Alan Cook - Hotline to Murder

Tony pressed the button to end the call. The man on the corner hadn’t moved. Either he had ignored the call or he didn’t have his cell phone with him. The third alternative, of course, was that Fred had given Shahla a bogus number. Was the voice on the phone Fred’s voice? Possibly. But Tony wasn’t certain. It didn’t sound quite the same as the voice he had heard at the Hotline. And not only did Fred have many different voices, according to the Green Book, but the reception on this phone and the office phones also had some built-in distortion.

Tony had done all he could. It was time for him to leave. But he didn’t want to start his engine with the man standing there. The man would know that Tony had been watching him and might be startled into doing-what? Now the man was smoking a cigarette. Tony looked at his watch and thought he read the time as 12:20.

His anxiety level grew. He couldn’t wait here forever. And he had the uncomfortable feeling that he should be doing more, with the man still in sight. He made a decision. He quietly opened his car door, just as another car went through the intersection and masked the noise. He stepped out as his heartbeat accelerated. He left the door ajar so that the sound of it closing wouldn’t alert the man.

However, Tony also didn’t want to sneak up on him. He stepped up onto the sidewalk and started to approach the man, deliberately making noise with his sneakers slapping the pavement, trying to give the effect that he had been walking for some time. The man couldn’t fail to hear him.

The man didn’t turn around as Tony approached, but he did raise his head. A frightened animal, listening. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stamped on it. Then he abruptly started walking across the street. Fast. Still slouching, but his hands weren’t in his pockets. As he reached the other side, he turned around and took one quick look at Tony. Then he redoubled his pace, along the street at right angles to the one on which Tony was parked. He didn’t look back again.

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.”