HIGHWAYS

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me. This is for entertainment purposes only. No money is being made from it.

Author's Notes: Please note that this story is UNFINISHED. Rating for this story is R for language.

Feedback welcome at [email protected]

HIGHWAYS

by Sarah Enany

At precisely 6:05 PM, Judge Milton C. Hardcastle (retired) walked into his living room,� put his plate containing a thick beefsteak and fries down on the coffee table, flopped onto the sofa, turned on the TV, and watched with gratification as his favorite news program came on the air. "Hah!" he gave a satisfied shout, rubbing his hands, as the announcer began the usual recitation of floods and fires.

"Twenty-three people were injured today, none seriously, when a fire hydrant exploded on Twenty-Third and Fifth."

"Darn it," the Judge muttered. "Forgot the ketchup." With a resigned sigh, he headed back to the kitchen for it. Although he was well over sixty, the short man was packed densely with muscle, with more energy than the average twenty-year-old. The hard lines of his face and his severe crew-cut bore witness to his hard-line policy on crime, an unbending attitude that in his years on the bench had earned him the nickname "Hardcase" Hardcastle. Yet those who knew him well could tell you that underneath the hard-nosed exterior was a compassionate humanitarian who cared deeply for the welfare of others, particularly the weak and defenseless. But his ultra-macho attitude prevented him from showing any softness in his character, out of a fear of seeming weak. His wife and son were dead, and with them had died any shred of love in the Judge's life.

Only one person had been able to break through the tough shell in later years. That man had been 'Skid' Mark McCormick, an ex-racing driver thirty years his junior, who had been placed in Hardcastle's custody after a shady career as a car repossesser. They had formed an odd partnership, as Hardcastle had enlisted McCormick's help in nailing various thugs who'd walked out of Hardcastle's court on technicalities. Over time, a lasting, if unspoken, bond had developed between them.

But McCormick was long gone now. After finishing his probation and� winning a bet with the Judge to pay for putting him through law school, he was now a hugely successful practising attorney, and had moved all the way to the other side of the country, in New York. Hardcastle had heard great things about McCormick, made a point of following the news of his exploits, and was secretly as proud of him as if he'd been his own son.

But he just didn't see him much since he had attended his law school graduation. Who was he kidding? He hadn't seen him even once, although McCormick had asked him to, several times. Even at the graduation he had just stood in the� crowd and watched him get his diploma, not staying to say hello to him after the ceremony. Had the Judge been a more introspective man, he might have realized that it was embarrassment that kept him from seeing his ex-parolee or even calling; the feeling that he represented the unsavory part of Mark's past, and the need to free Mark from the reminder that he had once been sent to prison. As it was, all he had was a vague feeling of unease at the thought of making contact with his prot�g�; he knew he should have returned McCormick's calls, but he always hung up the phone in mid-dial. Eventually, the younger man had stopped calling.

It was McCormick that the Judge's thoughts turned to now, as he brought back the ketchup to the table. Hardcastle grimaced as he remembered his constant battles with McCormick over what TV programs to watch. He'd want to watch the news while Mark would be always wanting to see some cheesy movie. He could still remember their conversations.

"C'mon, McCormick, I wanna watch the news! How am I supposed to know what's going on in the world?!"

"Look out the window."

Come to think of it, he hadn't heard any news of Mark in some time, he thought, munching contentedly on steak and fries. Maybe he'd finally call him, just to see if he was keeping out of trouble. Not that he missed him or anything, Heaven forbid.

Thank God McCormick wasn't living there anymore, and he was free to watch the news in peace. No more dumb movies. Good solid programs!

He'd be yelling at McCormick to change the channel, and the guy would ignore him, curled up on the sofa like a teenager, exclaiming over some ridiculous TV stunt. "This is a classic, Judge! Oooohhh, lookit that! Right through the door!"

His fingers played with the remote.

Feeling like seven kinds of a jackass, he flipped over from the fascinating news report on a new breed of mosquito to see what movie was on the other channel.

As it happened, it was Sunset Boulevard, one of the ones Mark had - well, not taught him to like, but forced him into watching, one evening after he'd won the basketball game they bet on for who got to pick the�TV program that night. Dumb women's flick, he'd thought at the time. What man would want to watch it? Sometimes Mark had decidedly queer tastes. But he'd kept on watching, and grudgingly recognized that it made some interesting points about growing old, and the way you saw yourself as being always young. The point-of-view shift had thrown him in the end, and he'd looked at the thing like a case, analysing the murder. He'd told himself later that he'd appreciated the movie because it had helped him understand a certain kind of criminal motivation. But deep inside him, he knew he had gained a deeper understanding of himself as well, though he dismissed it immediately as 'psychological claptrap'.

He watched a few moments of a black-and-white lady gazing into the eyes of a black-and-white man accompanied by black-and-white music, before catching himself guiltily. I'm as bad as he is. Hastily flipping over to the news program again, he caught the announcer saying, "And now a human interest story." Human interest my ass, Hardcastle thought. Who'd want to listen to that? Typical half-assed bleeding-heart reporting! He speared a juicy morsel of steak and raised it to his mouth.

"Respected East Coast attorney Mark McCormick has just announced his intention to put his highly successful legal career on hold in order to race the Pontiac Trans Am entry for Richardson Inc. in the Indy 500 next week, sources revealed today."

The fork clattered to the Judge's plate as he stared openmouthed at the screen.

"McCormick, who started out his career as a racing driver, revealed to the shocked legal world that it has been his lifelong dream to race in the Indy 500. He'll be arriving at the training meet tomorrow, where he."

But whatever else the newsreader had been about to say was lost as his voice was drowned out by the Judge's bellow.

"McCORMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!!!"

********

The thrumming of the engine travelled up his arms, warming his chest, filling his whole body with a life he had forgotten he possessed. The track flew towards him, came around to meet him, and he made love to it, manouevred the vehicle through its curves, rejoiced in the roar of the motor and the whistling of the wind. They were one, man and machine, living completely in the moment. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow. Nothing but the glorious, eternal now.

Driving fast enough, he could even forget the faint, persistent ever-present ache in his heart.

He blasted past the finish line. He knew he had done well without being told; no other car was anywhere near him. They had always liked this, the various people he had raced for: the ability to know without being told how he was doing on the track. He knew he was on a roll, he was flying! If only the race was today, instead of the pactice rounds.

It was with some regret that he finally drew the blissful moment to a close and pulled in to where the pit crew was waving to him. Sheila, the� head mechanic and pit crew boss, a short, stocky, middle-aged lady with close-cropped brown hair, was jumping up and down, waving the familiar sign: "McCormick-IN". When the car finally stopped, she threw the sign to one side to slap him vigorously on the back and congratulate him, and he was surrounded by a little crowd of supporters as soon as he stepped out of the car into the golden sunshine.

"Yeah, Skid!"

"Way to go!"

"Knock 'em dead!"

"You kick ass!"

Pulling off his helmet to shake his curly brown hair loose in the breeze, McCormick caught sight of a familiar short, stocky figure with bulging biceps and a white crew-cut, lounging against a car, and stopped dead in his tracks. The smile froze on his face as he realized who it was. For a moment, the tiny ache in his heart grew to such a magnitude that it threatened to choke him. Then he shook off his congratulating teammates and headed for his trailer with long, hurried strides, eyes fixed straight ahead.

"McCormick! Hey, McCormick!" the Judge yelled, jumping up� as McCormick stalked past him without so much as a look. "Hey! HEY!" He had to jog to keep up with the taller man's pace. "McCormick! Hey, McCormick,� it's me!" He caught up with McCormick as he reached the door of his trailer, managing to put a hand on his shoulder."McCormick!"

Furious, cold-eyed, McCormick spun around to face him. "What do you want?"

Not seeing the hurt behind the rage, Hardcastle plowed into a tirade in the old familiar way they had once shared. "Are you crazy? I thought you'd finished with that - that crazy racing game! You outta your mind, McCormick? You wanna get yourself killed? I s'pose you've forgotten what happened the last time you tried to do this! You nearly killed yourself, that's what! Here I am, thinking you're safe, and what happens? I hear about it on the news! I'm just glad I got here in time to put a stop to this."

"WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP, HARDCASTLE?" The Judge took a step back. He had rarely, if ever, seen Mark in such a state. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard. "Just what gives you the right to come around here yelling about my career choice now, huh? I know you don't wanna know me. That's just fine by me, 'cause I don't wanna know you, either. So just get the fuck outa here, 'cause in case you haven't noticed,� it's a little late for you to be coming around here acting like you care."And with that, he spun around, went into his trailer and slammed the door.

McCormick stood in the shower, panting, letting the pounding, steaming water relax and calm him down. He wouldn't have imagined that just seeing Hardcastle would throw him into such a state. *He's got some nerve coming here after all these years acting like he cares,* he thought.� But what really disturbed him had been that he didn't think it was an act. The way Hardcastle had acted, the way he had screamed, was the way he knew so well from long experience, the aggressive panic that was the only way the Judge had to show genuine caring. But if he did care,� WHY had he never called?

McCormick massaged his temples, letting the water stream down his hair and face. He didn't want to remember the pain that had led him to cut the Judge out of his life, but it was forcing itself back on him now. The way he had seen Hardcastle's face in the crowd at his graduation, and looked for him afterwards, to find that he had left. The phone calls. First, the puzzlement and worry of getting the answering machine at times when he knew the Judge was home. Then, when he did get him, the stilted, unnatural conversations...

"Hardcastle?"

"Who is this?"

"You kidding me? Don't tell me you've forgotten my charming voice already! Your pet ex-con! Trimmer of hedges, cleaner of pools! Mark McCormick, the guy you can't live without!"

Long silence.

"Judge?"

"I.. uh, gotta go now, McCormick. Catch ya later, huh?"

After a couple of times of this, he had given up.� Timed his calls to get the answering machine, figuring maybe the Judge had a lady in his life and he might be calling at the wrong moment. *I'll let him pick the right time to call me,* he thought.

But his calls were never returned, and slowly, gradually, he came to the bitter conclusion that he had been just another case to Hardcastle. Like Harold Eugene Thomas, the teenage juvenile delinquent who'd called himself Death Ray, or his own ex-cellmate, Teddy Hollins, the little guy with the big dreams. Someone to reform. A way to improve the world by creating good citizens. Not, as he had naively thought, a friend. Come and make sure he graduates, that you've helped make the world a better place, then your duty is over. Right, Hardcastle. But why didn't you even stay to see me one last time? And then, the more painful realization. That Hardcastle might not want to be seen associating with an ex-con. That knowing McCormick might be a source of shame to him. That the only feeling of complete belonging he had experienced in his life, the security and delight of knowing that there was at least one person in the world who thought he was special, had been an illusion. That the one person he would have given his life for didn't care about him. That he was alone.

Savagely pushing the memories away, he stepped out of the shower, dressed, and exited the trailer, to find Hardcastle still standing there jiust as he had left him. As though there had been no pause in the conversation, he growled, "What the hell's that s'posed to mean, McCormick?"

McCormick sighed. "Okay. Fine! You want it straight, I'll give it to you straight. I thought you cared, Hardcastle. I thought I was something special to you, not just another case. So I was wrong. Fine, no problem. But you'll have to excuse me, I can't hang around with you like in the old days." The continuation of the sentence, *it hurts too much*, trembled on his lips but remained unspoken.

"You finally lost your marbles, McCormick? I cared enough to send you to."

"Law school, yeah, yeah. Well, I'm working on paying you back because I sure as hell don't wanna be in your debt!"

"Like it or not, you owe me, McCormick!"

