin, afraid of offending Hutch out of his good humor, fought to wipe the smile off his own face. He took his hand out of the pocket, and held both arms out for cuffing. Hutch, playing along, pretended to rough him up, pushed him against the car, patted him down. No weapon to be found. If any of Weston's men were watching, they wouldn't know Marvin had done anything stupider than get caught acting as a decoy.

"Get in the car, Marv. I think there's still some sodas in the back if you want one."

"You're not gonna read me my rights?"

"Marvin, you're not arrested. At least not yet. What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Weston's out of your league."

"Let's just say he made it worth my while, OK, Hutch?"

"OK, Marvin. Just get in, will you? Stay put."

Marvin held up his cuffed hands. "Where'm I gonna go?"

Hutch didn't bother to answer. He wanted to get to the roof, check on Starsky, make sure he wasn't shot or worse, for once. He turned to find his way into the building.

"All units, all units, stand down," said Belson's voice on the radio, making Marvin jump nervously. "We got him. All clear. Repeat, all clear."

Hutchinson hadn't realized how tense he'd been until he felt the relief. Starsky drove him nuts sometimes with his recklessness, and Hutch spent a lot of time worrying about him. He didn't consider it irrational worry, either–his partner seemed to catch a lot of bullets.

Marvin was relieved as well. He didn't seem to realize he was going to have to answer a lot of questions, and could end up really arrested before the day was over. Hutch found one of the uniforms to transport him to the station.

Starsky, challenging his own fears, called down to him from the roof top. "Hiya, Hutch. Great view from up here, you should come up."

"Cut it out, Starsk. You're going to fall off the damn roof."

Starsky, immediately worried that he might, stepped back and looked for a better way down.

The car was still hot. On the way back to Metro, Starsky filled his partner in on the Great Rooftop Caper of 1979, which would never go down in any annals.

"I get up on the roof and there's Belson hiding behind some kind of chimney or something, and Weston's looking around like 'now what,' so I just said, 'Freeze,' and he did. Belson walks over and cuffs him, and that was that. I never even pulled my gun, can you believe that?"

And Hutch told him about the capture of Starvin Marvin. It wasn't often they got their perps so easily.

Starsky, rooting around in the back, was, however, upset. "Where's my Dr. Pepper?"

"Probably inside Starvin Marvin."

"Marvin drank my Dr. Pepper?"

"Starsky, Marvin drank your Dr. Pepper."

Starsky slumped in his seat. "I can't believe you gave away my Dr. Pepper."

Hutch patted his knee. "Sorry, pal. How can I make it up to you?"

"Not sure you can," said Starsky. "Let's go get the little monkey and take her out. Hey, you can pick up the tab."

"Starsky . . . " said Hutch. Starsky turned sideways to look at him, saying nothing, and Hutch realized he should have known better than to protest. It never did any good.

They stopped off in Vice to write up their reports. Belson, appreciative, said he'd let them know how the case went, and that he'd like to meet the infamous Dr. Chase. "Maybe you could set me up, Starsky?" he said incautiously.

"Think you can handle her, huh, Belson?"

"I'd like to try, that's for sure." He became aware that Starsky wasn't smiling. Thought maybe he'd better back off, maybe back off into another part of the building. Quickly.

"You might want to think that over, Belson," said Starsky.

Hutch raised an eyebrow at Belson, and grabbed Starsky's sleeve, pulling him away. Belson invented something he needed on the other side of the room.

"Come on, Starsky," Hutch said.

"Can you believe that?"

"Yeah, I can. Come on. Let's go, buddy."

Starsky shrugged and let Hutch lead him out. By they time they got down to Homicide his good spirits had returned, and they burst through the door on a bit of a high. Everyone looked up, some smiling, some annoyed. Cathy sat at a desk in a corner, looking like she belonged there, chatting with Grant, one of the other detectives, who, upon seeing Starsky and Hutch come in, stopped smiling and moved away. Starsky noticed, said nothing, and felt inexplicably put out again. Hutch noticed, and felt sympathy for both Belson and Grant. Starsky's little monkey was starting to look like more than a swing in the park.

Starsky said, "There she is, there's the little monkey," practically dancing up to her. "Grab her, Hutch. We're taking you to dinner, Monkey. Enchiladas. On Hutch."

"Sorry, I'll have to take a rain check," she said. "My cousin's taking me out to some fancy place he's been raving about. What will you do instead?"

Starsky was surprised at his level of disappointment.

Hutch realized he himself had been looking forward to seeing her more than he wanted to admit, more than he would ever admit to Starsky.

"Cry into my beer, what else is there?" Starsky said. Hutch patted his shoulder. "Guess Hutch here will have to entertain me. I'll beat him at chess or something. Monopoly maybe. Gin rummy." He brightened. "Tomorrow, though. We just finished up a big case, we'll play hookey and take you sightseeing. Universal Studios. Mann's Chinese Theater. Hutch'll buy you a T shirt, won't ya, Hutch."

"Starsk, I have that, uh, thing tomorrow, remember?"

"What thing? You don't. . . oh, yeah, the Thing." Starsky felt disconcerted, and Hutch, unwilling to let him off the hook, thought it would be better to stay away, leave them alone.

"Well," Starsky said, "that leaves just me and the monkey, then. How about it? 10 o'clock too early for you? Still on Boston time?"

"Well, yes, a little," she said, "but that would make it too late for me. I'm game if you are, but if you have something else you'd rather . . ."

"What, never. Nowhere else I'd rather be. See you tomorrow, Monkey, bright and early." As they left, Starsky had to stop himself from turning to look at her again.

Captain Dobey came out of his office, feeling harassed. He saw Dr. Chase standing alone, looking a little mystified, and wondered what she was going to do with herself for the rest of the day. She gave him her report, said she didn't think she would need to see Madson again, but wanted to leave the option open for later. Agreeing, he asked if she had any plans for the rest of the evening, his family was having a barbecue. He surprised himself a little. He'd never invited a visiting consultant to his home before, but he thought Edith would like to meet her, thought he'd like to get to know her a little better himself. Explaining about her cousin and dinner, she said she would like to come another time. He hadn't realized who her cousin was; he'd heard him sing. He asked her how long she'd be in town, and said he would be in touch.

Cathy left the station feeling deeply better than she had in a long time, since she'd found Adelle on her bathroom floor, maybe even since before the kidnapping. She remembered the kidnapping vividly–how she'd felt, how scared she'd been, while trying to keep from imagining how much worse for Adelle, what it had been like for her, what had been done to her.

Cathy considered that maybe her isolative nature went all the way back to that moment, when it would first have occurred to her adolescent mind that the world wasn't safe, that people couldn't be trusted, that men did bad things to girls, that people did incomprehensible things to other people. Ever since, she realized, she'd been an observer, a watcher.

Starsky and his partner were action heroes. They didn't bother to ask why, to waste time fathoming the depths of human behavior, they just cared about getting the bad guy, while she was the audience, sitting in a dark theater, avidly watching the heroes and victims and bad guys play out their roles.

Maybe she could even thank Madson for her choice of profession, she thought. She couldn't help but explore human nature, trying to understand the whys. She'd read all the books, but they never explained to her why people do what they do. She had to talk to them in person, to learn what they knew, see what they saw. Always, she watched herself, wondering why she did what she did, always looking at her motivations, decisions, behaviors. Madson was a catalyst. Things were churning inside. She needed some time to sort everything out. What had happened to Adelle, then and now, and what that meant to her, then and now.

Right now, though, she was officially on vacation in Los Angeles, dithering on a hot white sidewalk in front of a building full of action figures. No need to hang around the station any longer. What else but the beach? No one would know her there. She'd wear a bathing suit.

Starsky and Hutch ended up at the Pits again, at a loss for anything interesting to do with their evening. They sat at a table near the bar drinking beers, feeling let down from their earlier mood. Huggy, disappointed that Cathy hadn't come along, filled them in on his visit with her that morning.

"Haven't seen a lady like her come along in a while," he said.

"She's something else, isn't she?" said Starsky.

"What are you going to do tomorrow?" Hutch asked.

"Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing. Why'd you say you had a 'thing'?"

"What's tomorrow?" Huggy said.

"Starsky's going to take Cathy for a day out."

"Yeah, and Hutch begged off. What am I gonna do with her all day? I can only take her for ice cream so many times."

"I'm sure you can think of something," Hutch said mildly.

"You need a substitute, you can count on the Bear," said Huggy.

"Hey, what is it with you two, anyway?" Starsky looked from one to the other and back again. "What is it with everyone today?" He wondered if maybe he was missing something. Something important.

