Fic post
Hutch was sitting in the window seat next to the French doors when Starsky came in around 11 o’clock; he crossed the thickly carpeted floor, kicked off his dress shoes, and eased in next to his partner, gazing out as Hutch was doing across the cunningly mood-lit lawns and out to the blue-black glitter of the lake.
“Pretty,” he murmured, working his bow tie loose. Hutch hmmed agreement.
“I think we can cross the Camerons off our list,” Starsky said.
Hutch nodded. “Same with the Leahys. The Duprezes aren’t a couple.” He picked up the file folder from the cushion beside him.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
Hutch grinned. “I noticed you noticing. I especially noticed Alais Duprez noticing you noticing. And her father noticing her noticing you-”
“You’re makin’ my head spin,” Starsky complained. “Although that might be the champagne.”
“Be careful,” Hutch said. “That girl’s got a yen for you, and her daddy didn’t look like he was ready to admit she’s out of pigtails and bobby socks.” Watching pretty Alais Duprez, maybe 18, tall, blonde and right at that endearing stage where a girl longed to be seductive but simply lacked the arsenal, had been the most entertaining part of an evening spent mostly crossing suspects off an already short list. She’d looked his partner up and down and right back up again, smiled like it was her birthday, and latched onto him with all the guileless adoration of puppy love. Starsky, of course, was too soft-hearted to be anything less than gentlemanly to her, and it’d taken her father’s stern intervention to finally draw the pouting child away.
Starsky gave him a look. “Girls don’t wear pigtails and bobby socks anymore, Hutch. Except in dirty movies.” He tugged at his tie again.
“You know what I mean,” Hutch said. “But I agree that they’re not likely suspects. That leaves Gallant - a thug if we’ve ever seen one, in spite of the $200 suit.”
Starsky stood up. “Lemme get outta this monkey suit. I can’t think all wrapped up like a mummy.”
Five minutes later - Hutch winced mentally at the image of the rental tux scattered like shrapnel around the bedroom - Starsky returned to the window seat, clad in grey sweatpants and a dark blue t-shirt with a rip next to the pocket. He settled in next to Hutch again, despite the lack of space, unceremoniously bumping his partner over with his hip, and put his bare feet up on the cushions.
“Am I in your way?” Hutch said archly, scooting closer to the window to make room.
“Nah,” Starsky said, snuggling down. “I do my best thinkin’ in your pocket.”
Hutch turned his face toward the cold glass to hide his smile.
“Joy Burke and Diana Salazar,” Starsky supplied, picking up where they’d left off. “Real nice. Classy ladies. Didn’t seem to mind my asking questions, but they said they didn’t know Saronno or Gabriel at all. Said they make movies for women. They smiled a lot.”
Hutch looked at him; Starsky shrugged. “They smiled a lot.”
“Gallant’s hostile.” Hutch opened the file on his lap. “He didn’t like me asking questions.”
“Didn’t fall for those big innocent baby blues, eh?” Starsky purred.
“But he wasn’t here when Gabriel was killed,” Hutch continued. “So assuming there’s a connection between the two killings, he’s off the list of possibles.”
Starsky read over Hutch’s shoulder. “It’s lookin’ more and more like it has to be someone who works for Thornton.”
“But he didn’t think it was any of his people,” Hutch reminded him.
“Bosses have been wrong before. Cops too.” Starsky’s voice was getting a little fuzzy. Hutch considered how long the day had been, and the fact that his partner still tired more easily than before. Just a little; the sort of thing only he, or Starsky himself, would notice, the sort neither would admit to anyone else. He flipped slowly through the files, keeping his voice soft, lulling.
“The only one on staff with a record is Hooper, and she’s been with Thornton long enough that he’d have to know if she was involved in something that might lead to murder. We’ll have to ask him about her.” He thought about it. One killing might be accidental, a crime of passion, a chance robbery or the like. Two suggested a more calculated motive, despite the violence of the assaults. If they could just find the common thread between the two dead men…
Hutch heard a faint snore and realized Starsky had dozed off leaning on him, as relaxed as if Hutch were a pillow or a giant teddy bear.