"Oh, sure I do. I owe you the money for the tuition. But anything else, I paid up front. We solved those cases together, Hardcase. Fifty-fifty. You helped me, I helped you. 'Cept it turns out I was the chump, because I was spilling my guts out and-" (And I loved you, but you didn't love me.) "-and you were just doing your job. So don't start giving me that crap about how I owe you for reforming me, because I gave at the office already, Hardcastle! Got that?� I'm not just another one of your GODDAMN CASES!" He turned on his heel and stalked away.

"Nobody said you were," Hardcastle said mildly to McCormick's retreating back. But it was obvious that he was not turning back. Hardcastle took a step in his direction, then decided against it. "Ah, what the hell. Prima Donna!" he muttered. Deep down inside, he knew why McCormick was so pissed off, maybe even regretted his actions a little. But he believed in deeds, not words. After a little thought, he went to the reception area.

The young man at the reception desk greeted him with a pleasant smile. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"I never received my invitation for tonight's gala reception," Hardcastle said smoothly.

"We can fix that right away, sir. Driver or guest?"

"Guest. I was invited by Mark McCormick."

The way the man's face lit up told Hardcastle all he wanted to know about Mark's reputation in the racing world. "OH! Here you go, sir. It's a pleasure to welcome any guest of Mr. McCormick's to the Indy 500!"

"Thanks," the Judge said smugly, pocketing the card.

"Sign here for our records, please." The man offered him a book, pointing to a blank space next to McCormick's name. Hardcastle signed with a flourish, and took a cab back to his hotel. We'll see what's eating you tonight, Mr. Prima Donna McCormick.

**********

The five-hundred-plus crowd sparkled and glittered as Hardcastle watched. Looks like Oscar night, he thought. Crystal chandeliers, a string quartet, tastefully arranged flowers everywhere, a sumptuous ballroom specially reserved, jewelry, evening gowns, suits and ties - all in a day's work for Richardson Inc., who were certainly sparing no expense for their company's gala reception.

Hardcastle looked up at the vaulted ceilings, the paintings and stucco, and down at the mirrorlike Italian marble floor. For once he was glad he'd remembered to pack his tux. The whole setup reminded him of the time he'd been invited to a party with the President of the United States. He sighed, taking a glass from a passing waiter with a tray. Even then, he remembered, McCormick had been more at home in the formal setting than him. Maybe he *did* belong here. He smiled, hearing McCormick's voice from the past. "These days there's a lot more to racing than stepping on the gas and 'going like stink', as you so eloquently put it! Racing's changed, Judge.� A lot of it is public relations." He remembered an old Arab proverb: "Do not teach your children your ways, for they are born for an age which is different from yours."

*Get with the program, Hardcastle. You're not getting any younger, you know.* The thought came unbidden. He tried to recapture his disapproval at McCormick's going back to racing. *Bunch of hoo-ha's with caviare and champagne and.* But it had faded and no matter how hard he tried, he could feel only gladness that Mark was doing well.

He turned round to see the object of his meditations walking casually into the ballroom, down the marble steps, wearing a dazzling smile. He caught his breath. It had been so long since he had seen his prot�g� in his full glory that he had forgotten how full of life he was. The man seemed to sparkle brighter than the glittering lights on the ceiling. A wave of fierce pride and affection ripped through Hardcastle so violently that he had to turn away for a moment. But he couldn't resist and turned back to see the familiar figure, now busily charming the birds out of the trees - white teeth flashing, curly hair catching the light, long limber body perfectly at ease in the black tux. Two pretty girls wrapped themselves around his arms as Hardcastle watched. McCormick handled them with a smooth, gentlemanly air quite different from the preening posture the Judge remembered him using with attractive women in days gone by. He soon lost sight of McCormick as he was swallowed up by the crowd. How he's changed, he thought. With a mild shock he realized that the college education and the years spent practising law had made a smoother, cooler person of the once-wild young man. The seeds of refinement and savoir-faire he'd always held� had blossomed wonderfully. And yet - and this was what made him really stand out from those around him - his smoothness wasn't glib or oily butt had the ring of sincerity. When people looked at McCormick now, they saw not what he had once been - the defeated young man filled with resentments and grudges against the world - but the mellow flame of a genuinely contented person, secure in his beliefs and dedicated to his goals. A joy to behold.

Yet - yet, he hated to admit it, but there was also a slightly serious air about Mark, an almost undetectable something that spoke of some hidden pain. Of course Hardcastle didn't believe for a moment that it had anything at all to do with the boy's hot-headed talk of that afternoon. He was NOT the cause of that pain. No way. Of COURSE not. He looked in McCormick's direction again, to find that he had disappeared. The Judge sighed.

"What are you doing here?"

Hardcastle nearly jumped out of his skin. "McCormick! You wanna give me a heart attack?"

Paying no attention to the other man's bluster, McCormick pressed on, cold and relentless. "You aren't supposed to be in here, you weren't invited. How did you get in, flash your badge?"

Despite all his good intentions, Hardcastle found his temper rising. "That's a hell of a way to talk to someone who made you!"

"Fuck you, Hardcastle. Nobody made me. Sure, I'm grateful for the way you treated me, and for putting me through school. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Now would you mind telling me why the hell you're here? Don't tell me. My car owner's real name is Ted Bundy and they found a dozen dead bodies in the glove compartment of his Corvette."

Hardcastle found a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. That was the first thing he'd done when he found out about McCormick's racing ideas - run Thomas Richardson through the computer. But the man had come out clean as a whistle. "Nah, he's clean."

"Aw, gee, Judge! That's real nice of you. I'm so happy that my racing career is not about to be shot down in flames." McCormick's stance was casually relaxed, in deference to the party atmosphere, but his eyes were chips of flint, his voice a steely whisper.� "Now. Why. Are. You. Here?"

"It's a public event, McCormick! I have a right to be here same as anyone else!"

"Don't give me that! Besides, this is a private party, and I'll bet you weren't invited. How'd you get in here?"

"Oh, I love this. Now I'm supposed to give an account of my actions to an ex-con who climbed up the social ladder!"

The look in McCormick's face was as though the Judge had pulled a knife out of thin air and plunged it into his chest. He froze, and an icy calm covered his features, closing off his face. "Guess I asked for that," he said quietly, and walked off without another word.

Shit, Hardcastle thought. How was I supposed to know he'd be over-sensitive about it? Now I suppose he's gonna want me to apologize, or something. Sighing, he took off after the retreating brown head, just able to make him out through the crowd. Catching up, he touched his arm. McCormick whirled round, looking like he wanted to deck him, just as a young man with a sweet, almost girlish face and a blonde crew-cut came up to them, grinning broadly. Hardcastle recognized him from a magazine as one of the racing drivers in the event.

McCormick gave him a polite smile. "Jim."

"Mark McCormick," the blond smiled,� "there's someone I want you to meet."

'Someone' was was an extremely distinguished-looking older man in a silvery-gray suit with graying temples and a chiseled face, instantly recognizable as Thomas Richardson. With him was an attractive but sullen-looking redhead in a black silk pantsuit and enough well-cut, tasteful diamonds to balance the national debt.

"Mr. Richardson! This is an honor. I'm proud to be racing for your team."

"The honor is ours. This is my wife Linda."

The redhead smiled grudgingly as McCormick gently raised her white hand to his lips. As if by magic, McCormick's face had cleared, and he was greeting the powerful man and his redheaded wife with the trademark McCormick charm. He seemed impressed with Richardson's presence, and Hardcastle had to admit that that was as it should be. Now this guy is a class act, he thought, even if his wife is an ice princess. What a difference between Richardson and that other slob Mark raced for. That guy had looked like he should be on a 'Wanted' poster, and. Surprised, he realized Richardson was extending a hand to him, and putting on a good grace, he shook it. "Milt Hardcastle."

To his surprise, the distinguished man responded delightedly, shaking his hand and smiling� warmly. "It's an honor to meet you, Judge Hardcastle. I remember seeing you running for the Supreme Court a few years back. Hardly anyone remembers the basic simplicity of the law nowadays. People like you are what keeps this country great."

Flustered, Hardcastle could only mumble some inane acknowledgement. Through his peripheral vision, he could see McCormick smiling charmingly, but tense as a bowstring. Richardson was still speaking, smiling at McCormick. "Mark, I really wasn't expecting such an honor! How did you prevail upon your distinguished friend to leave the legal world you two share and join us proletarians here?"

Richardson's reference to himself, Mr. Silver Spoon, as a 'proletarian' just because he was involved in racing would have made Hardcastle smile if his attention hadn't been distracted by something much more significant. *He - he thinks I know Mark from the courtrooms*, Hardcastle realized, and the notion surprised him more than he thought it would. Not so surprising, is it, Judge? A lawyer is expected to hang out with judges. But it brought home to him, with force, that McCormick was no longer the old familiar ex-con looking for direction in his life, but an attorney, a� distinguished member of society. All that time he'd stayed away from him had paid off, he was thinking, when McCormick's next sentence shocked him. "Oh, I never really worked with Judge Hardcastle. He once sent me to jail for stealing a car."

Frozen with shock, Hardcastle stared openmouthed at the small group� in front of him. He was surprised when Richardson began to laugh. The blond boy with him laughed too, and even the ill-humored Linda managed a polite smile. Hardcastle�forced himself to chuckle as McCormick smiled as well. "I see we have a wit on our team," Richardson grinned. "Well, a sense of humor is the most valuable asset anyone can have!"

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then the little group separated as the magnate fulfilled his duty to mingle. Hardcastle was boiling. "What the HELL did you think you were doing back there?" he hissed. "You gone crazy?"

"Just saying it out loud before you do," McCormick whispered, still in that awful cold, wounded tone. " 'Oh, I don't actually hang out with this guy. He's pretending to be a lawyer, somebody important, but he's really just another ex-con. He's not worth my time.' That's it, isn't it?"

"McCormick, I've had it with your prima donna act-"

"Prima-" McCormick seemed frozen with rage, at a loss for words. He stood there for a moment, his face working. When he spoke, his tone was one of hurt and bewilderment.� "Judge, why did you come here, huh? To ruin what I'm trying to make of my life?"

"Get yourself killed as fast as possible," Hardcastle muttered.

McCormick plowed on, angry again now, as if the older man hadn't spoken. "You gate-crash in here, on the most important meeting of the race, to mess with my mind and spoil my PR."

"Mess with your PR? Those guys ate me up! You gone outa your mind, McCormick? Whaddaya talking about?"

"Like you don't know what seeing you again is gonna do to me," McCormick said, starting to lose control, his voice steadily rising. "I'd gotten used to living without you! Oh, sure, I missed you, and it hurts like hell to know you're out there somewhere and don't want to talk to me, after all we-" He trailed off in pain. "I thought we were friends!" He was on the verge of shouting now, and was starting to get strange looks from those around him. "And now you show up like nothing's happened, and I'm supposed to say, 'Oh hi, Milt, how've you been? What have you been doing with yourself for the last SEVEN YEARS?' "

"Let's talk somewhere quiet, okay?" Not wanting to spoil McCormick's image by letting people see him yelling at a formal event, Hardcastle steered the seething man� towards the patio. With an effort, McCormick controlled himself until they were outside.

The spacious, terracotta-tiled patio was cool and dark, smelling of the fresh night air. Surrounded by a marble balustrade, it overlooked the spacious gardens of the hotel; nearly an acre of inky black lawns and dark, rustling trees, relieved by tiny pools of light from lanterns in little rush baskets. McCormick inhaled deeply, trying to keep control of himself. Absurdly, a smart-ass remark from the past came to him: *we gotta stop meeting like this*. But that line belonged to a past that was dead and buried. Not wanting to make eye contact with the Judge, he turned sharply to his left, went straight to the balustrade and looked out into the dark garden, fixing his eyes on a figure in a ski mask, dressed in black, running away from the hotel-

Wait a minute.

