Part Three

"It took all the strength I had

Not to fall apart,

Just trying hard to mend the pieces

Of my broken heart,

But then I spent so many nights

Thinkin' how you did me wrong,

And I grew strong,

And I learned how to get along..."

-- "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor

Words & Music by Fekaris & Perren

The next morning's wait in the doctor's office was nothing out of the ordinary. It is rare to actually go in at one's appointment time, so it should have been routine to Starsky to sit and flip through magazines and make small talk with his partner for the better part of an hour. It wasn't like he hadn't been there before, waited sometimes as long as two hours if things were backed up. But today was different, and every moment seemed to drag painfully. He was glad to have Hutch there for moral support, but talking with another person became more of a strain than his nerves would handle. He finally lapsed into a jittery silence which he knew his partner would understand. When the nurse finally called his name, Hutch only made one quiet remark.

"Remember, whichever way this goes, we'll be okay."

"Thanks." Starsky smiled slightly and followed the nurse.

Hutch resumed reading his article, which he had been working on finishing for the past hour. Considering it was only two pages long, it was safe to say he was as nervous as Starsky. He finally tossed the magazine aside and just sat there and waited. The casual reading act had been for his shaky partner's benefit, and now he could luxuriate in a full blown attack of stress. They finally had their heads on straight again, knew what they wanted, and it could all be blown out of the water in one word from the doctor. Starsky had been doing very well with his rehabilitation. He was in good shape physically, and the physical therapist had been quite positive about his achievements in the relatively short span of time since being released from the hospital. Maybe all this panic was useless...a waste of stomach acids, Hutch thought as he felt his breakfast churning again.

A half hour passed like an eternity. And then Hutch barely caught sight of Starsky as he raced through the waiting room and out to the parking lot. Instinctively Hutch leapt to his feet and followed him, but he was too late to catch either Starsky or the Torino as it roared out of the lot onto the street.

With no car, Hutch stormed angrily back into the office to call a taxi. He had to get home, get his car, and go looking for Starsky. All manner of possibilities ran through his mind, but the most obvious one was that the verdict had been the one they had feared and dreaded and tried to tell themselves wouldn't happen. What could Starsky be thinking, and were would he go? How in hell could he even be responsible behind the wheel with what must be going through his head right now?

Setting out in the LTD, Hutch stopped first at his friend's apartment, which he found empty, and then started out for any familiar haunts that came to mind. Huggy's and a couple of greasy little restaurants yielded nothing, the park was a total zero, and the beach wasn't even an option. There was no way Starsky would be wandering around amidst the din and merriment of summer beach-goers. That left only one other place Hutch could think of--a quiet spot on a hillside road that overlooked a ravine, where Starsky seemed to like to go and think, or take the occasional special lady. Desperate for any lead as the morning grew old, he drove toward the spot determinedly.

He almost didn't see the solitary figure sitting on the edge of the bluff over the ravine. There was no sign of the Torino anywhere. He pulled up near the spot where his partner sat, and got out of his car. He just stared at Starsky for a minute, noticing that the other man had made no acknowledgment of even hearing the sound of a car pulling up behind him.

"Starsk?" Hutch hesitantly took a seat on the edge with his friend. "Starsky?"

"Yeah, I'm here," he responded, staring straight ahead.

"Not good news, eh?"

"'Bout the worst it could be."

"How'd you get here? Where's the car?"

"Down there." Starsky nodded toward the valley below, and Hutch saw the crumpled mass of red and white metal on its side.

"Dear God, what happened? Are you all right?" Hutch was just focusing now on the dirt on Starsky's red shirt, the dust in his hair and the scrape that had bloodied his knee and torn his jeans.

"I came out here to think...but when I started to pull over, and I saw the edge, I stepped on the accelerator instead of the brakes."

"You were upset--distracted..."

"I wasn't distracted, Hutch. I put the pedal to the metal on purpose. I wanted to fly right off the edge. Changed my mind at the last minute...thought I was too late...it was kinda like James Dean, ya know? Remember 'Rebel Without A Cause'? The race scene? James Dean gets out of his car but the other guy goes over the side? Well, I got out just before it went over."

"You tried to kill yourself?" Hutch felt his chest constrict at the concept.

"If I'd followed through on tryin', I wouldn't be here, pal."

"Tell me what happened," he responded, resolving to stay calm.

"The long and short of it is the doctor told me if the department offers me a desk job I should take it because I'll never be fit to work any job that demands any significant level of physical exertion." Starsky's gaze remained fixed on the open space in front of him.

"He said it that way?"

"Those were more or less his exact words. When I bolted out of that office, I wanted to self-destruct." Starsky stared down at the mess that used to be his car. "At that last minute, I couldn't do it."

"Thank God. But why not, pal? What changed your mind?" Hutch asked gently.

"I remembered what it felt like when I found you under your car at the bottom of that ravine a few years ago, and I couldn't do that to you. That made me jump out of the car. Since I've been sittin' here, a lot of things have gone through my mind. My mother...the case--I won't work a desk job, Hutch. Not after this case is finished. But we owe something to Eric...it's unfinished business."

"When I think about how close you came..."

"Don't think about it. If the car wasn't down there I wouldn'ta told ya at all because it doesn't do any good. You're just gonna worry yourself to death that I'm going to jump off the next bridge we cross. I won't. I looked death in the face and I didn't want it. But I don't wanna live right now either. And it hurts so bad I can't even cry or scream or throw things...I've just been sitting here...letting it...throb inside me." Starsky turned to face his partner. "We almost had it all again, Hutch. Now it's all gone...down there with the car."

"We're still here. We've still got the music. We'll finish this case and then we'll go back to what we started. You know what the Stones said-- 'you can't always get what you want'--and then something, something, but 'you can get what you need'."

"Something, something?" Starsky grinned a little.

"I don't remember all the words, okay. But you know what I'm driving at." Hutch stared out at the open space in front of him. The gravity of this situation baffled even his deepest thinking capabilities. He was so shocked by Starsky's short-lived suicide attempt that he found himself at a loss for anything profound or meaningful to say. "Maybe the department's doctor will have a different opinion."

"Nah. My doctor would've been the easy one. He was always real upbeat about my recovery. The department's doctor isn't going to go against the recommendation of a specialist who's been treating me for months. I'm dead in the water, pal. It's over."

"I don't know what to say, buddy. I want to make this better for you somehow," Hutch said honestly, putting an arm around his partner. Starsky leaned against him, resting his head on Hutch's shoulder.

"I've gotta tell Dobey."

"We've gotta tell Dobey. Me and thee, remember?" He squeezed Starsky's shoulder a little. "We'll be okay. We made it past the big obstacle--twice, thanks to that stupid stunt you pulled a few minutes ago. You survived. We survived. "Well," Starsky straightened up, "guess I better go home and change my clothes. Can't go in lookin' like this."

"You need some time to pull yourself together before we go back into the station? We could go somewhere--"

"We've got a murder investigation just starting, and Eric's depending on us to get to the bottom of this mess. As much as I'd like to, I can't seem to fall apart. It's like when a cut is so deep it won't bleed? 'Course when it does, it can hemorrhage and kill you. I don't know when my hemorrhage is gonna come over this, but it ain't now."

"Did he give you any specific reasons why you couldn't go back?"

"He said something about the EKG results showing that my heart wasn't strong enough to sustain me through prolonged, extreme physical exertion like I might get into with a foot chase, or a lot of climbing. At the gym, I'd only push myself to a point, but I wasn't chasing anybody, so when my heart rate got as high as I was comfortable with, I stopped. But you can't do that on the street. He said it looks like the cardiac arrest did some permanent damage. He also said he didn't expect my lung or my liver, where a lot of the original repair work was done, would be salvageable following some other severe trauma. Nice, clinical, tidy little explanation that translates into 'you're a cream puff'."

"A cream puff would have died on the ground next to the Torino that day. If you weren't such a tough, stubborn bastard you'd be dead now."

"Sure. That all sounds good, but all I really need now to make the picture complete is the lap robe and the rocker."

"I really am sorry, buddy."

"I know you are. Give me a ride back to my place?"

"You got it. How about I give Merl a call to send somebody out to fish that out of the pit?" Hutch indicated the Torino.

"Whatever. It's totaled anyway."

"You don't sound upset about that."

"It's minor compared to everything else. Ever since I got shot I kinda hated that car anyway...and now it would just be a worse reminder of what used to be. To hell with it. Leave it there to rot." Starsky stalked off toward the LTD and got in the passenger side before Hutch could say anything else. They rode to Starsky's apartment in silence.

Hutch waited in the living room while his partner showered and changed his clothes. Starsky committing suicide. The thought nagged and tormented Hutch's mind. If he hadn't changed his mind, or the door had jammed, or he had realized too late that he didn't want to die...and a damn doctor with all the finesse of a wrecking ball. With one or two phrases you shatter a man's whole life, and it's all in a day's work. "If the department offers you a desk job you better take it, because you aren't fit to do anything else." Well, maybe it wasn't said that cruelly, but Starsky was no liar and he wasn't in the habit of misquoting people, so it must have been pretty close. Starsky didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live either...where does that leave you? Hutch queried.

"Ready?" Starsky asked, emerging from the bedroom in clean clothes.

"Starsk," Hutch began, standing up. "Promise me you won't ever try anything like you did this morning. Not ever again."

"I'm not going to kill myself, Hutch."

"Promise me. I want you to say it, because I know you've never broken a promise to me, no matter how impossible it seemed to keep it." Hutch watched as Starsky's expression softened greatly.

"I promise," he replied with a slight smile.

"Good. Now I'm ready to go."

It seemed to Starsky that the desks loomed at him like fanged monsters as they made their way through the building to their own work area. Desk duty. Fat old cops with beer bellies and bald spots who either "took one in the back'' or "the old ticker went bad", boring younger detectives with tales of past glory days. Suddenly he saw a portly version of himself eating a beef burrito and explaining to some new guy how he used to kick some serious butt on the streets until Gunther took him out of the game...nope, won't happen, he vowed. I'll quit before I'll do that.

"You ready to face Dobey?" Hutch asked as they reached their desks.

"Won't get any easier." Starsky led the way to knock on their superior's door.

"Come in," a voice barked from the other side. Starsky pushed the door open, and when he and Hutch were inside, and the door was closed again, it seemed like his throat constricted. "Well, what's the verdict?" Dobey asked, appearing to assume that it was a good one.

"I'm all done." Starsky sunk into one of the chairs, and Hutch took the one next to him.

"Meaning what?" Dobey probed.

"The doctor told me all I could ever handle would be a desk job because my heart won't take the possible exertion of street action and my lung and liver will never survive another trauma." Starsky could feel a little emotional blood seeping out of the wound now, but he made up his mind his ultimate explosion would not take place in his captain's office.

"Dear God." Dobey slumped back in his chair, as if reacting to a verbal bullet. "That wasn't what we expected."

"I know I'm not 100% yet, but I've felt so much better, and I thought my stamina was coming back...guess I was wrong."

"Well, you still have to see Dr. Schneider next Tuesday."

"Starsky was right about one thing," Hutch spoke up. "Schneider isn't going to go against the recommendation of Starsky's doctor. The man's one of the best in his field, and I doubt the department's physician is going to go against him."

"We'll see. Meantime, it's not official yet." Dobey looked at Starsky, wishing he could find some small encouragement to offer him, but this little refusal to give in until after the final medical opinion was garnered was the best show of support he knew how to give. "Don't you two have some work to do on this case?"

"Plenty of it," Hutch responded, standing. Starsky followed suit, and the two of them left the office without further comment.

"He doesn't want to accept defeat," Starsky concluded, sitting at his desk , looking over his list of calls and paperwork assignments. There was plenty of desk work to this case.

"Give me half of those and let's rip through 'em so we can go talk to some folks." Hutch reached across toward Starsky, who unceremoniously ripped the list in half and handed part of it to his partner. The activities they were engaging in now would provide them with another sea of paper to swim through by that evening.

By mid-afternoon, they set out to visit Misty Armstrong, Matt's ex-wife and mother of his two-year-old son, Wesley. A call to Eric had given them a little fast and dirty background information on the situation. Misty was a groupie who had traveled with the band for the better part of a year, wound up marrying Matt, and then having the baby. Their marriage had been rocky at best, and there had been some question as to whether either one of them would be a fit parent for the child. Eventually traditional wisdom prevailed, and the mother won, though there was some suspicion she had a significant cocaine habit. She was looking a bit the worse for wear when the detectives arrived, lounging by the pool in an expensive one floor contemporary house. She had wrung a pretty settlement out of her famous ex, and she appeared to be enjoying it to the fullest. She might have even been pretty prior to too many drugs and too much booze. Her frizzy blonde hair contrasted with a tan that verged on leathery, and she was nursing a bottle of vodka to a certain death when she greeted the visitors her housekeeper led to the poolside.

"Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson," Hutch flashed his ID and made the introduction. "We're investigating the murder of your ex-husband, Matthew Armstrong."

"Sit down," she waved a lazy hand toward a couple of patio chairs nearby. "So you're trying to find out who killed Matt? Bet you've got a lot of possibilities."

"Meaning what?" Starsky probed.

"Meaning he was a creep. To know him was to want to kill him."

"You had a hostile relationship following your divorce?" Hutch asked.

"Ooh, you're a sharp one. No wonder you made detective." She took another gulp of her drink. "He tried to get Wes away from me, but I kicked his ass in court. He was cheating on me a few weeks after we got married, and my lawyer proved it, so here I am." she made a grand gesture at her surroundings with her hand. "He really fed me a line of crap--he was gonna love me forever, not even see all those other women...yeah, right."

"Where were you--"

"The night he was killed?" She cut off Hutch's question, and there was a laugh in her voice as she continued. "I was in the sack with my boyfriend. Trust me, he can back me up on that."

"And your boyfriend is?" Starsky had his pen poised on his notepad.

"Buck Dunston."

"Come again?" Hutch thought the name was a bad joke, but she repeated, and spelled it, as Starsky took it down with a slight quiver of the corners of his mouth.

"How long have you known this Buck Dunston?" Starsky asked.

"About six months or so."

"Wesley is the sole beneficiary of most of your husband's life insurance, and is the most significant heir in his will. Were you aware of that?" Hutch probed, thinking back on the estate information they had garnered that day from Armstrong's lawyer.

"No shit?" She shook her head and laughed. "Hell, I got most of his money from the divorce. Guess Wes'll get whatever's left. How much?"

"I'm sure the lawyer will be in touch with you," Starsky replied. "Were you aware your husband was having financial problems?"

"That's the second time one of you has called him my husband. We're divorced, remember?"

"Sorry," Starsky apologized without the slightest sincerity. "Were you--"

"I heard you the first time. I didn't know what his set up was exactly, though my lawyer keeps a pretty good eye on him. I know he shoots most of his money in his arm or snorts it up his nose or smokes it, so I'm not surprised."

"But you never shared his drug habit?'' Hutch asked.

"There's something about a 5th Amendment...no comment," she responded, looking triumphant, as if she had managed a major strategic coup. "He gambled too, did you know that? Got hooked on it in Vegas, and he was into some leg-breaker for I-don't-know-how-much. Started whining to me how he couldn't make his alimony payments...asshole."

"Well, he won't be making 'em anymore," Starsky retorted, flipping his notebook shut. The thought seemed to be a new one to her. "His estate's close to broke, and what's there goes to the boy...something about trust funds supervised by the lawyer... Well, I can't remember exactly." Starsky left the implication of poverty hanging in the air, and she was sufficiently unsettled.

"Well, we appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Armstrong. Oh--and where could we get a hold of Mr. Dunston -- to corroborate your alibi?" Hutch asked innocently.

"He's not here right now, but he lives here. Should be back tomorrow. He's a sound man."

"We'll be in touch then," Hutch concluded, leading the way off the property.

"Suddenly I feel sorry for Armstrong," Starsky commented as he got in the car.

"Kind of a gutter-variety Vanessa," Hutch responded.

"Well, who's next?" Starsky looked at his list.

"I'd like to know who the leg breaker was he was into. Eric never mentioned that." Hutch started up the car on the second try. No snippy remarks from Starsky about the laboring engine. "We gotta find you another car, partner."

"I s'pose," Starsky responded absent-mindedly, staring out the window. It seemed like the doctor's verdict had sent his state of mind back to what it was when he was first released from the hospital: quiet, depressed and withdrawn.

"Think there's any point in asking Eric about the loan shark?"

"I think we're relying on the state's key suspect for all our leads, and even though I firmly believe he's innocent, that's not solid police work. I think we ought to track down the rest of the band, see what they have to say."

"How about Tim Drew?"

"The one that got hauled in for punching out a cop? That could be fun," Starsky responded, grinning a little.

The Drew estate was unusually elegant and tasteful, considering the young and somewhat wild inhabitant. They identified themselves to a security guard at the gate, and were flagged through electronic gates. The sprawling tudor-style mansion was highlighted by an elaborate fountain opposite the main entrance. This guy had taste, if nothing else. A Jaguar and a Lambourghini were parked in the circular drive.

The strains of electric guitar-generated live music was wafting on the summer breeze...and it was pretty good. A little melancholy, perhaps, but technically brilliant. The two detectives looked at each other, shrugging in agreement that this wasn't a bad way to live.

"Gosh, Starsk, it'd be a shame if giving up this job meant we wound up living like this, wouldn't it?" Hutch queried. He feared at first that a reference to their job situation would be too painful for his partner, but Starsky smiled back and responded by stopping to peer in the window of the Lambourghini. A voice startled him back to an upright position, and Hutch moved to join him where he stood, faced by an honest-to-God black-clad butler.

"The guard at the gate informed me you wish to speak to Mr. Drew?" He was a tall, imposing figure with a thick mop of white hair carefully styled.

"I'm Detective Starsky, this is my partner, Detective Hutchinson, LAPD. We need to speak to Mr. Drew regarding the murder of Matthew Armstrong."

"It's okay, Wells, I'll take it from here," a voice called from the shadows of the entry hall.

"Very well, sir." The butler disappeared, and a tall man with a shaggy mane of reddish-brown hair replaced him. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, Tim Drew was a wild contrast to his employee.

"Come on in, guys. I've got some food out back on the patio. We're working on a song for Matt's funeral." He extended a hand and smiled. "I'm Tim Drew, by the way. I already heard your names--which is which?"

"I'm Starsky, he's Hutch," Starsky responded, not quite sure why he liked this guy. There was just something unusually friendly in his demeanor, much like Eric.

"Okay, Starsky and Hutch, follow me." He led the way through a large entry hall, past an elaborate open staircase, and out a set of patio doors. Another musician was generating the music they had heard when they pulled up. Tim made a throat-cutting gesture to his companion, who ceased playing and set the instrument aside. Also dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, the shorter of the two men had long blond hair and a mustache, and a less personable demeanor. He took a long drink out of a can of beer before approaching the group for introductions. "Mick, this is Starsky and this one's Hutch. They're cops--about Matt's case."

"So whadd'you want from us?" A cloud of beer breath enveloped them.

"Well, we'd like to ask you a few questions about Matt's life. We have to understand that before we have a clear picture of why someone wanted him dead." Starsky waited for the effect of his explanation. Mick stared for a long moment, as if he were processing the information through a booze cloud.

"Eric March offed him...what're you trying to prove?" Mick returned to his chair near the pool.

"You wanna sit down?" Tim asked. "There's cheese and crackers and beer on the table. Dig in. My cook thinks she's gotta make a tray for twenty every time I have a snack." Tim led the way, piling a small plate from the large tray, and plopped in a chaise lounge. Figuring they had at least one friendly prospect from whom to draw information, and having missed lunch, both detectives took him up on the food, but passed on the beer. "Oh, shit, you guys are on duty. Wells!" he bellowed in the general direction of the house.

"That's not necessary," Hutch interrupted.

"It's hot out here," Tim protested. "Hey, Wells, these guys need something dull to drink. How about a couple Cokes?" The butler nodded, a little chagrined, and returned to the interior of the house. "So what can we tell you?"

"Do you think Eric killed Matt?" Starsky asked.

"Hey, you're the guys who are in Eric's new project. I knew the Starsky and Hutch part sounded familiar."

"I think he did," Mick spoke up from his slouched position in a patio chair.

"Why?" Hutch probed.

"He was there, he had blood all over him, and they were at each other's throats right before. Eric wasn't too happy about getting knocked on his ass when he had that fight with Matt."

"Did he fight back?" Starsky asked.

"He started, but we broke it up before he got a swing in. I s'pose fair woulda been to let him have his shot and then break it up, but before they killed each other...guess he just waited for a better chance."

The Cokes were served and the butler slipped back inside the house.

"Why would he kill Matt? What would be the motive?" Hutch asked.

"There wouldn't be one," Tim spoke up. "Eric loved Matt. He was mad as hell at him, but he loved him. They were like brothers. They could be fighting like crazy, and if anybody attacked one of them, the other one would stick up for him. Eric couldn't have done it. He's getting fucked by the system because he's in this business."

"You think he's guilty?" Starsky continued to probe Mick. "Why?"

"I told you."

"That's old news." Starsky took a drink of his Coke and ate another piece of cheese. "Everybody's heard the DA's party line. I wanna know why you think he did it."

"If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's a freaking duck. He had the blood on his hands, and he's got no alibi, and before he left the studio that day they had their big blow up? He told Matt it wasn't over, and he'd pay him back."

"If we assumed for a minute that Eric didn't do it, is there anybody else who would have a motive you know of?" Starsky asked Tim, who shook his head through a swallow of beer.

"Not any one specific person. Matt was a pain in the ass, and most people didn't like him. He was heavy into drugs...I remember what he was like before, and he had enormous talent, and I suppose that's why it hurts like hell that he's dead. We used to be real good friends."

"Misty told us he had some heavy debts--that he gambled," Hutch stated. Tim shrugged.

"Oh, he gambled. We all did when we stopped in Vegas. I was ready to mortgage the family jewels to keep playing Roulette myself," he remembered with a snicker. "But, yeah, Matt kept it up and I know he was running short on money. 'Course that bitch he was married to got most of it."

"Did you know of anyone who was loaning him money--either of you?" Hutch probed.

"Nobody but an idiot would loan him anything," Tim replied with a laugh. "He maxed out his credit cards, ran through his money like there was no tomorrow, and he never could balance his checkbook. I loved the guy, but he was a flake when it came to money. Mismanaged the hell out of it, and what he didn't gamble or spend or give to Misty, his accountants probably stole, 'cause I swear he wouldn't know the difference."

"Matt said he took out a loan," Mick spoke up. "He told me a couple of months before he died that he was going broke--bankrupt. I told him to see a friend of mine who gave out high interest loans."

"A legit friend?" Starsky prodded.

"Sort of. You didn't get this from me. T.L. Marcovitz is his name. He's got a really cool car dealership just outside of Beverly Hills, all the hot foreign models...he sometimes loans money for about 25% interest to guys who need it quick and without credit checks. I borrowed a little myself to get out of a sticky situation with this girl in--anyway, I told Matt about him, so I figure that's where he got the loan."

"What's the name of the dealership?" Hutch asked, ready to jot it down.

"Wheels," Mick replied. "Look, I think Eric did it. I just didn't want to not be straight with the cops."

"We appreciate that, Mick," Starsky responded.

"Say, you guys finished a demo together, didn't you?" Tim asked.

"That we did," Hutch answered, with a slight smile.

"I've got some acoustic guitars in the house--wanna jam?"

"Thanks, but we really should get going." Starsky smiled as he stood up, and Hutch followed suit. "Hey--Mick--was that you playing before we came out here?"

"Yeah."

"You're good, man. Real good."

"Thanks. We're trying to come up with something real special for Matt's funeral. Hard job...writing a song for a friend's funeral. It sucks."

"No argument to that," Hutch answered, thinking how close he came to making funeral arrangements that very day. "I'm sorry to ask this, but it's routine, you understand--"

"Where were we when Matt was killed?" Tim anticipated. "I was at a lady's apartment in Malibu--I can get you her name and number. Mick?"

"I was home, with my wife. We were asleep, but I didn't go out or anything."

"Thanks," Hutch jotted down the responses. "The lady's name?"

"Jamie Henderson. She's a secretary at our record company--Goldmine. You can get a hold of her there during business hours."

"That'll do," Hutch concluded.

"Thanks for the refreshments," Starsky said to Tim. "This is quite a place."

"Thanks. I'll walk you out. I had the house built--patterned after one I saw in England on one of our tours about five years ago. That fountain was moved from an old estate just outside London," Tim explained as they arrived back at the front of the house.

"Exceptional," Hutch moved closer to get a better look at it.

"If you need any more info from us, feel free to call or stop by. Mick's real wiped out about Matt...I am too. We might fight a little but we were a pretty close group."

"There's one more band member--"

"Adam Kelly," Tim responded, cutting off Starsky's probe. "He's in New York--his dad's been real sick, so he wasn't even in town when Matt died. He'll be back for the funeral in a few days. Whenever you guys release the body to Matt's family."

"I could ask the M.E. and give you a call," Starsky volunteered.

"Thanks, man. Just seems like he deserved to get buried pretty soon."

"You're right. Thanks for your time," Hutch led the way toward the LTD.

