A World Full of Jokers

by Verlaine

loyse_of_verlaine@yahoo.ca

CHAPTER ONE

“Starsky, hurry it up! We got a call!”

Hutch cracked the Torino’s passenger window just enough to yell at his partner. Starsky was jogging across the street, jacket pulled over his head, trying to juggle coffee cups and sandwich bags while dodging puddles. A strong gust of wind sent a solid sheet of rain through the narrow opening, and Hutch leaned back, swearing. Over the sudden violent drumming of water on the roof and door, the squawk of the radio was barely audible.

“One Adam Fifteen, see the man, Nineteenth and Woodbine, reported automobile accident. Caller advises caution, the cause of the accident is reported as a downed power line.”

Hutch sighed. Why people couldn’t exercise the common sense to stay home in the face of the worst storm to hit Bay City in fifty years was beyond him.

Yeah, home—safe, warm and dry, just like me. Serve, protect and catch pneumonia.

An unprecedented twenty-four hour downpour had Bay City swamped. Gutters overflowed everywhere, some streets near the docks had been impassable for hours, and according to the radio mudslides were starting to endanger homes on hillsides as far south as San Diego. While the weather had done something to knock back the day’s crime rate, the downside was that every able-bodied city employee had been drafted to assist where needed. Hutch had spent two miserable hours directing traffic in the pouring rain at an intersection in an area left without power, while Starsky had been commandeered to act as coordinator for a crew cleaning up an overturned oil tanker down the street. He was weary, chilled and still damp; Starsky, in his tight jeans and soaked sneakers, was even worse off, and there was no end in sight to the whole miserable day.

Hutch eased the driver’s door open just far enough to let Starsky slide in and ended up with cups and bags dumped unceremoniously into his hands as his partner reached for the key.

“Where we headed?”

The big car rumbled reassuringly to life. Despite Starsky’s loudly repeated expressions of confidence in his baby, Hutch had overheard enough mutters about damp spark plugs to know he had been secretly concerned that the Torino might stall out under the constant soaking. On another day he might have teased his partner about it, but today he wisely kept his mouth shut, concentrating on fumbling everything to safety without dropping any containers. Starsky reacted to the wet much like a cat would and had been fantasizing aloud for an hour about hot coffee and dry towels. Dropping his cup would probably have landed Hutch on his ass in the closest puddle.

“Bay City Museum. There’s been a break-in.” Hutch concentrated on keeping the coffee cups level as Starsky squealed away from the curb, fishtailing slightly on the rain-slick pavement.

“Oh for—” Starsky snarled. “And why are we responding to a 459 call, instead of the nearest uniform? We aren’t wet enough already?”

“According to dispatch, the guard claims that his partner’s disappeared, too. He sounds pretty spooked. The museum’s in one of the areas where the power’s out.”

Starsky gave a disgusted grunt. “So we gotta miss supper because some rent-a-cop gets the heebie-jeebies? Man, I’m hungry enough to eat the bag, never mind the sandwich.” He wheeled the car hard right around a corner, sending coffee sloshing.

Hutch yelped and shook the hot liquid off his hand. “Dammit, Starsk! I’m already wet, I don’t need a scalding, too.”

“Sorry.” Starsky had the grace to look sheepish. “Any damage?”

“Nah. A few skin grafts and my fingers’ll be good as new.” Hutch couldn’t resist a little jibe, and was rewarded with a tired smirk.

For a few minutes they drove in a silence broken only by the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers, Starsky concentrating fiercely on the road. Even at their top speed the wipers barely kept up with the deluge. Occasionally visibility was completely lost as the storm picked up yet more force.

As he eased cautiously through another unlit intersection, Starsky said abruptly, “Hey Hutch, you think there’ll be anybody there at this time a night?”

“Besides the security guard? Not likely. Why?”

“I need to renew my membership. I got it in the mail a week or so ago, and I kept forgettin’ about it. I thought if somebody was there—”

“You have a membership at the Bay City Museum?” Starsky’s range of interests never ceased to surprise him. “You never told me that.”

“Oh, that girl I was seein’ a while back—remember Amanda? The secretary with all the frizzy red hair?” Hutch nodded. “She dragged me out there one day and got me hooked. Turns out it’s a lot more interesting than she was.” Starsky chuckled. “It’s a really cool place, Hutch. You been to check it out lately? They’ve got a whole whale skeleton hanging right over the big staircase so you can see all the bones and stuff when you walk up. And a few years back, they had this real important archeology guy come from back east and do their Egyptian hall. They’ve got mummies and scarabs and all kinds of neat stuff. They even unwrapped one of the mummies so you can see all the innards.” Starsky’s voice held ghoulish satisfaction.

“Don’t you get enough nightmares from too much pizza and bad movies without looking at naked mummies?” Hutch leered in Starsky’s direction. “Never thought you went for older women.”