The patio was on the ground floor, barely five feet above ground level. Without a second thought, McCormick vaulted over the balustrade, dropped smoothly to the grass and took off in hot pursuit of the character.

"What the-" Hardcastle stared as he saw McCormick suddenly jumping off the balcony. Starting forward, he tripped over something large and heavy lying on the terracotta tiles.

Something large, warm and wet and heavy.

Hardcastle had seen enough dead bodies in his time to know what it was.

"Ah, SHIT."

It was a man, lying facedown, with the head twisted sideways. With some regret, he recognized it as Jim, the sweet-faced blond driver he had seen with Richardson earlier. Though no wound was visible, the pool of blood around him indicated he had been stabbed with no small degree of butchery. As he bent over, careful not to touch the body, he noticed a paper fluttering next to him. The capitals were scrawled with the victim's own blood.

ALL THE INDY 500 DRIVERS WILL DIE LIKE THIS

*******

Hardcastle's heart stopped for an instant. *Mark.* He rushed to the balustrade, suddenly consumed with the fear that McCormick had been chasing after the killer and gotten stabbed himself. But the first thing he saw was McCormick trudging back wearily. His hair was tousled and his suit was covered with mud and grass stains, obviously from a fall.

""Judge," McCormick panted, "there's something weird goin' on around here. I." Through the gaps in the fence, he caught sight of the dead body. "Oh, no."

In an unspoken gesture of truce, Hardcastle reached down to take his hand and pulled him up again over the banister. "You let him get away?" he asked in the familiar disapproving tone. "I trust you to do one little thing, and you go and mess it up!"

But McCormick wasn't listening. He had caught sight of the paper next to the body. All the color drained out of his face.

********

"Of course, we would be delighted if you and Judge Hardcastle could assist the police in their investigations," a haggard-looking Richardson� was saying. "I do realize, however, that we can't impose upon you. You must do as you see fit." He sighed, obviously stricken. It was common knowledge that he had been a good friend of the driver who had died.

The party was definitely over. Nothing like a murder to break up a society soiree, McCormick thought with a certain dark humor. The racing drivers, their trophy wives and sundry glitterati had all given their statements and left. Richardson's sullen wife had disappeared right after their first meeting and not even deigned to reappear for the police. Half the guests - the half that had been questioned - had seen nothing, and the rest had been sent home after the police had gotten fed up. And now - thanks to his and Hardcastle's reputations as men of the law - they were the only ones left, together with a Lieutenant Bernstein, a balding man of about fifty,� with an immaculate pinstripe suit, a supercilious air and a definite preference that 'outsiders' should stay out of 'his' investigation.

Bernstein cleared his throat delicately. "Mr. Richardson," he began. "No offense to your sterling guests, I'm sure, but perhaps the police - with our superior experience -� are, after all, better equipped to handle something like this. Wouldn't you agree?"

McCormick certainly agreed. After three hours of inane police questioning on top of a day of racing and emotional upheaval, he was getting tired of it. No, not just tired; mind-numbingly, achingly weary. He'd been over the description of the mysterious masked man so many times that he was beginning to see little masked men whenever he closed his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do now was assist anyone in anything. Except he badly wanted to know who did it.

"Judge Hardcastle and Mr. McCormick, as I'm sure you're aware, managed to bring quite a number of renegades to justice within a very short time period, not so long ago," Richardson said smoothly, causing Hardcastle and McCormick's heads� to swivel round sharply. *Shit! Is there anything this guy doesn't know?* McCormick thought. "I would be honored to have their assistance in solving this matter."

"Yes, Bernstein pressed on, "but Judge Hardcastle is, after all, retired, and-"

McCormick felt a totally unexpected adrenaline surge. He fixed the lieutenant with a steely glare that would have wilted a more sensitive person. "Just what do you mean by that?" he said, trying to keep his voice civil.

Looking satisfied at having needled McCormick, the man smiled suavely. "I merely meant," he began, "that after a certain age, people-"

Seeming to sense that the two men might come to blows in a moment, Richardson stepped in. "The bottom line," he said firmly, "is that I stand to lose the most here, as Jim was murdered at my reception; that I am one of many who stand to lose if anyone else is murdered; that Jim was a personal friend of mine, and I have a personal interest in finding his murderer. As I believe the police also wish to do, is that not?"

"Uh-yeah," Bernstein stammered, wilting under Richardson's firm stare. "Mr. McCormick, Judge Hardcastle, would you care to participate in our investigations?"

He was on the verge of saying no, thank you very much, that he had had enough of crime for a while, when as if in a dream, he heard Hardcastle speak.

"Sure, we'll help the cops - uh, the police with their investigations. McCormick and I would be glad to. Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Richardson."

McCormick turned his head to look at Hardcastle incredulously. *I can't believe the nerve of the guy*, he thought. *Does he think he owns me or something?* But it would be bad form to start fighting with Hardcastle in front of his boss, so he was forced to grit his teeth and smile. "Yeah, Mr. Richardson," he chorused, looking daggers at Hardcastle. "The Judge and I work real well together."

Hardcastle and McCormick looked at one another. For a long moment, they exchanged wide, toothy grins. Despite the differences in the two men's ages and appearance, both smiles said roughly the same thing: *Just wait till I get you alone*.

********

"Fancy-schmancy. Who the hell uses 'however' in the middle of a sentence anyway?" Hardcastle said as they descended the ballroom steps. . "I knew it," McCormick sighed, too tired to even fight. "My life was fine till you showed up again. I'm doing great on the track, I'm knockin' 'em dead at the party, everything is FINE! Then you show up, and suddenly there's a maniac who hates racing drivers crawling out of the woodwork, howling for our blood, one of our best drivers is killed, there's cops crawlin' all over. My boss expects me to resurrect a partnership that got me shot at, beaten up, and kidnapped."

"You were never kidnapped, McCormick!"

The younger man plowed on, not listening. He was starting to get worked up into quite a state. "Well,� I got news for you, Hardcase. No way in hell am I partnering up with you again! I am NOT, I repeat, NOT helping the police with their so-called investigations. I am NO longer in the vigilante business. I am now a *lawyer*. I see these guys AFTER someone else risks his neck getting them into court. Not me. Uh uh. No way. You don't own me, Hardcastle. Our partnership is OVER. FINISHED. THROUGH. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yeah, well, your boss said-"

"FUCK my boss!" He turned to go into his trailer. "Good NIGHT!"

"Aren't ya gonna invite me�to spend the night?�� It's a long drive back into-"

McCormick whirled. "Listen up, Hardcastle, cause I'm only gonna say this once. NO. You CAN'T spend the night in my trailer. I'm NOT in your custody anymore. I will NOT play a little 'one-on-one'� with you to see who does the dishes. We're NOT gonna chase after various assorted goons at three o'clock in the morning, and we're not gonna check the ol' PULSE RATE for twenty. Find yourself ANOTHER Tonto to help you in your crazy crusades. No more Sancho Panza, Don Quixote! THERE-WILL-BE-NO-PARTNERSHIP-BETWEEN-US. Got that?" The door slammed shut behind him.

"That's what you said last time," Hardcastle muttered to the closed door. He turned and started to cross the lot, heading for home.

Panting, finding to his disgust that he was trembling, McCormick watched the receding figure through the glass of the trailer's small plastic window. He sighed deeply. It might hurt, but it was all for the best..

He pulled his pants off and flopped down on his bunk, bone-weary and somehow sad. All for the best, he reminded himself. Do you really want to work with that Bernstein? Obnoxious prick...

He was almost asleep when he got a most annoying thought.

He'd really, really disliked Bernstein for saying something out of line about Hardcastle.

*******

The press.

He should have known, of course. It was impossible to keep something like that hidden. They came out of the woodwork, assaulting him with notepads, cameras and microphones in his face as as soon as he came out of his trailer. "Mr. McCormick!" "Is it true you were the first to find the body?" "What was it like?" "Do you take the threat seriously?" "Are you afraid?" Are you planning to give up racing?"

McCormick looked around him as best he could. In the morning sunshine, the normally fairly calm racetrack had been transformed into bedlam. All around him, as far as he could see, were little knots of people, mostly racing drivers and the track staff, surrounded by reporters, fending them off as best they could. As he kept repeating "No comment," his peripheral vision suddenly took in a figure not trying to fend them off at all: Lieutenant Bernstein, in a brown pinstripe suit, a jaunty beret covering his bald spot, grinning broadly at a pretty female TV interviewer as a camera cranked away. *Oh, boy...*

"As you know, the details of this event oughtn't to be divulged to the general public at this stage," the police detective smiled at the blonde reporter again, "but as the press seems to get wind of what's in the wind all too soon." McCormick rolled his eyes. ".I see no harm in letting you know a few of the bare facts."

Through the unceasing barrage of "Who do you think it was?" "As a lawyer, how would you handle this?" "How did you feel when you read the note?" "We heard there was a private-eye friend of yours come down especially to solve the murders!" "Are you sorry you went back to racing?" "Are the police deputizing you?" McCormick could hear Bernstein telling the television reporter about the the stabbing, the threats, the note signed in blood, and in generally everything else guaranteed to bring every ghoul in the United States of America down upon the Indy 500. *This is ridiculous,* he thought, and then: *And dangerous.* He had to try and put a stop to it.

"NO comment," he smiled pleasantly but firmly, as he elbowed his way through the crowd and into the fray. *He'll probably kill me*, he thought grimly, *but I have to try.*

"And the pool of blood was." Bernstein said as McCormick motioned to him from outside the camera's range of vision. The policeman ignored him for a few moments, but at Mark's insistent waving he finally had to excuse himself and stomped over to where McCormick was standing. "Whaddaya want? Don't you see I'm busy?" he said furiously.

McCormick noted coolly that the controlled politeness the Lieutenant had used in Richardson's presence was gone now. "Lieutenant," he said in his pleasantest tone, "can we talk somewhere private?"

Reluctantly, Bernstein allowed McCormick to lead him to a somewhat sheltered spot between two parked semi's. Trying to be tactful, McCormick began, "Sir, do you think it's such a great idea to be talking to the press right now?"

"Whassamatter, McCormick? Jealous that someone else's in the limelight for a change instead of the big-shot lawyer?"

Taken aback by the hostility in the man's tone, McCormick tried to be civil. "Lieutenant, you know as well as I do that too much press coverage can only complicate matters. Cranks. False confessions.� Even copycat killings. I'm only�suggesting we wait a little, until we-"

"You listen here, McCormick," Bernstein advanced on McCormick, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. "Let's get one thing straight, and let's get it straight right now. *I*'m running the show here, not you. You're outta your jurisdiction here, even if you were a cop, which you AIN'T. You big-shots think you can come over here and take over just 'cause you're from New York. Well, listen good! I'm letting you fuck around here as a favor to Richardson, because I got respect for him. What I *ain't* got any respect for is you or that old fart you hang around wi-" But he got no farther because McCormick reached out, grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him up against the door of the semi behind him.

"Had your say, Lieutenant?" he said, almost casually, smoothly wrapping the man's flowered necktie around his fist, making him gasp for breath. "Now, I'll just have mine. I didn't want this case. I'm not too crazy about *solving* this case, but it so happens this case was dropped on our collective doorstep in a pool of blood - that selfsame pool, I might add, that you were just describing to all the kiddies out in TV Land with such enthusiasm. Am I right?" He shook the choking man a little, never releasing his death-grip.

