Hotline to Murder (24 page)

***

Tony didn’t have a better plan when he drove
past Zook Sheeting on Grand Avenue in El Segundo at five minutes to
midnight. One problem was his lack of mobility. Another problem was
that Shahla had told the Chameleon that she was driving a black
Toyota Highlander—on his advice. That was a mistake. If he parked
anywhere near Zook, the Chameleon would spot it as soon as he
walked out of the building.

Tony drove around a corner and made a
U-turn, with the help of a driveway. He parked under a tree, away
from the streetlights. Another car was between him and Grand. He
suspected that the Chameleon walked to work. He had been on foot
when Tony saw him before. If he lived in one of the nearby
apartments, he should walk along Grand in this direction to get
home.

What did the Chameleon think when Shahla
didn’t show up? Was he disappointed? Or relieved because he
couldn’t handle contact with a real girl? Just his job, night
security guard, indicated that he preferred to be alone. Why had he
told Shahla where he worked? Because he was delusional enough to
believe that a girl returned his…desire? Lust? Or whatever?

Tony wondered what he was doing here. What
could he possibly accomplish? The impulse that had brought
him—stemming from the frustration he and Shahla felt about
Detective Croyden’s lack of action—had dissipated in the dark of
the night. He should go home. And he would. Soon. But first he
would wait a few minutes, just to see if he could catch a glimpse
of the Chameleon. That by itself would be useful information and
tend to confirm that the man did work at Zook.

Since there were no pedestrians about and
very little auto traffic, the Chameleon should be easy to spot. And
he was; his baseball cap and his rapid, slouching walk with his
hands in his pockets gave him away. Tony recognized him instantly
as he crossed the street where the SUV was parked. He looked
neither to the right nor to the left—thankfully.

Well, that’s it, Tony thought. Mission
accomplished. I’ll wait a few minutes for him to get away from the
intersection and then drive home. But maybe he could do more. What
if he could find out where the Chameleon lived? After a minute, he
cautiously drove to the intersection and looked to the right. He
could see the Chameleon by the light of the streetlights, walking
away from him.

Tony looked away for a moment, and when he
looked back, the Chameleon had disappeared. Had he seen a mirage?
No, the man must have turned a corner. Tony drove along Grand to
where he had seen the Chameleon. A side street went off to the
right. He stopped just short of the intersection and looked along
the street.

At first he saw nothing moving. Just
shadows, parked cars, trees, and the gray shapes of apartment
buildings. Then he saw movement. Someone was climbing the outside
stairs of one of the buildings. Tony had trouble seeing him in the
dark, but he was positive the man was wearing a baseball cap. At
the top of the stairs he opened a door and went inside.

Tony waited thirty seconds and then drove to
the building. He pulled out one of his business cards and wrote the
address on it. Now he should leave. But his adrenaline was flowing
again. He couldn’t leave yet. He’d love to get a good look at the
Chameleon, get inside his apartment. How could he do it? Not with
crutches, that’s for sure. Could he walk up those steps without
crutches? His knee was feeling better.

Tony parked the car far enough away from the
Chameleon’s building so that it wasn’t visible from a window. He
opened the door and swung his body around so he could place his
right foot on the ground. He stood up on his right leg and gingerly
shifted some of the weight to his left leg. It hurt, but it was
bearable. He shut the door and walked slowly toward the Chameleon’s
building, favoring his left leg.

It was still warm. Some of the warmest LA
nights occurred in September. It would be a pleasant night for a
walk if one wasn’t limping. Tony was wearing a short-sleeved shirt,
and he wasn’t cold. Just a little chilly. He remembered watching
fireflies on summer nights back home. And catching them in bottles.
In days long gone.

When he came to the wooden stairs, he
climbed up one step with his right leg and then brought his left
leg up to the step. It was slow, but it worked. He climbed the
fifteen or so steps in this manner and found himself facing a door.
A plain wooden door that could use a coat of paint. The door the
Chameleon had gone through. There was a window beside the door, but
the blinds were closed. However, a light was on inside.