Neither of them answered. Hutch, taking a long swallow of his beer, thought maybe he should go with them after all, and was angry at himself for being so damn noble.

Huggy, putting away some clean beer mugs, thought maybe he could get Anita to take over for him at the Pits, and he could talk Starsky into letting him go along for the ride.

Starsky wondered what he'd gotten himself into, and how was he going to entertain the little monkey for an entire day. Maybe he'd get called in on a case and he could beg off. He finished his beer.

"Well, I'm gone," he said. "Better rest up for my big day tomorrow." Hutch raised his empty glass to him, and solemnly wished him luck. Huggy slapped him on the back. Once again, Starsky felt like he was missing something.

Chapter 9

Sunburned nearly to the point of injury, Cathy winced in Starsky's good-morning hug. He felt it, and let go, leaning back a little to look at her face.

"Sore from your attack, Monkey? I didn't mean to hurt you," he said.

"Oh, no, it's not that. I'm lobstered. Stayed out too long yesterday for a first day at the beach. I thought by late afternoon I'd be all right, but no. I'm cooked." She pulled down the edge of her T shirt to show him the sharp line between the red and the white on her shoulder. Starsky had a flash of the little monkey showing him some scrape or other in just the same way, unselfconscious, sure he would be impressed.

"Looks bad. You should put something on that."

She said, "Thanks, Grandma, but I'm fine." He put his hands up in front of him, grinning, backing off.

"No Universal Studios for you, today, Monkey, you don't need any more sun. What would you like to do? I'm all yours."

She thought for a moment, trying to come up with something he would enjoy, too. "Why don't we just drive up the coast and see the views, or you can show me whatever you like. We can just go exploring."

He'd been sure she'd want to do the typical Hollywood tourist stuff. As far as he knew, it was her first visit to Los Angeles. Was she afraid he'd be bored? Who was watching out for who around here?

"Ready, then? Got everything you need? Snacks? Something to drink?" he said, fussing again. She nodded, and walked ahead of him out to the Torino. She didn't dare look around in case any of the neighbors were out. She was glad her cousin had left before Starsky had arrived.

He opened the door for her and took her arm to help her in, putting his hand on her head to protect it, like he did for someone he'd arrested–or maybe it was just an excuse to touch her hair. He went around to his side, admiring, as always, the lines of the Torino, and patting it like he might a friendly and appreciated dog.

For the first time ever, he thought maybe the Torino wasn't the most comfortable or quietest car on the road, but she made no comment on it. She said, "It's really nice of you to spend a whole day with me like this. Really above and beyond."

"Well, you'd probably just be following me around all day anyway, trying to get me to read to you, or take you to the corner for an ice cream," he said, with a sideways grin at her. "I've been having so many memories since you got here. It'll be fun to talk about the old days."

"Are you still in touch with anyone?" she asked.

"Not really. My brother is still there, and my mother lets me know about anything momentous in the neighborhood. I can't believe she never told me about the Hunters." He paused. "Tell me about Adelle."

"The Hunters moved away about a year after the kidnapping. Couldn't stand to be there, where it had happened. They moved upstate, where they had some relatives or friends." She stopped. It was still hard for her talk about it.

Starsky imagined what it had been like for her to come home that way, find the body of her friend.

She said, "Adelle and I kept in touch, birthdays and stuff, maybe once or twice a year. I don't think she had any other friends. I was so happy when she asked to visit me. I thought maybe she would let herself open up in a new place, meet some people. She wanted to start a new life. I still can't believe this happened."

"Some folks never get a break, do they, Monkey." He thought back, remembering Adelle, feeling an odd pang of guilt that he hadn't known anything about what had happened, hadn't been able to help. The car started to pick up more speed. "We got lucky, though, didn't we? Your life's been good to you, hasn't it?"

"Yes, I was lucky," Cathy said. "And you, you seem to be where you belong. Things worked out for you?"

"Some days, I don't know, I want to go back to that little neighborhood where everyone knew everyone and watched out for each other, played with each other. It was an illusion. We weren't as safe as we thought. I learned pretty fast nowhere is as safe as people think. Being a cop now, it seems like violence and sadness are everywhere. All the time. No one's safe from anything." He stopped, and went inward. He tried not to think about Terry, but sometimes the sadness overtook him. He fought it away.

Cathy saw him retreat, and thought suddenly of the picture of Terry on Hutch's table. She said, "What happened to Adelle, it wasn't what our neighborhood was about. It was just. . ." Starsky nodded, he knew what she meant. "I've worked with a lot of people who have been victimized. Once you find out your safe world isn't safe anymore, you tend to globalize, make everything scary, everything evil. That's what happened to Adelle, why she lost herself. Sounds like maybe it's happening to you."

"Yes," he said, very low.

"There's some work being done on what happens to victims of trauma, how it affects them. You didn't have to go to Vietnam, did you, Dave?"

"No. I did a stint in the army, but, lucky again, I didn't go. It was close, though. I went to the academy instead. Dunno which was worse." He pointed to a cross street. "Captain Dobey lives in that colonial over there."

"He invited me over for a barbecue last night," she said. "I couldn't go, but I hope I can get there to meet his family before I leave."

"Cap invited you to his house? You made an impression on him, that's for sure." She had made an impression all over the precinct, and he still didn't quite understand how or why.

"Doesn't he normally invite consultants over?"

"Not normally, no."

"Where did Hutch have to be, today?" she asked.

"He was, ah, going to finish up some paperwork, and run down a few loose ends on that collar we made yesterday. I think he has some kind of appointment in the afternoon." He was practiced at making up similar stories on the fly. He and Hutch covered for each other regularly. "If you aren't sick of me by tonight," he said, "we can meet him later and grab some dinner."

"If you aren't sick of me by then,"

"I never got sick of you biting my ankles when you were a kid, did I? I don't think I'll get sick of you now." He turned to look at her "You sure have changed. Do I gotta call you 'Dr. Monkey' now?"

"Not if you kill us both first. Watch out!" He swerved to avoid a woman carrying a too-large bag of groceries. Cathy grabbed hold of the arm rest on the door to keep from sliding over into him. Hutch did the same thing quite a lot. He thought maybe he should take some notice of that. "Do you always drive like you're chasing a perpetrator?" she said.

"Or being chased by one. Sorry about that." He slowed marginally, but within minutes he was back up to speed again.

The bare and faintly dismal streets that Starsky knew so well started to turn into wider, more attractive boulevards, and the houses got fancier and bigger. Palm trees and eucalyptus along the clean sidewalks, gates and intercoms. He pointed out a hideous mansion on Sunset.

"Some Arab sheik bought that place," he said. Along a carved stone wall were statues of naked boys and girls, painted in flesh tones, with their genitals in gold leaf. "The neighbors are thrilled. The Beverly Hills Hotel is just here on the left. Want to go in? See if you can see any stars."

She couldn't resist. They handed the Torino over to a deadpan valet, and went in. Starsky scanned the lobby; he could never go anywhere, be anywhere without being watchful, aware of layout–escape routes, hiding places–or evaluating anyone nearby for potential villainy. One of the problems, and often one of the benefits, of being a cop. Everyone inside looked familiar, but they didn't recognize anyone. A woman with long straight hair, in blue flaring hiphuggers, had a little terrier in a shoulder bag, and was digging around for something in her purse. Two well-groomed men in lightweight suits sat on comfortable-looking sage-colored sofas, each reading the L.A. Times.

They went into the Polo Lounge. An ultrapolite m'aitre d' looked them over and led them to a table in the back, behind a potted palm. Starsky felt out of place and conspicuous in his bluejeans and casual cotton shirt, and wondered if Cathy felt at all selfconscious in her T shirt and cutoffs. She didn't seem to. He thought maybe she never did.

She was busy watching people–men in lightweight suits, women in diamond tennis bracelets and white headbands. She felt seriously underdressed, a little surprised they'd been allowed in at all.

"Guess we don't look much like celebrities, huh, Monkey," he said. "Let's shake em up, what do you say?"

"Go for it," she said, laughing. He started to stand up, opened his mouth. Cathy grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back. He sat slowly, and then pretended he was going to jump up again and pull his gun. It was still fun to tease her; she liked to play along. He had a sudden urge to tickle her, see what she would do about it in that refined and sedate setting. She picked up a menu and looked shocked.

"You buyin'?" he said. "I'm going to have the orange roughy, and order us a bottle of Dom Perignon."

She had no idea what orange roughy was, but from its price it must have been made of diamonds. She gave him a look. It made him feel a little uncomfortable, like a bad boy, but not too bad. "Maybe I can call it a business lunch," she said. "Talk to me about Madson or something, and get whatever you like."