“Aw, jeeze, that’s disgusting! Anyway, it’s not naked, it’s embalmed. And . . . “

Temporarily comfortable in the warmth and dryness of the car, Hutch closed his eyes and tuned out the rest of the amateur Egyptology lecture, content to listen to the sound of Starsky’s voice, his musician’s ear appreciating the cadence and intonation as much as the actual words.

Over the years, he’d become so accustomed to using his partner as the standard by which he measured anything he truly valued—loyalty, courage, integrity, friendship, trust—that it had not come as a real surprise to find Starsky had also become his yardstick for love and beauty. Not that Starsky was beautiful, strictly speaking. His nose was too big, his features too uneven, his hair too untidy. There were times when he was tired or angry that he could look as rough as any thug they dragged in from the streets. Only those indigo eyes, framed with lush lashes, were truly extraordinary. Yet the whole package fit together so well that sometimes when Starsky smiled at him, Hutch felt himself go weak in the knees.

He’d never dared confess his love to Starsky. Abiding love and aching desire might haunt his dreams, but gave him no rights. What Hutch feared, even more than Starsky’s anger or contempt, was making him uncomfortable. He could easily envision their friendship being eroded by Starsky wondering what each word or touch might imply, and by his own need to censor himself. So the only course was silence. Despite his feelings—or perhaps because of them—Hutch found it easier than ever to encourage Starsky in his hopes for the future.

In fact, since the shooting he’d worried about Starsky’s declining interest in women more than Starsky did. He had at first assumed it was physical, then worried it was psychological. The scars marring the furry torso were horrific even to the most loving eyes. Yet Starsky showed no discomfort stripping down in the gym or on the beach and was as ready as ever to go dancing or flirt with any female between nine and ninety. The difference now was that it almost never went further than that. When Hutch had tried to bring up the subject, Starsky had laughed at him and said he’d decided to try quality instead of quantity for a while.

Hutch tuned back in to Starsky’s monologue just in time to catch “ . . . suck their brains out through their noses?” Starsky glanced over at him expectantly.

“Really? That sounds like one of those weird books of yours. Sure they weren’t pulling your leg?” Hutch couldn’t figure out who was sucking whose brains out, or why—or when the conversation had taken a turn down Grand Guignol Avenue—but slight skepticism was always a safe response, since it usually got Starsky to elaborate without letting him know that Hutch had no idea what was going on.

“Don’t think so. That Jackson guy was supposed to be one of the best Egyptologists around before he got killed.” Starsky pronounced the unfamiliar word very carefully, a sure sign that he was impressed

“Let me guess, the curse of King Tut.”

“No, it was an accident in New York, a few years ago. He and his wife were setting up a display and some kind of big stone fell on them. Real shame. I’d’ve liked to hear him sometime. The museum people say he used to give great talks.”

“Speaking of the museum—” Hutch broke off as the Torino plowed through another puddle, spraying water high over the hood, and slid around the corner into the cross-street beside the museum. Normally an attractive, modern building, the early dusk and driving rain made the museum loom beneath the low-hanging clouds like a castle from the worst of Starsky’s horror films. The total lack of electric light in the area turned the sculptures flanking the stairs into menacing gargoyles and the decorative plantings into dangerous shadows.

“Doesn’t look too cheerful,” Starsky muttered.

“It’s just a power outage, not a satanic plot. And I’m pretty sure that’s not Count Dracula at the door, either.” Hutch pointed to a uniformed figure hovering just inside the main entrance doors.

“Yeah, well, if he says ‘I never drink—wine,’ you’re on your own, buddy.”

The two detectives ran up the wide stairway through the rain, making a futile effort to shield themselves with their still-damp jackets. The guard swung the door open as they approached.

“Man, am I glad to see you guys!” he exclaimed in obvious relief. “This is all just too weird!”

Hutch flashed his shield. “I’m Detective Hutchinson, and this is my partner Detective Starsky. The dispatcher said you’ve had a break-in?”

“Yeah, and Frank, that’s my partner? He’s gone!” The guard was just a kid, so wide-eyed and jittery that Hutch was very glad to see that his holster was still buttoned up. This looked like one of those situations where a combination of nerves, adrenaline and firearms had the potential for leaving innocent bystanders in the hospital.

“Okay, just calm down, give it to us from the beginning,” Hutch said soothingly as he peered around the gloom of the foyer, searching for any obvious signs of trouble. The huge area was filled with indefinable shadows, some of which he assumed were caused by display cabinets. A vast shapeless form floating over the staircase startled him for a moment, until he remembered Starsky jabbering about a whale skeleton.

Sinister enough to give anybody the creeps. Good thing I’m a tough, grown-up cop.

The kid was still shuffling from foot to foot and throwing the occasional nervous glance over his shoulder, but having two armed cops for company calmed him down enough to tell his story more or less clearly.

