Hotline to Murder (11 page)

“There are a lot more of us. And I think
he’s talked to everybody who knew Joy.”

“How does he know who knew Joy?”

Tony didn’t like getting the third degree.
He said, “Let’s work on that poem. Have you thought of anybody else
who might have written it?”

“No. And before we start speculating,
shouldn’t we find out if there were any fingerprints on it?”

“How are we going to do that? I know. I’ll
call our Indian buddy and see if he’ll tell us.”

“Our Indian buddy?”

“Crooked Nose.” Tony took out his cell phone
and then extracted Detective Croyden’s card from his wallet.
Croyden had been working late on Friday. Maybe he was working the
afternoon-evening shift to give him a better opportunity to talk to
people who might have knowledge of Joy’s murder.

“Tony, it’s Native American, not
Indian.”

“Sorry. When I went to school they were
still Indians.” Tony called the number on the card. He could
picture it being answered by the officer on the desk. He asked for
Detective Croyden.

“Croyden.”

“Hi Detective Croyden, this is Tony
Schmidt.”

“Tony Schmidt. What have you got for
me?”

“A question. Were there any fingerprints on
that envelope Shahla and I brought in?”

“Your fingerprints were on it.”

“Okay, but were there any other prints?”

“I suppose you’ll bug me until I tell you.
No. There were no other prints on the envelope or on the paper
inside. Whoever sent it was probably wearing gloves. They shouldn’t
show those damn police shows on TV. They make the perps too
smart.”

“One more question. What was in the
envelope?”

“I don’t have to tell you that. You already
know.”

“How would I know?”

“You’re going to play dumb, is that it?
Okay, no games. It was a poem.”

“Written by the killer?”

“Either that or it’s a prank.”

“May I have a copy of the poem?”

“Go flog yourself.”

Croyden hung up. Shahla was on a call. As
soon as she saw that Tony was free, she put the call on the
speaker. The voice sounded like a woman with a cold.

“…stare at me when I go out without wearing
a bra. I think they can see my nipples. It makes me very
uncomfortable.”

Shahla pressed the Mute button and said,
“It’s the Chameleon.”

The Chameleon? Oh, yes, he sometimes
imitated women. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve heard him use this voice
before.”

The breathy voice was saying, “What do you
think I should do?”

Tony said, “Try to find out if he wrote the
poem.”

Shahla cancelled the Mute and said, “So, do
you wear tops with spaghetti straps?”

“Spaghetti straps. I love to wear spaghetti
straps. Do you like to wear spaghetti straps?”

“Sometimes. But we have to wear bras in
school. Do you know that the assistant principal has the job of
bra-snapper?” Shahla winked at Tony. “It’s his job to make sure all
the girls are wearing bras. I don’t like it when he checks from the
front—and his hand slips. On purpose.”

“It’s so…when men have their hands all over
you.” The Chameleon dragged this out, making it sound as if the
hands were at work on him.

“He’s masturbating,” Shahla mouthed.

“Hang up,” Tony mouthed back.

Shahla shook her head.

“I don’t like to wear a bra,” the Chameleon
said in a breathy monotone. “I like my tits to be free of
restraint. It makes me feel so…free.”

“I know a poem about spaghetti straps,”
Shahla said.

“Men shouldn’t be allowed to make us feel
uncomfortable. We should be able to wear what we want.”

“She wears a summer dress, spaghetti straps
to hold it up…”

“I love spaghetti straps. I could wear them
every day.”

“You and I have a lot in common. Let’s get
together. What do you think?”

There was a click.

“I think you violated just about every
Hotline listening rule,” Tony said. “Again.” He was relieved that
the Chameleon had hung up.

“Just following orders, General.”

“But I didn’t ask you to try to meet him
again.”

“Cold feet? I thought we were in this
together.”

“Anyway, you scared him off. It’s probably
just as well. And he didn’t pick up on the poem.”

“I guess I was a little abrupt. But I don’t
think he wrote the poem. He’s about as poetic as a mud fence. But
that doesn’t mean he isn’t the killer.”

