Hotline to Murder (7 page)

Tony watched him, trying to picture his
face. His cap brim had shielded it from the streetlight. All Tony
could remember was a black void. He walked slowly back to his car,
wondering how he was going to get enough sleep to stay awake at
work that day.

It wasn’t until he was almost home that he
remembered he had told Shahla he would call her. He didn’t want to
wake her up, but he had promised. This time he stopped directly
under a streetlight and turned on his dome light for good measure
so that he could see to press the buttons.

After two rings a sleepy voice said,
“Hello.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Tony? No, I was awake. What happened? Are
you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. A guy showed up, but I
couldn’t get him on the cell phone. I’m not sure he’s the one.”

“Oh. Well, we can talk more about it
tomorrow.”

“I’m going to pass the information on to
Detective Croyden.”

“Tony. You can’t!”

“I have to. It’s the right thing to do. Go
back to sleep. Goodnight.” He quickly pressed the button to end the
call so that he couldn’t hear her protests.

***

Detective Croyden sat down hard on the
swivel chair in his small cubicle and said, “Okay, Tony Schmidt,
what have you got for me?”

Tony seated himself just outside the
cubicle—there wasn’t room inside—on the folding chair that Croyden
had carried over and wondered how strong Croyden’s chair was.
Croyden was no lightweight. In fact, he had probably played
football at sometime in his life—perhaps linebacker.

Tony realized that despite the fact that he
had had most of the day—or at least snippets here and there between
talking to clients on the phone—to think about what he was going to
say, he still hadn’t come up with anything good. But he had to get
out of this mess before he got himself in any deeper.

He gave a head-fake and dove in. “One of the
callers to the Hotline has been talking about Joy in such a way
that we think it’s possible he might be Joy’s killer.”

Croyden picked up a spiral notebook and
started writing with what Tony thought was a Mont Blanc pen. He
said, “Who’s we?”

“Shahla Lawton, one of the other listeners,
and me.” He wondered how Croyden could afford a Mont Blanc pen.

When Tony hesitated, in order to let Croyden
ask more questions, the detective said, “Go on. Tell me the story.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed one ankle over his knee. A
thick and hairy leg showed above a white sock. The chair creaked.
He had his jacket off, and Tony could see the gun in a holster on
his left side. Tony pictured Croyden drawing the gun. He must be
right-handed.

And Tony did tell him the story. In fact, he
told Croyden more than he intended to. Croyden didn’t need a class
in active listening. He was so good at using silence and occasional
probing questions that Tony knew he was talking himself into
trouble. About the only thing he didn’t tell about was the gun he
had borrowed from Josh. And he made it sound as if going to meet
the Chameleon was his idea, not Shahla’s.

When Croyden was apparently satisfied that
Tony had nothing more to tell, he planted both feet firmly on the
ground. He leaned forward and looked Tony in the eye, the way a
linebacker looks at a quarterback he is about to sack. The broken
nose in the middle of his tanned face enhanced the image. He spoke,
his words coming slowly. “Have you been trained as a police
officer, Tony?”

“No…sir.” The ‘sir” came out
involuntarily.

“Were you in the Marine Corps, by any
chance?”

“No.”

Croyden spoke faster. “How about the Green
Berets?”

“No.”

“The Navy Seals?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell were you doing risking
your life trying to impersonate somebody who knows what they’re
doing?”

“It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t care so much if you
lost your life through your own stupidity. But in this case, you
spooked a possible suspect. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t
slap the cuffs on you for trying to play the hero?”

Tony couldn’t think of any.

Croyden took his eyes off Tony’s and lowered
his voice. “I’m going to tell you something that I don’t want to go
beyond this room. We subpoenaed the records of the Hotline’s
incoming calls from the phone company for the last month. We found
the numbers for all the obscene callers by comparing the times of
the calls to the times listed on the call reports. We are in the
process of checking out each of these perverts. I’m telling you
this so that you know we’re actually doing something and not just
sitting on our butts.”

“What about confidentiality?”

