Fic post
It felt like a deliberate slap in the face of his defenses when he walked into their suite to see Starsky seated by the open french doors, hair wet, shirt lying across his knees and his shorts-clad body moodlit by the noon sun as he rubbed something onto his own chest.
Hutch swallowed against a temptation far more poignant than mere beauty. “Hey.”
Starsky looked up, his eyes not quite meeting Hutch’s.
“Hey yourself.”
“How’d the horseback riding go?”
Starsky kept rubbing, shrugged. “Okay. Yashimura’s a nice guy. Real mellow. Didn’t laugh at me - or at least not out loud. Hard to imagine him killing anyone. He never met either of the dead guys; guess they didn’t go in for the cowboy routine.”
“How about Madelaine?” Hutch gave the masseuse’s name a sultry twist.
Starsky dropped both hands into his lap and made a face. “The woman’s a 50-year-old Russian with the body of a tank an’ the technique of a stormtrooper. She rubbed my ass like she thought a genie was gonna come out.”
Droll, Hutch said, “Did she get her three wishes?”
Another grimace. Grudgingly, he added, “She’s a good masseuse, though, gotta give her that. My muscles are all rubbery.”
Hutch grinned. “So when’s the wedding?”
“Hardy har har. Let’s just say if she wanted to kill a guy, she could do it with her bare hands. But I think she’s a no-go.”
“What’re you doing?”
“She gave me this.” He held up a jar. “Said it’d keep the scar tissue more flexible if I used it after takin’ a bath or showerin’.” He reached around his own body, trying surreptitiously to work it into the scars on his back.
“How’d you explain it?” Hutch asked gently, coming closer.
“She asked if it was an accident.” Starsky’s mouth tweaked in a brief grim smile. “I told her no.”
Hutch unclenched his suddenly knotted fists. No, it was no accident. He sometimes thought the only thing that had kept him from killing Gunther was the fear that Starsky might, one day, think less of him for it.
“Here-” He reached for the jar.
Starsky automatically released it, but said, “You don’t have to-”
“Don’t.”
Starsky twisted around and Hutch gave him a stern look. “Don’t do that.”
Starsky didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. He sighed and straightened out again. Hutch sat behind him, dipped his fingers in the unguent and smoothed it onto the scars on his partner’s back.
“Smells nice.” He rubbed it in firmly, feeling his partner shift a little as he hit sore spots here and there. Only determined staring at the scars themselves, dwelling on the pain and fear Starsky’d gone through, kept his mind and body in a clinical mode.
And even then, only just. Stopping his shaking hand an inch from bestowing a nontherapeutic caress to the bare shoulder before him, Hutch sealed the jar and got up, going to the window, where he stretched, carefully keeping his back to his partner and reining in his thoughts. He’d be sore in a couple of odd places after three intense sets of tennis; idly he stared down toward the lake, considering whether he should sample the hot tub tonight before bed, whether he should risk inviting his partner.
“You really are beautiful.”
Yanked out of his worrying, Hutch turned, scanning the room, wondering what the hell - who the hell - his partner was talking about. Finally he looked at Starsky, who sat as he had throughout Hutch’s reaction, gazing thoughtfully up at him.
“D-did you just say ..?”
Starsky smiled. “Yeah.”
Hutch peered at him. “Starsk, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He was still smiling, not a kidding-around kind of grin, but one of his dangerously thoughtful expressions.
On cue, he said softly, “I been thinking.”
Nervously, Hutch licked his lips and leaned against the wall, trying to keep his expression skeptical and not frightened. When Starsky’s voice dropped like this, it was serious.
“I mean, I always knew it, you know. I got eyes. But-”
Squirming, Hutch attempted, “Starsk-”
Gently, “No, lemme finish. You know how hard it is for me to talk about stuff like this.” A quick smile, just for him, and Hutch shut up, hot, his stomach flip-flopping. What in God’s name made you imagine, even in your wildest fantasies, that you could ever bring up the topic yourself?
“Sometimes, you know, I say stuff, and I guess it sounds pretty stupid. And … maybe it’s what I really think at the time. It probably is. And you say something different, and I act like I’m not hearing you. But I always hear you. You know?”
Still bewildered, Hutch was relieved he could at least answer this truthfully. “I know.”
“And I’ll think about it for a long time. I have to think about stuff I’ve kind of taken for granted and see if it’s time to throw it out, time to let new ideas in. You help me with that.”
“Starsk, you do the same for me.”
Starsky shook his head. “Not like this. Maybe I can get you to try a super hot burrito, or some monster movie you wouldn’t choose yourself in a million years-”
“If you think I’ve only learned unimportant stuff from you, you’ve got another think coming,” Hutch said, his turn to be serious. Starsky’s smile widened a little, but he held up a hand.