“We come on duty after the museum closes,” he said, leading them toward the security station. “One of us is always at the front desk to keep an eye on the security panels.” He gestured at the dimly lighted monitors behind the desk. “The other one patrols the halls. We take turns doing it, so nobody gets bored from just sitting and watching. We’re supposed to check in by radio every ten minutes.

“Everything was real spooky tonight after the power went off. Even with the emergency generator, there’s only the stairwell lights on and the security system, and you couldn’t see anything anywhere.” The boy shivered. “Frankie, he laughed at me, said I was bein’ a pussy, but it really was scary in some of those rooms back there. So he said he’d take the patrols if I was scared to do my job.” In the dim glow from the monitors, Hutch could see the embarrassment on the kid’s face.

“So you stayed here the whole time?”

“No way! I can handle anything he can. I did my round and then Frankie started on his. About halfway through, I saw the alarm light go on at one of the rear windows. I called Frankie, but he didn’t answer. I kept on calling, but he just never answered.”

“Did you go look for him?” Starsky cut in.

“No. Procedure is, if anything goes wrong the person at the desk calls the cops and stays put.” The two detectives involuntarily exchanged looks; the idea of staying put when his partner didn’t answer the radio was unthinkable to both of them.

The guard caught their expression and said defensively, “I know it sounds dumb, but it’s the rule. Back in Chicago a couple years ago, some thieves lured the desk guy away and just walked right out the front door with about five million worth of stuff.”

Hutch nodded. “Okay, then. You stay here, and we’ll check things out. Where’s that window where the alarm’s showing?”

“Down in the basement, in the back storage area. The window’s at the end of the hallway.” The guard pointed to the monitors again. “There’s a layout of the whole place there, and it’s hooked into the emergency power.”

Hutch leaned over Starsky’s shoulder as he examined the illuminated schematic board. Starsky followed the corridor with his finger and asked, “Where’s the closest exit door?”

“There’s a fire exit halfway along the corridor, here.” The guard pointed. “But it’s a fire door. The alarm goes off if you open it. And all the doors except the front door are hooked into the alarm system after hours anyway.”

“So if anybody came in through that window they’re still in the building,” Hutch said, also tracing the corridor, counting the doors indicated.

“Or went back out through it already.” Starsky grinned. “Sure make things easier for us.”

The guard looked sick. “Oh, fuck, they could have taken anything out of there by now.”

“Hey, you followed procedure, right? Nothing to worry about.” Starsky’s grin showed an edge of teeth this time. He gave his partner a light slap on the shoulder. “Come on Hutch, let’s check this out.”

“What do you think?” Hutch said quietly as they moved out of earshot.

“I think ol’ Frankie’s pulling the kid’s leg. He probably set off that alarm himself and he’s sittin’ somewhere laughing his ass off at the doofus getting all panicky.” Starsky gave a little snort. “Some partner, huh?”

“Yeah. Not exactly crime’s worst nightmare.”

When they reached the end of the foyer they faced a pair of hallways heading in different directions.

“So do we split up?” Starsky said uneasily.

“No.” Hutch made sure to keep his face expressionless. “Dark as it is, we’d probably end up shooting at each other. Or Frankie, if he actually is fooling around down there. Might as well play it safe.” He didn’t miss Starsky’s little sigh of relief. Guns, cars, thugs with knives—Starsky was fearless in front of them all, but give him a eerie setting and he was like a kid at a ghost story session.

Lit only by the glow of the emergency exit signs, the hallway seemed longer and narrower than it had any right to be. By the time they reached the stairs at the end, they were both glancing uneasily into the shadows between the display cabinets and had instinctively moved so they were nearly back to back. Hutch tried to shrug off the nervous tension that was building, telling himself over and over to stop being a superstitious idiot, but his sensible side could not stifle the deepening apprehension. Something was wrong in this place; he could feel it in his bones. He could hear Starsky breathing behind him, deep, slightly forced breaths that meant his partner consciously kept them under control, and reached back to lightly rub Starsky’s side. Under his hand the stiff back relaxed noticeably. Starsky chuckled softly, and then chilly fingers lightly squeezed his.

“Big brave pair a cops, huh?”

There was both affection and mockery in that whisper, and Hutch smiled involuntarily. Starsky might get rattled, but he never lost his sense of humor.

Because of the emergency lighting there was better visibility in the stairwell, and they clattered quickly down the two flights to the basement. However, the lower hallway they emerged into was even darker and gloomier than the main floor. The only lights were spaced far enough apart to leave whole sections in darkness. Reluctantly, Hutch pulled out his flashlight. He’d have preferred not to use it, since the light made the person holding it an obvious target for any hidden shooter, and played hell with night vision as well, but it was too damn dark to risk stumbling blindly any longer.

Starsky produced his own light and pointed it over Hutch’s shoulder toward the end of the corridor.

“Window’s that way.”

Following the twin circles of yellow light, they made their way cautiously toward the back wall. The window itself was at shoulder level for Hutch, and he examined the frame while Starsky held the light closer.