"Akkk."

"So. I don't know if you're gonna solve it. I don't know if I'm gonna solve it, and I don't know if the murderer's gonna get away, go out in a blaze of glory or turn up twelve states away twenty years later. But," and McCormick gave the fast-turning-blue Bernstein another little shake, "I do know one thing. You say one more word against H. Judge Hardcastle, day or night, one more time, EVER, and you may rest assured that I will quickly and efficiently break your neck. You got that?"

He waited until he got a fractional nod from the lieutenant, then released him. Gasping for breath, Bernstein steadied himself a moment, then looked McCormick straight in the eye with a strange menace. "As a lawyer," he gasped, "I guess you know somethin'� else, too. The press is like a lion. You either give it something to eat, or it eats you alive." With that he strode back to the waiting camera crew.

*Oh, boy. How do I get myself into these things?* McCormick shook his head. *It's not ten a.m. yet, and I'm already� exhausted.* Wearily he made his way into the pits. Sheila was waiting for him with a hug. "Hi, gorgeous," he sighed, falling gratefully into her embrace. Sleep, he noted, didn't seem to have helped ease his tiredness any. "It's a circus out there."

"They've been like this since dawn," the crew boss sighed. "First it was that jerk of a lieutenant, asking me about my pit crew, whether I had any temps. Like I'd let anyone near my engines without knowing their life history and researching their family tree back six generations. Then it was the reporters. They harassed my people till I had to throw them all out. Took me a while, too. They want a story and they won't rest until they get it."

"Some crazy rumors out there." McCormick pulled his helmet on.

"Everyone's talking about the Judge who came to see you yesterday," Sheila said. McCormick noted wryly that even the level-headed mechanic was not immune to the attractions of the rumor mill. "Is it true that you two used to have a private eye business together?"

Oh, boy. "NO, Sheila. I wish whoever's spreading that rumor would can it. He's just a friend. We know each other. from the courtrooms. And he's a RETIRED judge!"

"He's cute, is what," the woman said as she helped McCormick into the car. "Think he's got a sister about his age?"

"Never give up, do you, Sheila?" McCormick grinned as he roared off.

One thing about frustration, it gave an edge to your driving. He blasted past the sound barrier, or felt like it. It was funny how the fatigue evaporated as soon as he got in the car, how� life seemed to flow into his hands as he gripped the wheel, spreading through his body, chasing tiredness away and replacing it with energy. When was the last time he had felt such a rush? He stomped viciously on the accelerator as the answer came to him. It had been in the courtroom, winning a particularly difficult case - and before that, when he'd solved a case with -

The engine roared into overdrive. For a split-second McCormick's control of the car faltered, unnoticeable to anyone but himself. Then again he snapped back to the present, shutting out the other thoughts from his mind. He cursed himself as he roared across the finish line and into the pits. Another lapse of concentration like that might cost him the race - or his life.

Sheila's piercing eyes bored into him as he climbed out. Trust this woman to notice. "Was that the car, hon, or the murder?"

"The murder, thanks for asking," he smiled wryly, rather shamefaced. Absurdly, he was glad the murder offered a good excuse for his distraction. Otherwise, what would he have said? 'Hardcastle's back and I'm all shook up? I can't stand the guy, but I almost killed a man today because he said something outa line about him?' "I'm going to rest a while, okay?"

"Good idea," the short woman said, already turning her attention to the car. Cars, at least, her stance semed to say, didn't have pesky feelings. She turned to McCormick as he went. "Get a look at the paper, Skid!" she yelled. "The late edition just came out!"

Striding across the lot, Mark's mood was not improved by the newspaper he picked up. SENSATIONAL MURDER AT INDY 500, the headline screamed. "ALL THE DRIVERS WILL DIE", the paper quoted happily.� He turned to the inside pages. LAWYER MARK MCCORMICK VOLUNTEERS TO SOLVE THE MURDER WITH PRIVATE EYE MILTON C. HARDCASTLE, it said. "What the."

McCormick stared at the paper, not sure whether to laugh or kill someone. Finally he found himself staring at the line "PRIVATE EYE MILTON C. HARDCASTLE". Despite himself, a smile came to him, then a grin. It changed to a full-fledged guffaw as he saw the object of the description stomping towards him across the lot, dressed in jeans, a baseball cap and a denim shirt, a crumpled copy of the same newspaper in his hand and a positively venomous expression on his face. "Whadda you laughin' at, McCormick?" the Judge growled.

"P.private.WAAHAHAHAHAAAA!" Unable to contain himself any longer at the sight of the Judge's ferocious scowl, McCormick dropped to his knees and laughed till the tears came to his eyes. "All.. you n.need.. is a t.trench coat.. and a f.fedora.. HA HA HA HA HA!!!"

"That's NOT FUNNY, McCormick!" But the older man's expression softened momentarily at the sight of McCormick howling with mirth on the tarmac. Then he pulled him to his feet and started walking him towards the parking lot. "C'mon, we're gonna be late."

"Late for what? I'm� a busy man, Judge.." But his pace never slowed.

Hardcastle spotted the Coyote and an unreadable expression crossed his face for the briefest instant before steering McCormick towards it. "Get your busy butt into the car. We got an appointment with the M.E. in half an hour."

"You don't own meeheehee... Sam Spade!" McCormick's resentment was being spoiled by the mental image of the Judge in a fedora, chewing on a pipe.

"Now don't you start that again. I already called them and they're gonna print� a retraction if they don't want the pants sued off 'em!"

"Need a good lawyer, Mr. Spade?"

"CUT THAT OUT, McCORMICK!"

"You're just lucky I happen to be free this morning."

"Yeah, yeah, just get in. Like you need practice to do something as simple as driving� a car, for cryin' out loud!"

With a smoothness born of long practice, McCormick slung his right hip onto the Coyote's flank and slithered into the car. He'd done it so often he was surprised the paint hadn't worn off by now. But it gave him a shock when he felt the Judge's presence slipping in next to him in the passenger seat. For a moment he was flung back forcefully in time to days gone by, when.

*No. Don't think it. Concentrate, Skid.* He succeeded in calming down and started the engine. But it still felt like there was an electric charge coming from the seat next to him. He could feel the hairs on the right side of his body standing on end. *Ah, pull yourself together*, he thought angrily.

He hazarded a glimpse at Hardcastle out of the corner of his eye. What he saw made him smile and relax a fraction. The seasoned old judge was pressed all the way up against the passenger-side door as though McCormick had dangerous radiation coming off his body, looking at him like he'd just grown a third eye. Mark clenched his teeth to hide his grin. "Something wrong, Judge?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Nah, it's just been a long time," Hardcastle said, then looked embarrassed, as thought the words had slipped out of their own volition. "You gonna get moving or not?!" he blustered angrily, looking flustered.

McCormick just smiled as he peeled out of the lot.

*******

The silence in the car was deafening. McCormick slipped a tape in to fill the emptiness. The mellow sound of his favorite album filled the car.

Welcome to your life
There's no turning back
Even while we sleep
We will find you acting on your best behavior
Turn your back on Mother Nature
Everybody wants to rule the world.

Funny how the song kept speaking to him, saying different things at different stages of his life. He still remembered that morning two weeks ago when the call had come, the invitation to race in the Indy 500. Another friend, like that other time so long ago. His shock and breathless pleasure at the chance to go back to doing what he loved the most. His stunned feeling at the golden opportunity to race in the crowning glory of the racing world. But then, the momentary indecision. The feeling that maybe it wasn't appropriate for a lawyer to race. That maybe he had changed. That just because he loved to do something didn't mean he had to do it.� He'd hesitated, said he'd call back. And just as he was about to hang up the phone, that line came to him. "We will find you acting on your best behavior/Turn your back on Mother Nature" and he knew it was a sign. He'd said yes before he replaced the receiver. There was a time to act on your best behavior and a time to follow who you were meant to be.

Hardcastle would be furious, he couldn't help thinking. Screw Hardcastle! Like he even cared. It was his own life to shape as he chose.

It's my own design, the stereo said to him.
It's my own remorse
Help me to decide
Help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever
Everybody wants to rule the world

Except. what was success without someone to share it with? His succession of fleeting girlfriends certainly didn't cut it. Nor did the friendships he'd made in the legal world. Those, he'd found, were superficial and motivated by business rather than genuine liking. He loved his work, it gave him profound satisfaction, people said he was a great lawyer, but he was still lonely. And he was beginning to miss racing, his first love, too.

"Help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure." Now that would be something. To have it all. The freedom to do what he chose.

He grinned at the faint echo of another memory, so long ago it seemed to have been in a different lifetime. "I do whut I wan', an' I say whut I wan'. An' da's de fac'!" So long ago, down a distant highway...

McCormick smiled. Oh yes, to have it all. To race when he chose, practice law when he chose . And to have Hardcastle's obnoxious, annoying, beloved friendship to share it with. He brought himself up short. *What do I mean, Hardcastle's friendship to share it with? I mean 'to have a close friend or girlfriend to talk to'. It was just a slip of th.*

* "Why do your feelings for Judge Hardcastle embarrass you, Mark?"*
* "They don't. I just don't talk about them much that's all."*

There's a room where the light won't find you
Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down
When they do, I'll be right behind you

Oh, the song was talking to him now, all right. Only problem was, sitting here with Hardcastle's presence next to him in the passenger seat burning a hole in his side, it was saying things he'd rather not hear. And right now all he could remember was Hardcastle playing basketball with him, Hardcastle giving inept advice in fixing his old junker of a car. Hardcastle's hands, astonishingly gentle, turning his cold, aching body over and easing his pain as he lay bleeding to death in the cold grass. So many scenes, crowding thick and fast. Him and Hardcastle eating, fighting over what to watch on TV, him and Hardcastle breaking down a wall inside an old abandoned subway station... sitting face to face with fifty thousand dollars of stolen money between them... facing down six corrupt judges turned murderers. So many times...

Him and Hardcastle. Together.

Ah, who was he kidding? You couldn't turn love on and off like a tap, more was the pity. He set his jaw. Okay. So he loved Milt Hardcastle. He was damned if he'd let him jerk him around just because of that!

With a screech of tires, he pulled the car over to the side of the road.� All around them were bumpy plains, the city just visible in the distant haze. The wind whistled through clumps of grass. "Okay," he said, "we're gonna have this out right NOW."

Hardcastle looked at him like he had just confessed to the murder. "Have what out? You crazy?"

"I wanna know, Judge. I wanna know why you didn't call me. I wanna know why you forgot about me."

"Hoo, boy! Not again! I came to your graduation! What more did you want? The key to the goddamn city?"

"No, dammit! I wanted you to stay and talk to me! I wanted you to answer my calls! I wanted..." McCormick suddenly realized, with a flash of self-disgust, that he sounded whiny, like he was begging, and clammed up.

"C'mon, McCormick! Does it bother you so much?"

"Yes, it bothers me! I have to know why!" (Because if it's true that you don't care, that you're ashamed of me, then it doesn't make sense that you're doing this, and I don't understand.)

Hardcastle hesitated a minute. He couldn't tell McCormick the real reason he hadn't called; that was something he cringed from, it was too embarrassing. What should he say? "I cut out of your life to let you take your own path"? Ah, no way. Why was he letting McCormick put him through this, anyway? He didn't have to take this! "I don't have to take this, McCormick! You got no right to interrogate me! C'mon, start the car, let's go!"