Hutch snorted a soft laugh. There had never been any discussion, decisions, or official agreement that no lines of property or propriety divided them; nothing of what they were had come about deliberately, so he couldn’t pinpoint when it had happened that they’d become virtually two halves of one man. Once in a while - he supposed it happened to Starsky too - his partner would do or say something that reminded him, like a slap in the face, that they were two separate beings. Hutch hated those moments, uncontrollable, unpredictable, rare but never rare enough.
But this … this was to be cherished.
Except … sighing, Hutch gently shook his partner awake. He knew that neither his back nor his partner’s would appreciate spending the night in this position.
“Hm?”
“Go to bed.” He got up, lifting Starsky to his feet and propelling him in the direction of his bedroom. “See you in the morning.”
Starsky staggered obediently into the other room. “’Night.”
* * *
Hutch woke out of a sound sleep at the slight movement of the king-size bed. He blinked toward the clock until the numbers 3:13 came into focus, then turned over to see his partner on the other side of the bed, on top of the blankets, curled on his side facing Hutch.
Hutch’s insides turned, ridiculously, to mush. He’d known his partner hadn’t slept very well since the shooting, for reasons both physical and psychological, but it was rare for Starsky to admit it, even to him.
“Sorry,” Starsky said, his voice fuzzy with sleepiness. “Didn’t mean to wake ya. I can’t sleep in there. Too quiet. Thought if I could hear you breathin’ …” He shrugged against the pillow and Hutch smiled.
“Well, get under the blankets before you freeze to death.” He worked the covers out from under his partner’s squirming body and tucked him in - then, jokingly, yanked the blankets over Starsky’s head. He used the time Starsky spent struggling free to turn back over and face away from his partner. The last thing either of them needed was to have to deal with Hutch’s secondary reaction to the situation.
Immediately Hutch realized his position could be read as rejection, especially by a partner in a vulnerable state of mind. But if he turned back … if their bodies came into contact …
He found himself offering up a bizarre sort of prayer - to whom, he didn’t know - that his partner be his usual physically presumptuous self, and relaxed when Starsky scooted up behind him, not touching, but stakeout-close, near enough to be entirely aware of each other.
Starsky said tentatively, “You mind?”
Hutch smiled. “Go to sleep. Don’t hog the covers.”
A breath of laughter tickled the back of his neck, followed by a muffled “G’night.”
* * *
In the morning over coffee and pastries they discussed step two.
“Time to tackle the staff,” Starsky said. “Spread it around, keep people from noticing how many questions we’re asking.” He bit into a blueberry muffin and washed it down with the resort’s freshly ground coffee.
Hutch nodded, tearing apart a peach-preserve-filled pastry. “I’ll go horseback riding if you want to try a game of tennis.”
Starsky looked up at him. “Why don’t you play tennis and I’ll go horseback riding?”
Hutch scowled. “You hate horseback riding.”
Starsky shrugged. “I could use the lesson. Just like you could use some tennis lessons.”
Hutch let his eyebrows express skeptical surprise. “If you’re sure …” He sensed a reason under the patently ridiculous “lesson” explanation, but something in the set of Starsky’s face told him not to pursue it at the moment. Starsky’d been gone when he woke up, a relief to him and a frustration to his unprincipled morning erection, but Starsky handled his own moments of neediness better when they pretended, for a little while afterward, that they’d never happened.
“Always wanted to be a cowboy,” Starsky drawled.
“Yeah, a Cadillac cowboy,” Hutch needled. Then he shrugged. “It’s your sore backside.”
Starsky smiled. “That’s why the masseuse is number two on my list.”
* * *
The tennis pro came as a bit of a shock.
“Hi.” He smiled, showing perfect teeth in a gorgeous face, topped with thick chestnut hair and complemented by more than six feet and about 25 years of perfectly bronzed and sculpted body. “I’m Chris Parker.”
“Ken.” Hutch tried not to stare. “Ken Hutchinson.”
Chris pointed the way to the courts. “Have you played before?”
“Off and on,” Hutch said, matching his stride to the pro’s.
“So you’re looking for a workout more than a lesson?”
Hutch smiled. “Well, maybe a little of both. I’m kind of out of shape.” He patted his stomach for emphasis and Chris gave him a quick once-over.
“Really?” The word expressed just the right amount of flattering skepticism. Hutch tripped over the step leading up to the courts, catching himself before Chris noticed.
Chris indicated the small pro shop, its broad windows and glass double doors opening onto the courts, displaying clothes and gear.
