HOTLINE TO MURDER

by

Alan Cook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

“This is a very entertaining mystery that builds up speed and takes the reader along to its surprising conclusion.”

—Cynthia Chow, Librarian, Kaneohe, Hawaii

“This story is well crafted and the California setting terrific. I highly recommend this book.”

—Dawn Dowdle for Mystery Lovers Corner

PUBLISHED BY:

Alan Cook on Smashwords

Hotline to Murder

Copyright © 2005 by Alan L. Cook.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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BOOKS BY ALAN COOK

Run into Trouble

Gary Blanchard Mysteries:

Honeymoon for Three

The Hayloft: a 1950s mystery

California Mystery:

Hotline to Murder

Lillian Morgan mysteries:

Catch a Falling Knife

Thirteen Diamonds

Other fiction:

Walking to Denver

Nonfiction:

Walking the World: Memories and Adventures

History:

Freedom’s Light: Quotations from History’s Champions of Freedom

Poetry:

The Saga of Bill the Hermit

DEDICATION

To all the Hotline listeners, young and old, who put their own psyches on the telephone line, in order to help others.

CHAPTER 1

The three-story building looked like any of a thousand small office buildings in a hundred cities, with its gray stucco exterior and its glass doors. It blended in so well with the retail shops that most of the customers of the strip mall in Bonita Beach didn’t even realize it was there. And that made it a perfect location.

Tony had never been inside this building. All of the training sessions had been held in a local church. The students hadn’t been told the location of the Hotline office until they graduated. It was confidential.

He rode the elevator to the third floor and found room 327. There was no name on the door. He took a deep breath and put a half smile on his face. He hesitated. This was much harder than going on a routine sales call. Finally, he tried the door handle. The door was unlocked.

He opened the door and walked into the office. Nobody was in sight. Minor relief. It gave him a moment to get his bearings. The best word for the place was utilitarian. About what you’d expect for the office of a struggling nonprofit organization. Tony assumed it was struggling. Didn’t all nonprofits struggle?

A girl emerged from one of three doorways and immediately smiled.

“Hi, I bet you’re Tony.”

“Hi.” Tony remembered to put a smile on his own face. She must be his mentor for this shift.

“I’m Shahla. Glad you’re on time. The guys on the four to seven shift just left, and it’s a little creepy here alone at night.”

“Tony.” She already knew that. Why was he so flustered? “Uh, how do you spell your name?” he asked, trying to hide it.

“S-h-a-h-l-a. Excuse the food. I haven’t eaten dinner. Are you hungry? There’re snacks in there.”

She pointed her head back over her shoulder. She carried a paper plate full of chips and a coke. That was dinner? Maybe for a teenager. Tony tried to remember his eating habits when he was younger. He shook his head to signify that he wasn’t hungry.

Shahla walked into a room with a sign that said “Listening Room” over the door, and set the food on one of the three tables. Tony followed her.

She turned back to him and said, “I understand that you let the class use your condo for one of the Saturday sessions and that you have a really neat pool. That was a nice thing to do.” She gave him a thumbs-up sign.

“How did you hear about that?” Tony asked, caught off guard.

“Joy is my friend. She was one of the facilitators for the class. She swam in your pool.”

“I remember Joy.” That was an understatement. He was not likely to forget the blonde Joy, especially how she looked in a bikini.

“I’m supposed to show you around,” Shahla said, after a sip of coke. “This is the listening room. We write the names of repeat callers on the board each day so that if they call a second time, we can tell them they’ve already called.”

“Repeat callers get only fifteen minutes a day,” Tony said, quoting from the class, where facilitators had done comical imitations of some of the chronic Hotline haunters. There were several names on the white board from earlier shifts, including Prince Pervert, Lovelorn Lucy, and Masturbating Fool. “Don’t you hang up on the bad calls?”

“Yeah, if they start talking about sex in an explicit way or if we think they’re masturbating, we tell them it’s an inappropriate call and hang up.”

She spoke in a casual voice, but Tony felt uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to talking about masturbation with a teenage girl. He said, “And the books are for referrals?”

“Right. We have a couple of different telephone directories, including a local one, and these other books contain numbers we can give to callers, depending on their problem. They have names of counselors, drug and alcohol programs, shelters, that sort of thing.” She pointed out the books on one of the tables. “And this is the Green Book which tells about the repeat callers.”

Tony made a mental note to look through the books.

“I’ll show you how to sign in and also the rest of the office.” Shahla led the way out of the listening room.

She had long, dark hair and dark eyes—eyes that he knew he had no business gazing into. She wore jeans cut low across her hips and a midriff-baring top with spaghetti straps. Two other straps peeked out from beneath the outside ones. No navel ring, however. In fact, the only piercings he saw on her were one in each ear containing a stud. He couldn’t guess her nationality, offhand, but assumed her parents were from somewhere in the war-torn Middle East. He wasn’t surprised. The class had been composed of predominantly teenagers, belonging to a rainbow of races. But she spoke better English than he did.

“I guess most of the listeners are young,” Tony said as he signed in twice: on the daily time sheet and also the permanent record of hours worked by each listener.

“Yeah, we have to get our community service hours to graduate from high school.”

“A lot of the kids in the class were sixteen.”

“I’m seventeen.”

She said it with enough emphasis so he knew the difference was important. “Are you a senior at Bonita Beach High?”

“Yes. I’ve been on the Hotline for a year and a half.”

Shahla took him into what must be a supply room. Except that in additional to metal cabinets, it also contained a sink and some bags of chips and pretzels.

“Food,” she said, pointing. “There’s drinks and stuff in the refrigerator. And there’s water.”

A five-gallon Sparkletts bottle sat upside down on its metal stand. She led him out of that room and through the one remaining doorway. The room they entered was the largest one yet. It contained three desks, with all the appropriate office paraphernalia on top of them.

“These desks belong to Gail and Patty.”

Tony had met them at the class sessions. Patty was the Administrative Assistant and Gail was the Volunteer Coordinator.

“What about the third desk?”

“Several people have left. Patty’s only been here for three months. Here’s Nancy’s office.”

Shahla went through a doorway to an interior office containing just one desk. Nancy was the Executive Director. Tony had met her, too. She appeared to him to be very competent. He glanced at a couple of framed certificates and some photographs of the local beach on the walls of her office, and then they walked back to the listening room.

“Can you help me with something until the phone rings?” Shahla asked. She pulled a sheet of paper out of a folder she had brought with her. “I’m trying to put together a resume so I can get a part-time job. Can you take a look at it for me?”

“Do you really need a resume to work at McDonald’s?” Tony asked. “Or do you aspire to something grander?”

“I’m not really qualified for anything grander yet. I figured a resume would give me an advantage over the competition.”

Tony was impressed, not only by the resume, but by Shahla’s thinking. With a shock, it occurred to him that perhaps she was qualified to do more than work at McDonald’s. She had done two things when she met him that would do credit to a top salesperson. She had complimented him and asked for his advice, which had immediately endeared her to him. This was no airheaded teenager.