It didn’t take long to spot the heavy layer of old paint, chipped in places but still intact. Hutch stepped back and shook his head, puzzled. “This window hasn’t been touched. And even if somebody wanted to get in here—look at it. Nobody bigger than a five-year-old could squeeze through.”

Starsky raised his light higher and gave a soft laugh. “Look up, Hutch.”

As Hutch’s eyes followed the light upward, he saw a trickle of water moving steadily down the wall, following the wire of the alarm system until it connected with the upper edge of the window frame.

“Don’t tell me,” he said in disgust. “The water shorted out the alarm system. And our security guard’s buddy decided to have some fun.” Starsky nodded in agreement. “We better have a look around anyway. If we do nothing else we can throw a scare into the asshole, maybe threaten him with handcuffs or something.”

“Told ya. Like we didn’t have any real work to do on a night like this. Made us miss supper for nothing.” Starsky had that look in his eye that meant trouble.

Hutch rolled his eyes. “You know, the world doesn’t actually revolve around your stomach, Gordo.”

“Nothin’ in it to revolve around,” Starsky grumbled. “Come on, let’s get it over with. I’ll check out the other end, you start here.” Before Hutch could say a word, Starsky trotted briskly back toward the far end of the hall. He had to squelch a sudden urge to call him back, as his form blended into the shadows. Once more damning himself for an idiot, he turned back to the first doorway and opened it cautiously, sweeping the beam of the flashlight around the room. Nothing was visible but stacks of dusty boxes.

By the time Hutch had gone through three rooms, he had discovered nothing except that the museum definitely needed a better cleaning staff, and he needed some allergy meds. His eyes had begun to sting and his nose to itch, and he knew any minute he would be sneezing uncontrollably. As he stepped out into the hallway, ready to call it quits, he suddenly realized how quiet it was. There were no footsteps, no rustling sounds, no Starsky griping under his breath about the unfairness of life.

Silence.

“Starsky?” he called.

There was no reply. Hutch felt the hair on the back of his neck try to rise. The last two doors at the other end of the hall stood open, and he moved swiftly down to glance in. The last room was completely bare, and the one next to it held only more stacks of boxes, a half-dismantled shelving unit and something that looked like a large irregularly framed mirror standing in the middle of the floor. Except for the open doors, there was no sign his partner had ever been there.

“Fuck!”

Hutch dashed back down the hallway, yanking open the remaining doors with little caution. Like all the others he had seen, the rooms overflowed with boxes and shelves crammed with odd-looking objects—and held absolutely no trace of Starsky. Backing out of the last room, Hutch turned in a slow circle, looking up and down the hall.

Nothing. No movement. No blood. Not even a drag mark anywhere in the dust. Nobody could have taken Starsky out without making any noise at all, let alone get rid of his—Hutch refused to let himself even think the word “body.” There just hadn’t been enough time. And even if Starsky had seen someone suspicious, he wouldn’t have gone off after him without so much as a warning yell.

The terrible feeling of apprehension settled even more deeply into his chest.

“Starsky! Starsky!” This time it was full shout that echoed through the hall and into the stairwell.

There was no answer.

CHAPTER TWO

“What the fuck?”

Starsky blinked fiercely in the sudden brightness. After the pitch darkness of the two rooms he had searched, the unexpected glare of the overhead ceiling lights was blinding. The disorientation he felt nearly made him dizzy. He shook his head and peered around the room as his eyes gradually adjusted.

Coulda sworn the door was over there. How’d I get twisted around so much anyway?

Seen in the light, the room was just another cluttered storage space filled with crates, a halfway broken-down shelving unit stacked with unidentifiable junk, and behind him something that looked a bit like a large upright mirror. There was definitely no security guard—alive, dead or tied up. Putting away the flashlight, Starsky headed back into the hallway. Even with the lights back on, the place looked bleak, with its chipped and dingy paintwork and worn-out floor tiles.

“Hutch?” he called. “Hey, Hutch!”

There was no answer. None of the other storage room doors were open. Starsky looked up and down the corridor in confusion.

“Hutch? Where are you?”

The way his voice echoed off the walls was unmistakable. This place was empty.

His skin started crawling and his heart speeded up. “Hey, Blintz, this ain’t funny!” Starsky hated the hint of a quiver in his voice but couldn’t help it. Two years ago, abandoning him down here might have been Hutch’s idea of a joke, but now . . .

Hutch doesn’t play those kinda games any more. Something’s wrong.

Starsky drew his gun and backed toward the stairwell. The light he had welcomed just moments ago now left him feeling too exposed, a highlighted target against the wall. By the time he reached the access door to the stairs, he was sweating and slightly dizzy from turning to scan back and forth along the hall. The relief he felt at finally getting out of the exposed area was outweighed by rapidly growing alarm.

Where’s Hutch? How could somebody get at him without me hearin’ anything? And if he took off, why didn’t he let me know? Despite his fears, Starsky couldn’t bring himself to call out again.