"Quite a car you got there, detective," Tim teased, leaning on his Jag.

"Hey, we're not famous yet," Starsky responded with a grin.

"Tell Eric I said 'keep the faith', okay?"

"Will do." Starsky joined Hutch in the car and they made their way back down the long driveway.

"If you hadn't made fun of Belle until I felt like I had to get rid of her, we might not have been so embarrassed driving in here," Hutch chided Starsky bitterly, referring to the compact convertible he had owned briefly following the destruction of his previous LTD. He had purposely chosen this horrid-looking grey sedan, which bore sores of rust down both sides to get revenge on his partner for ridiculing the little car which he himself had to admit was too small and not very practical...of course that admission had never been vocalized to Starsky.

"I wouldn'ta been riding in that car up anybody's driveway, pal. I've seen three-year-olds riding down the sidewalk in cars bigger than that one." Starsky's teasing brought a grin only marginally visible under Hutch's mustache. Mission accomplished. He had his partner bantering about something as trivial as a car after feeling suicidal a few hours earlier.

"Where to? Wheels?" Hutch asked.

"Wheels," Starsky agreed.

The Beverly Hills car dealership was all it should have been. Three posh showrooms displayed cars which often boasted six-figure price tags, and expensively-dressed salesmen made their presence subtly felt. As Starsky made a careful inspection of the leather upholstery on a Mercedes convertible, a light-suited man approached them.

"May I be of service?"

"We need to speak to Mr. Marcovitz." Hutch flashed his ID.

"I'm afraid he's in a meeting at the moment. May I refer you to his secretary for an appointment, gentlemen?"

"No, but you can get him out of his meeting," Starsky responded. "We have a few questions about one of his clients. It would be in his best interest to cooperate at this point."

"Please have a seat in the lobby. I'll tell Mr. Marcovitz you're here." He turned and headed for the back of the building.

"I was thinkin'," Starsky began, sinking into a white leather couch, "about takin' that guy out in the old beat up used Caddy to find out where Fifth Avenue was--remember that? Man, I'd love to do that with that Mercedes over there."

"Can you picture this guy sitting still while I drove us into a pile of crates?"

"Maybe we can try that on Marcovitz if he won't cooperate," Starsky suggested with a devilish grin.

A tall man in a light blue three-piece suit approached them. His receding grey hair matched his mustache. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties.

"You gentlemen are police? T.L. Marcovitz." He extended his hand as both detectives stood, and each shook hands.

"I'm Detective Hutchinson, this is my partner, Detective Starsky. We'd like to ask you a few questions about a client of yours, Matthew Armstrong."

"Armstrong..." he muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Isn't that the singer that was recently murdered?"

"One in the same," Starsky retorted.

"Mr. Armstrong took out a loan from me," he stated, shocking both detectives with his candor. "It was all very legal, I assure you. You would be most welcome to review the terms of the agreement if you like. I have a signed document on file in my office."

"You're in the banking business?" Hutch probed.

"Not really. Occasionally I will make personal loans to individuals referred to me by other clients who appear to be good credit risks. They provide me with some type of collateral, an agreement is signed, and installment payments begin. Please, allow me to show you," he said, gesturing toward his office, which was apparently located at the back of the building. "You see," he continued as they walked toward the office, "part of our service here at Wheels is providing a very liberal financing program for individuals who wish to...reach a bit for their new vehicle. Any loans I make are written along similar guidelines, the only difference being that they receive cash instead of a vehicle." He opened a glass door and waited while the detectives passed through it into a poshly appointed waiting area, and not pausing at his secretary's desk, led them into his own inner office. "Of course, this is hardly a business for me. I am not in the habit of making large numbers of loans. I only do it as favors to personal acquaintances. Being my liquid assets are tied up, you can certainly understand it is necessary for me to require some interest." He waved a hand toward a pair of leather chairs across from his desk. Everything was white leather and chrome and glass, the white carpeting almost like fur and thickly padded from beneath. They sat as invited, and waited while he pulled a number of manila folders from a file cabinet. "This is Mr. Armstrong's agreement. There are a few others here if you're interested. I have only about four loans actively out now. As I said, this is more a favor for friends than a business."

"$1 million? Hell of a favor." Starsky handed the folder to Hutch. "I see you only require 10% interest. Quite reasonable."

"On large sums such as Mr. Armstrong's, it is adequate to offset any loss I might experience by not having the money invested, at least for the most part."

"Payment record here looks pretty spotty." Hutch looked up. "What are your collection procedures?"

"If you're implying I send out thugs to beat it out of my clients, I assure you I do not. Fortunately I am not faced with many defaults. Mr. Armstrong had fallen on some hard times...I was told later he had a propensity for gambling." Marcovitz sat behind his desk. "I was planning to initiate legal action against him soon."

"We appreciate your openness, Mr. Marcovitz," Hutch concluded, handing the man his pile of folders across the desk and standing.

"I don't have anything to hide from the authorities. It was no trouble. Now, I really should get back to my meeting."

"Of course. Thank you again." Hutch led the way out the door Marcovitz opened.

"Deanne will show you out, gentlemen. Best of luck with your investigation."

"Yeah, thanks," Starsky responded as the man left the room.

"Right this way." Deanne, a tall brunette in a light business suit, stood and led them back the way they had come.

When she had returned to her office and they were standing just outside the doors of the building, Starsky's attention was caught by a flash of red hair in a white Porsche convertible that made a hasty turn into the lot and pulled up in front of the showroom window. Rhiana jumped out, not having spotted them yet, and headed toward the door. He noticed a hesitation in her step when she saw him, but she recovered quickly.

"Rhiana, I'm so sorry about--"

"Save it, Detective." She tried to push past him but he grasped her by both shoulders and pulled her back.

"Just hang on a minute."

"I'll wait in the car," Hutch offered, hurrying to give his partner some privacy to settle what was obviously to be a significant problem with his new girlfriend.

"Rhiana, look, I'm so sorry for the way I acted at the precinct. I had no right to ignore you that way. I didn't really mean to--we were so intent on getting the case, helping Eric...and it was pretty intense for me to be back there again after all this time. I just messed up, and I'm really sorry. Can you forgive me?"

"You're a cop again?"

"Well, yes, but not--" he was going to explain what had happened with the doctor, but she cut him off.

"Look, what happened between us was a big mistake on my part. I was mistaking the rush of the project for something else."

"What are you saying?" Starsky certainly was getting the point of her words, but he didn't want to accept the meaning of them.

"It was a heat of the moment thing, Dave. Nothing more. And let me tell you the reason I didn't want anything more than friendship from you before: look at me, look at this," she said, gesturing toward her car and the dealership. "This is the kind of world I live in, and I thought you wanted to be a part of that--"

"I still want to be a part of your world. What difference does it make what I do for a living?" Starsky knew the answer, but again, he didn't want to accept it, and so made her spell it out.

"Get real, Dave. Do I strike you as the type of woman who wants a station wagon, a house in the suburbs, kids and a bunch of belching cops lying around my living room watching Monday Night Football? I thought you were headed somewhere, and I thought you were an artiste at heart. I saw you and Hutch click into your 'cop mode' at the station. No one and nothing mattered except your cryptic little communications with each other, and whether or not you could get some other detectives bounced off the case. You make me sick." She turned back toward her car.

"Rhi, please, don't do this," he pleaded with her, keeping pace with her brisk walk back to the car. "What we said to each other...at the apartment...it had to mean more to you than what kind of job I do."

"Just because you showed me your scars doesn't mean I have to marry you." She got into the convertible and slammed the door.

"I love you," he said helplessly, not wanting to say it or feel it, and too wounded by what she had said to be as angry as he knew he should have been.

"Get a little dignity, Dave. Don't beg. It doesn't flatter you." She started the engine.

"Rhiana, you can't be this angry with me because of what happened at the station."

"Look, I don't love you. I was infatuated with an image I created myself with a leather jacket and a pricey recording studio. That isn't you, and quite frankly, you aren't what I'm looking for. Now please get away from my car." She gunned the engine and raced out of the lot, leaving him standing there in a daze.

The LTD pulled up closer to where he stood. Hutch. One person I can count on, he thought, the pain of what Rhiana had said, and the betrayal by the only person he had let that close to him since the shooting, being almost as intense as the bullets from Gunther's hit men ripping through him. When he didn't move from where he stood, Hutch finally got out of the car and walked over to him.

"Starsk? What happened?"

"I just got dumped."

"She's probably just angry. She'll get over it."

"She's already over it, Hutch. She's over me, that's for damn sure. Can we get out of here, please? I don't belong here," he said with a catch in his voice. While Hutch didn't understand the remark, he didn't make an issue of it.

"Sure thing, partner." Hutch squeezed his arm briefly as he passed him to go back to the driver's side. Starsky climbed into the car and they rode in silence back to Starsky's apartment. Hutch wasn't sure of where to take his partner, but home seemed logical. Whatever happened, it had capped a day of horrors that had to be stopped. It was getting late, and it was time to set the investigation aside for a few hours to let Starsky recover a little from what the day had brought him.

Once inside the apartment, Starsky tossed his jacket on a chair and dropped into a corner seat of the couch. Hutch went to the refrigerator.

"Want a beer?" he asked his partner, who only shrugged in response. Not sure how to interpret that, he pulled out two bottles, opened them and joined Starsky on the couch, occupying the middle cushion. He wouldn't have ordinarily plopped down so close to his friend, but it was the only thing he could think of to show some moral support. He handed Starsky one of the bottles.

"I really thought she loved me. She said she did. The morning Eric was arrested, we came up here, and we were on the couch, and one thing led to another. She wanted to see the scars," Starsky explained, his voice trailing off a little. "I was real nervous about it...you're the only person besides the medical people to see them. I didn't know how a lady would react to it. She talked me into it, and she said all these really beautiful things about it--about how they all were symbols of some kind of healing...she said it better, but that was the gist of it." Hutch watched a tear slide down his friend's cheek slowly, and Starsky took a gulp of the beer. "She told me she loved me, I said I loved her--I did love her...God, even after what she said to me, I still do."

"What happened today, buddy? What did she say?" Hutch asked softly.

"We would have probably been lovers if Eric hadn't called right then..." Starsky rubbed his eyes with one hand and looked at Hutch. The infinite sadness in his face both moved and unnerved Hutch. Starsky had tried to drive off a cliff once that day, and that was before Rhiana took her shots at him. "She claims now she was never in love with me, only with what she created with 'a leather jacket and a pricey recording studio'." He made quote marks in the air with his fingers. "She more or less told me I wasn't good enough as a cop, that I should take a look around at her world, and she said some stuff about not wanting a station wagon and belching cops in her living room..."

"What?" Hutch was trying to just let Starsky pour it all out, but he couldn't help asking for clarification.

"She said all I could give her was a station wagon, kids, a house in the suburbs and 'belching cops in the living room watching Monday Night Football'...or something like that." He paused, then looking away, said, "She told me that just because I showed her my scars she didn't have to marry me." Hutch reeled at the cruelty of the remark, and having set the beer aside, Starsky leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Hutch watched a moment as his partner's whole body trembled with sobs that seemed to emanate from the pit of his soul. Only after Terry died could Hutch remember seeing such complete devastation in his usually resilient partner. How many cruelties can life push on you in one day before you snap? Hutch wondered.

"Starsk, come on," he put his arm around the other's shoulders. "Come here." He waited while his partner hesitated a little, and then turned to him, clinging to him tightly and crying into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, buddy. I'm so sorry you had to get hurt like this. Damn it, you don't deserve it. You don't deserve any more. You're the last person who ever deserved to be hurt at all." Hutch could feel tears stinging his own eyes. After all the months of waiting and praying and watching and hovering and protecting his partner while he healed up from Gunther's murder attempt, seeing him come alive again in the recording studio, but then so much more in working on this case...to see him crushed so mercilessly again was almost unbearable pain. In one day, he'd lost a career and a woman he loved, the first woman who had so deeply infiltrated his heart since Terry...and had been treated so heartlessly. If Starsky loved you, he was the most loyal, gentle, kind person in the world...God, how he didn't deserve to be betrayed this way. Hutch patted the shaking back gently. "I'm right here, buddy. I know it hurts...but we'll get through all of it, one thing at a time. Nobody thought we'd come this far, but we fooled 'em all. Damn her." Hutch couldn't help the remark as he felt no lessening in his partner's crying. "You've come too far to let her drag you down, buddy."

"For what?" Starsky asked in a broken voice.

"For me." He tightened his hold on his friend. "Because I don't ever want to lose you. You hear me?" Starsky nodded a little. "Your life is precious to me, Starsk. I count on you--you know that. You're my best friend...all the stuff I do, it's no fun without you...well, okay, a few things I do are more fun without you," Hutch paused when he heard a muffled chuckle from Starsky. "But even picking out that damn gray car wasn't any fun until you started needling me about it."