The telephone rang. Shahla said, “Okay, you’re on the air.”

Tony’s nervousness returned. He took a breath to calm himself and picked up the phone. “Central Hotline. This is Tony.”

There was an audible click at the other end of the line and then silence.

Shahla, who had pushed the speaker button, smiled. “You’ve just had your first hang up.” She walked over to a sheet of paper pinned to one of the bulletin boards and put a mark beside August 16.

“Do you think it was one of the obscene callers?”

Shahla shrugged. “Who knows? We all get hang ups.”

For some reason Tony felt marginally better about taking the calls. There were some people who didn’t want to talk to him even more than he didn’t want to talk to them.

Five minutes later the phone rang again. He answered it with slightly more confidence.

“Tony?” a female voice said in response to his greeting. “Have I talked to you before?”

“I don’t know,” Tony said. “Who’s this?”

“This is Julie.”

“Hi, Julie.”

Shahla placed the call on the speaker. There was no echo so callers didn’t know they were on a speaker. She reached for the Green Book and riffled through its pages. She set the book in front of Tony so he could read about Julie. Meanwhile, Julie, who had apparently figured out that Tony didn’t know her story, had taken off like a windup toy, talking about her ex-husband who had run away with his secretary, and a number of other men with whom she had apparently had affairs, but who had screwed her in one way or another. This wasn’t just a bad joke; she was crying on the line.

Tony barely had an opportunity to get in an occasional verbal nod, consisting of “Uh huh,” and no opportunity to practice other skills he had learned in the class. He belatedly wrote the time down on a call-report form and scanned the written information about Julie. She had been calling for several years. She complained about men and almost everything else, and her nickname was Motormouth. About all the listener could do was to give an occasional verbal nod and hang on for fifteen minutes.

After a while, Tony realized that some of the incidents Julie was talking about had happened years earlier. He felt like telling her to get over it and get a life. Perhaps it was a good thing he couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

At the end of fifteen minutes, Shahla swept her hand across her throat in the classic “cut” gesture. However, that was easier said than done. Tony tried to interrupt Julie several times; she talked right over him. Finally, she stopped for a moment to take a breath, the first time Tony remembered her doing so, and he told her he had to answer other calls.

“Oh,” Julie said, and then, “If you hang up just like that, I’ll be depressed for the rest of the day. Can I just tell you one more thing?”

“Okay,” Tony said, feeling helpless. He avoided Shahla’s eyes.

She told him about a time a man had sent her flowers.

“That must have made you feel special,” Tony said, congratulating himself on introducing feelings into the conversation.

“Very special. But what I wanted to say was I got some of that same feeling just now because you listened to me, and you didn’t judge me.”

When he was at last able to end the call, he figured he had been on the line for twenty minutes. “Can you get fired for giving a repeat caller more than fifteen minutes?” he asked.

Shahla smiled and said, “Julie is one of the hardest ones to get rid of. Don’t feel bad. I have trouble with her too. And you ended the call on an upbeat note, which is a miracle for her.”

The phone rang again. Tony, who was still thinking about the previous call, tried to mentally brace himself. He answered the phone. Nobody spoke, but he was quite sure the line was open. He said, “Hello,” as he pressed the button to place the call on the speaker.

A male voice said, “I don’t want to go on.”

Startled, Tony looked at Shahla. She mouthed the word, “Suicide.” He thought, my God, this is a real call. I’m not playing a role in a class, anymore.

CHAPTER 2

“You don’t want to go on,” Tony repeated, using a subdued tone of voice to match the caller’s. He realized he had just used reflection, another listening skill.

The silence that followed was as deafening as a rock band. He wanted to say something more, but he didn’t know what to say. Shahla was listening intently to the speaker, but she didn’t give any helpful hints.

“I’m going to end it,” the sad voice finally said.

“What’s your name?” Tony asked. He needed to establish rapport with the caller.

After a pause the caller said, “Frank.”

“Hi, Frank. Do you think you’re going to hurt yourself?” He couldn’t bring himself to use the word “kill.”

“Yes.”

“How are you going to do it?”

“I have a gun.”

The guy was serious. “Where is it?”

“In my hand.”

“Is it loaded?”

“Yes. It’s pointed at my head.”

Tony looked at Shahla in panic. She pressed the mute button and said, “Try to get him to put the gun in another room.”

“Frank,” Tony said, “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll talk to you, but I can’t do it when you have a gun in your hand. I’m afraid there might be an accident. Will you do something for me? Unload the gun and place it in another room.”

Silence. Then Frank said, “I won’t unload it.”

“All right, but please put it in another room, out of sight.”

They went back and forth for several minutes. Finally, Frank agreed to take the gun to another room. While he was off the line, Tony said to Shahla, “I’m sweating.”

“Stay with him,” Shahla said, “You’re doing fine.”

Frank came back on the line and, without being asked, assured Tony that the gun was gone. That was a good sign. Tony said, “There are people who care about what happens to you.”

“Nobody cares.”

“I care. I care very much.” And Tony found that he did care.

Slowly, Frank’s story came out. He had a degenerative disease that was making his muscles useless. He was disabled and his physical condition was deteriorating. At some point he would be completely helpless. Tony wracked his brain, but he couldn’t think of a way to put a positive spin on that. He tried to keep Frank talking. There were long periods of silence, during which Shahla’s support helped Tony remain calm. The phone rang a number of times, but she ignored it.

An hour into the call, Frank said, “This isn’t going anywhere. I’m going to hang up now.”

“Don’t hang up,” Tony blurted. “I have something more to say.”

Silence.

Tony talked desperately, repeating things he had said, previously, while expecting to hear the click of a hang up at any moment. He had to get some agreement from Frank. Frank had said several times that he didn’t have any relatives or close friends, but he had mentioned that he did have a cat. Tony decided to focus on the cat.

“What kind of a cat do you have?” Tony asked.

“Alley cat. He kept hanging around the neighborhood. The neighbors fed him. I never did. But he came in the house one day when I left the screen door open. I couldn’t boot him out.”

“How long have you had him?”

“Five years.”

“What would he do without you?”

“Go back to being an alley cat.”

“But he obviously likes you, Frank. You can’t desert him.”

It was a thin thread, one that might break at any moment. Tony kept Frank talking about his cat. Little by little, Frank agreed that he should stay alive because of his cat. Or did he? Part of the time he seemed to be ready to disavow any agreement.

Before he hung up, Tony said, “Please call us tomorrow and tell us how you’re doing,” knowing that Frank might never make the call.

As he put down the receiver, Tony realized that his shirt was soaked. He glanced at the clock. It was almost ten. He had been on the call for two hours. He said, “I’m not sure I convinced him.”

“You did the best you could,” Shahla said. “That’s all you can do.”

“To be honest, if I were in his shoes, I would probably want to end it too.”