“Okay, but … what I’m tryin’ to say is that there are things I used to think were wrong, and you kinda opened a door in my head for me without makin’ me feel stupid for not seeing it was there all along. And since then I’ve done a lot of thinking.”
“Since when?” Hutch asked, thinking, nervously, John Blaine. It has to be.
“For a while. You know how dumb I am.”
Hutch snorted. “Yeah. Dumb like a fox. What’s back of all this, buddy?”
Starsky shook his head again. “Almost dyin’, I guess. At least it made me understand how some things I thought made a difference really don’t. And one of those things was letting myself seeing how beautiful you are. On the outside, I mean. I already knew about the inside.”
Hutch felt his face blaze. Christ, you can’t even take a compliment from the man without freezing up like a schoolgirl.
“I wondered if I was still too chickenshit to look - to really look - so I checked.” Starsky smiled. “Then I wondered if I was too chickenshit to admit it.”
“Well, you’re two for two,” Hutch said, hearing the husky embarrassment in his own voice. “Starsk …”
“Sometimes … I look at you, and I can’t believe how lucky I am.” Starsky laughed, breaking his own too-serious mood. “I sound like a lovestruck newlywed, don’t I?”
Hutch grinned, although he wondered if either of them would ever find the courage to really open the door Starsky’d just now managed to peek through. At least he knew what was behind it; he wasn’t sure, even now, that Starsky had a clear idea.
“Just don’t expect me to carry you over any thresholds,” he teased back, realizing abruptly: We’re both chickening out, here, aren’t we, buddy? And we both know it. “Or your beautiful partner’ll be in a beautiful back brace.”
Starsky twisted his face into comical dismay. “That’d ruin our wedding night for sure.” He picked up his shirt from his knees and shrugged into it. “I’m hungry.”
“What a surprise. Let’s go see if we can rustle up some grub, cowboy.”
They headed out, Starsky’s arm sliding around Hutch’s shoulders as they strolled down the corridor toward the stairs. Starsky gave him a squeeze, and Hutch thought that they just might get through that door, one day.
Downstairs Marian corralled them with a message from “A man called Dobey. He sounded very gruff.”
“Our business manager,” Starsky lied smoothly, taking the note from her. Hutch plucked it out of his partner’s hands and read “Saronno managed clubs - owner Saul Beldon. Fowler, Gallant work for Beldon also. No link to Gabriel - he’s clean. Keep in touch.”
He handed the note back to his partner as they passed through the hotel headed for the poolside lunch buffet.
“Oh yeah,” Starsky said. “I called this morning to ask who owned the nightclubs. It wasn’t in the files.”
“Fowler,” Hutch repeated. “Who the hell’s Fowler?”
“He was one of the guests when Vince Gabriel was killed,” Starsky said, with that perfect memory for details that Hutch outwardly mocked and inwardly relied on. “Not here now.”
Hutch scowled into the sunlight as they exited onto the long verandah. “Seems strange a cop like Thornton would overlook an obvious mob tie like that. He has to have heard of Beldon.”
“Maybe he let it go cuz there’s no tie to the first killing?” Starsky suggested, folding the message to slide it into the pocket of his shirt.
“But it can’t be coincidental that Saronno, Fowler and Gallant work for Beldon,” Hutch argued.
“Irving Fowler’s a 72-year-old bookkeeper with arthritis,” Starsky said, and Hutch stared at him in amazement.
“It was in the files,” Starsky said, not trying to hide his smug grin. “The day he could kill a 40-year-old athlete is the day I could take that masseuse in two falls outta three. Besides, Gabriel didn’t have any criminal ties. There’d be no reason for Beldon to have him killed, even if Fowler coulda done it. Which he couldna.”
“But …” Hutch trailed off, trying and failing to make a connection between the two murders. If Gabriel and Saronno weren’t both mob killings - was it possible neither of them was?
“Yeah. If Saronno was a hit, what does that make Gabriel’s killing?” Starsky said, turning to squint at his partner, keeping his voice low as the Leahys, Camerons and Duprezes came out onto the patio.
A flurry of waves and good afternoons was exchanged. The ladies headed for the pool while the men headed for the outdoor bar.
Starsky continued. “Is it more bizarre that Saronno’s killing might not have anything to do with Beldon, or that there’re two killers running around this place and the two crimes don’t have anything to do with each other?”
“Starsk.” Hutch sighed, taking hold of his partner’s arm. “I hate it when you’re logical, you know that? Let’s go for a swim.”
* * *
“How about taking a stroll out to the scene of the crime later today, or tomorrow?” Hutch said into his towel, rubbing it over his face, then draping it onto his shoulders. “If you think you’ll still be able to walk.”
His partner had just hauled himself out of the water and now sat on the edge beside him, dripping and staring across the pool.
“Good idea,” Starsky said vaguely.