The words made McCormick feel cold inside. Savagely, he started the car again. *Why do I even try? Like I'm gonna get anything from him! Shit! I am SO fucked up...*

Hardcastle just looked at him as the Coyote laid down twin tracks of smoking rubber on the tarmac and blasted off once more. McCormick reached out and snapped the car stereo off, but not before he heard:

So glad we almost made it
So sad we had to fade it
Everybody wants to rule the world.

*********

"Multiple stab wounds," Desiree, the coroner's assistant, announced cheerfully, wiping her bloodstained ebony hands on her smock. She grinned. A killer smile, someone had told her once. These two white guys were a great pair, she thought. She could feel something, an electricity almost, coming off them. They were ready to kill each other - though, she'd bet, they were really crazy about each other. Lovers? Nah, she'd seen enough lovers to know the difference. Not father and son either. But a real close bond, she could tell. As an amateur student of human relations, she hoped someday she'd find out what it was.

The old white guy - McCormick, was it? - had nerves of steel, she acknowledged silently; looked at the blood like it was nothing. The younger one -was he Hardcastle, or the other one? - was getting there. Years of trying to shock people had provided her with an excellent index of the various shades of green that people could turn. Lieutenant Whosis - she never could remember the names of living people - who'd just been in had turned a positively sickly shade; candy-ass, she'd decided immediately. But these two were different. All in all, she judged, a pair worthy of respect.

She turned her smile up a notch and decided to give them her 'good' explanation.

"The first thing that's unusual is the edges of the wounds. Under the microscope, it shows up. We only see this kind of smooth edge with one type of weapon. This," she said as she held up a surgical scalpel. Hardcastle and McCormick exchanged glances. "People think they're difficult to get, but you can find them real easy in any store that sells medical or surgical supplies."

Desiree was waiting for the intelligent question, and sure enough it came. "Why would someone use one of these rather than some other kind of� knife?"

She positively beamed on the curly-haired guy. "Short answer - effectiveness. A scalpel's the sharpest knife there is. Come look at this." She steered them over to look at the corpse, and was gratified to see that they were really looking. Lt. Whosis had been so busy trying not to throw up that she'd bet he hadn't heard a single word she'd said.� "See those stab wounds? Do they look like they're going in straight on or at a downward angle?"

"Straight on, I guess..."

"Correct, fellas! What does that tell you? That the assailant was shorter than the victim. The wounds are� straight on, as you said, whereas if the assailant was taller - or even the same height - they'd be at a downward angle. Now look at this. The wounds are very deep, and one of them went straight through the heart. With anything but a scalpel, you'd need a very strong person, physically, to produce that effect. But a scalpel would guarantee the same effect without the killer having a lot of muscle."

"So we're looking for a guy who's short and not very strong."

Desiree considered. "Short, yes. There's enough evidence to say that definitely. On the other hand, the killer could be strong - and just want that sharp a knife for insurance. Or to do as much damage as possible. That theory's born out by the sheer number of the wounds, fellas. Seems like the assailant really had it in for the victim. He was stabbed twenty-three times, but he was definitely dead after half of those."

"Overkill?" the adorable white guy with curly hair was saying. Gallows humor, too! She wanted to marry this one!

She treated him to another of her best smiles. "You might say that. That kind of pattern we usually see with 'crimes of passion' - where the assailant has a deep hatred for the victim. He wants to kill him, but he's also venting all his pent-up anger."

"So someone really hated the little guy," the older guy with the crew-cut said.

"Or all racing drivers,"� the younger one said gloomily.

"Yeah," she said. "That's about the size of it."

********

McCormick had to stop himself from shaking as he walked out of the ME's office and down the police station's fluorescent-lighted corridors. A few passing officers gazed at the unlikely-looking pair, and McCormick returned their stares with a glare that made them drop their eyes hurriedly. He had seen many murders before in the years he had worked with the Judge, but this was a little too 'up close and personal' - and besides, he thought ruefully, he was just out of practice. I've gone soft, he sighed inwardly.

He stole a glance at Hardcastle, walking silently beside him, wondering how he was taking it. The white-haired man was walking slowly, a look of strain on his face. He seems disturbed, McCormick thought. Is it because of me? That he's afraid for me? The possible answers disturbed him more than he cared to admit, so he pushed all speculation on that score out of his mind. He searched for something to say, wishing, not for the first time that day, that he could get a grip. "What we gonna do now, Mr. Spade?"

"I said cut that out, McCormick," Hardcastle said, but his tone lacked conviction.The predictable reaction helped calm McCormick's nerves a bit. He'd forgotten how satisfying and relaxing his favorite pastime - needling Hardcastle - was.

"Why don't you pull out the ol' magnifying glass, huh? Case the joint for footprints, rustle up a few stool pigeons."

"McCormick!"

"Call your office back in Brooklyn, huh? See if the mysterious lady with green eyes was really a plant. You gumshoes are suckers for a pretty face."

"MCCORMICK!"

Seeing the Judge's glare, McCormick laughed, a real, healthy laugh, and was relieved to find his thoughts falling into place for the first time that day.�

"The way I see it, we need to think of several things," he said. "First, opportunity. Who could have gotten into that terrace? A party guest, or someone who climbed in over the fence? The murder weapon, and where the killer got rid of it. More importantly, there's motive. Who do we know who could have a grudge against racing drivers? We gotta think, it might be the race itself, too - just someone trying to discredit the Indy 500. Some rival company that'd stand to gain if the race went sour. Except that looks like a dead-end, the way I see it. It's such an important event in the racing world, it's in a class of its own. Why would anyone want to sabotage it? It'd be like. like pulling down the Statue of Liberty." He noticed the grudging respect in the Judge's statement as he turned to meet his eyes. It reminded him of the time he'd hit the target better than Hardcastle when the older man had decided to 'instruct' him how to shoot. So, you like the way I think now, he thought with a flash of the old bitterness. He was getting practiced at pushing it aside.

"We gotta go over the party guests, but I don't think you'll find anything in there," Hardcastle said after a moment's silence. "It took me about thirty seconds to wangle an invitation, and the guy didn't check ID or nothing. I coulda signed my name as John Doe-"

"Or Sam Spade."
�
"and he wouldn't have batted an eye - WILL YOU QUIT THAT, McCORMICK!"

"So we go over the lists looking for unfamiliar names. Maybe we'll get a handwriting match with a known criminal, or something," McCormick said, but he knew how unlikely that was, and his uncertainty showed in his voice. "We can leave the search for the murder weapon to the police, I guess. That leaves the motive. Based on what Desiree said, this guy has a lot of anger inside. So we want to look for some event that would scar someone enough to make them want to do this. The question is, where do we start looking?"

"You're the one who knows so much about racing," Hardcastle said. Then he stopped dead. "Wait a minute, McCormick. Not the race - the drivers! Who'd have a grudge against the drivers? I'll tell ya who. Someone who's jealous of the drivers. Somebody who wanted to be a driver himself, who tried to get in but didn't qualify!"

McCormick looked at the Judge in despair. "That's only about half the population, Judge. Try again."

"Half the population wants to drive around in circles in flameproof underwear?"

"Just like half the population wants to toss a basketball through a hoop for a living! Didn't you want to play for the Lakers, Judge?"

Hardcastle flushed, embarrassed. McCormick smiled; he guessed the loner wasn't used to being with someone who knew him so well. "What's that got to do with it?"

McCormick sighed. "Judge, you're entitled to your opinion of racing, but you gotta accept that the Indy 500 is something that any kid who cares about racing would want! You go around looking for people who couldn't get in and you're looking at a suspect list of around fifty thousand people, and that's a conservative estimate!"

Hardcastle stopped, struck by an inspiration. "How about people who tried to get in *this year* and couldn't? People who tried out, maybe?"

"Y'know, that's not a half bad idea for a private eye!" McCormick grinned. "We can eliminate the ones who -" He stopped suddenly. "Judge," he said urgently, and the old ring of excitement was back in his voice, "we can eliminate a LOT of those! Desiree said the killer was shorter than Jim."

"So?"

"So, I just happen to know that Jim was the shortest driver in the tournament! He barely made it past the minimum height requirement."

"So we're looking for a guy shorter than Jim, someone who might have been disqualified because of their height."

"Not exactly. You're too short to drive, you don't wait till the Indy 500 to find out. But it does cut out a lot of the candidates. We concentrate on anyone who was rejected and was shorter than Jim. Let's go."

As they walked out of the police station, McCormick wondered why he was feeling so much better - feeling such a rush, in fact. Did this mean he and Hardcastle had made their peace? Truce, he amended. But he was damned if he was going to let him go without finding out the cause of the rift between them.
�
As they walked out, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the corridor. Ah, please, no, thought McCormick. But it was. "Well, if it isn't Batman and Robin," Lt. Bernstein sneered openly. "Come to play detective?"

McCormick bristled. "Feeling secure on your home turf, Lieutenant?" He drew himself up to his full height, and the policeman backed off nervously.�

Hardcastle watched the exchange without comment, then stepped calmly in. "Lieutenant," he said, "we've just been talking to your M.E., and she told us something kinda interesting. She."

But he never got to finish, as Bernstein fixed him with an angry stare. "What?! Look here, Judge," he made the appellation sound like an insult, "I told Tonto here this morning. I let you fuck around here because of Richardson. But I'll be damned if I let you waltz in here like you owned the place! Listen up. This is MY territory. I follow up leads. I do the investigating. You got no jurisdiction, and it'll be a cold day in Hell before I'll listed to your half-assed theories! Now you gonna get outta here, or do I have to throw you out?"

Hardcastle pulled out his badge. "Lieutenant, just a goddamned minute -"

Bernstein snatched the badge out of Hardcastle's hand. "Far as I'm concerned, that piece a'tin doesn't mean shit. You got no jurisdiction here, *sir*. I'm not letting you fuck around with me again, get it?"

McCormick looked quickly from one to the other. Again? What the hell was going on here? This would definitely have to be brought up later.

"And the next time I see you in here bothering me OR any of my staff, you're gonna get slapped -" the lieutenant shoved the badge at Hardcastle's chest, making him grab for it before it fell to the floor - "with an obstruction of justice charge, and I'm gonna take great pleasure in shoving that thing up your city-slicker ass. How'd'ya like them apples?"

McCormick's curiosity and any other emotions were forgotten in a surge of protective anger. He started moving towards the Lieutenant with slow homicide in mind, only stopping when he felt the Judge grab his arm from behind. Hard. "Let him be, McCormick."
�
McCormick tried to jerk his arm free, but he had forgotten the strength of that grip. By the time he had escaped, Bernstein had decided that discretion was the better part of valor and disappeared round a corner. Furious, he whirled on Hardcastle. "Why'd you hold me back? The guy was just begging for it!"

"Your years as a lawyer haven't wised you up any, I see."

"Oh, no. I'm not taking any of that. I told you, I'm not a kid anymore, Hardcastle!"

"Yeah, I can tell by your mature behavior."

"I was supposed to stand by and let him insult you? -I mean. to just let him walk all over us like that?"

"He's still got jurisdiction here, and what he says goes."

"God damn it, Hardcase! I don't believe you! Just because he's got a badge, you're gonna let the biggest prick in the universe keep us from working on the case? In case you heaven't noticed, I'm an Indy 500 driver too! My life's at stake here as well, y'know!"

"I know," the Judge said quietly, and his tone made a shiver of emotion run through McCormick. To cover up his feelings, he resorted to bluster.

"So, we're just gonna let him stop us working on finding the killer? Say sorry, we're gonna go back to playing in the sandbox, so sorry to intrude?"