The only rational thing he could imagine was that for some reason Hutch had returned to the guard station. As he crept up the stairs, Starsky heard a low murmuring noise, growing louder as he neared the top. Once more drawing his gun, he slipped noiselessly along the corridor toward the entrance hall. Reaching the corner, he cautiously peered around into the foyer, and stopped dead in astonishment.

The entrance hall was completely altered, brightly lit and decorated in a motif that to Starsky’s eyes looked vaguely oriental. Colored paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, delicate painted screens concealed most of the display cabinets, and small, elaborately carved tables were scattered in various nooks. A crowd of women in elegant cocktail dresses and men in dark suits stood around talking and laughing, while waiters in white jackets and bow ties carried trays loaded with champagne flutes and finger foods. In the middle of the floor stood a long buffet table, and a bar now occupied the angle where the main staircase met the back wall.

Starsky surveyed the room in disbelief, unwilling to take in the changes. How the hell did this happen so fast? Did I have a blackout down there or somethin’? And where’s Hutch? No matter where he looked, no bright blond head stood out above the upscale crowd. His eye finally fell on the one thing that had not changed—and looked utterly out of place: the security desk in front of the main entrance. He was relieved to see the young guard there, though he noticed that even the kid had spruced up and put on a much nicer uniform

As Starsky pushed his way through the mass of people, muttering half-hearted apologies, he noticed several of the guests staring at him in disapproval. Guess I’m not exactly dressed for this party, am I? Too fuckin’ bad. The guard’s face had the same disapproving look as he took in Starsky’s appearance, and he came out from behind the desk to intercept him.

“Hey, what’s going on in here now? And where’s my partner?” Starsky demanded.

“This is a fund-raising evening, hosted by the Friends of the Bay City Museum.” The guard gave him a fake apologetic look as he took in Starsky’s battered sneakers and clinging jeans. “I’m sorry, sir, but there is a dress code for the evening.”

“I’m not a guest, I’m a cop, remember? You’re the one that made the call.”

“There must be a mistake, officer,” the guard said stiffly. “Nobody reported anything to me, and I didn’t make any calls.”

Starsky blinked. The feeling of unreality and danger that had swamped him in the basement returned with a rush. “Sure you did,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “You were talkin’ to me and my partner fifteen minutes ago. Said there was an alarm signal, and your partner disappeared when he went down to check it out.”

“I’m sorry, officer, but that’s definitely wrong. I’ve never seen you before in my life. And I’m the only person on desk duty here tonight.”

With a half-laugh, Starsky looked around the entrance hall. “Okay, you got me. Good joke. I don’t know how this all got set up so fast, but it’s a joke, right?” He looked around, searching for the members of the squad who had to be hiding and snickering behind the folding screens and display cases. “Whose bright idea was it? Babcock? Estevez?”

The guard didn’t seem inclined to play along. “There’s no joke, sir.” Starsky had a feeling his sudden demotion to civilian again was a sign of trouble. “Nobody called the police, and there’s been no trouble here this evening. I think you better move along quietly before you disturb the guests. The mayor’s here, you know, and Senator Lowell, and other very important people. This isn’t the place for whatever kind of problem you’ve got.” He gripped Starsky’s arm, urging him firmly toward the exit.

For an instant, rage gripped Starsky so strongly he could scarcely breathe. He fought the temptation to pull out his gun and show this little twerp what a problem really was. Using all his will power, he brought himself under control. He knew himself well enough to understand that a large part of the rage was covering fear, and he also knew he couldn’t let himself give in to it. Whatever was going on was starting to feel like major trouble for his missing partner. Hutch needed him free and thinking straight. He couldn’t afford to lash out and start a confrontation that might get him tangled up with suits whose only concern was keeping everything calm and quiet for the big shots.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he pulled his badge from inside his jacket. “Now. Pay attention. This is a badge. I am a cop. There was a call about trouble here and my partner and I responded. Now you wanna cooperate a little here, or do I put the cuffs on you in front of all these important people?”

The sight of the badge brought the guard to a standstill. He squinted at it for a moment and then dropped his hand. “Look, uh, Sergeant, could we maybe do this someplace besides the front door? There’s some really important people here tonight . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, you already told me that.”

“ . . . and they won’t like having their fancy shindig disturbed. There’s a lot of money on the line tonight for the museum, and if things get uncomfortable for anybody, we’ll both lose our jobs.” The guard’s voice had dropped almost to a whisper, and he was once more trying, though more subtly this time, to urge Starsky out of the main lobby area.

Starsky dug in his heels.

“Think real hard now,” he said sweetly. “You still say you didn’t call us?”

“No!” The young man nearly shouted and then glanced around, eyes wide. “For the last time, I did not call the police,” he hissed. “And if anybody else did, they didn’t tell me, and they didn’t report any trouble to me. Now would you please get out of here before my boss sees you?”