Hutch, following his gaze, saw Alais Duprez talking to Chris Parker - about tennis, from the gestures both were making. They were a beautiful pair: tall, tanned and gorgeous. The impulse to make a Ken and Barbie joke was almost irresistible.
“She does know how to fill out a bikini,” he observed, glancing at his friend. Starsky didn’t react. Hutch collected his partner’s towel and flung it into his face.
“I said,” he repeated as Starsky lowered the towel and scowled at him, “she does know how to fill out a bikini.”
“What? Oh.”
“Come on, like you didn’t notice.”
Seriously, Starsky shook his head. “I was thinkin’.” He carelessly mopped poolwater off his body and draped his towel over one shoulder.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Hutch said, adding, “What about?”
“I think we need to talk to Thornton again,” Starsky said, completely bypassing Hutch’s attempts at humor. “I wanna know more about his people and more about the holes in those reports he gave us.” He popped to his feet with no sign of difficulty and exchanged the damp towel for his sun-warmed shirt.
Hutch got up, glanced around them, and leaned close for a moment.
“Starsk, you okay?”
His partner stopped at one button, delivering a genuinely puzzled glance. “Yeah. Why?”
“You were staring straight at five feet eight inches of feminine pulchritude in about six square inches of swimsuit, and you were thinking about the case - and you wonder why I’m asking if you’re okay?”
“Hey.” Starsky planted a palm against his own chest. “I’m a professional.”
“Yeah, yeah…”
Starsky squinted at him, drawled, “I’m also starvin’.”
Hutch flung an arm around him and squeezed his shoulder. “That’s more like it.”
On the way to the buffet they ran into Joy Burke and Diana Salazar, both women elegant in sleek one-piece swimsuits and oversized sunglasses which they made a point of sliding up onto their heads when they greeted the partners.
“Gentlemen,” Diana said.
“Nice to see you again … David, wasn’t it?” Joy said to Starsky.
He offered her his ladykiller smile. “Got it in one. This is my partner, Ken Hutchinson. Hutch, this is Diana Salazar and Joy Burke.”
Languid handshakes were exchanged.
“So you ladies make movies,” Hutch said with a friendly smile. Both women returned it, looking the partners up and down with a measuring eye.
“Love stories?” Starsky ventured. “Long candlelit dinners, walks on the beach, that sort of thing?”
Hutch nodded. “Sounds nice.”
The women continued smiling. Joy said, “No, as a matter of fact, we produce erotic films for women.”
A moment of silence ensued.
“Eh - erotic -” Starsky stammered.
“For women?” Hutch finished, feeling his face heat up.
“Women are people too,” Joy said. “They enjoy sex just as much as men do.”
“You make dirty movies?” Starsky blurted.
“Starsky.” Hutch attempted quiet but vehement censure past his own surprise. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard of the concept, though he’d never met a woman who admitted to enjoying pornography. But these two ladies, attractive and obviously wealthy, were a far cry from the sleazy world of cheap porn he and Starsky had seen in their work.
“Quality erotica for discerning female viewers,” Diana explained. “Speaking of which, have you gentlemen ever considered a career in the arts?”
The meaning behind the women’s direct smiles and sharply measuring stares became crystal clear.
“Er … arts?” Starsky blurted.
“Oh yes,” Joy purred. “You’re both good looking, and you certainly seem to be … very … fit.” She looked them up and down, running a finger along Starsky’s bare arm. Hutch was irresistibly reminded of a rancher thinking of buying a horse.
“Uh, that’s very … um …” Hutch attempted. Starsky forced a smile, but his expression darkened and Hutch felt a sudden drop in the ambient temperature.
“Thanks,” Starsky said, using the end-of-the-line tone he generally saved for criminals, “but I don’t think your lady viewers would find this very … erotic.” He undid the single chaste button and let his shirt fall open to expose the scars along his ribs. Hutch cursed, silently but viciously.
Surprisingly, though, neither woman seemed disgusted. Diana sucked in a little breath of sympathy; Joy, her face pinched as in concern, stopped stroking Starsky’s arm and laid her long-nailed fingers gently on the shiny scar tissue.
“Oh,” she said softly. “That is a shame.” She stroked, seemingly untroubled by the damaged tissue, and Hutch felt a flare of anger as Starsky gaped at her, his own discomfort erased by her response.
“Yes,” she continued, still admiring Starsky’s stomach and chest with slowly roving eyes and fingers. “I’m afraid appearance does matter in our business … more’s the pity… you certainly are very …” Her gaze dipped lower. “ … fit …”
“Yes, well …” Teeth clenched, Hutch reached out and pushed her hand away. Joy and Starsky turned to stare at him.
“Sorry we can’t oblige you ladies,” he lied with a false grin.
Diana looked him up and down. “Well, what about you?”
Acutely aware of Starsky still staring at him in surprise, Hutch said flatly, “We work as a team.”