"Who said anything about him stopping us working, McCormick? C'mon, we gotta get back to the racetrack and start talkin' to some people!" With that, Hardcastle turned, stalking off determinedly in the direction of the Coyote.

*********

In the car, McCormick couldn't resist expressing what had been nagging at him since the altercation at the police station earlier. "So what's with the 'again'?"

Hardcastle assumed an innocent statement. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh-uh. 'I don't want you fucking me up again'. That's what I thought I heard, and I know I heard right. Now why don't we skip the basketball game or the bet or whatever it is, and you just spill it, because if you shoved a poker up his ass in a previous life, I want to know about it."

"Okay, I did."

"Care to be a little more specific?"

"We had a little disagreement a few years back."

A grin spread across McCormick's face. "Mr. Personality strikes again, huh? When you say you had a run-in with someone, I get nervous, Hardcase. What did you do? Kill his first-born? Break his window with a basketball?"

"Nah, I just took exception to his tactics of interrogation," Hardcastle mumbled.

"Gonna have to do better'n that, Hardcase. I need to know what went down between the two of you!"

Hardcastle's face assumed the slightly sheepish look it always got when he was about to tell a story that showed him in a good light. "There was this murder a few years back. Real ugly story. This twelve-year-old girl was having a slumber party with a bunch of her friends, three girls and four boys. In the morning, she was found raped and murdered. There was this one boy, eleven years old, who'd had a crush on her, and was real broken-hearted and crying. Bernstein was dead certain he was the one who did it, though there was no evidence."

"You didn't believe he did it."

"Nah. He was kinda in love with her. You can tell about these things."

"Softy."

"Do you wanna hear this or not, McCormick?"

Noticing the edge in the Judge's tone, McCormick quickly stopped the joking. "Sorry." What was going on here?

"Anyhow, Bernstein was younger then, just made detective and eager to prove himself. Had the boy picked up the morning of the murder and held him for thirteen hours of straight questioning with no food, no water, no lawyer. Bullied the shit out of him. Then he let in this motherly social worker type to play 'good cop, bad cop.' Got the poor little kid so upset and confused in his own head he really believed he did it, so he confessed." Hardcastle took a breath; apparently it still bothered him after all these years. "In all the confusion, his family never noticed he was gone."

"Till they were informed he'd been arrested for rape and murder."

"Damn straight. I threw it out on procedural grounds, and I also pointed out that the boy didn't have the necessary, uh, equipment to perform the rape. I also said a few words about Bernstein's unconventional interrogation techniques for minors."

"Yeah, I can imagine." McCormick glanced over at the Judge, reading between the lines, seeing all the righteous rage of a compassionate soul faced with injustice. "Bernstein was pissed."

"He was so pissed that he started a media war against the kid. 'Killer Kid Goes Free.' The papers branded him as a murderer."

"Shit!"

"TV caught onto it, too. Got so they were organizing lynch mobs. Kid couldn't leave his house. I tried talking to the press, but they were having too much fun to quit."

"Shit," McCormick said again, softly.

"He's always had a thing for the newspapers and TV. They eat outa his hand, only God knows why."

"Yeah, I saw a little bit of that earlier," McCormick remembered the press scene that morning. "But did they buy it?"

"If you were a reporter, and the detective in charge of an investigation told you 'confidential' and 'privileged' information, to use as an exclusive, just because he liked your face. would you say he was lying, or would you say you deserved the break because you were a good reporter?"

"I'd look into the facts, at least!"

"Yeah, well, most reporters aren't you," Hardcastle mumbled. "And he repeated this 'exclusive' scam with every two-bit paper and TV station in town."

*What?* Warmth, colored with surprise and disbelief, surged through McCormick. "Judge, hold it, hold it: did you just pay me a compliment?"
�
"No! And quit looking at me like that." McCormick laughed out loud, and Hardcastle growled warningly, "Do you wanna hear the rest of this story or not?"

"That's not the end of it?"

"Two weeks later, they picked up a rapist who'd been on the run from another state and he confessed to the killing, but..." Hardcastle's voice trailed off uncharacteristically.

McCormick, stealing a glance, noted how the Judge's face had closed up, new lines appearing around his eyes, his voice becoming harsh and ragged. He sobered instantly."But what, Hardcase? You're makin' me nervous."

"It was too late. Kid drowned himself. Tied a rock to his ankle and jumped in the family pool."

McCormick stared, appalled. The pain in his friend's voice touched his soul. "Ah, Judge."

Hardcstle took a deep breath. "After that, I had a few things to say to the press. And to Bernstein's superiors."

"I can imagine," McCormick sighed in sympathy. He could, too. He knew how ferocious the Judge could be towards injustice, and this case was mind-boggling. He could guess what had gone down. "So he blames you for the consequences?"

"Yeah, he was suspended for a while. If I'd had my way he'd've been thrown off the force."

"I'm sorry," McCormick couldn't help saying.

"Not your fault."�

McCormick noted that Hardcastle's voice was still tinged with bitterness, at an event that must have happened at least fifteen years ago. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he resorted to their usual banter. "Mr. Congeniality, who makes friends wherever he goes. What am I gonna do with you, huh?"

The pair drove on in silence.

He noticed, suddenly, that the tiny ache in his heart had disappeared.

Cautiously, gingerly, he reached inside himself, searching, probing for the old familiar pain. Nope. It was gone without a trace. His heart didn't ache any more. He was feeling a lot of things, it was true. Anger, yes. Frustration, definitely. Rampant annoyance, of course.�

But heartache... no.

McCormick didn't even want to think about what that meant.

********

"It's such a privilege to be able to help a man like you, Judge Hardcastle. er. may I call you Milton?"

"Why of course, Miss Farrell."

"Oh, please just call me Ginny."

The pretty blonde in the "Bi and Proud" T-shirt who worked in the records office of the race track smiled at Hardcastle again as they sat at her desk sipping coffee. McCormick, hunched alone over the records computer, spared a moment to glance back in amazement. There had to be at LEAST forty years' difference in their ages, but if he didn't miss his guess, the girl was definitely coming on to the Judge!�

"I always find it a pleasure to be able to help someone with so much experience," the blonde was breathing softly. "I think maturity and experience are so attractive, don't you?"

"Well, uh-" McCormick smiled at the Judge's floundering.

"Oh yes," Ginny smiled again. "I've always felt secure and protected when I'm with a strong and mature woman, or man."

"Don't mind me," McCormick muttered sulkily, then sighed with satisfaction as a list of names came up on the screen. "Here we are." With impish delight, he shouted to Hardcastle, slightly louder than was necessary: "JUDGE! I think I got something here."

"No need to shout," Hardcastle's voice came to him from behind him, a tad peevishly, McCormick fancied. A moment later, the judge's face appeared, reflected in the screen next to his own image. "What?"

McCormick punched a few keys. "There, that'll print it," he said. "There's five names here who were disqualified, all shorter than Jim." Getting up to go to the printer, he was immediately replaced at the computer by the girl, who smiled adoringly at Hardcastle again. Wasting no time, he ripped the sheet from the printer, and hauled the stocky man up off the computer chair. "C'mon, let's go."

"Feel free to come back anytime!" Ginny called after them as they went out of the door.

McCormick took great pleasure in Hardcastle's disgruntled expression as he was steered outside. "Hold your horses, McCormick. what's all the rush?"

At the end of the corridor, as Hardcastle stalked on ahead, McCormick heard a feminine voice calling his name. Turning, he found Ginny smiling hopefully at him. "Mr. McCormick," she said breathlessly, "can I ask you something. well. a little personal?"

Smugly, he turned his best 500-watt smile on her. "Of course, Miss Farrell." He'd show Hardcastle how smooth he could be!

"Well. uhh.. could you tell me. whether Mr. Hardcastle is married?"

"No," McCormick blurted, and then couldn't resist adding, "As a matter of fact, he's gay."

The mischievous delight he felt on seeing her face fall was only equaled by his fond imaginings of the next meeting between her and Hardcastle.

**********

"Whadda you grinning about, McCormick?"

"Nothing, Judge," McCormick grinned even more widely as they walked through the lot� towards the track. Unable to resist, he batted his lashes and said in a falsetto whisper: "Oh Judge! I think maturity and experience are so attractive, don't you?"

"Quit that, McCormick!"

"Ooh, yes! I love coming on to men fifty years older than me!"

"You're just trying to hide your jealousy because I've still got it, and you're batting zero."

"Just wait till you try to get a date w
ith her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means she's gonna wise up and give some real talent� a chance!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"You know, Judge, I mean-" His voice took on the patronizing tone he had always used to get Hardcastle's goat. "The girl is nice to you because she feels sorry for you. And I can respect that, but a girl like that wants someone more sophisticated, more-"

"That girl was enchanted by me, McCormick. I had her eating out of my hand."

"Care to put your money where your mouth is?"

"You wanna bet on-"

"A hundred bucks says next time you meet her, she's not gonna give you the time of day."

�"It's a bet."

McCormick smiled again. When had he found smiling so easy? The unfamiliar feeling of warmth and happiness inside, the prickle and thrill of friendly banter and just plain silly juvenile pranks- all were coming back so easily and naturally, as though there had been no time lapse, no cold phone calls, no-

".checking on them?" Hardcastle's voice jolted McCormick out of his reverie.

"Wha?"

"This how your concentration is all the time? We'll be lucky if you don't drive the bucket into the VIP box. I said, how're we gonna go about checking on them?"

"DMV?"

"Great idea, except the cops won't let us use their system."

"So get Harper or Rosie to pull `em up for ya." said McCormick. "You do still keep in touch with them, don't ya?"

"Yeah, I'll make a coupla calls. How about driving me to at my hotel? I can make the calls from there."

"No can do. I gotta practice run at four o'clock. You're just gonna have to make the calls from my trailer."

"Your trailer?"

McCormick wasn't sure whether he was pleased or annoyed at the satisfied smirk that appeared on the Judge's face.

**********

Sheila clapped McCormick on the back encouragingly as he climbed out of the car. "Way to go, Skid," she smiled. "Ten seconds off your best time! You make my new fuel combination look like a dream!"

"That's because it works like a dream, Gorgeous," McCormick smiled, bending to kiss her on the cheek. She reminded him a lot of the Judge - seventyish, stocky, muscular, same hair - only more affectionate. Maybe it was why he loved to needle her. "Still won't go out with me, angel eyes?"

"Quit handing me the blarney," Sheila slapped him on the butt. "Even if I liked men and was thirty years younger, I'd never believe a smooth operator like yourself."

McCormick just laughed as he pulled off his helmet and leaned against the car, taking in the desert breeze and enjoying the red glow of the setting sun. Quite a few people had turned out to watch this particular practice run; he could make out several of the other drivers who had finished work earlier, a bunch of mechanics and even Richardson and his wife, sitting higher up in the seats, a little apart from the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Judge coming, and his peripheral vision picked up Ginny following, as well as Bernstein, who had been there all afternoon installing the mandatory police presence around the race track, moving in towards them with a disapproving stare. Looks like the gang's all here, he thought.

"Tomorrow, I need you to be out here at-" Sheila began, when Bernstein reached them.

"McCormick!" he snapped. "Were you fucking around again at the precinct this afternoon?"

McCormick opened his mouth to answer when Sheila interrupted. "Whatsamatter with you?" she glared at Bernstein. "Born in a barn? Didn't your mother ever tell you it was rude to interrupt?"

Bernstein, his eyes taking in the assembled crowd, leaned against the sleek racecar and favored her with a withering glare. "This is none of your business, my dear madam-"

"I haven't been anyone's dear madam since before you were born, sonny. Now� are you going to move your grubby mitt off my car or do I throw you off this track?"

