Chapter Text
Dobey could hear Starsky, at least, through his door. Whether Hutch was also out there was anyone's guess; Dobey could tell from the noise that Starsky was clowning around like usual. He got up and went to the door, wiping whatever stray remnants of a grin there might be off his face – encouraging any of it was a really bad idea, no matter whether he thought it funny, deep inside, or not. All was as it should have been, and he swept the door open.
Starsky was at his desk at least. Feet up, and leaning back in his chair dangerously far, he was eating a burrito. Dobey was about to bark at him when Starsky's phone rang.
It rang a second time, and Dobey barked. “You going to answer that?”
Starsky turned around. “Hutch always yells when I get burrito sauce on the receiver,” he explained. Dobey just glared at him. “You'd think he wouldn't be so picky seeing as it's my phone,” he added, licking his fingers and then picking up the receiver.
“Homicide, this is Starsky,” he said comfortably, as Dobey watched. Starsky paused to listen to the caller, and then replied, “Well, I can't help you. I'm not Hutchinson; I'm Starsky.” He paused again. “Same to you,” he said finally, and hung up the phone, giving it a confused look as he did, and put his feet back up on the desk.
“Who was that?” Dobey asked, just because he was curious.
Starsky shrugged and took another bite of the burrito. “Someone for Hutch,” he said lazily.
“I gathered that,” Dobey said drily. “What did they want?”
“Didn't say,” Starsky said.
“Where is that partner of yours, anyway?” Dobey continued.
“Don't know that either,” Starsky said. “Went to his house to pick him up like usual and he didn't answer the door. And I called him when I got here and he didn't answer the phone either.”
“I want to see the both of you when he gets in, first thing.”
“Will do, Captain,” Starsky said, saluting him, and Dobey sighed, shaking his head, and went back to his desk.
The phone rang again, almost at the same time that Dobey shut his door. Not wanting to actually move again, Starsky reached for it without taking his feet off the desk, and just barely succeeded. He answered the phone cheerfully, flushed with success. “Homicide, this is Starsky,” he repeated himself.
The caller was Hutch's current girlfriend, and she sounded disappointed that it wasn't Hutch that answered the phone.
“I know I'm not him,” he said. “He isn't here yet. Want to leave a message?”
She asked him to have Hutch call her as soon as he was in.
“Okay,” he said, “first thing.”
He tried to hang up the phone without moving his feet, and ended up falling out of the chair, just as Hutch came in.
“Well,” Hutch said finally, after observing Starsky scrambling to his feet, “I guess we can't all be Fred Astaire.”
“I can sing just fine,” Starsky retorted. “Where have you been?”
“Says the guy who failed to pick me up as planned,” Hutch replied, taking a seat at his desk.
“I was there, Phantom. Where were you?”
“At Margo's, numbskull. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” Starsky said. “Did'ja have a good time?”
Hutch looked Starsky over critically, and grimaced when he saw what he was eating. “Oh, Starsky. A burrito for breakfast? That's disgusting. Not to mention messy. You didn't get any on the phone, did you?”
“I like that,” Starsky said sarcastically. “Here I am, just sitting here trying to enjoy the finer things in life, and you go and make a big fuss about it.”
“The finer things? Finer than what? Been getting breakfast out of a dumpster lately?”
“Didn't your mother ever tell you, if you don't have anything nice to say...”
“Yeah, she also told me not to eat burritos for breakfast.”
Starsky shook his head. “I feel sorry for you, buddy. You're missing out.”
“Yup, on heartburn,” Hutch replied.
“That reminds me,” Starsky said, “Margo just called.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I told her you'd call back first thing.”
“Well, why didn't you say so?” Hutch criticized, reaching for his phone.
"I just did,” Starsky said.
As Hutch dialed Margo's number, Starsky's phone rang.
“Margo?” Hutch said when she answered. “Hi! My partner just got around to telling me you'd called.”
Starsky answered his phone. “Homicide, this is Starsky,” he said for the third time in about as many minutes. Perhaps, he thought, adopting an accent would make it more interesting.
“So, what is it? Why'd you call?” Hutch asked.
Starsky's caller wanted to speak to Hutch, again, and was again at least a little disappointed that Starsky wasn't him. “I can't help it,” Starsky explained. “Anyway, he's here now; want to talk to him?”
The caller did.
“Okay, just a minute,” Starsky said.
“Well, good...” Hutch was saying.
“Hutch,” Starsky said.
“Just a minute,” Hutch whispered at him, crossly. “Nothing, it was just Starsky,” he said into the phone. “But what?”
“Hutch...” Starsky tried again. This time he was ignored.
“But I am, Margo,” Hutch said.
Starsky grabbed Hutch's phone away and dropped it on the desk. “Seattle,” he said to Hutch, pointing at his phone. “The police department there. They want to talk to you about Steve Gleason.” He held the phone out enticingly. “Come on, lover boy,” he grinned.
Glowering, Hutch picked up the dropped phone. “Here, honey,” he said, “talk to Starsky for a minute. It's work, on the other phone. Here.” He handed the receiver to Starsky, and got the other one in return. “This is Hutchinson,” he said, perhaps a little shortly.
“Hiya, Margo,” Starsky said, while Hutch listened to Seattle describing what they needed from him. “What's going on?”
Margo said something that Starsky didn't quite catch about moving in with Hutch.