Did she really think he would order an expensive meal and have her pay for it? Surely she knew he was still joking. Maybe she could afford it, for all he knew. Or maybe she was a feminist and thought it was her right and duty. He hoped not.

They watched movie deals being made, saw quite a few celebrities, and ordered nothing but coffee and a shared dessert. No one even glanced their way, including the waiter, which annoyed Starsky, and they had to actually get up to leave in order to get the bill. They never did talk about Madson. He wondered later if it would have made a difference.

Chapter 10

They went north on Route 1, through Malibu. Starsky pointed out places where he and Hutch had caught a bad guy, or busted a big drug ring in some star's home. Visitors always seemed to enjoy seeing Malibu, but to him it was no more than a fancy version of the same streets where he lived his life, did his job, saw the worst of human nature on a daily basis. Just prettier.

Out beyond the mudslides and scorch marks, the Chart House restaurant jutted out over the water. Gorgeous beaches, water so bright Cathy had to squint. Along the beach to the left, she saw close-together garages of probably-huge but hidden houses, and to the right, high hills with enormous glass-fronted homes, precariously positioned on the bluffs. She kept feeling disoriented. Going north to an east-coaster meant ocean on the right. She had to keep realigning herself mentally. Eventually the highway narrowed, the houses got slightly smaller, and scrub took over.

Agoura Hills, he told her, had a state park where the Paramount Ranch movie set was located. He'd never been there, himself. "I've got something I want you to see," he said. "We can take a break, have a look around, and I'll show it to you." She was still up for anything, easy to please. He was used to having to entertain his ladies, work at it, show them a good time,. She didn't seem to care what they did, everything seemed to be of interest.

They pulled into a wide parking lot with some low metal-roofed office buildings at the left edge, and followed signs to the right over a foot bridge, straight into an Old West town. A schoolhouse or church across a meadow, a saloon and mercantile, town square and realistic water pump. Horses in western saddles tied to railings, patiently swinging their tails, troughs full of water in front of them.

Other tourists were listening to a park ranger talk about the moves and TV shows that had been filmed there, and they joined the small crowd, listening, and then wandered around for a while, looking into windows at the full sets inside. For a moment Starsky felt envious of the other people on vacation with their families or girlfriends–no cares, no awareness of what life in Los Angeles could really be like. He tried to shake it off, berating himself for letting his real life intrude, knowing what Hutch would say if he were there: C'mon, Starsk, you're out of the city with a fantastic lady, just enjoy yourself and stop thinking. He felt sheepish, as if Hutch had actually been there and said the words.

Beyond the movie town, they could see people riding horseback on trails up into the already brown hills, and above them, a red tailed hawk wheeling in the sun. Cathy seemed delighted, and he was glad he'd thought of bringing her there. They found some shaded antique-looking steps to sit on, and drank some water they'd brought.

From his back pocket Starsky took a piece of paper, faded red with ragged edges, folded carelessly, and a small gray stone, and handed them to her. "Monkey," he said, "I found these last night. I've kept them all these years."

Wordless, and with care, she unfolded the paper, a child's drawing of a boy with a little girl on his shoulders. The boy was very tall and stick like, with brown curly hair, and dark eyes, and he had on a very colorful and shapeless shirt, and, apparently, no trousers at all. The little girl was tiny, with scribbly black hair covering her face, all except for her big smile. She had the same colorful shirt as the boy, the same stick arms and legs, too many fingers. They both looked happy.

"Why on earth did you keep this?" she said.

"I liked it," he said simply, "so I kept it. I'd actually forgotten it until you showed up. Don't you remember it?"

"No."

"You were maybe 6 by then, and I was 12 or 13. I was in a bad mood, I don't remember why, and you drew that for me to cheer me up, and you gave me this stone as a gift. You probably picked it up off the street, but it was the best you could do. I never forgot that."

Maybe not, but he'd put it away with all his other memories of her and of his childhood. He wasn't much for keeping artifacts of his life, that was more his mother's style, but he'd kept that drawing, and had taken it with him whenever he'd moved. He'd rarely looked at it, but he'd known exactly where it was when he'd remembered it. Cathy gave him back the drawing and the rock, and he stowed them in his pocket.

For a moment he looked into her eyes, and she looked back, unmoving. He felt a sudden sense of loss, something lost a long time ago that had been important, but he couldn't quite name it. He took some of her hair in his fingers, turning and twisting it gently, trying to understand his feelings. Again, he thought he knew what Hutch would say. Tell her what you feel, Starsk. She'll listen.

"When you sit there like that, looking at me that way," he said, still playing with her hair, "I feel like I can see the little you, the little monkey, right here in front of me, but she's not here. You aren't her, but you are. I've had such a rush of memories these past two days. It's so weird. I can't explain it. Confusing."

"What's confusing you, Dave?" He couldn't figure out if she was in therapist mode, or just being herself.

"You. It's, I don't know, you're just suddenly here out of nowhere, completely different, but exactly the same. You remind me of so many good things, our house, our families, everything good before everything got bad. And here you are, as tall as me, knocking over perps like you used to knock over Billy Magee's GI Joes, just like that. And all I want to do is put my hands in your hair and . . ."

He had forgotten where they were, that there were people around. Overhead, a park ranger spoke. "Sorry folks," he said jovially. "Got to move you. Crew's coming and you're in the shot."

Starsky stood up smiling, feeling an odd sense of relief, but from what, he couldn't tell. He put out his hand to Cathy to help her up, and they walked over to where the tourists were gathering, hoping to see some action. It never even occurred to him to let go of her hand.

Chapter 11

They headed back to the city by a different route, inland through Topanga Canyon. Cathy made occasional comments about the houses tucked up against the hills, and he pointed out some interesting landmarks, homes of celebrities, a bad stretch where Hutch had once been forced off the road. He drove easily, barely concentrating on the steep and twisty road. He felt relaxed and comfortable, and drove slower than normal for once, wanting to drag out the day, unwilling to let it wind down. Cathy leaned her head back against the seat.

"Tired, Monkey? Hungry?" he said.

"I could eat."

"Girl after my own heart. We could grab something on the pier at Santa Monica, if you want, tide us over till we meet Hutch for supper." He glanced over at her, and stretched out a hand, touching her chin with the side of his finger. A bright flare of arousal surprised and shook him. He fought it away. He was always touching people, things, but it didn't usually cause such a reaction in his gut. He didn't want that, not with her. The confusion he'd confessed to earlier seemed trivial compared to what he'd been thrown into, just by touching her face. He retreated. "I'll buy you an ice cream, how's that sound, Monkey?"

Cathy thought she might suddenly melt an ice cream before it made it to her lips. Did he mean to start up such a storm inside me, touching me that way? The little girl's crush fell away once and for all, replaced by something much larger, something almost frightening. She was starting to like being called Monkey just a little less.

The contentment of a few moments ago was lost, replaced by an urge to withdraw, to get out, to run home to her crazy clients, her unfettered life. There was no way on earth anything was going to happen between them, she thought, he was just being his same old self, treating her with care and kindness, while still keeping her at arm's length, his little monkey. It was better to bug out while the bugging was still good.

She nodded, and to his surprise, she seemed to withdraw. The easy companionship had fled, and he had no idea how to get it back. Maybe it was too late. He could think of nothing to say, and so he said nothing. To his relief, neither did she.

The pier was crowded, as always. It was almost sunset, and Cathy asked if he'd planned it that way.

"Of course," he said. He had a momentary urge to ruffle her hair, try to get back to being Monkey and Divit, but he dropped his hand without touching her. They ate ice creams in silence, watching the sunset. He wondered if she remembered the last time he'd bought her an ice cream. She'd gotten too big to ride on his shoulder, and he'd tried to make up for it with a double dip, and later that afternoon had taught her to ride his brother's bicycle. He grinned at her, and saw that she did remember, and was smiling, too. He felt better–things were back on track.

"I should call Hutch," he said. "I haven't checked in all day. I'll tell him to meet us for dinner." He found a phone and asked if she'd mind waiting for a few minutes.

"No, I'm fine right here," she said, and turned to lean on the wooden railing. She understood better than most about not wanting to get too much space between oneself and one's work. She'd never have taken such a long leave under normal circumstances. She had to fight a compulsion to check in with her office all the time.

She looked out over the Pacific, listening to individual voices in the crowd, watching the sunset. She felt dreamy, tired and comfortable. They were still pals, she thought, and he was showing no sign of wanting to be rid of her. She let her mind drift over the water, leaning against the high wooden railing, feeling sleepy.

