Alan Cook - Hotline to Murder

Tony couldn’t remember Josh ever dating the same woman for more than a month or two. When the romances fizzled, it was always the woman’s fault-never Josh’s. Tony had met many of them. They were personable, good-looking, smart. No, Tony didn’t believe that the women were always at fault. It was something about Josh.

Tony remembered things Josh had said. “Women were put on earth for our pleasure.” “A broad lying on her back with a sack over her head and her legs spread is pretty much like every other broad.” Were these the statements of a man who liked women?

And Josh’s nickname for him-Noodles. It dated from college. A bunch of the guys and gals had been eating sushi and drinking sake at a Japanese restaurant. At some point, one of the guys and one of the gals went outside to the guy’s van. The guy came back a while later and said the girl was in the van, stripped and waiting for anyone who wanted to have her. Josh had immediately volunteered.

When he returned, he tried to get Tony to go. “She’s hot to trot, Tony. Never pass up a free piece of ass.”

The prospect had sickened Tony. She was probably too drunk to know what she was doing, and the idea of following Josh and another guy almost made him puke. One or two others may have gone; Tony didn’t remember. But Josh had never let Tony forget that he had failed, in Josh’s eyes. Thus the nickname, Noodles. Tony would rather eat a bowl of noodles than get laid.

A thought struck Tony like a bolt of lightning. Did Josh hate women so much that he would murder a girl? A girl he envisioned to be part of a plot to alienate Tony from him? Impossible. But Josh did call Carol about him and that was out of character. He knew that the Hotline closed at ten p.m. because of the hours Tony had been working. Yes, but he didn’t know where it was. Or did he?

Tony turned on the lamp beside his bed and sat up, more awake than ever. He got out of bed and walked silently from his bedroom into the study across the hall. He could hear Josh snoring behind the closed door of the third bedroom. Loudly. Snore, snore, then break for a few seconds. Then snore some more. It sounded like the snort of a mad bull before he charged. Josh always seemed to snore after he had been drinking.

Tony turned on a light in the study and stood in the doorway. From here he could see his bookcase. Standing on a shelf of the bookcase, in plain sight, was his notebook for the Hotline. It contained all his notes from the class. Tony went to the bookcase, picked up the notebook, and set it on his desk. He opened it up. The first page, neatly three-hole-punched, had printed on it the address of the Hotline and a map showing how to get there.

This information had been given to the students after they graduated from the class. Tony had never thought about hiding it from Josh. As far as he knew, Josh never went into his study. But Josh had been upset when Tony wouldn’t tell him where the Hotline was. After all, they were supposed to tell each other everything, like fraternity boys. Of course, Tony had stopped telling Josh everything years ago, but he had never told Josh he wasn’t telling him everything.

Where was Josh on the night of the murder? Tony realized that he didn’t know. He hadn’t seen Josh all evening. In fact, Josh had returned home after he had. After he was in bed. And as far as Tony could remember, Josh had never said anything about that evening, which wasn’t like him. Because he still told Tony everything. Or did he?

There was nothing Tony could do about it now. Reluctantly, he went back to bed. But his mind wouldn’t shut up. He did manage to get a few minutes of restless sleep before the alarm went off.

Tony was running on coffee. It had been a long day, with several intense sales calls and a lot of driving. That, coupled with his lack of sleep and the late summer heat, made him feel as if he couldn’t take another step. Or even get out of his car. And getting out of a Porsche was no mean feat.

He was parked in front of the Church of the Risen Lord. He had looked up the address after Nathan had said he was a member, out of curiosity more than anything else, since he had never heard of it. And today, after his last call, he had been in the neighborhood, if you could call being within five miles the neighborhood. He had gotten here with the help of his Thomas Guide. “Here” was somewhere northeast of the Los Angeles Airport.

It wasn’t much of a church. The small building had obviously been used for something else before the Risen Lord had occupied it. It had no steeple or visible cross. No stained-glass windows. It did have a crude sign on the small, weed-infested lawn in front, announcing its name and telling when it had services. There were Thursday evening services at 7 p.m., which tended to support Nathan’s story of where he had been during Joy’s murder, assuming they went on for three hours.

Since he was here, he should do more than stare at the front from his car. Tony opened the car door and laboriously lifted himself up from the seat. It was hot in the open air after the coolness of the air-conditioned car, but evening was coming and with it cooler temperatures. That was something you could always count on in Los Angeles. He shut the door and locked the car, looking around at other cars parked on the street. None were Porsches, but some were new. There was no indication that people feared that their cars would be stolen. And it was still broad daylight.

A small gravel parking lot sat beside the church, with weeds poking through the gravel. The only car in the lot was a Chevrolet that had a few miles on it. Maybe a few hundred thousand miles. Tony walked up the cracked sidewalk to the dilapidated front door. A coat of stain would help it, just as a coat of paint would help the stucco walls of the church.

Tony tried the door; it was unlocked. He opened it and stepped into the gloomy interior. The only light came from several windows along each side wall. He could make out wooden pews and a raised platform at the other end. In addition to a lectern, the platform supported a table with candlesticks and a picture of a man, probably Jesus. It was too dark to tell for sure. Some seats at one side of the platform might be for a choir. A small organ stood near them.

Nobody was in sight. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to anybody, anyway. He stood at the back, wondering why Nathan was attracted to this particular church. It didn’t look very substantial. He was about to leave when he heard footsteps resounding from contact with a hard floor, coming from somewhere behind the platform. He hesitated, wondering whether it would look as if he were up to something if he left now.

A man came through a doorway that Tony hadn’t seen before, in the wall behind the platform. He was a big man, and he walked rapidly, with a purpose that gave Tony a moment of trepidation, until he realized that the man hadn’t seen him. He took a step to attract the man’s attention.

The man stopped halfway down the aisle that went between the rows of pews and said, in a deep voice, “How can I help you, brother?”

Tony’s first thought was to wonder whether Shahla would claim that the man should have said, “How may I help you, brother?” He hesitated for an awkward moment and then decided that truth was the best policy. He said, “I know somebody who attends services here and I was curious.”

The man came up to him and stuck out a giant hand saying, “I am the Reverend Luther Hodgkins.”

Tony said, “Tony Schmidt,” failing to match the resonance of the Reverend’s voice. His hand got lost in that of the larger man. He was dark-skinned, with graying hair, and could have played football with Detective Croyden. He was dressed in a colorful Hawaiian shirt.