“Really?” he exclaimed. “Congratulations! He didn't say a thing about it to me.”
“'74?” Hutch asked. “I'd have to take a look. Hang on.” He put the phone down and went to the file cabinet, while Margo explained to Starsky that nothing had been settled on; it was simply something she wanted to talk about. She said she felt like he wasn't convinced about the idea.
Starsky looked askance at Hutch. “Oh. Well, why not, the cad?” he asked. “What did he say about it?” He turned around and grinned at Hutch, who was watching him suspiciously instead of going through the file cabinet. Starsky winked and turned back around, listening to Margo while Hutch found the folder and came back to the phone.
“Yeah, I've heard that line before too. Actually I've had to use it before.”
Hutch picked up the other phone. “It says here he was working at a car repair shop for most of that time... lost the job in July and told his parole officer he'd decided to go out east – Florida.”
Starsky, in the meantime, was trying to talk Margo down. “Well, I understand; I do too. But you have to look at it from his point of view.”
Hutch was watching Starsky. “Yeah, actually, we do,” he said to person on the other end of the line. “Lenny Penobscot saw him in Miami – part of his testimony in the '75 case against Willard Mason.”
Starsky looked at Hutch, nodding towards the phone he was holding. “She's crying,” he said.
“Oh, no,” Hutch said under his breath. “Hey,” he said into the phone, “can you hold on a second? I have a situation here. Here, talk to my partner for a minute.”
They switched phones.
“Margo? Honey, what's the matter?” Hutch asked gently. “Margo?”
The caller from Seattle had wondered whether Starsky had worked on the same case that Hutch had. “Usually, but not in this case,” Starsky explained. “But here...” He reached for the file folder that Hutch had been looking at, almost reaching it; Hutch passed it to him when he noticed.
“...I have the file right here,” he finished.
“Margo, please stop crying,” Hutch said.
“Well, I don't know that,” Starsky said. “It was Hutch's case. Hang on.” He looked over at Hutch. “He really needs to talk to you.”
Hutch acknowledged Starsky with his eyebrows. “Yes, we can talk about it again, okay?”
Starsky turned back to the phone. “It looks like this is going to take some time. Can you call back? What time is it there?”
“Right,” Hutch said, “that would be fine. Look, Margo, some cop from another department is on the phone... I have to talk to him, okay?”
“Great,” Starsky said, “I'll have him call you as soon as possible.”
They both said goodbye to their respective callers and hung up.
“Okay, give me Seattle,” Hutch said to Starsky, holding out his hand.
“I haven't got Seattle,” Starsky said.
“You were just talking to them.”
"I thought you were going to be on for a long time... I told him to call back.”
“Oh.” Hutch sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Neither of them noticed Dobey come out of his office and stand near the door, listening.
“So, what's going on with Margo?” Starsky asked.
“Oh, you know...” Hutch began, but Dobey interrupted him.
“First thing!” Dobey exclaimed. “Do you know, Detective Starsky, what 'first thing' means?”
Starsky didn't miss a beat. “Hutch,” he said critically, “don't just sit there flapping your jaw about your girlfriend. Dobey wants us in his office first thing. And where were you anyway? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, slinking in here twenty-five minutes late.”
Hutch looked at both of them with innocent surprise, and just a smidgen of annoyance. Huffing, Dobey went back into his office, and the two detectives followed him, Starsky raising his eyebrows and mouthing the word 'sorry' to Hutch. Hutch glared at him through narrowed eyes.
They both took seats in Dobey's office, Starsky nabbing the chair in the corner, leaving Hutch to cross the room and sit right in front of Dobey.
“Who told you to make yourselves comfortable?” Dobey demanded, not looking up. Hutch popped up out of his seat, and Starsky got up slowly.
“Alright, Captain, we're here,” Starsky said. “What's going on?”
“Well, sit down, for starters,” Dobey said, not letting on that he was enjoying teasing them.
They gave each other a commiserating look, and took their seats again.
Dobey, busy with some papers on his desk, didn't look up. “We have a death threat, gentlemen,” he said.
Hutch and Starsky looked at each other again, and Hutch cleared his throat. “And?” he prompted.
“What do either of you know about horses?” Dobey asked.
They looked at each other a third time, not quite sure if Dobey was being serious. Starsky spoke first. “Well, I know they make a lousy murder weapon,” he said.
“What?” Hutch wondered.
“You ever tried to throw a horse at someone?”
Hutch rolled his eyes, and turned back to Dobey. “I've ridden a little. Why?”
“A horse is making death threats?” Starsky suggested.
Dobey ignored Starsky. “I just got a call from an old friend; he owns racehorses.”
“Oh, racehorses,” Starsky said. “That I know something about.”
“He's got a filly that's doing pretty well,” Dobey continued. “Won the Kentucky Oaks last year and the Breeder's Cup Juvenile the year before that. She's headed for the Santa Anita Derby this year and they have high hopes for her. But a couple of weeks ago someone began threatening her. And there was an intruder in the barn the other night and my friend is scared. So I'm assigning you two...”
“We're going to be guarding a horse?” Hutch summarized disbelievingly.
“That's it,” said Dobey. “She's a pretty little thing; you'll like her. Name is Satin Swishes.”
“We're going to be guarding a horse?” Hutch repeated, not sure Dobey had understood his point.