Starsky saw the sun in her hair, and thought it was possible he'd never seen anything so beautiful. His insides responded again, and he had a strong urge to talk to Hutch, tell him what was happening to him, get Hutch's opinion, his support.

He called in to the precinct, knowing at that hour where to find his partner. Dispatch, however, put him through to Captain Dobey, saying they'd been trying to locate him.

"Starsky, where the hell are you?" The Captain's voice caused Starsky to hold the phone away from his ear. "We've been looking for you all afternoon."

His heart picked up speed. "What's going on, Cap?" he said, looking back up the pier at Cathy with the setting sun in her hair.

"John Madson's got himself loose. He's taken some hostages," said Dobey,. "Starsky–" Quietly now, and calm, too calm, he said, "Just get back here right away. Now."

"On my way." Starsky barely took the time to hang up the phone, and sprinted back to Cathy.

She heard him coming and turned, smiling, looking sleepy and happy. Saw his face and said, "What is it? Something's happened?"

"We've got to go. I'm sorry." She didn't try to get him to tell her what had happened, for which he felt incredibly grateful. She tried to keep up with him, running down the pier, dodging through the crowd, but he realized she wasn't in that sort of shape, and he worried she might trip or fall. He reached back for her hand, and she gave it. He was glad he'd parked close by, and, as always, had positioned the Torino facing outward, ready to go. He didn't stop for any gentlemanly behavior, and didn't think she would expect it, he just got in and started up. She barely had time to get inside.

He gestured to the red dome light on the floor and asked her to put it on the roof. "Tell me," she said, breathing hard, almost unable to speak.

"Dispatch said they've been trying to find me all afternoon. They put me right through to Dobey. Madson's loose . . . "

"What?" she said. "How?"

"I don't know. I'll find out later, believe me. Dobey just said to get back fast. Something in his voice—he wouldn't tell me what went down."

She said, "Just get there." She understood, and he felt that strange gut-level response again. This time he didn't stop to analyze it.

He reached over and took her hand, squeezed it hard and let go. "Hold on," he said.

In front of the Metropolitan Division of the Los Angeles PD a crowd had formed—two ambulances, a dozen or more cruisers, onlookers, and press. Some uniformed officers were trying to keep the gathering onlookers back. Several were setting up huge spotlights, and a few seemed to be interviewing individuals, small notebooks in hand. Some reporters saw the car, recognized it, and called out to Starsky, asking him how he was feeling and what he was going to do. Starsky ignored them, not even really registering their presence. He could think only one thing: Where is Hutch? He said his partner's name aloud twice, feeling like he might strangle on the word. Unable to get through the crowded street, he simply stopped the car, and with his door already opening, turned to Cathy, tried to speak. She said, "Go," and he was gone.

Cathy got out of the car and looked around, trying to find a familiar face. She was inside the cordoned area, but had no official ID, and no idea where to go, how best to help, or even whether to try. A woman in uniform approached.

"Dr. Chase?" she said, and Cathy nodded. "Please come with me, ma'am."

She followed in between cars and people, looking at the sharpshooters on the roofs above, and behind the open doors of cruisers. At the faces of the officers and medics. She hoped her imagination was on overdrive, but it didn't look like she was too far over the top. What had Madson done, and how? Things sure seemed to go wrong an awful lot at Metro.

She saw Captain Dobey a second before he saw her, and the woman who'd led her over nodded and hurried off. Into a cruiser's radio, Dobey said, "She's here now. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Right." He tossed the handheld transmitter onto the car seat, and beckoned Cathy over to him.

"Where's Starsky?" he said. His dark skin looked ashy, and he was sweating heavily. She worried for a second about his heart.

"I don't know," she said. "As soon as we got here he took off. I think he's looking for you." Dobey scanned the crowd, trying to find him.

He looked her over, seeming undecided about something. Was he unsure even now of her ability to cope with whatever this was? Or was he weighing protocol against the need for her help? With an almost physical sensation, she went into crisis mode, slowing her breathing, relaxing arms and face, loosening fingers. She waited.

Dobey made his decision. "Madson was being taken upstairs for his extradition hearing, and got loose when they were cuffing him to a bench, of all the–well, anyway, he's got some civilian hostages and shots have been fired. Dr. Chase, I'm afraid I have bad news. We're pretty sure Hutchinson is hit. We don't know his status. He was talking to me on the telephone, telling me Madson's demands, just before we heard the gunfire. I'm pretty sure he was hit."

She tried to swallow. She could no longer hear all the shouts and slams around her, like someone had turned off part of the sound track.

"What are Madson's demands?" she said, as if she hadn't already figured it out. Her voice sounded clear and strong, and Dobey seemed to notice.

"That's why I sent Wilson over to get you. We need your help. He's pulling the same thing he pulled before, will only talk to you. He won't talk to anyone else or say anything else. We think he has at least two weapons, and three hostages, not counting Hutchinson." He wiped his face with a soggy-looking handkerchief. "We wouldn't normally ask a consultant to do this, but you know this man, better than anyone else here. You have training in this sort of thing. Will you do it?"

"Yes, of course. But, he won't talk to me on the phone?" Dobey shook his head. They'd apparently tried to talk him into it, but knowing Madson, he would only have said what he wanted, and would have refused to say any other word. Please God, tell me he's at least got some clothes on for once, she thought.

Dobey made a quick call on a walkie-talkie, and, minutes later, an officer ran up to them with a heavy black vest and something with wires hanging off it. He pushed Cathy's arms around, explaining about the bulletproof material, placing the wires under her shirt without comment, and the vest over her upper body. She felt ridiculously self-conscious about her casual day-out clothes, her sunburned nose, the tightness of the heavy vest over her stomach, her wind-mangled hair. Worrying for the first time ever what she looked like, at that moment, in that place. You're unbelievable, she thought.

"What else do I need to know?" she said.

Dobey began to explain the layout of the part of the building Madson was in, and how to get there, where there was cover, how to use the telephone system. How the wire taped onto her would work, that they would be able to hear her even if she whispered, but not talk to her. There would be SWAT team personnel positioned nearby but not in the immediate area. They would give her a chance to negotiate. Gave her code words, one for all clear, and one for storm the Bastille. She hoped she wouldn't mix them up.

"Can you let him know somehow that I'm coming in?" she said. He turned again to the car radio, asking for a patch through. It sounded like he was talking to one of the hostages, but she couldn't hear what he said.

Another officer brought something for her to sign. She was going alone into negotiations on their behalf with an armed criminal, who knew her and who had been playing games with her for a very long time, and they wanted her to sign away rights to sue if she got killed or worse. Dobey, off the radio, looked acutely embarrassed. What did they have to sign in case she screwed up royally and they wanted to sue her? She shrugged mentally, and signed. She was going to do this no matter what, why make a big deal?

Chapter 13

Where the hell was Dobey? thought Starsky. And what the hell was going on here? He stopped a uniform who didn't know. Found a reporter who did. He listened intensely as the guy told him of the hostages, the gunfire, and thought that maybe none of this was really happening, he'd fallen asleep somewhere and would wake up soon and take the little monkey for some ice cream. Except, he'd already done that, and he wasn't asleep.

He went blank for a moment and all he could think was Hutch, ya big lug, what did you go and do? He saw Dobey, finally, near the door of the station building, half hidden behind an ambulance, and talking to. . . Oh no. Oh my God, no way in hell. . . Practically flying, he ran to where Dobey stood with Cathy, took one look at the heavy black vest she wore, and at her face, and Dobey's, and every muscle in his body felt about to burst off him. He shoved himself right between them, indescribably angry.

"Cap, she is not going in there. That's final." Cathy started to say something but apparently decided against it. He wasn't going to give her a chance, anyway.

Dobey grew calmer, stood up taller. "Starsky, I know how you're feeling, but. . ."

"Cap, Hutch is in there, maybe dead already. I'm going in. She's not. If something happened to her, too, I . . . "

Dobey looked over Starsky's head at Cathy, hoping she would just go while he kept Starsky occupied. He watched her step back, away from them, and start to walk fast to the front of the station. Starsky saw him watching, and turned abruptly, already moving. She made it to the glass doors before Starsky caught up with her, grabbing her wrist, pulling her around. She almost fell off the stone step and he steadied her.

"I'm goin' in with you. I'll watch your back."

"No, Dave, you don't. . . ." He took her by the shoulders, and stared her down. "All right. Let's go, then," she said. "But David, please, please, let me do what I do. It will be OK."

"I will if you will, Monkey," he said.