"I can't be a cop anymore, Hutch. And I can't go back in a recording studio again...ever," Starsky emphasized the last word, a new little shudder of tears coming from it.

"So we'll be unemployed for a while. Hell, after we've laughed in the face of death, I think we can handle job-hunting." He detected a calming in his partner, and he continued. "Maybe we'll even open that PI office after all. So what if we follow guys around who cheat on their wives? They probably deserve to get caught, and we can charge big hourly rates to sit and do what we do now--all night stake outs, except the client'll pay for your burritos." Starsky laughed out loud that time, and straightened up, moving back a little from Hutch, stunned to see tears on his face as well. Kind of like looking in some sort of weird mirror, Starsky thought, a little smile lingering on his face.

"Hey, what're you cryin' about, Blondie? I'm the one who got dumped here." Starsky looked away a moment. "I'm sorry flipped out like that. It's just the doctor and Rhi...Rhiana, and it all just piled up. I guess I shoulda gone with my first instinct and kept my shirt on."

"This has nothing to do with scars, Starsk. I know you love her, but she's a shallow bitch who doesn't deserve you. I know what I'm talking about. I was married to one, remember?"

"Not nice to speak ill of the dead, or so my mother says."

"Your mother never met Vanessa. And if she met Rhiana, she'd probably chop her up in little pieces."

"Yeah, probably." Starsky had broken the embrace, but had stayed under one arm that rested around his shoulders. "This has been a real bad day, Hutch." He paused. "The damn car didn't even blow up."

"What?"

"Well, when I made the stupid decision to head for the cliff at warp speed, I thought I'd rather go out in one big blaze of glory than rot away at a desk. When I saw the car hit bottom, I expected this big impressive explosion. The damn thing just fell on its side like a dead bug. I'da probably lived and just spent two more months in the hospital anyway. I swear to God, Hutch, there are some days you can't get anything right." Starsky had an ironic smirk on his face, and Hutch couldn't help but smile at the horrid dark humor.

"At least you knew enough to bail out."

"Yeah. Ruined a new pair of jeans too."

"Like you said, pal, one of those days." Hutch took another swig of his beer. "Starsk, we never thought all those wounds were going to heal from the shooting, and they did. This wound from Rhiana--it will too."

"Oh I know that. This day has just been like a one-two punch. For a couple days I felt like I had my whole life back--not just part of it. I had my job back, a great lady in my life, I felt really good about things...it was just a big body blow. After Terry died, all this stuff with getting dumped or breaking up with girlfriends--it looked like a walk in the park. Nothing'll ever be that hard again...well, almost nothing. You and Terry have been the two most important people in my life. Losing either one of you is big stuff...all the rest of it, I'll get past it eventually. I'm just tired, ya know what I mean?"

"I sure do, buddy."

"Thanks for always being there for me...you never let me down." Starsky had been staring straight ahead when he said it, but he finally looked Hutch in the eyes. "I can always count on you."

"Don't you forget it either." Hutch smiled and squeezed Starsky's shoulder a little and then withdrew his arm. "Hey, you getting hungry at all?"

"I feel like I have a lead weight in my stomach. I don't know if I can eat anything."

"Not even something big and greasy and toxic at Pancho Villa's?"

"You're volunteering to go there?"

"I'll even treat. Come on, partner. It'll cheer us both up a little. Maybe we can even go see one of those God-awful movies you're always trying to drag me to."

"They're running 'Psycho' at that little theater not too far from here."

"If we get a move on, we can grab dinner and still make it for the show." Hutch stood up. "Look, I know it's like tossing a grain of sand into the ocean to expect dinner and a movie to fix everything that's wrong, but there's no law against us having a little fun once in awhile. We'll get back on the case full tilt tomorrow."

"Until Schneider sidelines me permanently."

"Then you're going to come down with the flu, take a week off, and ride around with me while I work on the case. Hell, we've snuck around worse restrictions in our lives. We'll get around this. Go wash your face. You look like hell."

"Thanks a lot." Starsky stood up with a slight grin and disappeared into the bathroom.

The spicy Mexican dinner and the movie did seem to have a positive effect on both of them. By the midpoint of the meal, they were recalling an old case they had worked on to bring down a crime boss named Amboy, and remembering their experience eating his caviar and sampling his expensive champagne made them both snicker. Of course, busting a prostitution ring working out of a funeral home was one of their more amusing experiences. Amboy was a dirtbag, but he was a colorful dirtbag.

"Remember Anton--the old guy we thought was killing the strippers?" Starsky asked, savoring a mouthful of a cheese enchilada drowned in hot sauce.

"Oh, yeah...the girls weren't bad either." Hutch chased a bite of tostada with some wine. "Remember playing that phone trick on Dobey?"

"'Is this Starsky or Hutch?"' Starsky mimicked Dobey's frustrated gruff tone. "Whatever happened to Anton anyway?"

"I think he's in a retirement home...his office is shut down now." Hutch shook his head. "You meet so many people, lose touch with them..."

"Remember Sugar?"

"The transvestite lounge singer? Who could forget her--him---whatever," Hutch finished with a laugh.

"And that crazy ballet dancer who thought he was a vampire? We've had some weird cases, Hutch." Starsky shook his head, smiling.

"Psycho" provided the kind of mental release they both needed, each having seen the classic thriller more than once. Hutch remembered with a smile the first time they had seen the movie centering on gruesome slayings in a roadside motel, launched by a horrific scene of carnage in a shower. They were staying in a motel (of all places) and Starsky had waited until Hutch was in the shower, turned out the lights, and called "Oh, Norman..." in his best Mother Bates voice, mimicking the killer to startling perfection. Hutch had maintained his composure and verbally chastised his companion sufficiently once he ventured out to turn the lights back on, but the stunt had been a chilling one. He had to admit as practical jokes went, it was one of Starsky's more inspired moments.

For his part, Starsky was munching popcorn almost in tempo with the music as the killer stalked the next victim. You'd never know this guy tried to drive off a cliff earlier, Hutch thought. Maybe that old resiliency was still there after all. Hutch watched his partner for a couple minutes, happy to see that he seemed transported to the Bates Motel for awhile, and then turned his attention back to the screen. Maybe he really could dismiss the cliff incident as a moment of temporary insanity.

It was around midnight when they returned to Starsky's apartment.

"Any chance I could crash on the sofa bed tonight? Otherwise I'm gonna have to double back and pick you up in the morning anyway." Hutch had gone back to his own apartment for much lesser spans of nighttime hours, but he thought Starsky might be glad for the company, and he was.

"Anytime," he responded, getting out of the passenger side of the car. They were both surprised to see a red Ferrari parked nearby. "Hey, that's Eric, isn't it?" Starsky asked Hutch, who was now out of the car and part way around the front of it. The interior lights of the Ferrari confirmed that it was, and Eric got out of his car and headed toward them.

"Anything wrong?" Starsky asked.

"Nothin' new," Eric responded. "Just wondered what was going on with the case. I know I've probably got the plague as far as the cops are concerned to give me any information, but I'm really goin' nuts."

"Come in." Starsky led the way up the steps and unlocked the door. When all three were settled in seats, and it was established no one wanted anything from the kitchen, Eric continued to elaborate on his reason for being there.

"I saw Rhiana earlier," he began.

"Bet she had plenty to say," Starsky leaned back in his seat on the couch and rested his feet on the coffee table.

"She said she broke it off with you, that you were going back to being a cop, so she wasn't going to waste her time anymore--man, that really sucks. I'm sorry."

"It's been a lousy day, Eric. Get to the point, will you?" Starsky snapped, leaving the other man a little at a loss for words. "I'm sorry. I'm taking it out on you."

"Hey, what're friends for? I just wanted to tell you that there might be more to why she doesn't want to date a cop than just wanting you to have a fancier job."

"Meaning what?" Hutch interjected.

"Meaning Rhiana was Matt's supplier."

"What?" Starsky straightened up suddenly.

"The boutique is a front--it's the best-known high-class drug pick-up in the entertainment industry. She could buy and sell me about four times. Anything you can shoot in your arm, snort up your nose or smoke, you can get from Rhiana."

"Oh my God." Starsky ran his hands through his hair and looked back at Eric. "You're positive about this?"

"That's why I wouldn't name Matt's supplier in my statement. I knew you two were starting something. And I like Rhiana--she's been a good friend to me."

"So why are you turning her in now?"

"Because I see a path of destruction ahead for a lot of people in my life. Matt died because he was into a bunch of stuff that was dangerous--dope, booze, gambling...and Rhiana was part of that problem. She's part of that world of suppliers and crooks."

"And that's why you didn't belong in her world," Hutch said to Starsky. "Why a cop didn't belong in her world."

"Look, I'll testify--anything you need. I went with Matt once when he picked up his stuff. And I heard Rhiana tell him he was late with his payments, and that she wasn't a charity." Eric sighed. "I was afraid to do anything about it at the time. I was afraid to go to the cops, because I didn't want some drug lord to show up and blow my brains out for turning his front lady in. But Matt's dead, and he was my best friend, for better or worse, and all bets are off. If nailing Rhiana will do anything to get his killer, then I'm all yours."

"We've gotta do some thinking, strategizing." Hutch stood up and started pacing. "We can't just rush in and bust her if there's a way to get to something bigger through her."

"She deals in a huge volume, you can be sure of that. And it's top quality stuff, 'cause her customers can really pay." Eric looked up at Hutch. "I'm not doing this to get myself off the hook. But if somebody killed Dave, would you care what it cost you to nail them?"

"Not for a minute. But there's no guarantee he was killed due to something related to the drug situation."

"He was in debt, he was a junkie, and there was pressure on him to pay up. I didn't want to say all this in my statement because I didn't want to trash what was left of Matt's reputation. He was a brilliant songwriter, a gifted singer...he deserves to be remembered for some of the good things he did. Not chalked off as another dope fiend who met his maker and deserved it. When this all comes out, all anybody'll see is the negative stuff. Damn it, I didn't want to do that to him."

"Letting his killer go free would be worse, wouldn't it?" Starsky asked.

"That's what I figured. That's why I'm here now."

"Do you know anything else about Rhiana's connections?" Hutch asked.

"No. I just know she's a supplier, and a big one. She also seemed pretty confident she could make threats about him paying some back debts to her, so I assume she either had big connections or some significant muscle she could call on."

"You ever heard of a guy named Marcovitz?" Hutch ventured, feeling he could trust Eric, even if he was the prime suspect in the DA's case.

"I bought a car from him about six years ago."

"And that's all you know about him?"

"I know as soon as I established some bank credit I paid him off. That bastard charged me 25% interest and told me somebody'd break my arms if I missed more than two payments. I wanted the car and the image, and a friend of mine told me I should go for it...that everything'd be fine as long as I made the payments on time. I did, and then I paid him off early, with the interest I would have had to pay anyway, because that's how the deal goes, and that was that."

"How'd he operate? Did you sign anything?" Starsky asked.

"A dummy loan agreement for something like 10% interest, and was told to pay those payments by check. The balance was paid in cash, based on a verbal agreement. Why do you ask?"

"Because that was the same deal Matt had," Starsky responded. Having decided Eric was the least likely suspect in the case, both detectives were ready to trust him. "Matt owed Marcovitz big money, and the agreement he signed was similar to what you're describing, and based on information from another source--"

"Mick? He was into Marcovitz for $100,000 for about six months while he was having a cash flow problem. He needed to buy off this sixteen-year-old girl who was making noises about a paternity suit. Truth is, I don't think Mick did it. He had just gotten married, and his big worry was that his wife wouldn't believe he hadn't done it. So he paid off the girl and as soon as we got some royalties in, paid off Marcovitz $125,000 in cash. That way, his wife never had to see evidence of a bank loan, and most importantly, didn't hear about Tina or Tiffany or whatever the hell her name was."

"Only problem I have with loan sharks as killers is that dead men can't repay--especially if they're broke," Hutch stated, sitting on the arm of the couch.

"If Marcovitz has a signed loan agreement, he could make a claim against the estate. Over time, there's no question the estate will be paid that and more from royalties, plus the usual hype sales that take place after a death." Eric yawned and stretched in the chair he occupied. "Of course that's assuming he wants to be brought into this at all."

"For small stuff, he probably wouldn't chance it. For a million bucks, he might show up with his legit-looking loan agreement and give it a whirl," Starsky commented. "Eric, what do you know specifically about Rhiana's operation--anything?

"Just her code name system."

"Oh, is that all?" Hutch asked sarcastically. Eric had casually tossed out what could be the key to nailing her like it was an incidental piece of trivia.