The knowing smiles returned full force.
“Well.” Joy looked at Starsky again. “Maybe we can work something out after all-”
Hutch grabbed Starsky’s elbow, hard enough to hurt. “Thanks, ladies,” he said through clenched teeth, “but our mothers would never forgive us. Will you excuse us?” He hauled Starsky away from the poolside, into the shade of the verandah, where the kitchen staff was setting out the buffet lunch.
He stopped, groping for control over the wild, inexplicable burst of anger churning in his brain and gut.
“Hutch…” Starsky’s tentative voice made him blink and look at his partner, still standing right next to him, his brow furrowed.
“Uh … you’re breakin’ my elbow here,” Starsky said, low, and Hutch wrenched his hand free.
“Sorry.”
Starsky rubbed the abused joint. “What was that all about? You acted like they wanted us for human sacrifices, not some naughty night moves.”
Hutch blurted, “She was-” And stopped himself. She was fondling you and it made me mad. Mad being the operative word, Hutchinson. He breathed in slowly.
Idly rubbing his stomach, Starsky said, “The first time a woman who’s not a nurse has touched me since it happened, and you gotta shove her away.”
Hutch was mortified. “Starsk … I-I’m sorry. I didn’t even … I didn’t think of it like that.“ He grasped his partner’s arm - gently this time. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to -” He looked back toward the women, now arranging themselves artfully on the chaise longues.
“What? Apologize to her for acting like a jealous boyfriend?” Fortunately Starsky sounded more bemused than angry. “Don’t worry about it, Hutch. I didn’t really have a hankerin’ to be that kind of movie star.”
“Afraid you wouldn’t measure up?” Hutch teased, eager to get off the subject of his own idiotic overreaction. “Picture it,” he went on, glad to see the comical dismay on his partner’s face, “an intimate little tete a tete, just you, a lovely lady, a dozen film and sound guys, a few lighting guys, an impatient director, a producer frantic to get it done on time and under budget ...”
“You’re givin’ me performance anxiety here,” Starsky muttered, shuddering. “I don’t know how they do it.”
“Practice, Starsk, practice.”
“Let’s eat,” Starsky silenced him, advancing on the buffet.
* * *
They spent the rest of the day delicately interrogating the other staff members, moving them one by one onto the “unlikely” list, then met Peter Thornton in his office before dinner. His reaction to Hutch’s mention of Marian Hooper’s record was startling.
“I know her record,” he snapped. “I’m the reason for most of it.”
Starsky and Hutch exchanged abashed glances.
“Christ, don’t you men think I know the background on my own people?”
“We’re just trying to cover all the bases,” Starsky said. “Knowing her record doesn’t necessarily mean you know all her friends. Or enemies.”
“For instance,” Hutch put in, “it wasn’t in the files that Tony Saronno ran nightclubs owned by Saul Beldon - and that Gallant’s Beldon’s hired muscle.”
“That’s because I know Gallant didn’t kill Saronno. He was in the lounge drinking all night. I was there too - so was Marian and half a dozen other people.”
“All night?” Starsky echoed.
“We packed it in about one, maybe later,” Thornton said. “I knew about Gallant’s ties to Beldon. His record is in that file. But he has an alibi - me. And he wasn’t even here when Gabriel was killed.”
“Fowler was,” Hutch said.
“Fowler’s pushing 80,” Thornton said. “He couldn’t kill a mosquito. I’m aware of their ties to Beldon, just like I’m aware of Saronno’s ties to him. But Gabriel had nothing to do with any of that.”
“So you think the killings have nothing to do with Beldon?” Starsky asked, politeness overlying doubt.
“That’s what you’re here to find out!” Thornton snapped.
“You might consider helping us,” Hutch put in.
Thornton’s jaw clenched as he forced himself toward patience. “I know you boys’re just doing what any good cops would do, covering all the bases and considering all the possibilities. But Gallant’s in the clear. He’s a scumbag, yes, but he’s in the clear on this one. And I know Marian’s not involved. I know her well enough to know that.”
His meaning was obvious. Hutch glanced at Starsky, silently asking ‘do we keep on him or let it go for now?’
His partner offered the faintest shrug, said to Thornton, “Okay. We’ll keep nosing around, see what we can come up.”
Thornton visibly deflated. “Thanks, boys. Sorry I got a little hot. This could ruin my business. I do think the two killings have to be related, but how?” He shrugged. “That I just can’t figure. They were never here the same time - they didn’t know each other as far as I know, had no connection to each other except that they both had visited here - and even then, Gabriel came every six months or so, even if only for a few days. Saronno’d never been here before this trip. They had nothing in common. Nothing.”
“Well, they must’ve had something in common. Other than the way they died,” Starsky said calmly.
“We’ll talk to you later, Mr. Thornton,” Hutch said.
To Part 4