"Deal," she said, and incredibly, he laughed.

They went in together, Starsky leading her down a hallway, and up a wide staircase, past cops positioned at the ready, tense and watchful. Some of them nodded to Starsky, looking variously frightened, or sympathetic, or even bored, and all of them surprised to see Cathy. She wished seriously that she had asked to use a bathroom before she'd agreed to this whole thing. Wondered if it were too late. Decided it was. At a pair of double doors with frosted wired glass and the words Authorized Personnel Only stenciled on one pane, they stopped. Starsky spoke to an officer standing by the door.

"Anderson," he said. "Anything gone down?".

"Sorry, Starsky. Nothing." He told them what they knew of the situation, three civilian hostages, and Sergeant Hutchinson. He'd heard one shot fired more than two hours before, some shouts and cries, one of the hostages asking to go to help Hutch. Anderson didn't know how badly Hutch was injured.

Starsky could feel himself start to shake. Cathy felt it, and turned to him, telling him to wait for a signal, not to come in unless things went bad, to trust her—and he shut her up the only way he could think of, realizing it was all he had really thought of all day. He put his hands on either side of her face, and his mouth hard on hers. He had never felt so utterly inside of himself in his life, and he pulled back, watching her eyes, her face, until he thought he might burn right through her, hurt her, hurt himself.

"Dave, Hutch will be OK. I'll get him out," she said. Or will you die trying? he thought erratically, and then, like a refrain, I will if you will. Oh my God. He started to say something, stopped and started again. Ended up touching her face, and pushing some hair away from her eyes. She stepped back out of his grasp, nodded calmly to Anderson, who was carefully examining the back of one of his hands, and turned to the door. Starsky couldn't believe she would do this for him, for Hutch, didn't believe she could do this, didn't know how to let her try. For a long moment he just stood there, next to Anderson, in that long empty hallway, and watched her go through the door alone.

Sitting at his desk at Metro, pretending to do paperwork, Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson wished to God he had not been so generous. He'd wanted to join Starsky and Cathy for their day out, but he knew that this time, with this woman, there should be no games, no contests. He thought that given very little time he could fall for her, maybe fall very hard, and that she would be someone he couldn't walk away from, not even for Starsky. He tried to analyze his feelings–he was an inward thinker, and self-aware most of the time, something he couldn't always say for Starsky. Was he staying away because he could see something in Starsky's eyes that he'd never seen before, not even with Terry? Or was it something more complicated–something in Cathy's eyes that made him want to forget everything and just sit with her and be with her. He had never looked twice before at a woman like her; he preferred his ladies blonde and bone thin, and a lot more vulnerable. For that matter, so did Starsky. They seriously needed to talk.

Captain Dobey came abruptly out of his office, and looked around the nearly empty room. "Hutchinson," he said, "we have a situation upstairs. John Madson's got himself holed up with some hostages. You're the only trained negotiator in the building. Get up there and take over, see if you can get him on the phone, keep him busy until we get set up."

"What? What is going on around here?" Hutch couldn't believe there was another escaped prisoner in the usually locked-up-tight precinct. Heads would roll.

"Don't ask questions now, Hutchinson, just get up there. One of the officers upstairs can brief you. I'll organize a SWAT team, get you some backup."

Already on his way, Hutch spared a thought for his partner. Hoped Starsky's nice day out was going better than his own. He hated hostage situations. He knew of very few that had gone well, and fervently wished to be elsewhere, even in the Torino–especially in the Torino–at that moment. Where were Starsky and Cathy? Why hadn't Starsky checked in? It wasn't like him not to. Hutch felt less than useful without him.

The evacuation of all civilians and non-necessary police and staff made getting upstairs difficult. Hutch stopped a cop he knew to ask what had happened. He needed to be in the picture if he were to be of any use.

"I wasn't in on it, thank God," said the other man, "but apparently they were taking Madson up for an extradition hearing, and when they went to cuff him to the bench he got ahold of Llewellyn's gun and all hell broke loose. Wouldn't want to be Llewellyn the next few days."

"How did he end up with hostages?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there."

Hutch lost his patience, and it was all he could do not to grab the man by the throat and ram him back against a wall. "What do you know, then?" he said, unable to control the anger in his voice. Did this guy think this was just a routine day at the office? He realized his anger was seriously displaced and tried to let some of it go.

"I–not much more. Three hostages, in one of the Admin offices. Anderson's down by the door there, he can tell you what's going on."

Hutch didn't bother to say anything more. What would be the point of losing it on the guy? He went down the hall, empty now except for strategically positioned cops. He found Anderson waiting for him near the door into the Administration section.

"I'm sure glad to see you, Hutchinson," said Anderson. "This guy is nuts. All he'll say is 'Get Dr. Chase if you want these people to keep breathing!' Who the hell is Dr. Chase?"

"She's his therapist. What's his deal? Will he negotiate with her? She's not even in town today."

"He won't say anything except what I told you."

"Can you get him on the phone?"

"Hold on, I'll try." Anderson dialed and they could hear the faint ring down the hall. Madson didn't answer.

"Try Captain Dobey. Find out where that SWAT team is."

Anderson had to call the dispatcher for a patch-through to Dobey who had gone out to meet the tactical team.

The sound of a scuffle and women's screams stopped them both. Moving fast and thinking he was about to get in very deep trouble with Dobey, Hutch unholstered his gun and put it into the waistband at the small of his back, pulling his shirt out to cover it. He knew he should wait for the SWAT team, but he never had been good at waiting. He wasn't sure this was a good time to go by the book anyway. He pushed through the doors and into the empty hallway beyond, calling to Madson that he was coming in.

Madson appeared in a doorway, with a gray-haired woman bent awkwardly under one arm, and a gun pointed at the side of her head. A pair of handcuffs dangled from his wrist and banged against the woman's chin. Her eyes were open and focused–she was staying calm. Hutch put his arms out to the side, relaxing what muscles he could.

"Where's Dr. Chase?" said Madson. "I told you I'd start shooting these poor people if she didn't show up, and she didn't show up. This one can be the first one."

The woman looked a lot less calm. Hutch hoped she wouldn't panic. That would not be helpful.

"She's on her way," said Hutch. "I don't think they're going to let her come in though, she's not an officer of the law. Maybe you and I could work this out. If you could let these people go, maybe you could talk to her on the phone when she gets here."

"You're a stand up comic in your off time, right, pal? This ain't my first day out of kindergarten, you know."

"No. Sorry, I should have known better."

"They let her in, or I start shooting people."

"If I could come in the room with you, see how your people are, maybe I can call my captain and get something going for you. How about it?"

"Yeah, get in here," he said, stepping back. Hutch went in, moving slowly, showing Madson his empty holster, trying to smile politely. Madson shoved the gray-haired woman away, and she fell on her hands and knees. One of the others, a younger woman, started to go to her, thought better of it. Her face was red–had Madson hit her? Behind her and to her right, a man of about 40 stood absolutely motionless, looking intently at the floor. Madson told them to sit down and shut up. They seemed to have gone outside themselves, no longer really present, but also, thought Hutch, quiet and cooperative. He wondered briefly who they were and how they'd gotten themselves into this mess. He nodded in their direction.

"I'm Detective Hutchinson," he said calmly. "Everyone OK?" They nodded fast, looking at him quickly and then away again. He was about to ask their names and say something reassuring but Madson interrupted.

"Get me the doc right now," he said. To Hutch, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. Was this all just for fun, or did he have some other agenda? Why was he so fixated on Cathy? How in God's name had Llewellyn let this guy get away from him?

Hutch went to a desk in the center of the room, and dialed out, asking for a patch to Dobey. Madson put a hip onto another desk next to it, and busied himself by aiming his gun at various points along Hutch's body. It was distracting.

Dobey, predictably, was furious. "What the hell are you doing, Hutchinson?"

"Cap, I'll explain later. Madson has asked me to find out when Dr. Chase will be arriving. He would very much like to talk to her."

"That isn't protocol and you know it. And anyway, that partner of yours hasn't checked in and we don't know where they are. Do you have any idea?"

"No, Cap. I wish I did, believe me." Hutch tried not to look at Madson, while Madson seemed to be trying to get him to do just that.

"I've put out an APB on them. But they could be anywhere."

Hutch didn't think Madson would be happy to hear that. He decided to do some editing. "So you're saying they should be here any time now, then, right, Cap?"

Madson stood up and smiled. "Tell your superior officer that I start shooting in one minute if she don't show up."