“And you haven’t seen my partner? Tall blond guy with a mustache, wearing a green and white jacket?” Starsky said as evenly as possible.

“If you have a partner, I haven’t seen him,” the guard said desperately. “I’m telling you, nothing’s happened here all night!”

He’s tellin’ the truth.

The realization hit Starsky so hard that he felt a moment of vertigo. Over the years, his natural instinct for seeing the truth had been sharpened by experience with questioning with frauds and phonies of every description. And he was seeing truth now. In the face of everything he knew had happened to him in the past hour, Starsky could tell that as far as the guard was concerned, every word he said was true.

What in God’s name is going on?

Panic wasn’t far off, but he forced it back with sheer willpower.

Hutch needs help. Gotta hold it together.

Starsky focused firmly on the image of his partner tucked away in some quiet corner of his heart. The calm center of a world all too often torn apart by violence and brutality, the unwavering support in times of danger and pain, the source of strength for body and soul through every trial. Hutch needed help. Starsky had to keep his act together enough to make sure there would be help. That’s all there was to it.

“Look, Detective, please, can’t you just go?” The guard was once more tugging on Starsky’s sleeve, and the whine in his voice was more pronounced. “Check in with your people again? Maybe—”

“All right, all right, I’m leaving!” With a snarled curse, Starsky turned and shouldered his way through the crush to the front door, this time collecting truly annoyed looks and too angry to care. The only thing that kept him moving forward was the growing feeling of danger, telling him he had to get to the Torino to call this in and get help looking for Hutch.

Pushing roughly through the door, he was halfway across the top of the stairs when he was halted by another shock. The storm that had been battering the city had cleared completely, leaving not a cloud in the night sky. Even stranger, there was no sign of its passing. All around, streetlights and windows glowed, the pavement was dry, and there was no trace of storm debris littering the gutters. There was no mud on any of the swanky cars pulling up at the curb, and well-dressed people piled out and strolled up the stairs, laughing and chattering, without either raincoats or umbrellas.

As he looked down to the street, a dark late-model Cadillac drew up below him, and a uniformed police officer got out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear door. At the sight of the man stepping from the car, Starsky felt his heart nearly slam to a stop.

Hutch.

Hutch—in an expensive suit that fit him better than anything Starsky had ever seen him wear and a pair of shoes that probably cost more than the two of them together took home in a month, with his hair cut in the latest conservative style and a flash of gold watch on his wrist. For a moment Starsky was sure he was having hallucinations. That simply could not be Hutch down there, looking so much like the old pictures of his father during his days as a CEO.

Finally he managed to catch his breath and got his legs to move. He stumbled down the steps toward his partner, calling his name.

“Hutch!” He gasped out as he finally stopped in front of the other man. “What the fuck is goin’ on here?”

Hutch turned to look at him, and the expression of disgust and annoyance crossing his face was like a punch in the solar plexus. “Oh, for God’s sake. You’ve got some nerve. What are you doing here?”

“Wha—what? What’m I doin’ here? What’re you doing . . . dressed up like somebody outta GQ . . . where’d you get that suit anyway . . . and how’d you get your hair cut so fast . . .”

Starsky knew he was babbling, but the sight of Hutch up close unnerved him even more than seeing him step out of the car so unexpectedly. His partner looked cold. The normally warm blue eyes were chips of topaz, his face harshly set, and under his mustache—his neatly trimmed mustache, Starsky noted with a feeling of unreality—his lips compressed into a grimace of distaste. Hutch had never looked at him like that, not when he was puking drunk, not even when he had pulled some really dumb practical joke with Hutch as the hapless victim.

“Hutch?” His voice trailed off miserably.

“You’ve run through just about all the excuses you’ve got, Starsky.” Hutch’s voice was flat and deadly. “It’s bad enough you’re a useless fuck-up on work time. If you’re stupid enough to cause a scene at a public function then you’ve given me all I need to finally have your badge pulled.”

“My badge? Hutch! What’re you, crazy?” Starsky reached to touch the other man’s arm and watched in horrified shock as Hutch stepped back out of reach, the grimace of distaste growing almost to a snarl.

“Dobey! Get this drunk piece of shit out of here!” Hutch said sharply, and then turned back to the car, shutting Starsky out as completely as if he no longer existed.

As Starsky was about to take a step forward, find something to say that would end this nightmare, a hard hand caught his arm and a familiar voice behind him said, “You heard the man. Let’s go.”

He tried to shrug the hold off, still struggling to move, and the hand tightened brutally on the pressure point at his elbow, yanking him around so hard he nearly fell.

“Christ, Starsky,” Dobey said, “don’t you get tired of finding ways to get in trouble?”