"She names her drug orders like outfits. For example, coke is white leather, heroin is brown suede, pot is green lame. The size of the order determines what kind of clothing it is. Matt's order was for a 'brown suede jacket', 'white leather boots' and a 'green lame shirt'."

"So he got mostly heroin, a moderate amount of coke and a smaller batch of pot?" Starsky asked.

"Exactly. And she brought out three softly wrapped packages, about the right size for what she was saying was in them, loaded them into a couple of those flashy gold shopping bags she uses and hands them out right in front of a store full of customers. Matt walked out of there looking like any other shopper."

"Clever lady." Starsky shook his head. "What a system."

"It's late. I think we all need to sleep on this for a while, and we'll start following up on it first thing in the morning," Hutch suggested.

"Yeah, I'm beat," Eric agreed, standing up.

"We don't think you did it, Eric. This whole thing is a mess right now, but your lawyer's probably filled you in on the implications of the coroner's report," Starsky walked with him toward the door.

"Oh, yeah. He keeps telling me I shouldn't worry. Little tough when you're up for a murder rap. He'd lay an egg if he knew I was here. He told me not to say anything to anybody without him present. But somebody has to break the chain here."

"Look, Eric, neither one of us thinks you did it. We're going to take what we have to the DA and try to get him to drop the charges. I think it's just going to save him from looking like a bigger idiot when the case really breaks." Starsky sighed.

"Matt's body was released from the morgue this afternoon. I called and asked. Gave me the creeps, thinking about him just lying there in a drawer. Doesn't seem right."

"Any word on when the funeral is?" Starsky asked.

"He'll be at the funeral home day after tomorrow, the funeral's the day after that."

"How's the situation with the band?"

"Tim's at least speaking to me, but Mick thinks I'm guilty as hell. I haven't talked to Adam yet, so I don't know how he feels about it. Matt's parents won't return my calls..."

"If you'd like some company to go to the funeral home or the funeral, just give us a call, okay?"

"That means a lot. Thanks. I'm going to head home."

"Eric--we will get this thing resolved, maybe at least get your charges dropped before the funeral."

"I'd really like to walk in there and sit up front with the band, you know? Can't very well do that when I'm the accused murderer."

"We'll do everything we can. I promise."

"Thanks, man. I'll be in touch tomorrow. Maybe we could get together and jam a little sometime--I mean, I know you're back on the force and everything--"

"Not for long."

"Why? Oh, wait, you saw your doctor this week didn't you?"

"This morning. I'm all done. Best I can have is a desk job, so after this case, I'll be hanging up my badge and doing something else. I don't know after Rhiana if I really want to go back to music."

"Hey--don't let what happened with her derail you. I think her breaking up with you had more to do with being afraid of getting busted than it did with you personally. Rhiana'll go up for a long time if she ever gets caught."

"I suppose. But I don't think Gary'll let us in his studio anytime soon without her."

"I've got a studio at my house. It's not as fancy and posh as Gary's, but there's enough room for us to all fit in there and bang away for a while. Might be fun."

"Sounds like it. I'll give you a call as soon as we know anything new, or if we get some time we could jam for a while."

"Okay. I'm sorry about the doctor thing. Are you gonna get a second opinion?"

"Yeah, the department doctor will look me over next week, but he won't go against my doctor's opinion. He's considered one of the best internists and surgeons in the area, and he's been on my case since they brought me in from the shooting." Starsky looked up at the panorama of stars in the clear summer night sky as they walked out to Eric's car. "I think I've just gotta accept this."

"Like hell you do. If somebody told me I couldn't play the drums anymore, I sure as hell wouldn't take one guy's word for it. What's supposed to be wrong with you, anyway? You look healthy."

"Thanks," Starsky responded with a faint smile. "My heart won't take the 'possible extreme exertion street action may lead to, i.e., extended foot chases, climbing, etc.', and my lung and my liver, where most of the repair work was done, won't survive another trauma."

"So go see a cardiologist and see what he says about your heart. Then go see another internist and find out what he thinks about the rest of your guts."

"My doctor has been with me every step of the way--he oughtta know."

"He's only human, Dave. God knows we all make mistakes." Eric paused, leaning on the open door of the Ferrari. "Selfishly, it wouldn't break my heart to see you guys stick with the music, because I think Passages would be a hell of a band, with or without Rhiana. She wasn't our sound. We did that by ourselves." Eric exhaled loudly. "But you know, living your whole life feeling like you're missing out on the one thing you love to do the most isn't going to make you a good musician. It's going to turn you into a drunk or a junkie--or at best, a bitter old jerk who whines about the good old days."

"You think I should see another doctor?"

"Why not? See ten more if you think it'll help. Don't let one guy's opinion ruin your life. He's not God."

"I'll look into it."

"Do that." He got into the car. "Hey--you like cars, don't you?"

"Sure."

"You and Hutch should come over sometime when I'm not under suspicion for anything. I've got a Porsche and a 'Vette at home, plus this baby. We could give Sunday drive a whole new meaning."

"We'll do that. Same day we jam, huh?"

"Okay. Talk to ya later." Eric gunned the engine and roared out of the driveway onto the road.

Must be hard to lose most of your friends, Starsky thought to himself. One's dead and most of the others ostracize you because they think you did it. It's easy to get smug and complacent when you have one friend you can always count on, he thought as he mounted the steps back to his apartment.

Hutch was in the shower when Starsky got back inside, so he sat at the kitchen table with the yellow pages and looked for cardiologists. Eric was right. His doctor was only one man, and the diagnosis was one man's opinion...one expert's opinion...based on months of evaluation and testing...still, Eric's conviction that he owed himself a second opinion made Starsky flip through the directory.

"Eric gone?" Hutch came out toweling off his hair, wearing an old pair of sweats he had left at Starsky's from his prolonged stay.

"Yeah." Starsky looked up from the directory. "He thinks I should get a second opinion."

"That's probably not a bad idea. I'm not trying to negative here, buddy, but I'd hate to see you get your hopes up again..."

"I know I'm probably washed up, but just in case...I just don't know who to go to."

"It's gotta be somebody good--tops in their field."

"Eric thought I should see both a cardiologist and an internist."

"He's right. If your heart is the big problem, you should be seeing a cardiologist anyway. Maybe Dobey knows somebody."

"He's healthy as a horse." Starsky flipped the pages.

"Well you're not going blindly to somebody out of the yellow pages. We'll do some checking...find the top in the field. If we have to get on a plane and go out of state..." Hutch seemed to drift in thought for a minute.

"What?"

"Mayo Clinic. We should go there, get you taken through the paces. If they say you can't work the streets anymore, we know it's true. But if they say you can..."

"Schneider sure as hell wouldn't argue with them."

"Bingo. I'll call my mother--it's in Minnesota. We might be able to stay with them."

"Hutch, it's gonna be after midnight there."

"Oh, right. Well, first thing in the morning then."

"Ah, it's probably useless anyway. Besides, who's gonna pay for it? My insurance isn't going to cover it--"

"Unless we can get Schneider to order it."

"Why would he do that when he's got Dr. Dennison's opinion?" Starsky asked, referring to his own doctor.

"Because Dobey doesn't want to give up on you, and he's pretty good friends with Schneider."

"I guess it's worth a shot."

"Anything we have to do for this is worth a shot. We don't need to roll over and die."

"I guess I'm real glad Eric came by tonight."

"Me too. Rhiana a dealer--now there's a shocker."

"Kinda puts a whole new spin on the break up." Starsky slouched back in the chair. "But then maybe I'm just reaching for a different spin on it. I don't want to think she just dumped me because she wasn't interested."

"I think she isn't interested in going to prison for the rest of her crooked little life."

"Maybe. I think I'll turn in."

"Good idea. I'm ready to get some sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow. All these new leads on the case, checking into the Mayo Clinic option..."

"Getting the DA to drop the charges against Eric."

"I thought we were going to let that ride until we had an alternate suspect."

"Hutch, the funeral home and funeral services are coming up in the next couple of days. I think Eric deserves to attend his friend's funeral without being ostracized as the killer. I told him we'd go with him, but we're a sorry substitute for his band and Matt's family."

"I guess that's one more thing for the 'to do' list then."

"Quite a list we've got going." Starsky stood up and headed toward the bedroom. "Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"I watched Eric leave here tonight, and it dawned on me that it would be real rough to go through what he's going through all by himself, and I guess even as lousy as things are right now, I still feel pretty lucky. He invited us over twice--he seems pretty lonely."

"This has been rough on him."

"Maybe we oughtta take him to Pancho Villa's one of these nights, pal."

"I thought you wanted to help the guy, not poison him," Hutch retorted, laughing a little.

First thing the next morning, Hutch was on the phone to his mother in Duluth, in hopes she could fill in a few blanks about the Mayo Clinic. All she was able to tell him was that it was located in Rochester, which was in southeastern Minnesota, and a pretty long drive from the Hutchinson household. She did grace him with several mind-numbing stories of friends who had gone through the battery of tests there for everything from heart problems to hemorrhoids, and the primary thing he gleaned from the conversation was that it was a busy place, you were far better off to have the tests prescribed for you rather than elective, and that it was too far a drive to be practical for them to land in Duluth. Hutch related all this information to Starsky as he moved around the kitchen, gathering various unseemly things for his breakfast.

"I guess we're back to depending on Schneider then."

"Well, it would be a lot easier if he'd prescribe the tests."

"I won't go anywhere until we get Eric off the hook, and I wanna be here for Armstrong's funeral."

"Let's see if we can meet with Dobey and catch him up on the investigation so far. At the same time, maybe we can get him to work on Schneider to prescribe the Mayo tests."

"Okay. You hungry?" Starsky asked through a mouthful of cold pizza.

"No thanks. I'll get something from the cafeteria at work."

"I didn't mean you had to eat pizza." Starsky maneuvered into his shoulder holster and pulled on his jacket.

"You're in good spirits this morning." Hutch grabbed his own jacket and followed his partner out the door.

"Well, I've got some stuff in perspective this morning. Yesterday I was just way too shocked to get a grip on anything."

"Starsk--I hope you're not counting too much on different test results. I mean nothing would make me happier, but I just don't want you to go through the letdown all over again if things don't change."

"I crashed yesterday. Today I'm coping. If things change about my status as a cop, I'll be thrilled. If they don't, well, my life isn't over. Incidentally, I probably should call Merl about my car."

"I kind of ignored you and did that anyway yesterday."

"Thanks, pal. I don't know as I want it back, but I need the paperwork out of it if nothing else. Maybe if something changes, and I can go back...I dunno. Haven't thought that far yet."

Dobey was finishing off a substantial jelly donut when the two detectives arrived at his office with their mountain of paperwork and information on the case to share with him. They described their experiences interviewing the remaining band members and the charming ex-wife, Misty. They filled him in on Marcovitz's car dealership and creative financing services. They also shared with him everything Eric had told them about Matt, Marcovitz, and Rhiana. Hutch added that they had seen Rhiana at the dealership the day before, and that because she thought Starsky was a cop again, she ended their relationship. He also posed the question of why exactly Rhiana was there in the first place, and wouldn't a connection between Rhiana and her drug operation and Marcovitz and his loan-sharking activities be logical?

Dobey processed all this information in silence, for the most part, nodding and taking a few notes. When they finished, he looked up from the papers in front of him.

"I'm calling the DA and advising him to drop the charges against Eric March. We've got insufficient evidence against him, and everything we're gathering is pointing away from him. We can always reinstate charges at a later date if we find more evidence. I think we're letting ourselves in for a press disaster if we keep him on the hook much longer. He's famous, just like the victim, so the whole damn country's focused on us."

"That's great news, Cap. We were kinda hoping you'd say that," Starsky responded, smiling.

"There's something else, Captain." Hutch began, and then proceeded to explain their desire to put Starsky through the paces at the best medical facility in the country just in case there was any chance that Dennison's opinion was incorrect. He also said the only sure fire way for Starsky to get in, and for his insurance to pay for it, would be for Schneider to prescribe it. Dobey seemed a little hesitant at first, but then picked up the phone and dialed Schneider's office. After a few moments, he was connected with the doctor.