"I heard that," said Dobey. This wasn't a typical hostage situation, if there ever were such a thing. The perp didn't seem to want anything other than to talk to Dr. Chase. They had no bargaining power, nothing else to offer. What was his game, and how were they supposed to play without any rules? "Tell him she's on her way, that's all we can do. We'll find them. Maybe she can give us some insights on how to deal with this guy."

Hutch started to tell Madson that they would do as he wished, that Dr. Chase was on her way. Madson, though, had another idea.

"Minute's up," he said, and fired his weapon straight at Hutch.

Confused, Hutch wondered where he was and why there were people screaming all around him. Instinctively, he lay very still, and waited for some kind of clue as to why he was lying face down on the floor feeling like someone in stiletto heels was standing on his shoulder. Clarity began to return. Nice going, Hutchinson, he thought. Really handled that beautifully.

He could not imagine why he wasn't dead. Madson had shot from no more than five feet away–he hadn't intended to kill, that was obvious. Hutch decided to stay still, give himself time to think, let Madson play out his game for a while. Until the gray-haired woman demanded to be allowed to help him. Nothing like putting pressure on a wound to wake up a guy who was trying to play dead. It took every ounce of self-control Hutch had ever possessed to keep from moving, much less groaning. He was seriously afraid he might cry. What he wanted more than anything was Starsky.

He tried to keep from sliding away, but he couldn't help it. He thought, Sorry, Starsk, and let go.

Chapter 16

John Madson hung up the phone over the sound of Dobey's insistent voice. Man, he thought. That guy don't even need a phone. I can practically hear him from here. Wonder what he's yellin now. He envisioned the words coming out in a stream of yellow, or maybe pale orange, and very large and wavy. He smiled to himself at the image.

Dr. Chase's words were usually a greenish blue color. He wondered how long before she showed up, and debated whether to shoot another of his toys while he waited, because it had been fun to shoot the first one, but he decided to wait until he'd played with them a little more. It had been a long time since he'd had so many toys to play with. Maybe he could make the doc play with them. Maybe he'd play with her, too. A whole lot of possibilities began to erupt in his mind. He wondered how long before she showed up, and what she would say, and what her words would look like.

Holding his gun casually, and twirling the handcuffs around his left wrist, he walked toward the two toys that were leaning against the wall, making sure they looked at the gun and were thinking about what fun he planned to have with it.

He thought back to the first time he'd seen the doc, and smiled at the memory. She'd been very small, maybe 4 or 5, and her words had been a pale creamy pink as she played some game with a tall toy who called her a little monkey in very deep green words, and who had made her laugh, and who had practically never left her alone. He had considered taking them both home and playing with them, maybe making them play with each other, and seeing what kinds of colors they would mix together, and he'd gone home to rearrange his toy chest.

He'd done something idiotic later that day, he couldn't remember what, and he'd ended up in some cell somewhere with no toys at all, and when he'd gotten out and gone back for them, the tall toy had disappeared and the little monkey toy wasn't so interesting all by herself. She looked a lot older, too, had he been gone that long? He had stood across the street watching her, about to go and bag her, but he'd been sidetracked by a different toy, one he liked the look of a lot better, so without really thinking it through, he'd taken that one instead. That one had been his first, the only one he'd let go when he'd finished playing. None of the others after that had still been working by the time he'd finished with them. Months later he'd gone back to look for his first toy, but it had been taken away and he'd moved on.

His new toys lay scattered around him on the floor. Might as well have fun while he waited. Looked around for ideas. He found some rubber bands in a drawer and tried shooting some at the toy that lay sprawled on the floor, but it was no fun if the toy didn't react in some way, so he tried popping some at the female toy by the wall. He felt quite gratified at its response, a few purplish whimpers and some wild movements of its arms. He told it to put its arms down, but it didn't, so he walked over and hit its hands with the gun until it did. He tried tapping the male toy on the head with his fist, got no response at all, and tapped harder. It fell over. Whoops, he thought, too hard. He put it back up in position, and looked around again.

He wondered if the toy he'd shot was still working, and went to look. He could see its back moving up and down if he looked really closely. Noticed something interesting and bent closer. This toy had brought him a gun. He took it out of the toy's waistband and looked it over, admiring the long barrel, the nice weight in his hand. He smiled at it.

The gray-haired toy glared at him. It was really too old for him to play with but he didn't bother to tell it. Why make it feel better? There was no need for that.

Where the hell was Dr. Chase? Surely she knew better than to keep him waiting this long. He wandered around the room idly, watching his toys, picking up objects from desks and putting them down. Tried whistling but he didn't like the color it produced, so he stopped. Finally growing bored, he sat on the desk, where he could poke at the broken toy with his foot.

What an amazing and delightful thing it had been to see the little monkey toy in that Boston jail. He'd known her at once, and had immediately decided to play with her as soon as he possibly could. He forgot now what he'd been arrested for, something to do with a broken toy probably. It didn't matter, they had no evidence to hold him on, he never left any, or none that they had ever found, and he knew he would be out soon. He had played her game, something he'd never tried before, and had agreed to talk to her, listen to her, and pretend to be a human being, though it was a stretch for him. She never realized how much fun he was having, though she thought she was pretty clever, pretty good and smart, pretty know it all.

Pretty easy, it had been, to follow her home, even accounting for the stroke of luck he'd had in seeing her outside the jail when he got out. And when he had seen what was inside her house . . . He felt a stirring in his penis and rubbed it absentmindedly, remembering the moment he'd seen his very first toy in the window, right there in the doctor's house. As he had in the beginning, all those years before, he'd changed his original game, and waited, patient, inventing some new rules. Later that evening, the doc had gone out somewhere, and Madson had gone in. Some toys just had no clue whatsoever–you would think the smarter ones would come across with a little more of a challenge. He began to really look forward to the challenge the doc might put up when he started to play his game with her.

Swinging his foot over the broken toy, Madson thought of the doc, and how she had always listened to him politely. No one in his life had ever been polite to him. He thought of her as a her, not an it, the only toy who had ever had any kind of humaness. He had no doubt she knew he'd killed her friend, his first toy, and he also knew she wanted him to tell her why. Maybe he would if she was still nice to him, still listened to him, if it was fun to do. He found he was looking forward to playing her game again. He would be happy to play his game after that.

Why was she giving him so much time to think? It wasn't good for him to think too much. How was this game going to end? Who was going to win? He had a deep feeling that, for the first time ever, he might end up the loser. He was prepared for that, though, had been prepared since the beginning. He'd always known that if there were to be no more toys, there would be no more him, and he had a good idea how to set that game into play.

The telephone rang into the quiet room and he jumped up, startled and annoyed. The toys all made funny brownish sounds, except of course the broken one. That one still hadn't moved. He told the gray-haired toy to answer the phone, and it stood up shakily, speaking so softly that he couldn't even see what colors it was making.

It looked in his direction, avoiding his eyes. "Dr. Chase is here now," it said, in some kind of grayish green spiky words.

"You tell her if she don't get in here in, well, OK, five minutes, you get to be the next broken toy lying on the floor. You tell her that, see what she says, OK?"

The words came out of it in stark white with little black borders around them, disappearing into the phone's mouthpiece one at a time. That toy was losing it, he thought. Oh well. He told it to hang up, and went back to the desk, sitting on the edge, legs dangling, posing himself, expectant, excited. And something else that he didn't recognize. Happy? Was this what happiness felt like? He had no real way of knowing.

Chapter 17

Out in the hallway, Cathy called Madson's name.

"In here, Doc," he said. "Glad you could make it. Finally."

"Can you come to the door, Madson?" she said. "I'd appreciate it if I could see what you're carrying."

"Nope, you come on in here, Doc. I want to see what you're carrying."

She went in. Madson sat on a wooden desk, swinging one leg, and looking very pleased with his life. Fluorescent fixtures overhead made his short-cropped dark hair look a little green, and his eyes were shiny and oddly lighted. From his left wrist she saw dangling a set of handcuffs.

Close to the desk, under the swinging leg, Hutch lay sprawled on his stomach, left arm under his chest, right arm extended awkwardly. His face was turned toward her, eyes closed, muscles loose. She swallowed hard and had a flashing memory of Adelle's body on the bathroom floor, looking very much the same. Next to him near his head, a gray-haired woman in a wrinkled skirt sat holding some kind of cloth over a patch of blood on the back of his left shoulder. She looked up at Cathy with absolute horror, but whether because of Hutch's injury and her status as a hostage, or because she had expected someone else—anyone else—Cathy couldn't tell.

To the right, against the wall, a middle-aged man and a younger woman sat limply, faces slack, watching her without hope. They had apparently given up, and had no expectation of walking out of there.