Starsky could hear himself breathing in rapid shallow gasps, unable to get any air into his straining lungs. The man holding him was Dobey, without a doubt—thinner by around fifty pounds, and dressed in a patrolman’s uniform—but nevertheless unmistakably Harold Dobey, looking just as furious as his captain ever did when faced with a wayward Starsky. Too stunned to resist, Starsky let himself be muscled away from the staircase and off to the corner of the building, Dobey keeping himself between Starsky and the last stragglers still making their way into the museum. Starsky threw one desperate glance over his shoulder, to see Hutch—God, that can’t be Hutch!—shoot his cuffs, straighten his tie, and assist a slim brunette out of the car with a gallant little half bow.

Before Starsky could recognize her, Dobey grabbed the front of his jacket and slammed him sharply against the wall. “Looks like IA finally owns your ass, boy. The lieutenant’s just been waiting for you to fuck up again and you’re right on schedule.” Starsky didn’t respond. “Starsky! Just what are you stoned on this time?” Dobey’s voice was harsh, without a trace of the concern Starsky was used to hearing even the angriest of the captain’s tirades.

“I dunno.” Starsky’s voice sounded unnaturally calm to his own ears. “What was that stuff Alice drank before she fell into the rabbit hole?”

Dobey shook his head. “You could have been a good cop once. What a damn waste of a badge.”

“Tell me something,” Starsky said in that same eerily calm voice. “What’s the date?”

Dobey’s expression twisted from anger to something close to contemptuous pity. “Thursday, September 16, 1982. You need to know the time, too? Maybe your address?”

If anything had been able to penetrate Starsky’s horrified daze, the disgust in Dobey’s voice would have shamed him. As it was, he could barely assimilate it.

“And Hutch . . . ”

“Lieutenant Hutchinson!” Dobey barked. “And the lieutenant will be wanting to see you tomorrow morning in his office—clean and sober for a change.” The older man gave a cruel little smile. “Do us all a favor, Starsky. Don’t show up.” With one final shove, he ground Starsky back against the wall, and then let go, ostentatiously wiping his hands on his pants as he turned away.

For a minute Starsky simply leaned against the wall, too numb to move. He was dimly aware that his arm was throbbing where Dobey—Dobey! What the hell?—had squeezed it. His shoulders ached from being slammed against the wall, but his physical discomfort seemed far away.

It’s the right date. It looks like Hutch. It looks like Dobey. But—

His mind began to skitter like an animal caught in a trap. The panic he’d held under control since the moment Hutch hadn’t answered his call built inside him, growing into something with the potential to rip his mind loose and leave him adrift in this nightmare with no way out. With a snarl, he grabbed his elbow exactly where Dobey had and ground his thumb into the bruise forming there until the bolt of pain made his eyes water. Brutal but effective, the physical shock cleared his head enough to tamp down the fear and allow him to think.

They’re all fakes. It’s the only answer. This whole thing’s some kind of a setup, like Terry Nash. But there’s so goddamn many of them! Gotta get away from here. Gotta get help so I can find Hutch. Gotta find somebody that’s not in on it.

He straightened his jacket, wincing at the pull through his back. Whoever this fake Dobey guy is, he’s one strong sonofabitch. With a quick glance to make sure no one was paying attention, Starsky stepped around the corner of the building onto the side street where the Torino was parked.

And stopped dead.

Faintly, over the white noise in his ears, he heard a high whimpering sound. The still-functioning part of his brain told him he was the one making it. His knees weakened and he slid down the wall of the museum to end up half-kneeling on the sidewalk, shaking his head in disbelief.

The Torino was gone.

CHAPTER THREE

Hutch slammed the telephone down. “Shit!” He barely resisted the urge to hurl it across the room. Three goddamn calls—what do they think “officer needs assistance” means? He swore again and ran his hands through his hair.

After his first call to the dispatcher, he had returned to the basement and systematically searched each room again. When the security guard stubbornly refused to leave his station to help, Hutch had bullied the master key set out of him and told him to keep making calls for help.

Calls that had so far gone unanswered.

Reality blurred into a never-ending succession of closed doors, cluttered rooms and dark corridors. Apart from the pounding rain, and echoes of his own footsteps and voice, the building was silent. As far as Hutch could tell, there was nothing out of place anywhere: no sign of a struggle, no door open that should have been closed, or vice-versa. It was a shock when he looked at his watch and realized that over an hour had passed since he had last spoken to Starsky.

Almost that long since I first called for back-up. Where the fuck is everybody?

He clenched his fists as another wave of guilt and fear swept through him. Where are you, Starsk? How could I have lost you so fast? Adding to his misery was a splitting headache, only partly due to the incessant noise of storm-driven rain battering at the windows. He sank down into the chair beside the desk, and groped for the phone again.

“What the hell are you doing in my office?” A sharp female voice behind him brought Hutch lurching to his feet, reaching for his gun.

The woman facing him from the door was very tall, wearing a dripping ankle-length rain slicker and carrying a huge emergency flashlight. Behind the light, Hutch got a vague impression of a sharp pointed chin, big round glasses and a straggle of wet hair.

