Alan Cook - Hotline to Murder

“I’m at a phone booth.” She named an intersection in Santa Monica. “And I’m not going back home.”

Tony decided not to ask her reasons. It wasn’t his job to judge her. It was his job to make sure she was safe. Shahla had just come in through the door he had left unlocked for her. He put the call on the speaker and looked out the window. The sun was setting. He didn’t want the girl to be out there alone in the dark.

“Do you have any friends or relatives who can help you?” Tony asked.

“Not here. Not nearby.”

She sounded frightened. She may be having second thoughts, but whatever crisis impelled her to leave home must outweigh her fear. Tony was frantically leafing through the directory of available services in Southern California. He said, “There are shelters you can go to. Some of them will pick you up.”

At that moment, his eyes focused on such a shelter with a Santa Monica address. Thank God. “I’ve got a number for you. Do you have money so you can call the number or do you want me to call it for you? Oh, they take collect calls.”

“I’ve got some money.”

“Do you have a pencil and paper?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, write this down.” He gave her the number. “Call it immediately. If they can’t help you, call us back. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“And call us back to let us know that you’re all right.”

She promised and hung up. Tony hated to lose the connection. The chances were that she wouldn’t call back.

“She’ll be okay.”

Tony looked up into Shahla’s dark eyes.

She said, “That’s a tough call because we probably won’t find out what happened. But you did the best you could.”

What if that wasn’t good enough? Tony continued to brood about it.

“I see you grabbed the good seat.”

Shahla feigned being upset and sat down at another table.

He had to shake himself out of his depression. “You snooze, you lose.”

“I had to take my mom to her class. It was the only way I could get the car.”

Apparently, they were a one-car family. Unusual for Bonita Beach. But with her father dead… She had a tough road to travel with only one parent.

Shahla went to the snack room and came back with her usual plate of chips. She said, “Have you thought over what I told you about Martha?”

He had not told her he was going to talk to Martha. He was hoping that as a result of their meeting he could report that she had an ironclad alibi and couldn’t possibly be a suspect. Unfortunately, it hadn’t turned out that way. Martha’s alibi was clad in a light mist that could be blown away by a gentle breeze. However, Detective Croyden also knew that.

Tony wanted to keep Shahla out of it. He didn’t believe Martha had a motive for murdering Joy, even though Shahla might not agree. If Shahla was jealous of Martha’s relationship with Joy, she might do something she would regret.

“I think Detective Croyden has already talked to her. I understand he talked to all the members of the volleyball team.”

“Who told you that?”

Who told him that? “I can’t remember. Maybe Croyden did.”

“But he hasn’t talked to all the members of the Hotline.”

“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.”