“Okay, but let’s let Croyden handle him.
Fill out a call report, and we’ll leave it for Nancy to give to
him. But don’t mention the poem.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Shahla gave an imitation of
a salute. “I don’t know what you think of me, but I’m not really a
bad person. I get good grades. I don’t smoke, drink, or do drugs.
And if I listen to dirty talk, it’s because it’s part of my
job.”

Tony was taken aback for a moment. She was
fishing for a compliment. He was not great at giving compliments.
“I-I think you’re doing a super job. Just don’t do anything
risky.”

Shahla held his eyes. “Do you care what
happens to me?”

“Of course I care what happens to you.”

Shahla seemed satisfied with that. She
filled out the report while Tony took a call from somebody who
wanted a referral to a therapist. When he hung up, Shahla was on
another call. It wasn’t until an hour later that they were both
free at the same time. Tony still figured that their best bet to
help the investigation was to try to track down the writer of the
poem, especially since Croyden didn’t have any leads there.

He looked up the information on Paul the
Poet. The page in the Green Book said that Paul still lived at
home, even though he was in his late twenties. He apparently had a
job and girlfriends, so he wasn’t completely stunted. That he lived
at home didn’t square with his claim of having been abused by his
parents. But he did admit to sleeping with a teddy bear and a
night-light.

“It’s funny,” Shahla said as they read it.
“When you talk to him, he brings up this abuse issue, but then if
you ask him where he lives, he says he lives at home. I asked him
once who paid his phone bill. He didn’t give a straight answer. And
I think he has a job. It doesn’t all make sense.”

“I’ve discovered that our callers don’t
always make sense. How often have you talked to this guy?”

“Many times.” Shahla spun her chair around
to face him. “He’s one of our more intelligent callers, in spite of
the contradictions. We actually had some good conversations about
poetry. He read a few of his poems to me.”

“And were they really good?”

“They weren’t bad. They showed talent.”

“So you think he could have written the
poem?”

Shahla hesitated and then said, “He’s the
best guess I have right now.”

“So he just happened to be in Southern
California. And he just happened to write a poem he wanted to
deliver to the Hotline. And somehow, he found out the address of
the Hotline.”

“Sounds farfetched, doesn’t it?”

“Especially if he’s going to be a murder
suspect. Why would he come all the way here to murder somebody? Did
he ever show animosity to you on the phone?”

“No, he was one of the easiest repeat
callers to talk to. He was always appreciative. He often thanked me
for listening to him.” Shahla kicked the floor with her feet and
spun her chair around, a child at play. “I guess we can eliminate
him.”

Tony furrowed his brow. “Still, it would be
nice to talk to him. Did he ever give any indication of where in
Vegas he lives? Or where he works? There’s nothing here.”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Wait. The book gives a last name for him.
Vicksburg.”

Shahla shrugged. “Who knows whether that’s
correct? Our callers use a lot of aliases.”

“But since we don’t ask for last names, he
must have volunteered it. I’m going to Google him.”

Tony went into the office and started up
Patty’s computer. It asked him to enter a password. He looked at
Shahla, who had followed him.

“The password is ‘m-i-g-i-b,’” Shahla
said.

“How do you know that?”

“Patty told me. I helped her with some
computer stuff one time.”

“What does it mean?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. But her boyfriend’s
name is Marty. So I remember it as, ‘Marty is great in bed.’”

Tony didn’t comment on that. He connected to
the Internet and then the Google search engine. He typed in “Paul
Vicksburg.” On the first try he got mostly references to pages
about Vicksburg, Mississippi, and the Civil War, so he modified his
search with the word poet.

“He’s got a website,” Tony told Shahla, who
had come in to see what he was doing. “And there’s poetry on
it.”

They looked at the pages together. The poems
were the kind of plaintive meanderings that had always put Tony to
sleep, but he noticed that some of them did rhyme, just like the
spaghetti strap poem. They showed the egotistical nature of a
person who thought his problems were the most important problems in
the world. Still, Tony realized, many people believed that,
including some of the Hotline callers. Poets went a step further
and put the thought into words.

“Is this the guy?” Tony asked Shahla, after
she had read several of the poems.