Squinting against the glare, still keeping one hand on his weapon, he pulled out his badge. “Detective Hutchinson. And you are?”

“Louise Deschênes. I am the director assistant of the museum.”

“Okay, Miss Deschênes . . . ”

“Doctor Deschênes,” she broke in. “And I repeat, what are you doing here? The security company called me with some wild story about people disappearing in the museum.” Under other circumstances Hutch would have found her lilting French accent charming; given his headache and worry, he could only resent the extra effort it took to understand her.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. “It’s not a story, Doctor. My partner and I were called by one of your security guards because the other one had disappeared. We started searching the building, and then my partner disappeared. I’ve been looking for him ever since.”

“Preposterous,” she snapped. “How could someone disappear from here? Even without the hydro, we still have emergency power for the security system. To leave the building is not possible without setting off an alarm.”

“I’m not saying anyone left the building,” Hutch said. “What I’m worried about is that they’re still in here somewhere, injured or incapacitated. I haven’t had a chance to search more than the lower floor—”

“You did what!” Deschênes exclaimed. “You went into exhibition areas without permission? Do you realize how delicate some of these artifacts are? God alone knows what kind of damage you have caused.” She shook her head. “I must insist that you leave at once. And I will ensure that your superiors are aware fully of your responsibility for any damage to our exhibits.”

“I’m not leaving until I find Starsky.” Hutch’s voice was low but implacable. “And my superiors will back me up.”

“We shall see about that.” She marched over to the desk and reached for the phone.

“Good luck. I haven’t been able to get through to anyone.”

As Deschênes snatched up the receiver, footsteps sounded in the corridor, followed by a familiar bellow.

“Hutchinson! Where are you?”

“Captain Dobey! Thank God!”

The wave of relief Hutch felt at the sight of Dobey in the doorway turned to dismay as two uniformed officers appeared behind him, and Hutch got a closer look at his captain in the glare of their flashlights. Dobey looked exhausted, his face strained and his suit wet and muddy. The two uniforms behind him were in no better shape.

Hutch’s concern spiked sharply when no other officers entered the room.

“Captain?” he burst out. “Just Kettering and Gutierrez? Where’s everybody else?”

Dobey shook his head wearily. “We’re it.”

“Didn’t you get the message? Starsky’s gone!”

“There’s been a mud slide up in the Donovan area. Three houses completely buried. Every available man we’ve got is out there trying to evacuate the area and hunt for survivors.” Dobey shook his head again. “This is the best I could do right now.”

“Excuse me,” Deschênes interjected, coming forward into the light. “You are a captain, yes? This man’s superior? Could I then ask you to have these people leave the building before they do any further damage?”

“And who are you, ma’am?”

“This is Dr. Deschênes,” Hutch said. “She’s the museum’s assistant director, and she thinks her precious artifacts are more important than a police officer’s life.”

“I did not say that—”

“Ma’am, if you would please let me get the story from Detective Hutchinson?” Dobey’s firm interruption silenced Deschênes long enough for Hutch to jump in.

He tersely related the evening’s events, beginning with the radio call from the dispatcher. “And when I yelled for him there was no answer,” he concluded. “I’ve been looking ever since, but . . . ” He spread his hands helplessly. “I haven’t been able to search a quarter of the place yet.”

“What about this missing security guard?”

Hutch shook his head. “No sign of him either. If I didn’t—”

He broke off at a muffled shout from the corridor, followed by several thumps and some garbled cursing.

“Starsky!”

Hutch pulled his gun and ran toward the noise, evading Dobey’s grab for his arm. In the entrance hall, two dark figures were rolling around on the floor by the guard station, exchanging punches and expletives with equal fervor. Hutch’s attempt to separate them earned him a vicious kick to the shin from one and a barely-dodged backhand from the other. It took the combined efforts of Hutch, Dobey and the two patrolmen to force the two combatants apart.

“That’s enough!” Dobey’s bellow finally quieted the struggling men long enough for Deschênes’ light to illuminate them properly.

Kettering was restraining the young security guard. Despite a torn shirt and bleeding nose, he kept trying to wrench himself free from the patrolman’s hold. Gutierrez more than half supported an older man in the same uniform, who seemed barely able to stay on his feet.

“Who are you?” Dobey stepped between the two, trying to keep their attention on him.

“Who’s askin’?” the older man slurred, and swayed, tilting sideways so far he nearly slipped out of Gutierrez’ hold.

“That’s Frankie. My partner,” the young guard spat as he tried to pull away from Kettering again. “Do you know how much trouble you got us in, asshole? Huh?”

“Ah, shaddup. Punk kid. Can’t teach damn kids nothin’ these days.” Frankie’s wheezing laugh sent a cloud of alcohol fumes wafting over the group.

“Maudits, this man is drunk!” Deschênes said in a tone of horrified incredulity. “What kind of a security company are we employing?”