“That’s the hardest call you’ll ever get on the Hotline. The suicide calls I’ve had are like, ‘I’m going to kill myself on the anniversary of my father’s death.’ ‘Oh, when is that?’ ‘Next February.’ Okay, that’s six months away. So I figure I’m safe.”

They chuckled, which reduced the tension that had been present in the room for so long, like a compressed spring.

“I have to go to the restroom—badly,” Tony said. “I’ve had to go for an hour.”

“That’s one thing I forgot to tell you,” Shahla said. “Down the hall to the right. The key is hanging by the door. While you’re gone, I’ll fill out your evaluation form.”

“Evaluation form?” He should have known there would be an evaluation form. “I hope I passed.”

“Oh you did. With flying colors.”

***

Tony parked his car in one of the two carport stalls allotted to his townhouse and noted that Josh’s car occupied the other one. He had hoped Josh would be out. It was too much to hope for that Josh would be asleep at this hour. He didn’t feel like talking to his roommate—housemate—he had to quit thinking like a college boy. After all, he had been out of college for almost ten years.

He opened the wooden gate leading to his small brick patio. The sliding glass door to the house was open. He slid open the screen door. As he entered the house, he saw light emanating from the living room and heard the sound of the television set. Blaring. Explosive. Bang bang bang. Not a good sign. On the other hand, if Josh was fully involved in one of the ultra-violent movies he loved, maybe Tony could whoosh past him and race up the stairs without being detained.

“Hey, Noodles. Where you going so fast? I want to hear about your evening.”

Caught. And “Noodles.” How Tony hated that nickname. But this wasn’t the time to lecture Josh for the thousandth time about it. Josh lay fully reclined on the reclining chair, facing the big-screen TV, which was the only thing in the living room that belonged to him. He held a can of beer in his hand. A cooler sat beside the chair to prevent him from, heaven forbid, actually having to walk into the kitchen to get more beer. Empty cans littered Tony’s carpet, undoubtedly dripping beer into it.

“I can’t talk with that thing on,” Tony shouted, over more explosions. He headed for the stairs.

Josh picked up the remote, aimed it at the TV like a gun, and muted the sound. “There. I don’t want to hurt your sensitive ears. Here, have a brewski.”

He picked a can out of the cooler and tossed it to Tony, oblivious to the fact that it was wet from melted ice. As Tony caught it, cold water spattered his face, arms, T-shirt, and jeans.

“So, how did things go during your first night on the Hotstuff Line?”

That wasn’t a question Tony could even begin to answer, given his current state of mind. He was still thinking about the suicide call. He popped open the can and took a long swallow. The cold bite of the liquid felt good sliding down his throat. Maybe this was what he needed.

“What’s the matter? Some pussy got your tongue? Talk to Uncle Josh. Okay, let’s start at the beginning. I believe, back in the days when you were actually speaking to me, you said you would find out where the Hotline office is for the first time tonight. So, where is it? And sit down, for God’s sake. Don’t look like you’re about to fly off and execute some noble deed.”

Josh flipped back his too long, but already thinning, red hair and folded his hands on his ample belly, while precariously balancing his beer can on said belly.

Tony sat down on the sofa underneath the living room windows. He took another long swallow. He had to talk to Josh sooner or later because Josh never let go. But it hadn’t occurred to him that he was going to have trouble with this question. “The location is confidential.”

“The location is confidential.” Josh mimicked him, but with a voice of exaggerated piety. “So this is how you treat your uncle Josh, after all the years we’ve known each other, after all we’ve been through together. After all the times I saved your worthless ass in college when you were about to flunk a course. After all the girls I fixed you up with. This is how it ends. ‘The location is confidential.’”

“Can the damned dramatics, Josh. I’m not going to tell you, okay? I signed a statement, and I’m not going to risk getting fired. I’ll tell you anything else.”

“I didn’t know you could get fired from a volunteer job. But Josh has a big heart, and I’ll let it pass. Even though it’s breaking. And let me risk another question, even if it means another bruise on my ego. You told me you were going to have a mentor tonight. Tell me about your mentor.”

Tony said, “Yes, I did have a mentor. She was very good.”

“Jesus, you sound like a first-grade reader. What was her name?”

“Uh, Sally,” Tony said, using Shahla’s Hotline alias. Among his other faults, Josh was a bigot.

“And is this Sally a babe?”

The last thing Tony was going to do was to admit to Josh that she was a babe. He said, “She’s a teenager. She’s seventeen.”

“So, is there a statute of limitations on babedom? Today’s teenyboppers are hot. I’ll bet she was wearing low-cut jeans and a top that was barely there. And a thong. Did you happen to notice when she bent over? Or does your new-found sanctity prevent you from peeking?”

Josh was uncomfortably close to the truth. To head him off, Tony said, “I took several calls. One was from a guy who was talking about blowing his brains out.”

“Holy shit.” Josh’s blue eyes widened, and he looked at Tony with what might be respect. “Did he have a piece?”

“He said he did.”

“What kind?”

“Our discussion didn’t go into that kind of detail. I got him to take it into another room.”

“So, did you convince him that life was worth living?”

Tony hesitated. That was the question he had been asking himself all the way home. “I…I’m not sure.”

“You mean, at this very moment he might be lying on the floor with his fucking brains scattered all over the room?”

A gruesome picture flashed into Tony’s head. He said, slowly, “At this very moment he might be lying on the floor with his fucking brains scattered all over the room.” He couldn’t look at Josh. He knew Josh was staring at him, with the freckles covering his face changing color, as they did when he felt emotion.

“Noodles, you need another beer.”

Josh tossed this one across his body, and it spattered Tony and the sofa with cold water. Beer was Josh’s answer to all the world’s problems. Maybe Josh was right. By the time he went to bed, Tony had drunk at least a six-pack.

CHAPTER 3

It was Friday evening, August 30, two weeks after his first mentoring session. Tony walked into the building where the Hotline was located. Once again he smelled the odor he had come to associate with it. Perhaps it was some sort of cleaning compound.

Instead of riding the elevator, he went up the stairs, taking them two at a time, all the way to the third floor. He was glad there was nobody at the top to see him puffing—to see how out of shape he was.

He had also taken the stairs at his second and third Hotline sessions with a mentor, eschewing the elevator. Why? He could barely admit it to himself, but the reason apparently had to do with the fact that he wanted to get into better shape, lose those extra pounds that pushed his belt out. Why? It was ridiculous to think that he would do something he had never done in his life, at least for a woman—any woman, let alone for a seventeen-year-old. Someone who was legally jailbait.

He had not seen Shahla since the first session. His mentors for the other two sessions had also been teenagers, a boy and a girl, and they had been good, but they had made no lasting impression on him. Now he was on his own, an experienced listener. As he walked to the office, he wondered whether there would be anyone else on the lines tonight, or whether he would be alone. He barely dared hope that Shahla would be here, and he knew the odds were long against it. She had not been signed up on the calendar the last time he had looked, several days before.