Tony suddenly remembered that he didn’t have
a gun with him. And he was certainly in no position to make a fast
retreat down the stairs. In his favor was the fact that there was
no evidence that the murderer had used a gun. But there was also no
evidence that he hadn’t. Would the Chameleon recognize him? He had
looked at him for about a tenth of a second in the dark several
weeks ago. Surely, a memory couldn’t have been imprinted on his
brain.

Tony didn’t see a doorbell. He knocked on
the door. He listened but couldn’t hear any movement inside. He
called out, “Pizza man.”

In a few seconds footsteps sounded on the
other side of the door. A bolt slid open. Then the door opened.

“I didn’t order any…” The man stopped
talking when he saw that Tony wasn’t holding a pizza.

“Sorry,” Tony said. “That was the only way I
could think of to get your attention. I saw your light. I-I’m
looking for a friend, but I must have his address wrong.”

“What’s his name?”

“Uh…Sam. Sam Jones.”

“I don’t know any Sam Jones.”

He started to close the door. Tony saw a
large picture on the wall beside the doorway.

“Is that Britney? Britney Spears? I love
Britney.”

The door stopped closing.

“Yeah, that’s her. She’s great, isn’t
she?

“For sure. You don’t by any chance have a
phone book do you?”

“Come on in.”

Tony carefully walked through the doorway,
trying not to spook this man who looked as if the slightest sound
or movement would make him jump. An unpleasant stench hit him in
the nostrils. It smelled like rotting garbage. The Chameleon was
thin and short and his head was narrow, with a pointed nose that
reminded Tony of a ferret. He was bald in front, and what hair he
had in other places was overgrown, like a bush that needed
trimming. He wore jeans and a stained T-shirt.

“I’m T…I’m Ted,” Tony said. He couldn’t give
his real name or the Chameleon might recognize him from the
Hotline. He was sure that some of his hang ups had been from the
Chameleon. He tentatively offered his hand.

“Fred.” Fred gave him a quick, clammy shake
and then withdrew. “I’ve got a phone book here someplace.”

A look around convinced Tony that it might
be hard to find. The apartment was a filthy mess. The sparsely
furnished room was piled high with magazines and notebooks.
Newspapers littered the floor, along with uneaten food, some on
plates, some just lying on the worn carpet. This was the source of
the stench.

A wave of sadness went through Tony. My God,
what kind of a life is he living, was the first thought that
occurred to him. And then fear. This could have been me. A couple
of wrong turns, and this could have been me. He had a sense of how
thin the barrier was that separated the two of them. And he
desperately wanted to get out of here. But he couldn’t—just
yet.

Fred was methodically going through the
piles of written material, hunting for a phone book. Tony lifted
his gaze. Hundreds of pictures were taped to the walls. Pictures of
girls. Almost every square inch of the walls was covered. Most had
evidently been cut out of magazines. A few, like the one of
Britney, were posters. Tony recognized some of the pictures of
models, actresses, and singers. Others were unknown to him. All
were young and beautiful. Tony didn’t see any nudes among the
pictures. No
Playboy
centerfolds, such as had graced the
walls of his fraternity in college. All the girls were at least
wearing swimsuits.

“Great pictures,” Tony said, for lack of
something better to say.

“Yeah,” was all Fred said, but he did smile
for the first time.

“You must know every pretty girl in the
world.”

“Not quite.”

There was only one other window in the room,
in addition to the one beside the front door. An inside door led to
another room, probably a bathroom. But that couldn’t have a window
because its outside wall abutted the wall of the next apartment.
The windows didn’t have a good view of another building. So Fred
wasn’t looking at any tattoos out his windows. Shahla was right;
that was a fantasy.

“Where do you sleep?” Tony asked.

Fred nodded toward the side wall opposite
the internal doorway. “Hide-a-bed.”

The bed folded into the wall. Tony could
make out its outline. It was covered with pictures. That’s why he
hadn’t noticed it before.

“Here,” Fred said, pulling a phone book out
from one of the piles. He handed it to Tony.

“Thanks.” Fred didn’t look at him when he
handed him the book. In fact, he hadn’t looked him in the eye since
he first opened the door.