“That’s why I don’t want you to say
anything. Your boss, Nancy, is afraid that if this leaks out, the
Hotline will lose its status as a confidential service. Mind you,
we’re only checking on the callers you call masturbators, and I
don’t believe they deserve confidentiality.”

“So you’ve already got a line on the
Chameleon.” Tony felt redundant.

Croyden still wasn’t looking at Tony. “Well,
we’ve had a problem with that guy. He calls from a cell phone. We
checked it out, and the number belongs to a woman who couldn’t be
the Chameleon. She says she lost her phone and doesn’t know who’s
using it. She may be stonewalling, but we haven’t been able to
convince her to tell us anything more.”

“So the number he gave Shahla…”

“Even if he gave her the number he is using
it may not do us any good.” Croyden looked at Tony and said, “What
were you doing the night Joy was killed?’’

The change of subject was so abrupt that
Tony was taken aback. He stared at Detective Croyden.

“Routine question,” Croyden said. “For the
record.”

“I-I went to a movie. Alone. But I kept the
ticket stub.” That demanded an explanation. “I keep all my ticket
stubs.”

“What time was that?”

“About eight to 10:30.”

“Don’t lose the stub,” Croyden said, making
a note. He didn’t even say anything about how Tony could have
purchased the ticket to provide himself with an alibi.

CHAPTER 8

When Tony arrived at the Hotline office for
his Friday evening shift, he found the door unlocked. He entered
the office, wondering about this breach of the rules, and saw that
there were two people in the listening room, both males.
Apparently, they weren’t worried about outsiders getting in.

As he entered his hours in the book, one of
them came out of the listening room. He was a teenager, tall, blond
and a little bit gawky, wearing a Bonita Beach High School T-shirt.
At the same time, Tony heard a voice behind him say, “Hey, Kevin,
we need to talk to you for a minute.”

Tony turned and saw Shahla coming out of the
snack room carrying a plate of chips. What was she doing here? He
had been convinced that she would never speak to him again. Maybe
she had worked the four-to-seven shift with these guys and was just
finishing up. And who were “we”?

Shahla continued, “Kevin, this is Tony.”

They said hi and shook hands.

“Kevin is a senior at Bonita Beach,” Shahla
said to Tony. “Tony is new here.”

At least she was speaking to him.

“What we need to know,” Shahla said to
Kevin, “is what you were doing the night Joy was killed.”

“Aren’t you going to read me my rights?”
Kevin asked with mock indignation.

“Your rights just went down the toilet,”
Shahla said. “Answer the question.”

Tony had hoped Shahla was off this kick. At
least she had waited until he showed up. But she was being awfully
blunt about it.

“All right, officer,” Kevin said, “I know
when I’m defeated. I was at lacrosse practice.”

“Sure you were,” Shahla said. “At night and
before school started? A likely story. What were you really
doing?”

“It happens to be true,” Kevin said. “We had
preseason practice. And since we have to share the field with the
football team and the soccer team and some of our players had
summer jobs, we practiced at night. It’s a good thing we got lights
on the field last year. The coach and all the other players can
vouch for me.”

“What time did practice end?”

“It was almost ten. And then we took
showers. We’ve got the same practice schedule tomorrow night. I’ll
tell you what, why don’t you come into our shower room at ten
tomorrow evening. We’re a friendly group. Then you can see for
yourself.”

“No thanks.”

“Watch out for these guys,” Kevin said to
the man who was just coming out of the listening room. “They’ll try
to pin Joy’s murder on you.”

“Maybe they’re trying to cover up for
themselves,” the man, who Tony recognized as Nathan, said, with a
half-smile.

Nathan was wearing the same sweatshirt he
had worn at his last Hotline session on Monday.

“What we want to know,” Shahla said, without
smiling, “is what you were doing and where you were the night of
Joy’s murder.”

Nathan said, “You don’t want much, do you?
But by the way, I’ve already told this story to Detective
Croyden.”

“Humor us and tell it again,” Shahla said
munching on a chip.

“No problem. I was at church.”

“What church is that?” Tony asked, feeling
that he should be helping Shahla.