“Clothes and rackets et cetera are here for the guests,” he said. “You can get to the gym, showers, steam room and massage room through there-” He pointed to a door at the back of the shop.
Hutch nodded, making note of the layout, and dumped his gym bag beside the shop door. “I didn’t bring a racket.”
Chris turned to the wall of hung-up rackets. “We’ve got a pretty good selection. What size grip do you like?”
Sounds filthy. “Uh … five-eighths.”
Chris began sorting through the rackets on the wall. “Wood, aluminum, or Jimmy Connors steel?” He cast a brief grin over his shoulder.
“Aluminum’s fine.”
Chris pulled one off the wall and tossed it at him. “How’s it feel?”
Hutch shrugged, wondering if it was him or if Chris really was dipping everything he said in innuendo. “It’s fine.”
“Okay.” Chris collected his own racket and a can of new tennis balls from behind the counter and said, “Let’s hit some balls.”
* * *
Starsky limped at a leisurely pace back from the stables to the main house, circling around to the annex that contained the tennis courts, gym, sauna and - crucially - the massage room. His two hours of equine engagement had done much to reinforce his theory that if God had meant men to ride horses he wouldn’t have given them …
Cars.
Starsky chuckled to himself as he limped around the east wing of the main house. Just beyond it, on the other side of a narrow belt of bushes and trees, lay the tennis courts; two were empty. Hutch and the pro were rallying energetically on the third.
He stopped, invisible behind the landscaping, and watched.
First he noticed, with some pride, how well his partner played, how sleek and powerful his movements were around the court. He glowed with vitality and strength, and Starsky found himself smiling as he watched.
Eventually his eye was drawn to the pro, Chris Patrick. He too was a vibrant specimen of healthy masculinity, his muscles more consciously sculpted than Hutch’s, his body more artfully tanned. With his thick, tousled chestnut hair and flawless, gleaming teeth, he looked like a male model. Perfect. Too perfect, in Starsky’s view. His gaze returned to his partner. A more natural, less deliberately designed man, like Hutch, was more …
More what?
Face hot, Starsky moved away, not wanting to be caught mooning over his own partner like an idiot, and headed for the gym.
Bad enough being an idiot without getting caught at it.
Then, inevitably, he wondered what would happen if he did get caught.
* * *
They met in the middle, sweaty and panting, and leaned on the net.
Chris wiped his face and blew out a breath, grinning at Hutch. “You’re not quite the sedentary businessman you said you were, are you?”
Hutch shrugged. “Well … it came back pretty quick. You still kicked my ass.”
Chris chuckled. “Just doing my job.”
They went to the side and made use of the waiting towels and water bottles.
After another brief scrutiny, the kind that Hutch suspected he was supposed to just notice, Chris said, “How about a cold beer?” He nodded toward the pro shack. “I think you stayed hydrated enough while we played that it won’t hurt you.”
Hutch smiled, pleased by the man’s conscientiousness. “Yeah, sure.” He followed Chris across the concrete, aware that he was agreeing to something more than just a cold one. Just what, he wasn’t sure, but he found he didn’t really mind. At least it would be an easy opportunity to find out whether the pro should be removed from their short list of likely suspects.
The beers turned out to be in a refrigerator in Chris Parker’s apartment, attached to the back of the pro shop.
Hutch sat at the bar separating small living room from smaller kitchen and looked around the tidy, cheerful apartment.
Chris popped the tops off a couple of Coronas, grabbed a knife and a lime from a handy lemon-and-lime basket on the counter, and in seconds presented Hutch with beer and twist.
“Cheers.” They touched bottles.
“Thanks.” Hutch took a sip, then tipped his head back for a longer draught; the icy beer felt heavenly going down. “Ah. That’s good.” He lowered the bottle, saw Chris watching him, his own beer forgotten in his hand. The pro instantly lowered his head, but he was smiling, and Hutch felt himself blush.
“How long have you worked here?”
Setting aside knife and wounded lime, Chris said, “Three years. Since college. Trying to save up enough to go back to school.”
“Sports medicine?”
Chris looked up. “How’d you-”
Hutch indicated the wall of books. “Your choice of reading material’s a little out of the ordinary.”
