Alan Cook - Hotline to Murder

Then Shahla said, “Where shall we meet?”

Another hesitation. Then he gave an intersection. Tony wrote down the names of the streets while Shahla verified them with Fred.

“Shall we say 12:15?” Shahla asked.

“All right. Listen, I gotta go.”

The line went dead. Shahla looked jubilant. “We got him,” she almost sang. She danced around the room.

“Not so fast, young lady.” Tony was alarmed at Shahla’s reaction. “First of all, we don’t know whether the information he gave us is correct. But in any case, we have to pass it along to Detective Croyden.” He pulled the detective’s card out of his wallet.

“No. Croyden is at home with his wife and kids. We can’t blow this.”

“Somebody will be on duty. I’ll call them.”

Tony lifted a telephone receiver, but Shahla grabbed it at the same time. They froze, with Tony sitting and Shahla standing. Each had one hand on the receiver. Their hands partially overlapped.

Tony’s first inclination was to jerk the receiver or yell at Shahla, but with an effort, he brought himself under control. Then he became conscious of the touch of her hand on his. He couldn’t let that affect him, either. He said, “What do you think we should do?”

“Meet him.”

“Us? Together?”

“Sure. If they’re two of us, we’ll be safe.”

“It isn’t going to happen. First of all, you’re not going anywhere except home. You’ve got school tomorrow. And how would I explain to your parents that I was running around the back streets of El Segundo at midnight with their underage daughter? Second, we’re going to turn this over to the police.”

Shahla kept her grip on the receiver and Tony’s hand. She said, “Tony, the police will screw this up.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because…because. It was…it’s too long a story, but you can believe me when I say that I don’t trust the police.”

He finally heard himself saying, much against his better judgment, “All right, this is what I’ll do.” He looked at his watch, which was on his left or unengaged hand, to gain time. It was almost ten o’clock. “We’ll close up shop, and you’ll go home. I will meet Fred, the Chameleon, at the designated time and place.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No, Shahla, you’re not.”

“You’ll get hurt going all alone.”

“My roommate has a gun. I’ll take it with me.”

They stared at each other, neither one moving. If this is a test of wills, Tony thought, I’ve got to persevere. I’m responsible for her safety.

Shahla said, “So you aren’t going to call the police?”

“No.”

Shahla relaxed her grip on the receiver and his hand. Slowly she pulled her hand away. Slowly he hung up the receiver.

Shahla scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “This is my cell phone number. Promise you’ll call me when you get back.”

“Who knows what time that will be? You’ll be asleep. And I’ll wake up your parents.”

“No you won’t. I have my own room. And I won’t be asleep. I’ll be waiting.”

“That’s a really bad idea. What if I forget to call?”

“I’ll go crazy. So promise you’ll call, okay? Even though we’ve just met, I don’t want to lose another…friend. I’ll worry until you call.”

Tony felt trapped. “All right, I’ll call you.”

Shahla gave him a hug so quick he wasn’t sure it had really happened.

Beams from a streetlight filtered through tree leaves to where Tony sat in his car, like water seeping through a membrane, providing just enough light so that it wasn’t pitch black inside the car. He had picked this spot for its darkness. The car would just be an innocuous shadow to a person standing at the intersection, fifty feet away, and he would be invisible to that person. The intersection itself was much better lit, with streetlights on two corners.

Tony was nervous. He caught himself lifting his chin in a basketball head-fake movement. Except that he had never been very good at basketball, because of his lack of height. The head-fake, which appeared when he was under stress, was modeled after that of one of the all-time greats, Elgin Baylor, who he had seen play only in videos, never in real life. Elgin was now an executive with the Los Angeles Clippers, a hapless professional basketball team that was not to be confused with the many-times NBA champion Los Angeles Lakers that Elgin had once played for.

He looked at his watch. He could just barely see the hands. Ten minutes past twelve. Five minutes to the meeting time with Fred the Chameleon. But Fred expected a juicy teenage girl, not a slightly overweight male marketing manager. What was he going to do if Fred actually showed? He only had a vague plan.

What was he doing here, anyway? Why had he given in to Shahla? At least he had done one thing right; he had not let her come with him. That would have been a disaster. It wasn’t that he was afraid. Well, not very afraid, anyway. El Segundo just wasn’t a very scary place. It wasn’t an upscale community like Bonita Beach, but the few people he had seen on the street didn’t look like hoods or gangbangers.

He had Josh’s gun, a nine-millimeter. And it was loaded. He had fired it only one time when he had gone with Josh to a firing range. But Josh had given him a quick review, and he felt fairly confident about using it. He patted the hard bulk stuck in his belt, underneath the sport coat he had donned, and wondered for the tenth time whether the safety was really on so that he wouldn’t accidentally shoot himself in the balls.

Josh had been surprisingly good about not asking too many questions. Tony had told him he had a midnight meeting, about which he was somewhat apprehensive because of the location, but he hadn’t mentioned that it was in connection with Joy’s murder. Josh would have volunteered to come along, and knowing him, Tony was afraid he might cause trouble. Josh pictured himself as a vigilante.

Tony heard footsteps as somebody approached from behind and walked past his car on the sidewalk. He froze, wondering whether he was really invisible. At least he was on the other side of the car from the pedestrian. And it was difficult to see into a Porsche with the convertible top down. As the person came into his field of vision, Tony saw that he was a man wearing jeans and a light jacket, possibly leather, against the Los Angeles night chill. He was also wearing a baseball cap. He walked rapidly, his body slouched, his hands in his pockets.

Did he look like somebody who was expecting to meet a girl he didn’t know? Not really. He looked furtive, like a person who was afraid of human contact. Tony watched to see if he turned the corner or crossed the street when he got to the intersection, but he didn’t. He stopped under the streetlight and glanced quickly around. He reminded Tony of a small animal watching for enemies.

Was this the infamous Chameleon? He did look weird, but not dangerous. He was thin and his slouch made him look short. Tony couldn’t see his hair because of the cap. He was too far away, and it was too dark for Tony to get a look at his face.

It was time for Tony to execute his plan, what plan he had. He pulled out his cell phone. The dial lit up, in response to his touch, and he entered the number Fred had given to Shahla. He pressed the Send button. The phone rang in his ear. The man on the corner gave no indication that his cell phone was ringing, and Tony couldn’t hear another ring, if there was one, even though his window was cracked open.

After several rings, an answering service came on the line. A male voice said, “This is…” and gave the telephone number Tony had attempted to enter. “You know what to do,” the voice continued. Then there was a beep.