“The Church of the Risen Lord.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” And the fact that
Nathan didn’t look either of them in the eye made the story sound
suspect.

“It’s northeast of the airport, about ten
miles from here.”

“Is that where you live?” Shahla asked.

“Near there. They have Thursday evening
services that sometimes go until pretty late. Eleven or so.”

“And you have someone who can vouch for
you?”

“Of course. I have a lot of friends
there.”

“All right, you two can go,” Shahla said
still without smiling.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Kevin said, with a
little bow. “Come on, Nathan, let’s get out of here before they ask
us more questions.”

“Shahla is tenacious, isn’t she?” Nathan
said. “I like that in a girl.”

They went out the door together.

Tony looked at Shahla and said, “What about
you?”

“What about me?”

“Didn’t you work the four-to-seven? Aren’t
you leaving?”

“If you’d look at the time sheet, you’d know
that I’m working the seven-to-ten.”

Tony hadn’t signed in on the time sheet yet.
He did so now and, sure enough, Shahla was signed in for the
seven-to-ten shift. She went into the listening room. He followed
her, noticing that she had her dark hair in a ponytail, fastened
with an elastic band he had recently learned was called a scrunchy,
for reasons unknown. He liked ponytails. He said, “I wasn’t sure
you were speaking to me.”

Shahla sat down at the table by the window,
the one Tony liked, and said, “I shouldn’t be, but I need your
help.”

Tony vowed to claim his seat first in the
future. He sat down at one of the other tables. “Did Detective
Croyden talk to you?”

“Yes. He came to my house.”

“How did you like him?”

“He’s not as bad as I thought he would be.
He asked some good questions and he seemed to know what he was
doing.”

“But you’re still conducting your own
investigation.”

“That’s why I need your help.”

Tony was checking the bulletin board to see
if there were any new notices. He spotted one from Gail. He read it
aloud to Shahla: “When you take a call from the Chameleon, be sure
to record everything he says. We particularly want information
about where he lives and where he works. Don’t hang up on him
unless his talk gets particularly offensive. Do not under any
circumstances give him any information about Joy, the Hotline or
yourselves. Do not agree to meet him anywhere. Give your call
report to Nancy, Patty, or me, immediately. If none of us is here,
place it on my desk.”

“Detective Croyden has been talking to the
ladies in the office,” Tony said.

“Duh. I’m surprised you didn’t get
fired.”

“How can you get fired from a volunteer
job?”

“You know what I mean.”

“And yet you were willing to go with me.
Nay, you insisted on going.”

“But I wasn’t planning to tell Croyden about
it.”

“Okay, truce.” Tony liked this high-spirited
girl too much to want to be at odds with her. “What do you plan to
do now?”

The phone rang before she could say
anything. Tony answered it. “Central Hotline. This is Tony.”

“I’ve got a problem,” a female voice said.
“I need to talk to someone.”

“You can talk to me,” Tony said. “Who’s
this?”

“Gertrude.”

He would bet a week’s pay that her name
wasn’t really Gertrude, but she could be anonymous if she wanted to
be. When she didn’t immediately say anything more, he said, “What’s
your problem, Gertrude?”

“I like sex.”

He was tempted to say, “That’s a problem?”
but she sounded quite young, so he waited her out. He put the call
on the speaker so that Shahla could hear it.

After a pause she said, “I’m sixteen, but I
like to have sex. What do you think I should do?”

The Hotline rule was to not give advice
because the listeners were not trained counselors. Tony asked,
“What would you like to do?”

“Should I stop having sex?”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No. I like sex. I’m always horny. But other
kids are saying bad things about me.”

“So you’re getting a bad reputation? How do
you feel about that?”

“How do you think I feel? I feel awful. So
what do you think I should do? Should I go on fucking every boy I
go out with or should I stop?”

This was turning into an obscene phone call,
but it was also somewhat titillating. Tony had never heard of a
call like this coming from a girl. He looked at Shahla. She had a
look of surprise on her face. Then she walked out of the listening
room. Tony took the call off the speaker, figuring that Shahla
didn’t want to listen.