She reread one of the poems and said, “He
recited that poem to me on the phone. I’m sure of it. Does it say
where he lives?”

It didn’t, but there was a “Contact me”
button. Tony clicked on it and found the poet’s e-mail address. He
said, “Let’s say we want to arrange a meeting with him, like you’re
always trying to do with your beloved Chameleon. Would he respond
better to an e-mail from a man or a woman?”

“A woman. He likes girls. Isn’t this the
point when we have to turn the evidence over to Detective
Croyden?”

Tony smiled at her imitation of his voice
and said, “I haven’t been to Vegas for a while. I just might take a
run up there. My car needs the exercise anyway. What’s your e-mail
address?” He added, “Keeping in mind that you’re not going to be
the one to meet him.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? That’s a
long drive for probably nothing.”

“You’re the one who wants to follow up every
lead.”

“Yeah, but…”

Tony was surprised at Shahla’s reluctance.
It took him several minutes of talking before she agreed that this
might be a good idea. But all at once her face lost its frown, and
she smiled, like clouds parting to let the sun shine.

She said, “Okay, you’re right. We need to
check this out.”

The first part of her e-mail address was
“writeon,” which was gender-neutral. Having the word “write” in it
didn’t hurt, either. Both of Tony’s addresses, business and
personal, had “tony” in them, so they agreed to use Shahla’s.
Shahla was able to log into her e-mail from Patty’s computer.

Tony said, “You’re the writer. Compose a note to him
that he can’t resist. Tell him you’d like to meet with him on
Saturday afternoon. Let him name the place.”

He watched as Shahla worked. She wrote fast
and confidently and then made a few changes until she was
satisfied: “Hi, Paul. I have read and enjoyed the poems on your
website. They have spirituality that I find lacking in today’s
poets. As I read them, I am drawn into an ethereal world of
promise. I would love to meet you. I heard from another one of your
admirers that you live in Las Vegas. Is this true? It so happens
that I will be in Las Vegas on Saturday. Can we get together in the
afternoon? That would be fantastic. Name the time and place. Yours,
Sally.”

“‘Spirituality’ and ‘ethereal world of
promise’? What does all that mean?”

“Not a thing,” Shahla said with a smile.
“But poets love big words.”

“You’re too smart for your own good. Just
remember, if he should happen to reply to this, I’m the one who’s
going to meet him, not you.”

“Of course,” Shahla said, her eyes wide with
innocence. “I never thought anything else.”

CHAPTER 13

As Tony opened the back gate to the small
patio of his townhouse, he saw that all the downstairs lights
appeared to be on. Then he heard explosions through the open
sliding door and figured that Josh must be watching a war movie on
his big-screen TV. He heard raucous laughter and knew that Josh had
some of his friends over. On a Monday night.

This had happened before, and Tony thought
he had put a stop to it. The rule was that Josh could have friends
over on Friday or Saturday nights, but not the other nights. Tony
had hinted that he would make an exception for a well-behaved
woman, as long as Josh and the woman did whatever consenting adults
do behind the closed door of Josh’s bedroom, but Josh never seemed
to have women over anymore. Was this the same Josh who had tried to
date every coed at the University of Michigan?

Time for action. Tony slid open the screen
door and entered the townhouse. He marched through the family room,
down the short hallway, and into the living room. The scene was
much as he had anticipated. Josh reclined on the reclining chair
with a can of beer in his hand. Two men sat on the couch, each with
his own can of beer. They were all casually dressed, in jeans and
T-shirts touting athletic teams or running events that they
undoubtedly hadn’t participated in. If they were like Josh, their
main exercise was elbow bending.

Spilled potato chips littered the carpet and
were in danger of becoming a permanent part of the weave. The
ubiquitous cooler sat on the floor at Josh’s side. Tony glanced at
the screen of the television set and recognized a scene from the
movie,
Saving Private Ryan
. Nobody saw him for a few
seconds. All eyes were intent on the screen. He cleared his throat,
between explosions.

Josh turned his head toward Tony and said,
“Noodles. You’re home from the Hotstuff Line. The hero returns to
collect his reward for valor.”