Highly amused, McCormick met Hardcastle's eyes to meet an equally entertained expression. He'd forgotten just how he loved to bask in the full wattage of that radiant smile.
�
"This isn't your car. It belongs to Richardson Enterprises, and a member of the police force doesn't have to take this kind of crap from some ignorant greasemonkey bulldagger !"

"Whoa," said McCormick, stealing a glance at his boss, high up in the bleachers. He wouldn't have hesitated to step in, except he felt that nothing he could do could match the woman's reaction.

Sheila smiled. She smiled, and like a panther, pounced on Bernstein, wrapping his tie smoothly in one big hand -"Everyone's favorite position", thought McCormick - and� said through a feral smile, "It may interest you to know, sonny, that I was the one who designed the blueprint for this particular car when I was at MIT, when you were no more than a blip on the horizon - which makes it my car. I am a `grease monkey', and proud of it, `cause I like getting my hands dirty. Which means I can dirty `em with you," and without further ado she slung one hip over the hood of the car and bent the struggling lieutenant over her lap. His bottom presented an obvious and prominent target.

"Wha- you can't - I'll arrest you for assault on a police officer - I -" Bernstein was getting blue in the face. McCormick could almost find it in his heart to feel sorry for him. The crowd in the bleachers was beginning to snigger, and some of the uniforms around the perimeter were trying to move in closer without being observed.

"Being a bulldyke - which I'm also real proud of, in case you wanted to know - I could do stuff to you which would make you a reeeeeal sorry little policeman. Instead, I'm just gonna tan our little lieutenant's hide till he learns to respect his elders better." Out of her pants pocket came a length of fan belt, which she swung tantalizingly in front of the lieutenant's nose. Howls and catcalls came from the bleachers. "Unless, of course, he apologizes nicely. Do you apologize, Lieutenant?"

McCormick glanced at Hardcastle. This had gone far enough. The crowd of uniformed policemen, sensing free entertainment, was warily congregating in the middle distance. McCormick advanced warily. "Sheila, that's enough."

"Does he apologize?"

"Sure, he does, come on!" Hardcastle added his voice to McCormick's, holding out his hands in a pacifying gesture, but steering clear of the fan belt. The police audience edged nearer.

"I didn't hear him."

"C'mon, Lieutenant, what's the big deal? Say it, man!" McCormick urged. The uniforms were beginning to laugh, while the most enthusiastic cries of "Go on, give it to him!" came from Sheila's pit crew.

"Fuck you, you perverted lesbian bitch-OW!" Sheila, true to her word, had delivered a healthy blow to the Liutenant's backside. Appreciative howls of laughter and applause came from the uniformed audience. The cops' reaction told McCormick all he needed to know about the Lieutenant's popularity. He stole a glance at his boss, but the Richardsons were too far away for him to see their reaction clearly.

"He doesn't deserve your sympathy," Sheila commented, hitting her target with another blow. The lieutenant howled and kicked. The uniformed audience, abandoning all attempts at restraint, were holding each other up.

Hardcastle went up closer to Sheila, holding up a hand. "Please, this is really going to cause trouble with the cops. It could hold up the murder investigation. Please, ma'am, it's not worth it. C'mon, he's learned his lesson." And the staff and the cops have had their entertainment for this month, McCormick thought.

"Please," Ginny Farrell added, coming up behind Hardcastle, but staring straight into Sheila's eyes. "You're so special, I couldn't bear the thought of you going to jail!"

McCormick's eyebrows climbed up into his hairline as Sheila released the lieutenant and looked at Ginny.� He could almost see the spark jump. As Bernstein stood upright amid the hoots and yells of the racing staff, the uniforms scattered. Hardcastle and McCormick watched the two women lock gazes as Bernstein began to bluster. "I'll, I'll! I'll have you arrested for assaulting an officer!"

"No you won't, Lieutenant," McCormick said mildly. "You gonna stand up in front of all your cop buddies and tell `em exactly how she assaulted you? You'd be laughed off the force." By now all the uniforms were safely back in position, but the rest of the crowd was still enjoying the drama.

"You'll pay for that remark, McCormick," said Bernstein, shaking with rage. "And you", he turned to Sheila, "are going to wish you had never been born!" The statement provoked a fresh flurry of laughter - except, McCormick noticed, from Hardcastle, who looked uneasy. On the verge of apoplexy, the policeman turned on his heel and stalked off.

"Hey, Lieutenant!" McCormick called after him. "Don't you want to know what we came up with?"

"Fuck you!"

"Guess that's a `no', McCormick," Hardcastle's voice came from behind him.

He turned to see the Judge gazing, disgruntled, at Ginny and Sheila, still gazing adoringly into each other's eyes. Sidling up to his friend, barely able to keep from laughing out loud, McCormick managed to whisper: "You owe me a hundred dollars."

********

Strolling back to the trailer, pocketing the crisp new hundred-dollar bill, McCormick asked: "So what'd you find out, Hardcase?"

"Ahh, nothin' much." Hardcastle looked preoccupied.

"Quit sulkin', willya? If it's any consolation, she won't be going out with me either. My pit crew boss beat both our time."

"It's not about the girl. That guy may look like a bozo, but he's vindictive and slippery as a snake, McCormick. It's not a good idea to humiliate him."

"We're still supposed to be on the same side, Judge!" How can you say that to him after what he told you? "Sorry. But what could he do?"

"He gets it into his head to make you pay, he might do something real nasty. I know this guy, McCormick."

McCormick looked at the Judge. Hardcastle, afraid? "This is not the Hardcastle I know. Whatever happened to Fools-Walk-In-Where-Angels- Fear-To-Tread Hardcastle? Aren't you overreacting a little?"

"Guns I can fight. Rumors and shit like that, I can't. Just humor me, McCormick, okay?"

"Okay," said McCormick. He still thought the long-ago incident was making the Judge overreact, but was willing to let it go. "Tell me what you got."

"Okay. Our first driver is James Brady."

"Uh-huh."

"He moved to Mexico. Hasn't been in the USA for two months."

"What about the others?"

"There's Paolo Zhamfiri."

"Hey, Judge, I recognize the name! This could be him!"

"He dropped out of racing and signed a $35-million modeling contract with Pure White aftershave, and last month he married a starlet."

"Oh yeah, I read about him in the Enquirer." McCormick's face fell. "Still three to go."

"The other two have definite alibis for the night - one was on a plane to Paris, and the other was appearing live on TV. "Gateway to the Stars, " or something."

"Oh yeah, I heard of that program, Hardcastle! That's real big! Do racing drivers get on it?"

"I love this. I'm trying to solve a murder, and he's trying to get on TV!"

McCormick flushed. There was something about the Judge's presence that let him act a little silly, he was finding out. "Just keeping you on your toes there. How about the fifth?"

"Burt Cheegan. Wanna go talk to him now?"

"You got a current address on him already!"

"1125 Rosewood."

"But we'll miss dinner," McCormick began, as Hardcastle steered him in the direction of the car.

"I'll buy you a hotdog."

"And I gotta be up early in the morning!"

"Quit yer whining!"

The Coyote sped off.

*********

"Well, that was a waste of time," Hardcastle commented as they drove back into the lot. Burt Cheegan had turned out to be a towering hulk six feet tall. "They's always gettin' my height down wrong," he'd said cheerfully.

"At least we can scratch that idea," McCormick sighed, getting out of the Coyote.

"Yeah, we're just where I love to be, right back to square one."

"How's about we match the signatures of the guys who weren't on the guest list with the writing on that paper?" McCormick said as he opened the door to the trailer.

"You mean the paper we found by the body?"

"Yeah, that paper." McCormick swallowed nervously, not wanting the Judge to see just how much it had upset him. He turned to the fridge in his confusion. "Want something to drink?"

"Nah, I'm about ready for bed." Hardcastle shot him a look. He had seen the kid go pale, and his heart went out to him. "Handwriting thing's a good idea. Guess we oughta cover all the angles, just in case. I'll get someone on it in the morning." He hesitated a moment, then stripped off his shirt and pants, and lay down on the bottom bunk in his underwear.

"Hey, hey, what is this? Go on, go home!" But McCormick knew this was just a matter of form; he'd tacitly agreed to let Hardcastle spend the night when he'd driven back with him without offering to drop him at his hotel.

"You need me here for protection, kiddo. What if the killer decides to come at ya?"

McCormick's heart wrenched at the sound of the Judge's old pet name for him. Finally he found his voice. "I don't need protection."

"Yeah, well I need to be here," Hardcastle mumbled indistinctly, the way McCormick recognized when he said something he'd rather not be saying. "You soft lawyer types, you can't defend yourselves."

"I can defend myself better than a retired judge I know! And just who died and left you the bottom bunk?"

"G'night."

Muttering happily about injustice, McCormick climbed into the bed above. "'Night, Hardcastle."

"'Night, McCormick."

********

Hardcastle was standing on a race track. The lovely Ginny was running towards him, and he gazed at her ripe body, feeling his heart beat faster and his blood heat up with rising desire. God, how he needed a woman. But as he opened his arms, she ran past him and into the waiting embrace of Sheila, the mechanic. Looking round, he saw McCormick, driving past him in a racing car, the passenger seat piled high with legal briefs. "Gimme a ride, McCormick," he pleaded.

"No can do, Judge," McCormick said. "You abandoned me, and I don't need you in my life anymore." As the Judge watched, Sheila and Ginny got into McCormick's car, and they rode off into the sunset together.

The dream segued into a marvelous pastoral scene. He was in a cornfield, feeling wonderful. The sun was high in the sky. At the end of the field, Nancy appeared. She was as he remembered her on their best days, sexy and radiant, the sunlight glinting off her hair. He was consumed with a fierce desire for her. She ran to him and he fell into her arms, delighting in the warmth of her embrace, breathing in her heady scent. It had been so long since he'd held a woman, felt the touch of human warmth. "I thought you were dead," he whispered.

"No, I'm alive, silly," she giggled. "Don't you miss me?" She laughingly pressed his hand to her breast. Their bodies touched, and he groaned aloud. He caressed her, wild for her, hard and erect against her yielding softness. She made the little sounds of arousal he remembered and loved so well, which inflamed him and urged him on to the utmost heights of passion. Then they were both swept up in a fierce inferno that consumed them, making wonderful and powerful love in the golden, radiant cornfield, waves of light carrying them higher and higher until he burst into climax with a wild cry, calling her name over and over-

Over.

It was over. He was awake, lying alone in the dark, his underwear in disarray, an embarrassing stain on the bedclothes. Nancy was dead and buried years ago. His arms were empty. The pain of separation forced a ragged gasp from him before he could control it.

"Judge?" McCormick had heard the cries and, concerned, slipped out of his bunk to stand before Hardcastle's. "You okay?" (Only I know you're not, 'cause I heard you crying, and I know you're lonely-)

"M.McCormick?" Hardcastle cursed the stutter in his voice. (No, kid, I'm not all right, not this time. -Stop thinking like that, Hardcastle! - You don't stop needing just because you've gotten older, and I've been lonely too long, I died the day Tommy and Nancy died, and I only realized now that I only felt I had family again when I met you.- What's this sentimental bullshit? That's enough! - I lost a son again the day you walked out of my house, McCormick- Quit thinking like that! Are you a man or a wimp? - And seeing you here in front of me, caring for me more than you ever cared for your own dad, makes me thank God for sending you, 'cause I sure as hell didn't do anything to deserve you - ) "Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, then unable to suppress it, "guess it's just old age." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, unable to hide his gladness and gratitude at McCormick's presence, and embarrassed to show it.