Hutch began to swim back to the surface. The pressure on his shoulder increased, and brought him back, fully aware, and incredulous. What is Cathy doing here? And where was Starsky? Surely nothing had happened to Starsky, too. Had he willingly let Cathy come into this room? He tried to keep his muscles slack, and tried furiously to think of a way to get them all out of this.

Above his head, Madson said, "Why are you wearing that vest? What is that?

"It's bullet proof," said Cathy. Hutch felt a little better.

"Don't you trust me?"

"Should I?"

"Take it off," Madson said.

"No, John." She sounded perfectly calm, like she was chatting with a friend she'd run into.

"OK, I'll just shoot you in the knee. No big deal." Hutch's stomach muscles tightened. Cathy made no response to the threat at all, as far as he could tell. The gray-haired lady pressed on his shoulder, and she grabbed a piece of her skirt in her other hand, crunching it tightly.

Cathy said, "What's going on, here, John? What should I do now?"

"I don't know, Doc. I haven't figured that out yet. I just like talking to you, so I figured we'd talk. You look like you've been to the beach or something. How's you're day going? "

"Well, aside from the fact that a police officer is lying unconscious in front of me bleeding all over the floor, not really all that bad." Hutch thought, Is she wired? Is Starsky listening?

"He's breathing, don't worry," said Madson. "Not sure I can say the same for you, though, Doc." Yeah, I'm breathing, you son of a bitch, thought Hutch.

"Is everyone OK?" Cathy said. There was a pause, and Hutch felt the gray-haired woman's head nodding all the way down her arm and into his shoulder. "Good, then. Everyone try to stay calm, and maybe we can figure this out."

They all nodded again, really fast, making Cathy think of those bobble head dogs people put on the back seats of their cars.

Madson made some kind of noise in his throat. Had he tried to laugh? He didn't seem to have had much practice at it.

"John, how about some food and something to drink? You must be hungry. Let me call out and ask for a pizza or something. It's getting late."

"Sure, Doc, that's a good idea, send for pizza and have some cop in disguise carry it in. Sure, great idea. If you're so hungry, you should have brought yourself a sandwich."

"Well, OK if I sit down, then?"

"Be my guest."

She walked over to the right of the desk where a chair lay on its side. Bent down to pick it up. Sneaked a look at Hutch, and found him staring straight at her through barely open eyes. Slowly he closed and opened the right one. Expressionless, she picked up the chair and put it down on the other side toward the front of the desk, so that Madson was turned away slightly, and couldn't see Hutch without standing up and turning toward him. She hoped Hutch's nose wouldn't get itchy.

A girl in a million, thought Hutch. He wondered if Starsky had figured that out yet.

"John, why don't you let these folks go?" she said. "That officer needs to go to the hospital. Why not let them go, and you and I can talk."

"You watch way too much TV for a busy doctor," Madson said. "You don't really think I'm going to fall for that tired old script, do you?"

"John," she said. "You aren't going to shoot me, so stop playing games. Put the gun down."

The gray-haired woman suddenly pressed hard on Hutch's shoulder again. He couldn't see what was going on, but he got ready to move, and it was agonizing to wait.

"You know what? I like waving it around. I think I will just keep doing it."

"All right, John," she said. "You must know me at least enough to know I don't fall for a load of crap. Let's cut it out now and you tell me what you want and I'll see if I can get it for you. I am hungry, and I do want a sandwich, so let's wrap this up so I can go get one."

Hutch began to think maybe Cathy could handle this guy after all.

To Cathy's immense relief, Madson stopped playing with the gun, though he didn't put it down. "OK, then," she said. "Where's the other gun?" Hutch heard a small sound, a tapping on cloth. "It's in your pocket? Is the safety on? You won't shoot yourself by accident, will you?" Incredible, thought Hutch. She's telling me what she's seeing.

"This can only end badly, Doc," said Madson. "Let's make it interesting. I'll let you decide who gets popped off first. Not the cop, though. I'm saving him. Savoring him."

Somewhere to the right, someone made a small sound, and Hutch felt his head start to pound in time with his heartbeat. How was he supposed to know what to do? He could see nothing but Cathy's feet, he had no signal to wait for, and he had no idea what Cathy could or would do. He and Starsky knew each other well enough to work without any communication, but Cathy was an unknown quantity. She didn't know him any better than he knew her. He suspected, though, that she wouldn't try to count on his help. He waited.

Madson continued, "Hey, maybe I'll let you do him and I'll watch. That would definitely be really interesting."

Do me? thought Hutch. What does that mean, 'do me'? His imagination kicked into high and dreadful gear.

Cathy hoped Dave hadn't heard this, wasn't outside the door dying a little himself "You don't even want to get out of this, do you, John?" she said. "You just got me in here to make me watch while you killed some people? Are you trying to tell me something? Or make me figure something out? I'm not getting it, whatever it is. So just tell me. I'll listen."

"You are a pretty good listener, I'll give you that. Listen to this, then." His affable demeanor quite suddenly dropped away. He stood up fast, and in three strides was in front of Cathy's chair before she could think or react. He took hold of her hair and pulled her to her feet. Shit, she thought, what is the deal with my hair? She swore to God she was cutting it off as soon as she got home. He put the point of the gun to her nose, let go of her, and unzipped his trousers, saying, "That vest won't do you much good now, will it, Doc?"

She decided she wasn't going to do him much good. Swung her left arm up under his right as fast and hard as she could, knocking his upward, and sending the gun flying. Landing nowhere near where anyone else could make use of it, it bounced across the floor making a clacking sound. Madson actually growled at her. They stood for a split second eye to eye, no longer predator and prey, but two predators, one of them crazy, the other really pissed off. The crazy one reached for Cathy's hair again with one hand, and went for his pocket with the other. She rammed both her fists upward, one after the other, into Madson's solar plexus, and he gasped, reflexively pulling the second gun out of his pocket. She saw it clearly coming around toward her, and in that second, in one fast and fluid movement Hutch came up off the floor and went for Madson's knees, on the way knocking over the poor woman who had helped him, and sending her sprawling toward the other two, who never moved at all.

Cathy felt a huge shove to her midsection. There was a very loud report, and a strange metallic smell, and she found herself on her back, staring at the ceiling. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Had he shot her? The son of bitch. It didn't feel like it, but she'd never been shot before. Maybe it never really felt like it. She could hear a struggle; it sounded very far away. Her lungs started working again and she tried to lift her head to see, to get up to help, but there was too much noise, and she felt very tired. She stayed where she was. She was done, had done all she could do. She closed her eyes and her last thought was that she wouldn't get to tell Dave everything was OK.

Hutch didn't see Cathy move, just Madson's gun as it flew out of his hand, to land skittering across the floor out of reach. He saw Madson go for her hair again with one hand, the dangling cuffs in his way, and into his pocket with the other, and he watched with absolute awe as Cathy pounded both her fists into his ribs. Madson gasped, and pulled Hutch's gun out of his pocket. Without thought, Hutch launched himself at Madson's knees and knocked him sideways. A huge and terrible sound, and a sickening familiar smell of bitter metal, and Hutch, landing on Madson legs, saw Cathy fall, and heard her head as it hit the floor. Oh Starsky, he thought. Please. . . But he didn't know what he was asking for.

Chapter 18

Outside the door, Starsky waited in the worst kind of agony. Was Hutch alive? How were they all going to get through this? There would be nothing left of him if Hutch were dead, if anything happened to Cathy.

He realized Cathy was letting him know exactly what was going on. With unimaginable relief, he heard Madson tell her that Hutch was breathing. The hostages were intact and quiet. Madson had a second gun–was it Hutch's? She was handling the guy, playing him. Her voice was smooth and strong, no hint of fear. He had a momentary vision of her undercover somewhere exotic, calm as an icicle, dragging down bad guys left and right. She was Emma Peel—with better hair.

He shook off the fantasy. His adrenaline supply had run low–his brain was misfiring and he needed to be alert. If Hutch were conscious, he would make a move when he could, but Starsky had no way of knowing Hutch's status, and he could see nothing at all. How was he supposed to know what to do and when to do it. He heard Hutch speak inside his head. Just listen to her voice, Starsk. You'll know.

Back against the wall, gun ready, Starsky waited.

Madson said, "This can only end badly, Doc. Let's make it interesting. I'll let you decide who gets popped off first. Not the cop, though. I'm saving him. Savoring him." Starsky felt his chest tighten, could hear his own heart beating in his head.