Tony noticed a cell phone for the first
time. The cell phone from which Fred made his calls to the Hotline?
It was sitting on top of some magazines, on an end table beside a
dilapidated chair, which was also covered with junk. There was a
plastic gizmo beside it that looked like a toy. Tony had never seen
anything like it. It occurred to him that it might be the
voice-altering mechanism that the Chameleon used.

Tony pretended to be looking through the
phone book. He said, “Are you a writer? I see you’ve got some
notebooks.”

“No. I just use them to put…put pictures
in.”

More pictures. “So you don’t write
poetry?”

“Not a chance. I’m the world’s worst poet.
Excuse me for a minute.”

Fred went through the doorway leading to
what Tony assumed was the bathroom and closed the door. Tony took a
step and picked up one of the loose-leaf notebooks sitting on the
chair. He quickly riffled through it. Sure enough, it was crammed
with more pictures of girls, taped to the pages. He didn’t see one
word of writing.

Tony replaced the notebook before Fred
returned and resumed his perusal of the telephone directory. It was
time for him to make as graceful an exit as possible. But first,
was there any way to figure out whether Fred had the potential to
be a killer? He remembered his Hotline training regarding
noninvasive questioning.

“You must really love girls,” Tony said as
Fred returned to the room.

Fred shrugged without looking at him.

“Do you ever get irritated with them?”

Fred thought about that for a moment, still
without looking at Tony. “Yeah. They don’t pay much attention to
me.”

“And you wish they would.”

“Yeah.”

But he said it wistfully. Tony could not
detect any undertone of anger.

“Apparently my friend isn’t in the
phonebook. Thanks for letting me look at it.” Tony walked the
couple of steps to the door, carefully, both to avoid the piles on
the floor and to protect his knee. He had been standing since he
had left the car, and his knee was beginning to ache.

Fred glanced up almost to Tony’s eyes and
said, “You’re welcome.”

He didn’t say anything more. He stood in the
middle of his room and seemed to be looking at the pictures on one
of the walls. As Tony closed the door, he was still standing there,
motionless.

Tony went slowly down the stairs, leaning on the
railing with his arm to support much of his weight, each time he
lowered his left foot from one step to the one below. He limped to
the SUV and settled himself into the driver’s seat. He drove home
at a leisurely pace, while thinking about Fred. And being glad that
he wasn’t Fred.

CHAPTER 28

The next morning as Tony prepared his
version of an omelet for breakfast, he thought some more about
Fred. He couldn’t picture Fred as a killer. A masturbator, yes. He
was obviously that. The pictures, the phone calls, the
voice-altering mechanism. The girls had been trained to hang up on
him whenever he started talking dirty—and rightly so. But he didn’t
appear to have any normal sexual outlets. Whatever normal
meant.

Not only did he show no signs of anger or
pugnacity, he wasn’t as big as Joy. And Tony couldn’t picture him
wielding a knife to subdue her, let alone strangling her. When Tony
had gone to meet him the first time, Fred had fled before he even
knew that Tony was a man instead of a girl. It had probably taken
all the guts he had just to go to the meeting place. He had
undoubtedly persuaded himself that Shahla—Sally—wouldn’t show up,
and so he was safe. But when someone did show up, he couldn’t face
the situation.

And last night, Shahla had again talked him
into meeting her. This invitation was so different from the usual
hang ups he received from the girls that he had been flustered
enough to give his work address. He had grasped at a thread of
hope, while probably dreading what would happen if she actually
came. But when she didn’t come, it cemented his self-image. He was
a loser, and girls wouldn’t have anything to do with him.

One more thing. Fred undoubtedly had an
alibi for the night of the murder. He had probably been working.
And although he worked alone, didn’t he have to punch time clocks
and leave other tracks during his shift?

That sealed it. Tony was not going to talk
to Detective Croyden about Fred. For one thing, he didn’t want to
take Croyden’s shit about doing police work and interfering with
the law. He hadn’t interfered with anything. Croyden would be able
to verify Fred’s employment, his alibi, and anything else he wanted
to know. And nothing Tony had done would stop him. Fred didn’t
associate him with the police or with the Hotline. He was sure of
that.