Tony tried the handle of the brown door. It was locked. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes to seven. Perhaps there was no listener on the four-to-seven shift. Sometimes that happened with a volunteer organization. Fortunately, he had learned the combination to the lockbox on the door. He entered it and pulled off the cover, looking for the key inside. Except that the key wasn’t there. What was going on?

He was at a loss, a feeling he was unfamiliar with. What should he do? Could there be somebody in the office behind the locked door? He had already stored the office phone numbers in his cell phone. He took out the phone and called the administrative office number. No answer. He tried the Hotline number. No answer.

Maybe this was his way out. He had made a good-faith effort to work his shift. If the Hotline was so disorganized that he couldn’t even get in, it wasn’t his fault. Looking back over the last few weeks, he had done everything he set out to do. He had taken the Hotline training class and passed. He had survived three mentoring sessions and received good marks. He had shown empathy. In fact, he had learned all the skills that Mona, his boss at his real job, had wanted him to learn, when she had suggested that he volunteer for the Hotline. And although he had agreed to work at least three shifts a month for a year, if the Hotline staff members didn’t keep their part of the bargain, why was he obligated to keep his?

But back to the present. There was a slight chance a listener was inside, on another call. If so, she—or he, would presumably be coming out in a few minutes—unless she was on a long call. Decision time. Tony decided to wait until five minutes after seven.

He nervously paced up and down the corridor, wondering when a guard might come by and ask him what he was doing here. None did. At three minutes after seven, he tried the Hotline number on his cell phone again. No answer. He left.

***

Tony went into the third bedroom on the second floor of his townhouse, the one he used as a home office, and fired up his computer. He slept in one of the other bedrooms. Josh occupied the second. Tony decided to check his e-mail. He had an e-mail address at work, of course, but he reserved his home e-mail for his personal life. He could also surf the Internet a little, find out what the stock market did today, visit an adult chat room. After all, he had no girlfriend at the moment.

His spam filter captured a lot of the junk, but some still got through. There was the usual pleading letter from a high-ranking nobody in Nigeria offering him millions of dollars if he would just share his bank account number. He deleted the letter without reading it. After the first few dozen, they all sounded the same.

An e-mail message from the Hotline caught his eye. He clicked on it immediately, partly because he was feeling guilty for skipping his shift, even though it wasn’t his fault. It was from Nancy, the Executive Director, addressed to all listeners. He scanned the note in mounting horror and then went back and read it carefully.

It said, in part, “As you probably know by now, one of our listeners, Joy Wiggins, was murdered last night behind the building in which the Hotline office is located, after she worked the 7 to 10 p.m. shift.” It went on to express the deep shock and sorrow of the Hotline staff and to say that the Hotline would be closed until further notice.

Tony violently shoved his rollered chair away from the computer with his feet, as if the mouse had burned his hand. He stared at the screen from four feet away, hoping the words would read differently from there, but they didn’t. Joy had been a facilitator for the Saturday class that was held in his townhouse. She was one of the girls and boys who had swum in his pool—and the one he remembered most distinctly.

He continued to stare at the computer screen, fighting the idea that a beautiful girl like Joy was dead. It must be a mistake. He remembered seeing her laugh, he remembered her bikini-clad body, and he remembered her critiquing one of the role-play calls he had made during that class, with wisdom beyond her years. She had given him a good suggestion about using silence during calls.

She had been killed almost twenty-four hours ago. Why hadn’t he heard about it before now? Tony went back over his day. He had rushed out of the house that morning, barely taking time to drink a glass of orange juice and eat a piece of toast. He had driven seventy-five miles to a little burg east of Los Angeles and had spoken at a meeting of a women’s club. On the way there, he had listened to a CD on salesmanship—another one of Mona’s ideas. He hadn’t listened to the news on his car radio.

He had spoken to the women about what his company, Bodyalternatives.net, could offer them. Bodyalternatives.net was a new type of company—one that was based on the Internet. Its website, which was getting over a million hits a month, with the number rapidly increasing, featured help for people who had some sort of problem with their bodies—or who were just plain dissatisfied with them. Most of the company’s income came from plastic surgeons and other healthcare professionals who advertised on the site.

Tony’s job, as Manager of Marketing, was to make healthcare contacts, sell advertising space on the site, and also to reach out to potential clients. That is what he had been doing by giving a speech to the women’s club. He had used his newfound listening skills to good advantage, had not judged his audience, and had shown empathy when answering questions. For example, he had not laughed when a woman complained about the crow’s-feet beside her eyes that nobody else could see. Mona, who was president of Bodyalternatives.net, would be pleased. He intended to emphasize the good things he had done in his call report.

Tony had made several other calls during the day, but he had always listened to the tapes when he was in his car. He had grabbed a quick dinner in a fast-food restaurant and gone directly to the Hotline, without going to the office or coming home. That’s why he had been out of the loop.

He rolled his chair back to the computer to look for news reports. They weren’t difficult to find. The story had a sensational aspect, and it had been picked up by all the news services. The first thing he read was that Joy’s body had been discovered in a pocket park behind the mall, cut and bruised, almost naked. Some items of her clothing had been lying nearby.

When Joy hadn’t returned home last night, her parents had driven to the mall. They had found her car parked in the lot behind it. Listeners on the seven-to-ten shift were supposed to call the guard when they left and could request an escort out of the building. They exited by the back door because the front door was locked at night. On the three evenings Tony had worked, he had acted as the escort. Actually, the time he had worked with the boy, they had escorted each other.

Joy’s parents had called the police when they found the car, but not Joy. A search had turned up her body within an hour. Tony tried to picture how devastated Joy’s parents must be. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t put himself in their place. And he didn’t want to. He would never have children.

There was more information. The police had talked to the building guard. The guard claimed he had escorted Joy out to her car and seen her get into it. But he had not seen her drive away. She was an honor student and a member of the Bonita Beach High School volleyball team, one of the best high school teams in the country. Among other volunteer activities, she worked at the Central Hotline, the news reports said.

Who would do such a thing? There were a lot of weirdoes out there—stalkers, rapists. The murderer must have been lying in wait for Joy. Someone who knew where the Hotline was located? Listeners were supposed to keep its location secret, but there were so many of them. Word must leak out—to family, friends. And from there, to whom?

A noise downstairs told Tony that Josh had arrived home from his job. He worked in the television industry, which allowed him to start late in the morning. Of course, he got home late, also, but that was fine with him because he didn’t like to go to bed. Tony could follow Josh’s progress in his head. First he would open the refrigerator and take out a can of beer. Then he would scan his mail, neatly separated for him by Tony. After that, he would come upstairs to change his clothes. A clump clump clump told Tony that Josh was right on schedule.

Tony was prepared when Josh poked his head into the doorway and said, “Tony, baby, I’m awfully sorry about the girl. I found out about it when I got to the station. We had a ton of people covering it. I meant to call you on your cell phone, but I got tied up.”