Madson continued, "Hey, maybe I'll let you do him and I'll watch. That would definitely be really interesting." Oh my God, thought Starsky. Oh God. He nearly made his move but Cathy spoke and he stopped, willing his heart to shut up so he could hear her. What had she said? He didn't know, and was furious at himself, at his uncontrolled fear.

He could hear Madson, though, as if he had a direct line. "That vest won't do you much good now, will it, Doc?" Now. It's now. Starsky swung himself through the door, crouching low, arms up, and saw Hutch on the move, aiming low at Madson's legs. Starsky had no time to register his relief before Madson's gun went off, and Cathy fell, almost at his feet, landing flat on her back and making an awful sound as her head hit the floor. In shock, Starsky couldn't think, couldn't move.

"Starsky." Hutch's insistent voice pulled him back and he unlocked. His partner lay across Madson' legs, and Madson, looking at Cathy lying on the floor, was bringing the gun around again, aiming at her again. Starsky moved fast and stepped straight down onto Madson's arm.

"Give me an excuse, Madson," he said.

"You got one already," said Madson without moving. "Use it."

Starsky raised his arms, took aim.

"Do it," said Madson conversationally. "It'll do you good."

"Starsky," Hutch said quietly. "Starsky." His partner didn't move.

"I'll get her next time, Starsky," said Madson. "Better do it now."

Behind him through the doorway, Captain Dobey came into the room. "Stand down your weapon, detective. Now," he said. Starsky didn't move.

Hutch said urgently, "Cathy's not dead. He got the vest. She's not dead." He waited, and Starsky didn't move. "Starsky, please. . . "

Arms shaking, Starsky lowered his gun, and holstered it. Bent down and took Madson's, and handed it to Dobey. Suddenly the room was full of people, SWAT team personnel swarmed Madson, cuffed him, and dragged him to a chair. EMTs went to Cathy and Hutch, and officers led the hostages away. Hutch, still lying on the floor, grinned at him as best he could, but Starsky didn't even try to give one back. His legs felt like someone else's. He sat down hard on the floor, leaning back against the desk, trying to get some kind of control over his uncooperative body. He felt above himself, looking down on an unreal tableau.

Cathy tried to sit up. If she wasn't shot, she could sit up. Or, maybe not. She lay back down. From the floor everything seemed huge and tall. Without emotion, she saw Madson in handcuffs, two officers at attention with guns drawn and pointing at his head. She thought she ought to tell them he might try to make it out of there, might try to get them to shoot him, and said nothing. Hutch lay on a gurney with some kind of fluid dripping into him, Starsky stood by his side, holding his hand and leaning very close to his face. She thought speculatively: Are they going to kiss, or what? Hutch said something that made Starsky laugh and straighten up, turning to look at her.

Starsky saw the medics working on Cathy, heard her take some gasping breaths, saw her move her legs. He stood next to Hutch lying on the gurney, trying to stay out of the way as the medics worked on him.

"I was sure you bought the last ticket this time, big guy," he said to Hutch.

"Yeah, well, it was my turn, I guess." Hutch wished Starsky wouldn't hold onto to him quite so hard, but nothing on earth would have made him ask him to let go. Starsky's face was so close that he felt a little claustrophobic. He said, "What are you gonna do, kiss me?"

"Was thinking about it," said Starsky. They looked at each other for a long moment.

Hutch said, "So how was your day, otherwise?"

And Starsky laughed. He turned to look at Cathy, and saw she was trying to sit up. His sense of relief, of release, was unfathomable.

Hutch nodded to the medics, gave Starsky's hand a squeeze, and relaxed onto the gurney. He got a glimpse of Madson with a lot of guns pointed at his head, and thought he looked–insignificant. He said, "Go take care of her, buddy. I'll see you later. Everything's OK, now."

Starsky stood looking down at Cathy. The medics had removed her vest and the transmitting wire, and had put something under her head. She looked back up at him and said, "That was supposed to be my line." Behind him, Hutch's gurney was rolled away, and Madson was ordered to his feet and out the door. It got a lot quieter.

He dropped to the floor beside her and sat crosslegged, his still-shaky arms resting on his knees. "Well, Monkey, that was really something else," he said. "You were terrific."

And she thought, All I did was escalate a bad situation into a worse one. I don't even remember my code words. Oh well, everyone got out more or less in one piece. And in record time, too.

"Hutch OK?" she said.

"He'll be fine."

"Hostages?"

"Fine."

"You OK?"

"Just fine," he said. "You?"

"I could eat," she said.

Chapter 19

They wanted to get to the hospital to be with Hutch. Cathy had yet another report to write, and so did Starsky, but it would wait. They had only taken enough time for Cathy to call Adam to let him know she was OK, and found he hadn't even heard anything about it. He'd been out with a friend and they had just gotten home. She heard a male voice say his name, and ask where there was a corkscrew. Her cousin said he'd turn on the 10 o'clock news later, and get the details when he saw her.

Was it really that early? She had a hard time wrapping myself around that.

"I don't know when I'll get back to your place," she said

"Don't worry about it. Whenever."

He was easy to deal with, always had been, they'd always gotten along well.

"Will you try to find mom and dad? If they see anything about this on the news they'll freak."

"Sure, baby," he said to her, and something else to his friend, whom Cathy was sure she heard call Adam Sweetie, and he hung up without saying goodbye. In his view, she thought, if she weren't cluttering up a morgue somewhere, he could move on to more interesting things.

Starsky watched her talking on the phone, appearing to feel no differently than if she had just seen a movie she hadn't particularly liked. He wanted to enfold her, and she was oblivious.

It took a while to find the Torino. Someone had moved it around to the back, next to impound. Cathy had some trouble bending to get in, and Starsky pretended not to notice. It was clear that she wouldn't appreciate any help. He drove carefully for him, trying to keep from jostling her, but she had a hand pressed to her stomach and he knew she was uncomfortable.

At the hospital, they found reporters everywhere, and could see through the windows a tall man in a suit apparently taking questions. Starsky knew the hospital well, though, and went around the back to a different entrance, and they went in unaccosted. Inside, he went to a small telephone on the wall, picked it up and waited. He identified himself, and asked where he would find Sergeant Hutchinson, growing frustrated and angry when the operator wouldn't tell him. Cathy took the phone.

"This is Dr. Catharine Chase. I'm a consultant to the LAPD and I need to examine Sergeant Hutchinson as soon as possible. Can you please tell me where his room is?"

Starsky tried not to laugh, and with her hand over the speaker, Cathy whispered, "Didn't say what kind of doctor, did I?"

The operator gave her the information and Starsky shook his head, smiling. Hutch was in surgery, and wouldn't be able to have visitors until morning. They went upstairs, prepared to wait.

To Cathy's surprise, but not to Starsky's, Huggy was there, standing at the nurse's station, flirting with two of the nurses. When he saw them he went to them immediately.

"Starsky. Cathy." he said. "So very glad to see you both." He'd seen the news on the TV over the bar at the Pits and had left Anita in charge. He wouldn't have been able to concentrate at work anyway, he knew that from experience. It wasn't the first time he'd arrived at the hospital for one or the other of the partners, prepared for anything, to give support, to get it. He had messages for Starsky, that Dobey was on his way, and a handwritten scrawl from Hutch. Starsky looked at it, and showed it to Cathy. "You two better not be here when I wake up!" it read.

Huggy said, "I know what that says. I promised Hutch I'd kick you both out if you didn't go on your own."

"Huggy, I'm not leaving until I know he's OK."

"Starsky, the lady needs to eat and so do you. You both look like something the cat dragged in. You ain't going to do Hutch any good sittin here looking like that."

Starsky belatedly noticed Cathy's hands were shaking.

"Are you OK, Monkey? You're shaking like a leaf, let me take you to the ER. Huggy, she's hurt . . ."

"I'm OK," she said. "You know, all we've eaten today is half a slice of pie and some ice cream. I'm just hungry."

And probably a bit of aftershock, Starsky thought, though he was sure she'd never admit to it. He didn't know why she wouldn't let herself go. Maybe she truly didn't need to.

Captain Dobey appeared at the end of the hallway, saw them, and came up fast, asking how Hutch was. Huggy told him he'd gone to surgery but that overall the injury wasn't too horrific. He and Dobey shared a moment of silent communication. They understood each other very well. Dobey treated him with respect–most of the time– and as a fullfledged member of the team, and Huggy would have done quite a lot for the man, no questions asked.

Huggy went to off find them all something to eat. Dobey dropped his bulk onto an upholstered blue chair, leaned back, settled himself to wait. It was a familiar sequence, one he hated.

He turned to Cathy. "Dr. Chase–Cathy–you did a fine job in there. I can't thank you enough. I'm going