"Phil? This is Harold Dobey...fine, and yourself?...Listen, I'm calling about Dave Starsky's case. You've got him down to see you next week sometime...right...he's waiting for a verdict on whether or not he's going to be going back to street duty...yes, he did, and the news wasn't good...right, a desk job at most. I'm not ready to accept that so easily. Starsky's one of my best, and I think given what he's been through related to the Gunther case, he deserves the best shot he can get at getting his old job back. I want to send him out to Mayo Clinic for a second opinion...I certainly respect your evaluation, Phil, but you and I both know a treadmill, an EKG machine and a stethoscope are no match for the facilities they have at Mayo. Doesn't matter how good you are--you don't have the kind of equipment to work with, or the support staff...That's right--I'm asking you to prescribe the Mayo tests...I think so...I understand that, but we're talking about the career of a fine young officer here, and I'm not about to toss him on the scrap pile without a damn good reason." Dobey looked perplexed, and rubbed his forehead as the other man elaborated on something he obviously considered a valid point. Dobey rolled his eyes, and then tackled a response. "Well, the bottom line is this: we're sending Starsky out there. If we don't get your OK, the only difference is that we'll all be tossing some money in a hat to pay for it. I'd like to see the insurance company cover it...Fine. I'll send him right down. Thanks, Phil." Dobey hung up.

"Well?" Starsky asked hesitantly.

"Go down there and let him listen to your heart. Then he'll write up the necessary forms, and help you make the arrangements. He said he has a friend out there, so he thinks he can slide you in ASAP."

"Thanks, Capt'n. I don't know what to say."

"You must be sick," Dobey retorted with a little snort of a laugh.

Dr. Schneider was a short, slightly-built man in his late fifties. He had bristled considerably at his opinion being passed over completely in the transition between the well-known local "expert", Martin Dennison, and the Mayo Clinic. He was aware, however, that Harold had a point about their facilities. There had been times he had rendered a verdict of desk duty for a recovering officer and had to live with some plaguing doubts about the decision. David Michael Starsky was an interesting case to say the least. A healthy young man in his mid-thirties, in excellent physical condition, who had survived multiple bullet wounds. A cardiac arrest had left him clinically dead for over a minute, but he had been revived. His left lung and his liver had been in real jeopardy of being destroyed by the automatic weapon turned on him at close range, but the wizard of the local medical scene, the renowned Dr. Dennison, had led a surgical team in working some sort of magic with this man. But their magic was nothing without his will to live, which had become almost legendary among the medical personnel who dealt with him. His partner, Hutchinson, had joked that he was just too damned ornery to die, and while that wasn't terribly clinical, it was pretty accurate. That he could make a complete recovery wouldn't have surprised Phil Schneider even a little. Of course, Starsky was human, and sometimes no matter how indomitable the spirit, the flesh succumbs. He gathered up the paperwork and went into the examining area to see his patient.

Starsky was sitting on the examining table in his jeans and a hospital gown, looking generally unconcerned about the whole encounter. Well, how much worse could anything I say be than what Dennison told him? Schneider reasoned. He had only seen the young detective twice previously: once when his partner dragged him in with a high fever and the flu, insisting he should see a doctor, and once to evaluate his fitness to return to work after being shot during a hostage situation in an Italian restaurant. This Starsky was a little older, perhaps a little more world-weary than the almost playful personality he had had to deal with previously, but he certainly didn't give off a sickly appearance.

"Good morning, David," Dr. Schneider greeted, shaking hands with his patient. Starsky smiled in response.

"Morning, Doc."

"Captain Dobey told me you got some bad news yesterday," he stated, reviewing the notes he had made after Dobey's phone call.

"According to Dennison, I'm about as good as useless except behind a desk."

"Well, I've got his reports here. His office sent over your files. Let's have a listen to the old ticker. Deep breath," he instructed, and as they repeated the procedure, checked the heartbeat and respiration on both Starsky's back and chest. "Any discomfort, trouble breathing?"

"No. Not anymore. Not even at the gym."

"Okay, a big deep breath--deep as you can," the doctor instructed, listening carefully. He followed this procedure by checking blood pressure and pulses. He finally set his stethoscope aside and made a few notes on the chart. "I feel perfectly comfortable sending you to Mayo Clinic, David."

"Meaning what?" Starsky looked at him worriedly.

"Meaning your heart sounds strong and the heartbeat is very regular. Your blood pressure is right on target, there're no irregularities in your pulses. Your respiration is strong...I quite frankly don't agree with Dr. Dennison's assessment. If your heart was as badly damaged as his reports imply, I don't believe you'd feel as good or sound as normal as you do. But then I wouldn't presume to override the opinion of someone like Dennison on my own. He's a damn fine specialist, and he could be seeing something I don't. But I will tell you that these physical therapy evaluations and his findings would indicate a much worse level of cardiovascular fitness than just this preliminary exam would indicate to me."

"That's the best news I've had all year," Starsky responded with a wide smile.

"Well, don't get your hopes up until you get your test results from the clinic, but I wouldn't think of myself as a lost cause either, if I were you."

"Thanks, Doc."

"Look, you've made a remarkable recovery from your injuries. Please be aware of how fortunate you are--"

"I know, 'to be alive'." Starsky smiled a little to soften having cut the doctor off mid-sentence. "Everybody tells me that: my mother, Hutch, Dobey--I guess I want more than that."

"Understandable. Now, let's see if we can get you set up at Mayo for the first part of next week."

Starsky had the usual bounce in step when he met Hutch in the parking lot near the battered gray car. He even had his old sarcasm back in action at the sight of his partner leaning against the rusted carcass of a vehicle.

"Don't lean on that thing. It'll probably tip over."

"What'd Schneider say?"

"That he doesn't agree with Dennison, because he thinks my heart should sound a lot worse than it does if I'm really in as bad a shape as the physical therapy evaluations and Dennison's opinion claim I am. But he also made about twelve disclaimers about how wonderful Dennison is, and that he would be glad to send me to Mayo Clinic because he wouldn't dispute someone like Dennison without extensive testing."

"Maybe we're onto something here."

"If they get those charges dropped, I think we oughtta round up a few girls and take Eric out someplace and celebrate. The second opinion was his idea."

"Girls? You're ready to take on the female race again after Rhiana?"

"Rhiana was a bad mistake. My guard was down, and for a while yesterday, I really thought what she did was going to kill me, it hurt so much. But once I took a look at everything good I had to be happy about, she just wasn't worth the misery anymore. Like that Gloria Gaynor song says, 'I Will Survive'. Let's get going. Busting her would be a nice cherry on top of my sundae today."

They made a trip to Mick Bradley's house. Eric had already agreed to testify, and if Mick would corroborate the charges against Marcovitz, that portion of their case would be on solid ground. The next step would be busting Rhiana, which would involve a little undercover skullduggery, which the angry part of Starsky was relishing with a salivating delight.

Mick was quick in answering the door, looking considerably less inebriated than he had the first time they'd met. He was dressed in a blue dress shirt and a pair of dark jeans. His demeanor was also considerably more cordial.

"I'm going to have to make this short and sweet because I'm supposed to meet the Armstrongs and Tim over at the funeral home. Matt was an only child, so we're gonna help his folks make the arrangements. Have a seat." He led them into an attractively decorated room, furnished with very traditional, conservative items. "My wife the decorator," he explained. "That's the career du jour," he said with great affection. "So what's up?"

"We expect the charges against Eric to be dropped by the end of the day. I hope you'll pass that on to the Armstrong family. He didn't kill Matt--the evidence all points away from him," Starsky explained, raising Hutch's ire a little that he was more concerned about playing peacemaker among the members of Kingpin than questioning a potential witness.

"I hope the evidence is right. I never liked thinking Eric did it. But things looked so bad..."

"And he was arrested too damn fast based on how things looked at first glance."

"Off the subject of Eric a moment," Hutch interjected, "you made some allegations against T.L. Marcovitz yesterday. I realize the problem that led you to use his services was a... sensitive situation in terms of your marriage, but it would be very helpful to us to be able to count on your testimony if we press charges against him."

"God, I don't know. I've been through two bad marriages already, and I really love Ellie--my wife. She's pregnant, you know. Just found out a couple weeks ago. This could destroy my life."

"Don't you think she'd trust you enough by now to believe that you weren't responsible for that girl's...problem?" Starsky probed.

"I've been living a lie ever since then. I didn't tell her the truth then, and I've never come clean with it. She'd probably never trust me again." He looked down at the floor, seeming to contemplate the pattern in the carpeting for a long moment before continuing. "If Marcovitz is somehow responsible for Matt's death, I'll testify. If it's just a loan-sharking thing, that's not worth trashing my marriage, so please don't blow my cover with Ellie for that, okay?"

"Okay," Starsky responded before Hutch could get his mouth open. "So what do you guys want?"

"Huh?" Mick looked puzzled.

"A boy or a girl?" Starsky clarified. The other man's face broke into a huge smile, uncharacteristic of his usual straight-faced demeanor.

"Well, you're supposed to say it doesn't matter, and it really doesn't, but I'd kind of like a girl--you know, spoil her rotten and beat off the boyfriends 'til she's about thirty? Besides, Ellie's so pretty I'd love to see another pretty little version of her."

"Mick, we won't use you as a witness unless it's absolutely necessary, and then only if it involves Matt's murder."

"Thanks--Starsky, right?"

"That's me."

"I'll give Eric a call later, and I'll let the Armstrongs know the charges are being dropped. This has to be tough for him going through Matt's death on his own."

"I think it has been," Starsky agreed. "Well, we'll be on our way so you can get going." He stood, and Hutch followed suit.

Once in the car, it was obvious to Starsky that something had his partner out of sorts. Finally, after about five minutes of the silent treatment and a couple of monosyllabic answers to complex questions, Starsky prodded him for the cause of his surliness.

"I just wondered when you started making decisions on your own, partner," he queried, putting an unpleasant emphasis on the final word.

"What? You mean about Marcovitz? What the hell should we do? Trash the guy's life to bust a loan shark? Eric's testimony would probably cover that. I mean if his wife doesn't believe him, we could be breaking up his family."

"We never hesitated to expose some guy who couldn't keep his pants on with sixteen-year-old girls before."

"You're just automatically assuming he did it."

"The guy drinks like a fish and has burned his way through two marriages. How are we supposed to believe he's a choirboy?"

"Why do we have to assume he's a pervert? You know, Hutch, while you're looking down your nose at these guys and their lifestyle, you almost were one of them--we have a demo tape, remember? Does that mean that if we got a record deal, we'd automatically turn into statutory rapists with no morals?"

"You're missing the point."

"Enlighten me, oh great master," Starsky shot back.

"You don't have to be a smart ass."

"Hey, if you want to start something about this, fine. I'm getting a little sick of your superior attitude where these guys are concerned. Even with Eric, you've got this sort of self-righteous attitude."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is. If he's an informant, you think that's fine. And as a back up musician, he's okay, but you've never really acted like you thought too much of him as a friend."

"Look, everything I've got, I've worked for. And damn hard. I've spent most of my adult life getting shot at, working sixteen hour days--and here're these lounge lizards lying around poolsides, screwing teenage girls in their spare time, making more money than I'll ever see. Quite frankly to see a sleazebag like Armstrong, with his statutory rape charges and drug habit have his lifestyle catch up with him is no great surprise--or loss."

"I don't believe you." Starsky sat back in the seat and looked out the window. "What makes you so damn self-righteous? Like you've never made a mistake in your life? What about--"

"Don't go there, buddy." Hutch shook his head. "We start using what we've got in our arsenal on each other, neither one of us is going to be left standing." Hutch's admonition sentenced Starsky to silence, because he knew it was the truth. When you open up your very soul to another person, it can create a beautiful friendship, but it's also dangerous as hell.

"Hutch, I don't want to fight with you about this. But I don't understand you sometimes."

"I see all this glitz and glamour, and then I see what jumping into it and trusting it does. You trusted Rhiana, and so did I. Granted, you got hurt a hell of a lot worse than I did by her betrayal, but she took one of my dreams with her too. And so now I look at these guys, who are 95% flashy clothes and hairspray, and wonder what the hell we're altering our usual m.o. for."

"Maybe because while Rhiana trashed my faith in women one more time--not that I intend to swear them off or anything--Eric has been a good friend to me--to both of us. He showed us a very human side to all the flash and phoniness of the whole music business. He's ethical, he's sincere, and I think of him as a good friend. When it mattered, he came forward and offered to testify and gave us the leads we needed to go after Rhiana."

"Okay, so Eric's an exception."

"And Eric cares a lot about Mick and Tim and even Matt, degenerate that he was toward the end. Hutch, it wouldn't matter what you did or how life changed you...I'd still care what happened to you. I can understand what Eric's going through over Matt's death. These guys are human beings just like anybody else. Some of 'em are creeps just like the rest of the people out there, but some of them are good people, and they deserve to be respected just like anybody else. I don't think we can lump them all together."

"Okay, I give up. Let's just drop the whole damn thing. We'll play it your way."

"You're still mad at me, though."

"No I'm not," Hutch snapped back.

"Could'a fooled me," Starsky needled. "You look mad," he persisted, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've got those lines in your forehead and your jaw's real set and --"

"Oh, Starsky, shut up, will you?!" he snapped angrily. Having gotten the rise he was looking for, Starsky smirked triumphantly.