“That’s okay,” Tony said. Josh was always meaning to do things he never got around to doing. Actually, Tony was glad he hadn’t heard about Joy until tonight. It would have completely ruined his day. “I suppose there isn’t anything new that’s not on here.” He motioned toward the computer screen.

“Not much. Autopsy pending. My guess is that she was raped.”

“Is that confirmed?”

“Not yet, but why the hell would a guy drag her into the bushes and tear her clothes off if he wasn’t going to rape her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you know her? She was a real babe. We got a picture of her from her parents.”

“I knew her slightly.” Tony wasn’t going to tell Josh that she had been here at the townhouse, swimming in the pool. Josh would complain that Tony had excluded him. That’s exactly what Tony had done, of course, making sure that Josh was out of town on the weekend he had volunteered to hold the class here.

“Do you know what she was wearing?” Josh asked, as if he were revealing a scandal. “Short shorts, skimpy top. No underwear. If a girl’s dressed like that, she’s asking for it.”

“It was a warm night. And maybe the killer took her underwear with him. Maybe he has an underwear fetish.” Tony was heating up. “Where do you get off, anyway, saying that she was asking for it? That’s antediluvian thinking, Josh.”

Josh backed away in mock surprise. “Sorry, Noodles. I forgot that you’re a born-again feminist. Working for women. Working with girls. Listening to their problems. You’re pussy-whipped, that’s what you are. You’re not the Tony I used to know who could pick up a girl on the street just by smiling at her and then would dump her with a frown. Now I bet you tell them you feel their pain.”

Usually, Tony would have had a fast comeback for Josh, but he was in no mood tonight. He stood up and said, “You have exactly three seconds to get out of this room before I throw you downstairs.”

It was doubtful that he could throw the larger Josh anywhere, but Josh knew his temper and was smart enough not to aggravate him further. Josh backed out of the room with his arms up in a gesture of surrender and went down the hall to his own room.

CHAPTER 4

Tony was driving to an appointment when his cell phone rang. He pressed a button and said, “Tony speaking.”

“Hi, Tony,” a female voice said. And after a pause, “It’s Carol.”

Carol? Why was his ex-girlfriend calling him? He felt the same thrill she had evoked in him when they were dating and he saw her or heard her voice. Then he became wary. “Hello, Carol.”

“Can you talk? You sound distracted.”

“I’m driving on the 405. I don’t like to talk on the phone when I’m driving.”

“Is there a better time when I can call you back?”

No, there wasn’t a better time. If she had something to say, he wanted to hear it now. He went into defensive mode. “I’m late for an appointment, but I can talk to you for a minute.”

“That’s big of you. All right, I guess I deserve that. Anyway, Josh called me. He’s worried about you.”

Josh called Carol? That got Tony’s attention. Josh and Carol got along like cobras and mongooses. Or was it mongeese?

“Josh is worried about me?” That was reflection. He was using his listening skills in ordinary conversation. Perhaps, if he had mastered these skills when Carol was his girlfriend, she wouldn’t have dumped him.

“He says you’ve changed. He says…well, he didn’t explain it very well, but he doesn’t think you’re the same person you were.”

“Maybe that’s an improvement. As I recall, you didn’t like the old Tony.”

“You know better than that. It’s just that…”

She hesitated. The old Tony would have interrupted at this point. The new Tony used silence as a tactic, waiting her out.

“It’s just that you didn’t seem to respect my feelings.”

Feelings. Now he knew a lot more about feelings than he had. Maybe that’s what Josh didn’t like about the new Tony. Josh was not known for his empathy. But calling Carol was potentially a mistake on Josh’s part. If Tony and Carol had stayed together, Carol would have moved into the townhouse and replaced Josh. Although Tony hadn’t gotten around to telling Josh that.

Where was this conversation going? What did Carol want? Should he get his hopes up?

“Tony?”

He changed lanes to pass a slower car. “I’m still here.”

“You were quiet for so long I wasn’t sure. What I was wondering is, would you like to…uh, well, get together and talk some more?”

He was tempted to say, talk about what? Haven’t we talked about it all, ad nauseam? Or at least he had listened while she talked. Well, sometimes he had argued. Sometimes he had let his mind wander. He didn’t want to be the bad guy now. He also didn’t want to get hurt anymore. He said, “When would you like to get together?”

“What are you doing this evening?”

“I have to go to a meeting.”

“Oh. I’m going out of town on business tomorrow. I won’t be back for several days. I hoped we could see each other today. What time is your meeting?”

“Seven.”

“When will it be over?”

She was starting to act as if she owned him. Again. “I’m not sure.”

“May I ask what kind of a meeting this is?”

He didn’t want to get into that. It would require too much explanation, which he didn’t owe her. Maybe if he said it fast. “I-I joined a Hotline. The meeting tonight is for all the listeners.”

“Josh told me about your foray into the Hotline. He also said the Hotline closed down. Because the girl who was murdered worked there.”

“I think it’s going to start up again.”

“Josh said you listen to people talk about their problems. But if you can listen to other people’s problems, why couldn’t you listen to my problems?”

Josh was talking too much. And Tony didn’t have an answer for Carol. He looked at his watch and said, “Carol, I’ve gotta run. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

He broke the connection before Carol could say anything more.

CHAPTER 5

Tony filed into the Bonita Beach High School auditorium along with the other Central Hotline listeners. He recognized some of them because they had been in his training class. Patty, the Hotline administrative assistant, sat at a table just inside the door, checking listeners’ names on a list as they entered.

Tony said hello to her, and she smiled at him. She knew his name because she had been at several of the training classes and, being one of the few adults, he stuck out. Patty was a young and pretty brunette with an oval face, large eyes, and a boyfriend. She was also taking college courses at night, so if she had a class scheduled for this evening, she was cutting it.

He found a seat near the front of the auditorium, over on the side, so he wouldn’t block the view of any of the shorter listeners behind him. The room had a flat floor, not inclined, and the metal folding chairs weren’t fixed in place. In spite of these drawbacks, it was nice of the school district to allow the Hotline to use the auditorium of the high school for this meeting. All the listeners would not have fit into the Hotline office. Joy had been a student here, and Tony was sure the school district was cooperating in everything to do with the investigation of her murder.

The mood of the listeners was subdued as everybody found a seat. There wasn’t the usual banter and laughter that one would expect from a young crowd. Tony estimated that close to a hundred people had showed up, a high percentage of the active listeners.

The stage contained a lectern with a microphone. Three chairs sat beside the lectern. A few minutes after seven, two women and a man climbed several steps to the stage from the auditorium floor and sat in the chairs. The women were Nancy, the Executive Director of the Hotline, and Gail, the Volunteer Coordinator. Tony didn’t recognize the man.

After a whispered discussion among the three, Nancy stood up and came to the lectern. A middle-aged woman, she had her hair cut short and curly. It was a brownish color that made Tony suspect it might be dyed. She wore a smart shirt and pair of slacks and had a look of authority. Even before she said a word, Tony admired her aura of composure in a difficult situation.