"Shut up." McCormick had seen the telltale stain, and heard Hardcastle calling Nancy's name. It didn't take a genius to figure it out, and he felt his heart and gut twist inside him when he thought of the days Hardcastle must have spent alone in that big empty house after he was gone, his wife dead, his son killed in the war, and his only friend far away. (And I thought you were entertaining ladies. Oh Milt, we're two lonely people, we're all the family we've got in the whole world, so WHY did you put us both through this terrible torture all these years, not seeing each other, not talking? I see now� you must have felt you HAD to do it, because I can see it hurt you, even more than it hurt me. But WHY?! You old donkey, can't you see that we can't live without each other? I don't care if you are ashamed of me, of my record. I could never stand to see you hurting, I'd give my life for you, you stupid, stubborn jackass-) "C'mere," McCormick said gruffly, sitting down on the edge of the mattress next to Hardcastle and pulling the shorter man into his arms.

"Quit that, McCormick!" Hardcastle struggled and squirmed, but McCormick could tell that his heart wasn't in it, so he held on, holding his resisting friend tightly - "Get offa me, McCormick! You gone crazy?"- giving him the comfort he so badly needed and had always refused - "C'mon, quit the mush! Let go of me!" -� till his trembling had quieted and both had found some measure of peace in the contact. Only then did he finally allow Hardcastle's struggles to succeed in breaking the hug, and even then he stayed close, sitting next to him on the bed. (No more games, Hardcase. Whatever your stupid reasons are, I'm gonna break down that wall if it kills me.)

"Let's get some light in here," McCormick said, making an effort to sound casual, getting up and opening the curtains on the trailer's tiny windows. Dim light streamed in, picking out the hunched figure in the bed in the cold grey early morning light. Seeing him so vulnerable tore at McCormick's heart. (You didn't used to look like this when I was there to chase your demons away. I'm never leaving you again, Milt. Even if you feel I could never be as good as the son you lost, I can live with that. My only mistake was that I doubted the strength of what we had, and never went down there, pounded on your door and forced you to listen to me. But no more. We're both getting too old for this. I'll stand by you. I know you need family around you, and like it or not, I'm all the family you've got, even if you can't respect me.)

"Want some coffee?" Mark asked casually. "It's nearly seven anyway. Or you wanna catch some more sleep?"

"Nah, coffee's fine. Thanks," Hardastle added, and McCormick knew he wasn't just talking about the coffee. "You gotta shower in this thing?"

"Nah, we're not allowed to shower while we're in training. Seems we catch fire more easily if we're clean." McCormick kept his face poker-straight. Gratified by Hardcastle's incredulous expression, he smiled. "'S on your left."

Hardcastle squeezed into the small cubicle with difficulty. "Smaller than a matchbox in here. This supposed to get you used to getting into those tiny cars?"

The water was on when McCormick heard a knock on the trailer door. Opening it, he was surprised to see Sheila and Ginny standing at the door, carrying coffee and donuts. "We brought breakfast," Sheila said. "Can we come in?"

Bemused but polite, McCormick led them to the miniscule breakfast table. They had barely sat down when Hardcastle sauntered out of the shower, draped in a towel. "Aargh!" he shrieked at the sight of the women and leapt back into the stall. McCormick deftly drew the divider curtain across the trailer, hiding the sleeping area. Sheila and Ginny exchanged knowing looks.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," said Sheila.

"That's okay, he's always charming in the morning," said McCormick, and stopped short at the knowing glance the two exchanged again. "What can I do for you, ladies?"

"We wanted to have a word with you in private, not in the cafeteria," Sheila said, breaking out the coffee as Hardcastle came through the door, dressed. "'Morning, Judge."

"Morning, ladies." Hardcastle looked questioningly at McCormick as he sat down. McCormick raised his hands in an 'I don't know' gesture.

"Go on, please," said McCormick.

"Ginny and I were talking last night, and we just wanted to warn you to watch yourself."

Hardcastle and McCormick exchanged looks. What was going on?

".because, well, Jim was the same as you, too."

"I'm sorry, I don't quite."

"You and the Judge are such a cute couple!" Ginny blurted.

Hardcastle choked, spluttering coffee. McCormick's eyes widened in shock. "Wha? Uh, where did you get that idea?"

"Don't be so shy! You told me, remember? Yesterday in the office!"

"Told. You. WHAT?!" Hardcastle grated through clenched teeth, looking at McCormick with murder in his eyes.

"Now Judge, don't be hasty."

"Told me that he was gay!" came the damning, angelic voice.

"HE DID WHAT?!" Hardcastle tried to rise from his chair, but hit his head against a cabinet. "Grrr."

McCormick put up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Ju-udge."

"You are a dead man, McCormick."

"Gentlemen, PLEASE!" Sheila commanded. "I understand that you don't want your liaison made public, it could be embarrassing. But."

"Liaison," growled the Judge. McCormick backed away nervously. "LIAISON! You owe me a hundred dollars, McCormick!"

"GENTLEMEN!" The bellow brought silence for a moment, into which Sheila continued: "You should be glad Skid told Ginny, because I wouldn't be telling you this if you weren't gay. you can never tell how people's prejudices will make them react."

Interested in spite of himself, Hardcastle clamped down on his anger. Time enough to strangle the kid later. "Go on."

"Well, Jim was gay, and I was afraid that the murders might be targeted against gay drivers in particular."

"But wouldn't the note have said something about that?"

"Maybe." Sheila looked uncomfortable.

"Tell them about the other thing," Ginny prompted.

"Yes. Well. There's something else... You see, I happen to know that ... Mr. - well, uh, I mean Jim - nobody knew, it was supposed to be a secret... I just found out that Ginny knew, too, and she thinks you should know, but ...gentlemen, if anyone found out about this..."

McCormick took her hand. "Sheila, you can trust me and Judge Hardcastle. Anything you tell us won't go any further. But we're trying to catch a killer here. Anything that might help us, however unlikely it might seem, we need to know. And nobody, but nobody, will hear about it from us. That's a promise."

"Go on, baby," Ginny said.

Sheila nodded. "I found out, by accident - they were talking and I happened to overhear - Jim - well, there's no easy way to say this-"
�
Hardcastle and McCormick nodded, interested now. "Sure."

"He was having an affair with Mr. Richardson."

* * * * *
Thomas Richardson sighed as he sat down heavily at his desk. "Yes, I admit it, gentlemen," he said. "It was wrong of me to withhold the details of my personal attachment to Jim from the police; but if you were in my place, you might have done the same."

"We don't intend to make the matter public, Mr. Richardson," Hardcastle said, "but any information, however irrelevant, might help us crack the case." Ignoring McCormck's murmured "Spade," he said, "we're dealing with a crazy serial killer here."

"You must have suffered a lot," McCormick blurted. "Why go on living a lie for so long? Not that it's any of my business, sir."

The dignified man rubbed his temples, seeming to find relief in talking. "No, Mark, let me explain. It's true that I am homosexual. I have, indeed, been living a lie for most of my life. But my time, perhaps the Judge will remember, was not so enlightened as yours. An aristocratic birth, a place among captains of industry - these are not circumstances which tolerate difference. I had adventures with some young men, and hoped never to marry. But Linda came along."

Hardcastle fidgeted, as if to say, "Get to the point!" McCormick shot him a warning glance. He wanted to put Richardson at his ease.

The businessman smiled. "It's ironic. Everyone said she wanted me for my wealth and position, when in fact nothing could have been further from the truth. Linda took care of me at a time in my life when I was weak and ill, and fell madly in love with me. She would still love me if I was a beggar in the street. She was unbelievably attached to me and stayed close to me all the time. I became fond of her, and grateful for her attention. Possibly, in my youth and naiv�t�, I mistook this gratitude for love. At the time, my family was pressuring me to marry, so I married her."

"And did she know about Jim?" McCormick tried to steer the conversation back to the subject at hand.

Richardson looked uncomfortable. "No. I made every effort to keep her away from... No, she did not."

McCormick glanced at Hardcastle. He could recognize a lie when he heard it, but it was understandable that he wanted to protect his wife from unpleasantness, so he let it go. "And how did you meet Jim?" he asked tentatively.

Richardson looked embarrassed. "The same way I met you, when he was racing for my team a while back. We spoke on the telephone several times and. met."

"And he never told you of anything that might have a bearing on his death?"

"Nothing whatever."

Hardcastle spoke up, looking embarrassed. "Somebody we spoke to seems to have the idea that these murders might be targeted against homosexuals. What do you think of that idea?"

"Frankly, gentlemen, I think it's highly unlikely." The magnate had regained some of his former poise. "I've had some knowledge of homophobic groups over the years, and in my experience, they always go out of their way to make it as well-known as possible that they're attacking gays. They seem to be proud of it. To murder gays without announcing it would defeat their purpose."

"Coulda told you that myself," McCormick murmured.

"Since when did you become an expert?" Harccastle, diverted momentarily, turned to McCormick.

"If you knew what I'd been doing the last-"

"Seven years, yeah, yeah." Hardcastle waved a disparaging hand.

"No, only three of 'em - you'd'a' heard of the Stoner-Miller case, which had the same kind of killings. They made a point of going public - they were proud of it!"

"Yeah, whatever." Hardcastle's reaction ought not to hurt, McCormick knew, but it still hurt that Hardcastle hadn't even known about that case, which had had a great deal of coast-to-coast publicity and had been one of his greatest achievements. "Can we speak to Mrs. Richardson?" he asked.

Richardson became visibly agitated. "Judge Hardcastle, I've made every effort over the years to keep Linda away from this sordid and ugly part of my life. She's completely unaccustomed to such matters. I beg of you not to drag her into this. It can't possibly have any bearing on the murder investigation."

Hardcastle and McCormick exchanged another glance, both silently agreeing to let the matter go. "Thanks for your time, sir," Hardcastle rose.

McCormick answered the unspoken question before it could be asked. "Sir, everything that's been said between us will remain private."

He felt nothing but pity for the businessman, sitting defeated at his desk. "Thank you, gentlemen."

"Well, that was a waste of time," Hardcastle said as they walked out of the office.

"You think so?" McCormick asked. "I'm not so sure."

"Yeah? How so?"

"Intuition."

"Women's intuition, huh? And that reminds me, I gotta bone to pick with you! What did you think you were doing, telling that girl-"

"Well, it so happens that it paid off, because if I hadn't told her and she hadn't thought what she thought, we'd be missing a valuable piece of information!"

"What's so valuable about your boss' personal life? We're not reporters, McCormick! You're just trying to find an excuse for that dumb move you made."

"No, Judge, listen. I really feel we got something here," said McCormick. "Sheila and Ginny knew about it, maybe somebody else did, too. Maybe somebody didn't like the idea of the boss sleeping with a driver. Who knows?"

"Who knows, is right," Hardcastle sighed disgustedly. "This is getting us nowhere fast."

"I feel different, Judge. I feel we might be onto something here, but I can't get a handle on it."

"The only thing you're getting a handle on," said Hardcastle, "is the steering wheel. You got the last of the preliminaries tomorrow, then you got the qualifiers! I'm going down to the precinct. You need to concentrate."

McCormick smiled. "Since when do I need concentration for something as simple as driving a car, Judge?"

"Oh, uh, well..." A flustered Hardcastle, McCormick decided, was his favorite sight in life. "At least you gotta concentrate on not getting yourself killed, in that hunka tin you call a car!" Hardcastle grumbled.

McCormick just grinned.

"And QUIT SMILING like that!"

TO BE CONTINUED.....

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