"Told ya you were still mad," he ventured, and then fell silent following a homicidal glare from his partner, who was at the end of his rope. When Hutch's gaze returned to the road, Starsky couldn't suppress a grin. That'll teach ya to shut me up so I lose an argument, Starsky thought to himself.

"We got a tail." Hutch was watching the rearview mirror.

"How long?"

"Since about a mile ago."

"I'd suggest trying to lose him, but in this car..."

"For God's sake, Starsky, give it a rest before I shove you out the door at the next bus stop."

"I'm a convalescent yet, remember?" Starsky snuck a peek over the back seat at their pursuer. "You can't rough me up."

"Yeah? Well after you get a clean bill of health at Mayo, I just might beat the hell out of you for all the shit you've gotten away with hiding behind this 'convalescent' thing."

"You're assuming I'm just gonna lie there and take it. I might kick your ass, partner."

"That'll be the day, burrito boy." Hutch was sparring good-naturedly with his partner now, even throwing in teasing him about his eating habits. The angry tension was passing quickly, but the problem of the tail wasn't. "Well, I've had enough of this." Hutch hit the accelerator and started weaving through the traffic. The car's big V-8 engine was noisy and at times not too pleased to start in the morning, but once it was rolling, it was capable of some pretty good speeds. The blue Chevy sedan behind them kept good track of them as the two cars moved through traffic.

"We wanna lose 'em or confront 'em?" Starsky asked.

"Loose 'em."

"Since when?"

"Since until we get test results on you, I don't want you getting killed in the middle of a mess you can't handle."

"You just worry about yourself. I can't take care of myself." Starsky realized as he said this that his old confidence was there, and the fear and apprehension of getting in the action again was gone. "I wanna know what they're tailing us for. Now let's figure out how to trap these turkeys."

"Damn."

"They turned off!" Starsky looked behind them. "Damn it!"

"Somebody must've called 'em off. A confrontation must not be in the cards just yet." Hutch hit the steering wheel with his hand angrily as he slowed the old car down to a more reasonable speed. "Well, we better get something set up for Rhiana," Hutch stated.

"Dobey said he had a guy in vice that has just the right look--long hair, dresses the part."

"She knows everybody, so we better have a damn good cover story. Damn, if Matt Armstrong were alive--"

"We wouldn't be in the middle of any of this and we'd still think Rhiana was a great gal."

"True, but we need someone to nail her. Eric's testimony will be vital, but it might not hold up by itself. Besides, I'd still like to establish that link between Rhiana and Marcovitz."

"We could be talking about months in an undercover operation." Starsky shook his head. "There's gotta be something better--faster. I might not have much longer on the force, pal."

"We need to nail Rhiana as a supplier, and we want to nail Marcovitz as a loan shark, but we want to tie both of them in to Matt Armstrong's murder." Hutch was quiet a minute. "We need someone with an established connection to her--or to Marcovitz. I hate to keep relying on Eric for every source of information in this."

"Well, we can trust him, and if he knows someone else who's a user..."

"If Rhiana ever finds out he's feeding us information--"

"He's as good as dead," Starsky finished the sentence.

"Maybe tailing Rhiana is the answer. After all, she did show up at Marcovitz's dealership while we were there."

"She bought her car there. Just her going in and out wouldn't prove anything." Starsky sighed loudly. "We know she's dealing. I just don't see a fast, easy way in."

"We need somebody to make a buy, and also to express money problems and see if she'll refer him to Marcovitz."

"But who? She knows everybody in the business. It can't be Eric because she knows he isn't a user."

"Tim?" Hutch suggested.

"He was busted for possession of marijuana a year ago. Wonder if he got it from Rhiana?" Starsky queried.

"Yeah, and if we can trust him the way we can trust Eric."

"If he tipped her off..."

"Well, maybe Eric can tell us his thoughts on Tim as a player in this little escapade." Hutch pulled the battered gray car into a parking spot near the station.

"Hey, that looks like Dennison's car up there," Starsky said, pointing to a black Mercedes coupe.

"Wonder what he's doing here," Hutch responded, getting out of the car.

"Let's go find out," Starsky said, bounding up the front steps to the door.

When they arrived in the squad room, Dobey flagged them into his office. The doctor was seated there, dressed in a grey business suit, fidgeting nervously with the tip of his tie. His usually cool countenance was definitely rattled.

"Dr. Dennison was informed by Dr. Schneider that you would be going to the Mayo Clinic for testing next week, Starsky. He has some information to share with us that may make that unnecessary," Dobey explained, as the detectives were seated.

"Meaning what?" Starsky asked eagerly.

"Meaning I falsified my records and gave you an inaccurate diagnosis," the doctor responded, looking up to meet his patient's incredulous expression. This tall man with his striking dark hair and usually imposing demeanor, seemed smaller than usual, slumped slightly in his seat.

"But why?" The betrayal was obvious in Starsky's voice. This man had pulled him back from the brink of death and had managed his recovery every step of the way. "What verdict should I have gotten?"

"You've made a full recovery, David. You should be able to go back to your old job anytime you like. Your heart was not damaged by the cardiac arrest and the surgical repair done to your lung and your liver was successful. While it is true that I can't predict what another trauma would do to either of those organs, and how the fact you had previous repair surgery done on them would affect you if you were injured again, there's no positive evidence that your risk of death would be a great deal higher because of it...it would all depend on the circumstances and the injury. There's no question there's some increased risk, but that becomes your area of decision-making, not mine.

"So you lied to him?" Hutch demanded. "You let him leave your office thinking his career was over? Do you have any idea what you almost--"

"Hutch, take it easy. Let's just get an explanation, okay?" Starsky knew his partner was thinking about the Torino heading for the edge of the ravine, and the thought had chilled Starsky to the bone himself. Would have been a stupid enough thing to kill myself, but then to do it for nothing...whoa, talk about really stupid, he thought to himself. "Why did you do it?" Starsky asked the doctor.

"I have a wife and two young daughters. About two days before your appointment, I was contacted by a young woman who strongly suggested I should give you a negative evaluation."

"Contacted how?" Hutch asked.

"She came to see me. She told me it would be in my best interest to cooperate on this point, or my family would suffer serious consequences. Of course, I told her threats were pointless, and that I was a physician, and I had no intention of having her dictate my course of treatment with a patient. I also told her I would report her to the police. She told me that would be unwise, and then proceeded to describe in detail the daily schedules of my wife and daughters. She said if I made contact with the police, they would pay the price." He rubbed his chin nervously and then continued. "I needed time to think. I didn't know what to do. My family's never been threatened before...and I wasn't about to compromise my ethics, but she seemed to know my family so intimately...I kept a close eye on my wife and the girls, but they got to us anyway. We had a dog, a big old mutt the girls adopted at the pound a couple years ago. He disappeared from the yard the next afternoon, and by that night, a package was delivered to my door, addressed to my youngest daughter. When she opened it, the dog's severed head was inside. There was also a note explaining that I would be given one more opportunity to cooperate before I received another box, which would be addressed to me and would contain a head, but not of a dog." He shook his head wearily. "I panicked. Your appointment was the next morning, and it seemed so simple to alter the records and tell you what they wanted me to tell you and get them off my back."

"And ruin his life," Hutch interjected. "Make Starsky the sacrificial lamb to save yourself."

"Hutchinson, that's enough. Let him finish," Dobey intervened.

"Can you describe the woman who came to see you?" Starsky asked.

"She was average height, long straight dark hair, dark glasses...pretty, I suppose. She didn't seem very pretty to me, but from an objective standpoint, I guess she was." He was quiet a moment. "My daughter was very traumatized by what happened. She's only seven years old. It was a knee-jerk reaction for me to go along with it. I guess my instincts as a father overrode my instincts as a doctor...even as a rational adult, for that matter. I should have known it couldn't work."

"So why did you come forward now?" Hutch asked.

"I was notified by Dr. Schneider that he did not concur with my opinion and was sending David to Mayo Clinic for a full battery of tests. I never assumed the department's doctor would dispute my opinion, and I further didn't anticipate he'd refer you to the Mayo Clinic. I knew it would only be a matter of time before the truth came out anyway."

"So you're clearing your conscience? You'd have let my life go down the drain if you hadn't figured it would catch up with you?" Starsky shook his head. "'Course, if my kid opened up that box, I don't know what I'd do either."

"Thank you for that, anyway. I don't know what kind of charges you want to pursue against me, but I wanted you to be aware of the situation."

"Would you recognize the woman again?" Hutch probed.

"Well, she was wearing dark glasses, like I said, but possibly. I did see her up close for about ten minutes while we talked."

"Think you'd recognize the voice?" Hutch asked.

"Most likely."

"I'll be right back." Starsky got up and hurried out to his desk. He didn't have time to think about the news he had just received about his condition. He needed a photo of Rhiana, and a couple others of other women, so as not to be accused of biasing the doctor's ID. He found a few other shots in his desk drawers from various other cases, and shuffled in the one of Rhiana, taken during the publicity photo session. She had agreed to pose for one photo, and Starsky had been so stupidly happy to have a small one for his wallet...what an idiot, he chided himself. He returned to the office and handed the stack of photos to the doctor. "Do any of these women resemble the woman you saw at your office?" The doctor took the photos and sorted through them, lingering on the one of Rhiana.

"This one. This is her. The hair's different, but I'd know that smile anywhere. She looked a little more sadistic and self-satisfied when I saw her, but this is her." He handed Rhiana's photo to Starsky.

"Did anyone else in your office see her?" Hutch asked.

"Only my receptionist, but I don't think she saw her up close for very long. I'm sure she'll be willing to look at the photo. I saw her in my examining room, which has very bright lights as you know, and I could see quite well through the dark glasses."

"Okay. Captain, we need to talk," Starsky said to Dobey.

"Dr. Dennison, we will provide protection for your family, and the case will be reviewed. My assumption would be that your most serious threat of charges will come in a professional capacity, rather than from us. However, all this information will be reviewed with the district attorney."

"If you need to reach me, I'll be at home." The doctor stood.

"Thank you for coming forward, Doctor." Dobey nodded in his direction, and the man left the office with no further comment from either detective.

"He ID'd Rhiana Blake." Starsky handed Hutch the photo.

"The drug dealer?" Dobey asked.

"Right on," Starsky responded. "Hutch and I were tossing around an idea." Starsky didn't know how Dobey would react to dragging a civilian in as an undercover operator, but there didn't seem to be a lot of choice in the matter. "We're going to run into one serious problem with nailing Rhiana via any kind of routine undercover operation. Most all of her clients are celebrities or tied in somehow to the entertainment industry. Now if we send in a phony, she's going to know it right away. Our best bet would be to use someone genuine...a real celebrity."

"I suppose this is heading somewhere specific?" Dobey prodded.

"Well, Eric March gave us the tip off on Rhiana in the first place, so we can't use him. Furthermore. he's not a user and she'd know that. But we do know of someone who used to be, and if he's willing..."

"Starsky, get to the point."

"We want to approach Tim Drew, the bass player from Matt Armstrong's band. He's stayed out of trouble for over a year now, but he did have a pot arrest in '78. I don't know yet if Rhiana was his supplier, but I would guess she was. He would probably be able to get her to sell to him without too much trouble. We'd also like her to refer him to Marcovitz for a loan--you know, he could use the old story that his money's tied up in investments, he needs some quick cash to make another buy..."

"You've been awfully quiet over there, Hutch." Dobey addressed the silent half of the duo, who had been watching his partner and his captain as if he were a spectator at a local tennis match. "Do you concur with your partner on this?"

"I concur that we're in a bad place with a woman as well-connected as Rhiana, and that if we want to bust her, we're going to have to throw out the rule book and use someone she can't discredit as a phony."

"I don't like the idea of expanding our circle of civilians in the know about this," Dobey stated, fidgeting with a pen and then tossing it on his desk. "I think this is known as building your house on sand--one misjudgment in trust here and we could blow the whole operation, or worse yet, get someone killed."

"We can trust Eric," Starsky spoke up. "He used to be friends with Rhiana, even when he knew about her activities, but his ultimate loyalty is to Matt Armstrong--living or dead. It's his fear that she's tied into Matt's death that made him turn her in."

"What we're proposing to do is have a talk with Eric about the feasibility of using Tim," Hutch explained.

"I wasn't aware that Eric March was Captain of Detectives here." Dobey was not pleased at his men's newest circle of trusted confidantes, and his ire was coming through now. "You expect me to approve this operation based on the word of the DA's favorite murder suspect that one of his pals, a former and possibly current user who punches out cops from time to time is a trustworthy undercover agent to bust a major drug operation?"

"You've read Tim's file," Starsky stated a little sheepishly.