The audience became quiet without being asked. Nancy tapped the microphone to see if it was turned on and then started speaking. “Thank you for coming tonight. This is a hard time for all of us. As those of you who attended Joy’s funeral and listened to her friends and family talk about her know, Joy was a very special person.”

Tony hadn’t attended her funeral. His rationalization was that he had barely known her and couldn’t afford to take time off from work, but in a rare self-analytic moment, he had admitted to himself that he had a fear of funerals. Now he had to contend with a certain level of guilt.

Nancy looked around the auditorium and continued, “But all of you are very special people. As listeners on the Hotline, you have made a commitment that few people can make. You have committed yourselves to help others—not just go through the motions of helping others, with surface gestures such as donating money or old toys. You have agreed to enter their worlds, to listen to their problems, to walk a mile in their shoes, to feel what it’s like to be disabled or abused or bi-polar or even suicidal. You have invested not just your time, but your emotions, as well. And that is what is difficult to do. That’s what sets you apart and makes you special. That’s what puts you in a class by yourselves and gives you a bond with other Hotline listeners that nobody who hasn’t been a listener can share. And all of you have a permanent bond with Joy.”

The woman was an orator. As Tony listened to her, he felt his usual cynicism slipping away. He looked at the listeners around him with new eyes. He even looked at himself with new eyes. He had been planning to quit the Hotline, using Joy’s murder somehow as an excuse, but how could he do that now? He felt tears rolling down his cheeks, which he tried to hide by brushing them away with his sleeve, but when he dared to look around the room again he noticed that there were not many dry eyes in the place.

Nancy was saying, “We are going to reopen the Hotline, starting tomorrow. Joy would want us to keep it open. Our callers need us and want us to keep it open. We will be making changes to increase our security. However, to those of you who feel they can’t continue as listeners, we understand. But we would like as many of you as possible to stay. In a few minutes we’ll tell you about some of the changes we are implementing. But first, I want to introduce Detective Croyden to you. Detective Croyden is with the Bonita Beach Police Department. He will bring you up to date on the investigation and answer any questions you may have.”

Nancy sat down, and Detective Croyden walked to the lectern. He was an athletic man, wearing a dark business suit with pinstripes, but primarily some shade of brown. His hair was trimmed so short that it was barely there. He looked overdressed for the modern casual world, but Tony realized that he had at least one gun hidden beneath his jacket. He would have been handsome if his nose hadn’t tilted to one side. It probably hadn’t always been like that.

Detective Croyden took a few seconds to survey the room. He had a penetrating gaze that prevented his audience from fidgeting or talking. When he started speaking, he had everybody’s attention.

“I want to add my thanks to you for coming tonight. This is a difficult time for you. I am going to level with you as far as what we know. I won’t hold back just because many of you are young. Nancy and Gail told me that as listeners, you are used to hearing strong language.”

He paused again for a moment which, Tony realized, had the effect, planned or not, of riveting the attention of the audience on him even more. “First, let me tell you what we know and what we don’t know about the murder, itself. Joy walked out to her car after her shift ended at ten o’clock, escorted by the building guard. The guard remembers it as being approximately five minutes past ten. She got into her car. The guard walked back into the building. As of the time he entered the building, Joy had not started her car, but he didn’t see anybody in the parking lot. The only other vehicle belonged to him. So he figured she would be okay.

“What happened after that is speculation because we don’t have any witnesses. The murderer—I will use the word ‘suspect’ and the masculine pronoun, although we are not ruling out the possibility of a female at this point—may have gained access to the car, previously. He may have been hiding in the backseat. Another possibility is that he was hiding behind a nearby bush in the park that borders the parking lot. Whatever the case, he was able to gain control over Joy and get her into the park.”

Nobody moved in the auditorium as the listeners waited for Detective Croyden to continue.

“Once in the park, he was able to get her clothes off, except for one sandal. The other sandal was found nearby. Also found was a tank top and a pair of shorts. Both were ripped, as if they had been removed with considerable force. She had bruises on her face and other parts of her body and several small cuts, as well, which could have been inflicted with a knife. However, the cause of death was strangulation.”

There was an audible gasp from the audience, even though everybody must have already known this. It had been in the papers, on TV, and on the Internet.

We think the suspect must be a physically strong person. Joy was a big girl, and she was an athlete. It would have taken somebody quite strong to control her. However, there is no evidence that she was raped.”

This was new information. That’s why the police hadn’t ruled out the possibility of a female suspect. But it would have to be a strong female.

Detective Croyden continued, “In fact, we have nothing from the suspect that would contain DNA—no skin, no body fluids. The suspect was lucky in that respect. But that doesn’t mean we won’t get him. And you can help. I have talked to a few of you—those who were especially close to Joy. I don’t have time to talk to all of you, but if any of you knows anything that might help us, please come forward at the end of the meeting. I will give a business card to everybody who wants one and leave some with Nancy. If you remember anything, if you come across any piece of information, please call me immediately. Even if you think it’s inconsequential, tell me. Don’t pass judgment yourself. And now, are there any questions?”

Some people in the audience looked around, but nobody raised a hand for a few seconds. Then a girl timidly put up her hand. Detective Croyden pointed to her and said, “Yes?”

“What about underwear?” the girl asked. Nobody laughed. “None of the reports have mentioned underwear being found.”

“We have reason to believe that Joy was wearing underwear,” Detective Croyden said, with a straight face. “We think the suspect took it with him. He may have a fetish of some sort. That could help us in our investigation.”

Detective Croyden had used the word fetish, just as Tony had. He was glad to have official support for his conjecture. When nobody else raised a hand, he got up his nerve and raised his own hand.

When Detective Croyden recognized him, Tony stood up and said, “What about the guard as a suspect? By his own admission he was the last person to see Joy alive, other than the suspect. Couldn’t he be a suspect?” He had mangled the question, but he thought it was a valid one.

The detective said, “We haven’t ruled anybody out. We are investigating anybody and everybody at this point. We have talked to the guard several times. We have no reason to believe that the guard was involved in the murder.”

It was a carefully worded answer, calculated to relieve their minds, since they worked in the building. It had the intended effect.

Then a boy raised his hand and asked whether the Hotline phones would be tapped.

Detective Croyden appeared to consider his answer before he gave it. Then he said, “The Hotline phones will not be tapped. Typically, phone tapping is done to allow the police to overhear conversations and to attempt to determine the location of the caller. Nancy has pointed out that if the phones are tapped, the Hotline could no longer claim that your conversations are confidential, and you would have to shut down for good. Although I believe that there would be some value from tapping the phones, we are not going to do it at this time. We will depend on you, the listeners, to file full reports for any calls that you consider to be suspicious.” He looked as if he might be going to say something more, but then he asked for the next question.

A few more people raised their hands and asked questions, but that didn’t produce any new information.