Chris grinned. “Yeah. Can’t be a tennis bum forever, much as I’d like to.” He collected his beer and came around the counter, sitting on the arm of his couch. Not too close, Hutch noticed, appreciating it. He still wasn’t sure what was going on - no, he knew damn’ well what was going on. What he didn’t know was why he was doing it. Self-torture? Practice? Some sort of weird test of himself?
Dolores would know, he thought, and smiled wryly. Dolores would understand. He had long talks with her. Sometimes she didn’t say much, but things became clear to him anyway.
“Something’s funny?”
He looked at Chris. “Just life. It surprises you sometimes, you know?” He took another long drink, hyperaware of the pro’s eyes on him, of his own throat muscles working as he swallowed.
“Yeah,” Chris said with feeling. “It sure as hell does.”
“Speaking of surprises,” Hutch said, “I heard about the guy who got killed. What the hell happened?”
Chris shrugged. “Beats me. That whole scene was awful. Did you know he wasn’t the first one? Another guy was killed a while back. He was a guest here too.”
Hutch shook his head. “Two people? And they never caught the guy who did it?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you know either of them?” Hutch took another gulp of beer, surreptitiously watching Chris’ reaction.
“No. I mean, you know, I saw them both. They both played a little tennis while they were here. But I didn’t see them other than that. It’s just really strange. The whole thing.” He stared blankly at the far wall for a moment. “Really strange and wrong.” He turned his eyes to Hutch, and they warmed visibly. “Like you said, man. Life really surprises you sometimes.” He drained his beer, looked at Hutch’s empty bottle, and said, “Want another?”
Hutch considered it, finding himself tempted. “Better not. I think I need a shower before lunch.” He got up and Chris did the same, kicking off his tennis shoes.
“Good plan.”
Hutch collected his bag and went to the gym showers, not as surprised as he ought to have been that Chris followed. After all, there was nothing odd about two men using communal showers after working out. Nothing odd except that he knew damn well there was more to it. That more prickled along his sweat-damp back as he preceded Chris into the tiled shower area attached to the small gym room.
He dumped his bag on the bench and sat down to untie his shoes. For his part, Chris strolled past, stripping as he walked.
“Towels and robes there,” he said, indicating a closet along the wall. Hutch looked up to see him drop his minimal pile of clothing beside the shower stalls, stepping into the nearest - in full view of his audience of one - and turning the water on full blast.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
He’d certainly seen his share of naked men. His safety, his position, even his life (and, of late, he occasionally thought, his sanity) had sometimes depended on controlling his reactions. But it was a little different here, so far from home, with a man so physically superb, a man clearly flaunting himself for Hutch’s benefit.
He finished getting undressed, grabbed a washcloth and towel from the cabinet, and slapped them over his shoulder, keeping his body language casual and friendly as he walked past Chris to the next stall, grateful for the dividing wall that at least suggested some level of privacy.
“Where are you from?” Chris asked. Hutch kept his eyes on the wall in front of him and hastily unwrapped the fresh bar of soap in the tray.
“Down south,” he said. “L.A. area. My partner and I run a manufacturing company. This is our first visit to this place.”
“How do you like it so far?”
“We like it fine. Very relaxing.”
“You didn’t bring your wives, either of you?”
“No wives,” Hutch said, washing briskly. He was all too aware, even out of the corner of his eye, that Chris was bathing leisurely, stroking soapy hands slowly over his body, turning a simple act of hygiene into an erotic water dance.
“That’s convenient,” Chris said, tilting his face up and letting the water sluice over his body. Hutch rinsed as quickly as he’d washed, grabbing his towel and wrenching the faucets off.
“Well, neither of us has found the right girl yet, that’s all,” he announced. “Besides, our work keeps us pretty busy.” Eyes averted, he left the stall and returned to his gym bag. He dried off efficiently and pulled on clean shorts and a t-shirt, pulling sandals out of the bag to don once he was outside.
“Thanks for the workout,” he called back, hearing the shower shut off as he headed for the door.
“Ken,” Chris called after him.
Hutch stopped at the door, half turning to see the man standing there in nothing but a damp, close-draped, entirely too thin towel.
Chris grinned. “Rematch tomorrow? My morning’s free.”
Hutch eased his grip on the door handle. “Sure.” It was easier than he’d expected to smile. “See you.” He left.
To Part 3