"Hell yes, I've read his file."

"Look, Capt'n, I know this is pretty irregular--"

"Starsky, this case gives new definition to the term irregular. I should've never allowed you two on this when you were such close friends with March."

"But Eric didn't do it- -you said yourself the evidence--"

"Starsky! Don't start telling me what I said. I know perfectly well what I said. And now I'm not saying that he is the killer, but I am saying this investigation is getting out of hand, and I get the feeling you two don't have a clue what to do about it, because quite frankly, basing it on Tim Drew is nothing short of absurd!"

"We have to use someone with a reputation. Someone she probably won't even suspect of working with the cops." Hutch believed in their plan of action, even if he wasn't as comfortable trusting the musicians as Starsky was.

"Captain, this is a matter of loyalties. This band was formed on some very strong ties of friendship, and there's no question when you talk to these guys that they loved Matt Armstrong like a brother." Starsky paused. "They're really torn up over his death, and now that the shock is wearing off, they seem to be willing to do whatever we want them to do to bring his killer to justice."

"And you're convinced that loyalty is genuine and that we should base an undercover operation on it?"

"One of the guys in the band is willing to testify for us against Marcovitz as a loan shark if the guy had something to do with Matt's murder. Testifying will probably wreck the guy's marriage because the loan he took out was to take care of a situation with a girl who was making a paternity claim against him shortly after he was married. He says he didn't do it, but was afraid his new wife wouldn't believe it. Now they've been married a while and she's pregnant, and he doesn't want to blow it to nail a loan shark, but when it comes to nailing the person who killed Matt, he's ready to do what it takes. And with Eric, he blew the whistle on a friend when he turned in Rhiana, but again, his loyalty was to Matt. I think Tim would be the same way."

"You two are convinced about this?" Dobey asked, still not happy, but seeing less and less point in arguing. The men had a point about the type of undercover operation that was necessary, and refusing to take a chance on it would only prolong the investigation and possibly ruin their chances to make a major bust out of the whole thing.

Both detectives simply nodded.

"All right then. But don't take any foolish chances on this. And keep me posted."

"Thanks, Captain," Hutch replied, standing to join his already pacing partner.

"Oh, by the way, Starsky," Dobey began, "welcome back to active duty. We were only waiting on the medical opinion to reinstate you."

"You mean I'm official?" Starsky asked through a big grin.

"Of course that's what I mean! Now get your butts out there and put this operation together!" Dobey retorted.

"Thanks, Cap." Starsky reached out to shake hands with Dobey, who smiled broadly and shook the extended hand. "Thanks for not giving up on me so fast."

"Just doing my job. Now get moving," Dobey ordered, not doing terribly well at erasing the pleased look off his face. Things seemed truly to be set right now, as he watched his best team head out the door of his office to launch what was one of the shakiest undercover plots the captain had ever allowed.

"Hey, buddy, how's it feel to be official again?" Hutch asked, as close to gleeful as his reserved demeanor ever came. He was jangling the keys to his jalopy, and suddenly Starsky was pining for his dismembered car.

"It feels TERRIFIC!" Starsky yelled at the top of his lungs, attracting the attention of a few cops moving through the parking lot toward their cars. "YES!" He bounded up over the trunk and stood on the roof of Hutch s car. "HEY EVERYBODY, DAVE STARSKY'S BACK!" he shouted again, raising both arms in the air. Hutch was almost too amused with the gesture to yell at him for jumping on the roof of his car. Starsky looked down at him with a little laugh, still standing on the roof of the battered LTD, with his arms finally back at his sides now.

"Will you get off my car now?" Hutch asked, smiling himself.

"Like you're gonna even be able to tell if there's another dent," Starsky needled, bouncing back down a little more roughly than necessary.

"I was going to do something to celebrate, but if you're going to berate my car..."

"Like what?" Even after all these years, and everything we've both been through, Hutch thought, I can still get an almost child-like reaction out of him by dangling the promise of some sort of surprise in front of him.

"Nah, we've got work to do anyway. It can wait." Hutch got into the car, trying to hide the smirk on his face. Poor Starsk, he's still such an easy mark.

"Come on, Hutch," he goaded, getting into the passenger side. "That's playing dirty and you know it. What were you gonna do?"

"We should get over to Tim's place and--"

"Hutch." The word was as close to a whine as Starsky's adult dignity would allow.

"Oh, all right." He started up the car.

"Where're we going?" Satisfied now, Starsky was settled into the seat with a big grin on his face.

"You probably won't like it." Hutch was wondering if he had done the right thing, and hoped his assumption of how well he knew his partner's feelings about things was accurate. As they pulled into Merl's, he felt a little surge of trepidation.

"Merl's?" Starsky looked crestfallen. He had obviously been expecting some exotic eatery or maybe even a store that would hold some coveted piece of merchandise that would be his. Merl's garage wasn't on the list of hoped for destinations.

"Just follow me." Hutch led the way through one of the open doors into the work area, and spotted Merl instructing one of his young mechanics on the finer points of tuning the engine on an expensive sports car. "Hey, Merl," Hutch greeted. The other man looked up and smiled.

"Didn't expect to see you 'til tomorrow, Hutch. You either." He nodded toward Starsky.

"Are we too early?" Hutch asked worriedly.

"Just finished her up 'bout an hour ago." Merl led the way.

"How did you plan something if you didn't know--?" Starsky looked at Hutch quizzically.

"This wasn't really a 'welcome back' present. It was just something I was doing that it seemed you ought to find out about now."

"Your partner told me to use my imagination," Merl announced to Starsky, which sent shivers of dread down both men's spines. Merl approached a tarp covered vehicle, and with the flair of a showman, snatched the fabric away. Starsky was left dumbfounded at what he saw.

It was the Torino, painted a solid shiny black with the same Mag wheels, with the back tires being slightly larger than before, giving the car an even more souped-up look.

"Now, aside from the amazing reconstructive surgery on the body of this little gem, you are now boasting a brand new, customized engine, conforming to the specs of your original engine, with a few upgrades chosen by yours truly," Merl explained proudly, popping the hood. "You've also got some hydraulics, my man."

"Oh, God, no," Hutch rolled his eyes and turned away momentarily. "Merl." It was his turn to whine now. The last thing Starsky, the perpetual overgrown kid, needed was a toy that would make the front end of his car bob up and down. Oh well, the horse was out of the barn now, and the kid was in the candy store. Hutch could only stand back and smile with a mixture of friendly affection and apprehensive dread of the future as Merl taught Starsky the fine art of bouncing the front end of the Torino. Great. Next time we chase someone we can challenge them to a race at the stoplight first, Hutch thought to himself.

"Hey, Merl, phone call!" The younger mechanic yelled to his boss, and Merl left his position crouched by the open driver's door to take the call.

"Well, what do you think, buddy?" Hutch leaned on the roof of the car and looked in at his partner, who seemed totally enraptured by the vehicle.

"I don't know what to say." He looked up at Hutch. "This has to have cost you a small fortune. I can't let you pay for this."

"I wanted to do it, Starsk. We worked a lot of overtime on the Callahan case. I saved some money."

"You said you were gonna invest that money, Hutch."

"I played around with a couple of stocks, and starting out with about $1,000, I ended up with more like $5,000. It was a great fluke--some high risk stuff a friend of mine suggested that paid off."

"And you spent it all on this?"

"Why not?"

"I can't accept this, Hutch."

"What do you wanna do? It's not like Merl can scrape the paint back off it and rip the engine out and give me a refund. Come on, buddy, I want to do this. Call it a get well present. Now if you don't take it, I'm going to be insulted."

"Can't have that happen, can we?" Starsky got out of the car. He put an arm around Hutch's shoulders and squeezed quickly. "I'll follow you to your place-"

"Yes, Starsky, and I'll dump my car there and we'll take yours." Hutch started for the entrance of the garage. "But don't you dare bounce the front end of that car--you hear me, Starsk?"

"Sure, I hear ya," Starsky replied devilishly, jumping back in the car and gunning the engine. Even more power than before, he thought delightedly.

Starsky followed Hutch in his new toy, irritated by his partner's deliberately slow and cautious driving. He couldn't resist pulling up alongside his car at the first stoplight, rolling down the window, and bouncing the front end. Hutch rewarded him with an unpleasant hand gesture, and laughing, Starsky blasted away from the intersection at the first sign of green.

It amazed Starsky that his partner knew him quite this well. He had regretted totaling the Torino, because it held so many good memories. But at the same time, every time he saw that red and white vehicle, it brought back nightmarish memories of the shooting that he couldn't get rid of no matter how hard he tried. Somehow, this was the perfect solution. He knew the same metal was around him, but it looked new and different, more powerful, stronger...kind of like he felt himself. The engine and paint job were new, so he could look forward to a long, happy love affair with the car he thought was approaching its twilight years. With all the parts of his life seemingly back in place, Dave Starsky felt on top of the world again as he pulled up behind Hutch's car at Venice Place and waited for him to get in the passenger seat. Everything is the way it should be...finally!

"Think Tim and Mick would be done at the funeral home by now?" Starsky asked, resisting the urge to tear away from the curb in a squeal of tires. He would show Hutch that his newfound maturity did indeed extend to being able to pull away from a curb quietly.

"Probably. But I want to talk to Eric first. Let's take a ride out there."

Eric March's estate was similar to Tim Drew's with its automatic gates and long, winding drive. The intercom allowed them to call the house from the gates, and Eric himself answered on the second ring.

"Hey, come on back. I'll release the gates." Eric sounded upbeat, but then he usually managed to, even in his current state of tension. He was standing on the front porch of his sprawling contemporary house when they pulled up near the entrance. The home was a huge two-story conglomeration of wood and glass, a complete antithesis of the traditional flavor of Tim Drew's mansion. "Cool car!" Eric exclaimed as he approached the open driver's window. Starsky demonstrated the bouncing front end. "Now I know I never saw a cop car do that before! When'd you get it?" Eric was backing away from the side of it to get a better look.

"Today. Hutch got my old car fixed up for me--it was in an...accident. Totaled."

"Wow. Hey, how do I get on your Christmas list, man?" he asked Hutch, who had joined Starsky in getting out of the car.

"I'm really thrilled with the mechanic who fixed up that front end," Hutch shot an accusatory look at Starsky, who had tried out the new feature several times too often for Hutch's taste.

"Wait'll you see the engine, man." Starsky was about to pop the hood when Hutch interrupted.

"I hate to bring up something vulgar like police business here, but--"

"Oh, I gotta tell you guys--I just heard from my lawyer--they're dropping the charges."

"That's great news, Eric," Starsky responded.

"And Tim called me a little while ago and invited me to come over tonight to work on the song we're gonna do--together as a band--at Matt's funeral."

"Tim's who we need to talk to you about," Hutch responded. "Can we talk somewhere?"

"Sure. Come on in." Eric led the way into the house. The last time they had been sprawled in his living room, they had been picking a name for the band. This time Eric led them upstairs to a recreation room that boasted a full wall of windows overlooking an elaborately landscaped garden. "My mom designed the garden, if you can believe it. She's pretty good with that stuff, so I turned her loose. She had a blast putting it together."

"Quite a view," Hutch commented, lingering over the sight of the ornamental trees and myriad of roses.

"So what about Tim?" Eric asked, plopping down in a beige leather couch. The two detectives occupied matching chairs across from him.

"First, I've got some news. And I have you to thank for a big part of it," Starsky began. "I'm back on active duty."

"What?" Eric's face broke into one of his usual big smiles. Starsky explained all that had happened that morning, and how the fact he was seeking a second opinion had been the catalyst to the doctor admitting what he had done.

"I guess this a day for miracles, huh?" Eric asked, genuinely delighted at such a double dip of good luck for himself and one of his new good friends. Me and a couple of cops, pals. Who'da thought? Eric queried to himself.

"We want to send Tim undercover to bust Rhiana. We wanted to know how feasible you thought that was. Was she his supplier before?"

"Yup."

"Think she'd sell to him again?" Starsky asked.

"I'm sure of it. Tim's been clean about six months now, but he could just as easily slip off the wagon. And he has had a couple of girlfriends who were into coke, and he got some from Rhiana before. You're not going to bust him for that, are you?"

"Not if he helps us out with this," Hutch responded. "We're building one hell of a case against Marcovitz: we've got you, Mick and Matt's loan agreement. But over here," Hutch gestured a distance of separation between his hands, "we've got Rhiana. Now Matt was tangled up with both of them."

"And you want someone alive to be tangled up with both of them so you can bust both of them."

"Once we bust both of them, we can go through their bank records, you name it, and probably find the link between them. I just don't want to see one of them tip the other one off. If one or the other goes down first..."

"The one left standing'll run for the hills," Eri