When the questioning stopped, Detective Croyden turned the microphone back over to Nancy, who said that Gail would explain how they would get the Hotline restarted. Gail was older than Nancy and a longtime Hotline employee. She had taken the job, which was part-time, as a sort of second career after her children had left home. She was beloved by all the listeners. And because she was in good shape, she looked younger than her years as she approached the lectern.

First, Gail said a few words about Joy. Then she said, “The security of the Hotline has been compromised to some extent by the news reports. It is possible to piece together from the reports which building we are located in. Not everybody will make the connection but, unfortunately, the people most likely to make it are the ones we least want to. The good news is that our office number hasn’t been publicized. And of course, we aren’t listed on the building’s list of tenants.

“But still, you should be careful when you come to work. If anybody suspicious is loitering near the building, report them to the guard. The guard will call Detective Croyden. We don’t want people following any of us up to our office. Fortunately, a lot of young people frequent the mall, so it is fairly easy for you teens to get lost in the crowd.

“As for the new rules, we haven’t completely finalized them yet, but the emphasis is on security. Therefore, at least two people must work the four-to-seven and the seven-to-ten p.m. shifts. On the late shift, at least one of the listeners must be male. If we can’t get the required listeners for these shifts, we will cancel the shifts. The listeners will walk to their cars together. On the seven-to-ten shift, the male will make sure any female listeners have safely left the area before he leaves. That means staying with someone who is waiting for a ride until that person’s driver arrives. And you will still use the guard as an additional escort after the seven-to-ten shift.”

Gail talked a little about the procedure for signing up to work, and then she said, “I would like all the male listeners to meet with me on the stage right now.”

Because he was sitting in an end seat, Tony was the first one to mount the steps to the stage. Over the next few minutes, between twenty-five and thirty other men and boys came up on the stage. Most of the female listeners clustered in front of the stage to sign up for shifts and talk to Nancy and Detective Croyden. Almost nobody left.

Gail ushered the males over to a corner of the stage, away from the chatter of the others. As they clustered around her, she said, “I realize we’re putting a lot of pressure on you guys. In a way, we’re implying that you’re not in any danger, which you realize is not completely true. So, if any of you have doubts about this or want to talk about it, now’s your chance.”

Tony looked around at the others. He estimated that four of them were adults. At least two were older than he was.

One of the older men said, “I have a license to carry a gun. I could bring it with me to the Hotline.”

Gail shook her head. “No, Dick, no guns in the Hotline office. We don’t want an armed camp. Or the risk of a shootout. Although there’s no evidence that the suspect used a gun.”

But there was also no evidence that he hadn’t used a gun. He certainly had a persuasive method of getting Joy into the park. Tony didn’t necessarily agree with the no gun policy, but as the new kid on the block, he figured he’d better keep quiet. But he had another question. “I assume different guards work the evening shift on different days. Have the police taken a look at all of them?”

“Nancy and I have talked at length to Detective Croyden about the guard situation,” Gail said. “And also to the building management. We would not have reopened the Hotline if we hadn’t been convinced that the guards were completely trustworthy.”

Gail had a positive way of talking that made you believe her. And Nancy did too. If they thought that the guards were reliable, Tony would take their word for it. There was some further discussion about safety procedures, which Tony used as an opportunity to glance around at the other men and boys. Most of them looked as if they could handle themselves in a fight. One of the boys was quite small, but he had a determined look in his eye. None of them talked about quitting the Hotline.

When they finished talking, they went back to the front of the stage where the signup sheets were located. Tony noticed that the teens filled most of the weekend slots quickly, since they didn’t have school those days. At first he thought he’d sign up for the seven-to-ten shift once a week, but after some hesitation, he ended up putting his name down for Mondays and Fridays for the rest of September.

CHAPTER 6

Tony kept a wary eye out for any suspicious people as he entered the building to work his first shift since Joy’s murder. There were the usual customers entering the shops in the mall, but nobody seemed to have any interest in him. Inside, he took the stairs two at a time to the third floor and was pleasantly surprised to find that he was not panting quite as hard as he had in the past. The workouts at the health club he had joined must be paying off.

The door to the Hotline office was locked, but it was now standard procedure to keep it locked after the office staff left for the day. He entered the combination to the lockbox and extracted the key. Upon entering the office, he saw two people, one male and one female, in the listening room, both on the phone. By the time he signed in, the man had ended his call.

The man walked out of the listening room and said, “We had some callers asking about Joy. Whether she worked for the Hotline. That’s how some people get their kicks. We told them we couldn’t give out any information.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Tony said. “I’m Tony.”

“Nathan.”

They shook hands. Tony noticed that Nathan didn’t look him in the eye. He remembered that Nathan had been at the Friday meeting. He guessed that the man was a few years older than he was, with sandy hair. Nathan was taller, but Tony was stockier. Nathan was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, in spite of the summer warmth.

“How long have you been on the Hotline?” Tony asked. It was a standard question.

“Six months.”

“This is my first shift without a mentor. I guess I’m about to lose my vir….”

Tony stopped in mid-word and Nathan laughed, a strange laugh that sounded like the cackle of a hen after laying an egg. “It’s okay; you can say it.”

The girl came out of the listening room, and when Tony gave his name, she introduced herself as Cecile. They shook hands. Most girls shook hands these days. Upon being assured that Nathan was walking out with Cecile, Tony went into the listening room and appropriated the table he liked best—the one facing the window.

He came back out to check the calendar. They were supposed to be working in pairs. But if nobody else had signed up, he would work alone. He wasn’t afraid. However, the calendar showed that S. Lawton was scheduled to work this shift. The name didn’t register with Tony.

He had just settled down in his chair when he heard the outside door open behind him. When he swiveled the chair around, he saw Shahla entering the office. She waved at him. His heart gave an involuntary leap before he got it under control. What was she doing here? Perhaps she had just come in to sign up for future shifts. If so, she should have come in earlier. Now he would be obligated to walk her out, because of the new rules.

Tony came out of the listening room, realizing that he looked forward to walking her out of the building. But instead of looking at the calendar, she was signing in on the daily time sheet.

“Hi,” he said. “I-I didn’t know you were working tonight.”

“Maybe if you’d looked at the calendar, you’d know,” Shahla said with a slight smile, as she also entered her hours in the logbook.

“But the per…” Tony stopped, realizing that he was about to make a complete ass of himself. S. Lawton. Of course. Shahla Lawton. He had pictured Shahla as having an unpronounceable last name. “One of my new year’s resolutions was to learn to read. I guess I’m going to have to get going on that.”

“You are,” Shahla said, leading the way into the listening room and setting a book she had brought with her on one of the tables.

Tony followed her and went back to his table. Shahla was wearing a skirt tonight. It wasn’t short—it came to her knees—but he was glad to see any kind of a skirt on a girl. It made her look feminine. Skirts seemed to be few and far between these days. Mona always wore slacks to work at the Bodyalternatives.net office, as did the other women. And most of the girls in his Hotline class had worn jeans or shorts.

He sat down trying to think of something sensible to say. “Uh, I didn’t see you at the meeting.”

“I came in late and sat in the back.” Shahla wasn’t looking at him. “I almost didn’t come at all.”

“You were close to Joy, weren’t you? This must be very difficult for you.” He wouldn’t have said that before he took the Hotline class.

“Joy was my best friend. We double-dated to the prom last year.”

Shahla still wasn’t looking at him. She was suffering. Tony could picture it. He remembered the rule about showing empathy but not sympathy. He said, “You didn’t have to come back.”

“I came back because I want to make sure that the guy who killed Joy gets caught.”

“Detective Croyden seems to be competent. I’m sure he’ll find whoever it was.”

“I’m not so sure. At least as long as we have a confidentiality policy about our callers.”

“Well, he was given a copy of the Green Book.” The policy had been bent to that extent. That fact had come out at the meeting. “Do you think one of our callers is the…suspect?”

The phone rang before Shahla could answer. She said quickly, “I’ll get it,” and picked up the receiver. “Central Hotline. This is Sally.”

She listened for a few seconds and then put the call on the speaker. Tony heard a male voice say, “…found Joy’s murderer yet?”

“Who’s this?” Shahla demanded rather than asked.

“Let’s just say I’m a friend.” The caller talked softly, with pauses between sentences. “But you’re looking in the wrong places.”

“Where should we look?”

“If I told you that, it would make it too easy for you. But you don’t think she’ll be the last one, do you?” There was a click.

Shahla hung up the phone and said, excitedly, “I know who that is. That’s the Chameleon. I can tell by the way he talks. He made scary calls before Joy was killed, too. He would call at night and say he could see us. That would freak us out, even though if you look out our window there’s nothing but the parking lot and the park. How could he see us?”

“Try calling him back with star sixty-nine,” Tony said.

“We can’t call out from these lines.”

And the phone system didn’t capture the number that was calling. Tony had never spoken to the Chameleon. He suspected the Chameleon hung up whenever a man answered the phone. He had read his profile in the Green Book, however. The Chameleon was a longtime caller. True to his name, he used many aliases. He had a gadget that disguised his voice. Sometimes he impersonated females. He had a different story for every call, but it usually involved sex at some point. Sometimes he made veiled threats. The Green Book instructed listeners to hang up on him when he was recognized since he abused the Hotline.

“Let’s do this,” Tony said. “Mark the call report to Detective Croyden’s attention, like Gail wants us to do. The Chameleon is a logical suspect, just because he calls so often. Although that sounded like a crank call to me. He probably just didn’t want to be overshadowed by Joy.”

“He’s a really creepy guy. I think Croyden should talk to him. But how can he? We don’t have his telephone number, and we don’t know where he lives or anything.”

Tony was looking at the Chameleon’s profile in the Green Book. “Maybe Croyden can find him. He told somebody he lives in El Segundo. He’s in his late twenties. He has a job as a security guard.”

“That really sets him apart, doesn’t it? I’m sure the police will be able to walk right to his door.”

Tony could understand Shahla’s frustration. He wanted to help her. He said, “Okay, let’s do this. We’ll start a file of our own on likely suspects. We’ll make copies of the call reports of suspicious callers. We might spot something that the police don’t.”

“We’re not supposed to take information on callers out of the office. And we’re not supposed to use the copy machine…”

“This is a state of emergency.” Tony wanted to assuage Shahla’s fears about violating the Hotline rules. “Besides, there’s nobody here to see us. I’ll do the copying and keep the copies so you won’t get into trouble.”

Shahla reluctantly relented. It was obvious that her parents had instilled a moral code in her. He was glad to know that. He had met enough young people who had no apparent values. He, himself, was perhaps one of them. But he was changing, he kept telling himself. However, as he had said, this was a state of emergency.

He took the call reports out of the box where the listeners had placed them. They dated back two days to Saturday, the day the Hotline had reopened. Fortunately, Gail didn’t collect them every day. But that also meant Croyden hadn’t looked at them yet. He must have plenty to keep him busy, however. Tony and Shahla pulled out the reports marked to Detective Croyden’s attention and also several identified as calls from the Chameleon. He often called more than once a day, in defiance of the rules.

In between taking routine calls, Tony made copies of these reports on the Xerox copier. Then he sorted the original call reports back into chronological order and replaced them in the box, while Shahla was on a call. He did group three calls from the Chameleon about Joy together so that they would get the special attention of Gail, and hopefully Croyden.

After Shahla had hung up and completed her call report, she said, “I have the feeling that we’re not covering all the possibilities.”

“We don’t have to,” Tony said. “That’s the job of the police.”

“But the police aren’t, either. Have they asked you for an alibi for the night Joy was killed?”

“Huh?” Tony looked at Shahla, wondering if she was kidding.

“Well, what were you doing that night?”

“Uh…” Tony was flabbergasted. “Do you think I’m the murderer?”

“What I think doesn’t matter. You’ve seen the cop shows on TV. They question everybody, including their friends.”

“Well, it’s a relief that you count me as a friend,” Tony said, trying to lighten the atmosphere, which had suddenly become very heavy. “Let’s see, what was I doing?” He hadn’t thought about it before. He hadn’t thought of himself as a suspect before. He drew a blank. He tried to work backward from the time he had heard about Joy’s murder. He had been busy all that day. And the night before? He had done some preparation for his talk to the women’s club. He had been lonely and restless. Josh was out somewhere. Carol was out of his life permanently.

“I went to a movie.”

“What movie?”

“Uh…Lost in Translation, with Bill Murray. It’s about this American actor who goes to Japan to make a Suntory commercial…”

“Whom did you go with?”

For some reason he didn’t want to admit that he had gone by himself. “I…uh, couldn’t find anybody to go with.”

“So you went alone. Can anybody vouch for you?’

“No.” He would be just another faceless patron to the ticket taker. And he hadn’t seen anybody he knew.

“So you don’t have an alibi.” Shahla looked at Tony with an unfathomable look in her eyes.

“Ticket stub. I save ticket stubs. I throw them into a bowl. It shows the date and time of the show. It didn’t get over until about 10:30.”

“A ticket stub, eh?” Shahla said, imitating a prosecuting attorney. “That was clever of you. You purchased a ticket, but didn’t actually see the movie. Or you left in the middle…”

“You don’t really believe I killed Joy,” Tony said getting hot despite his attempt to stay cool. He felt sweat forming in his armpits.

“What I think is that Detective Croyden should be asking these questions,” Shahla said. “But since he isn’t, maybe you and I should.”

“Does that mean I’m exonerated?”

“For the time being. But only because you don’t appear to have a motive. However, in this kind of case, when the murderer is finally caught, the neighbors always say, ‘But he was such a nice boy. He couldn’t have done it.’ So we have to look for hidden motives.”

Tony was able to chuckle. “I think you’ve got a career all mapped out in the district attorney’s office.”

“Actually, I’m going to be a writer. But I may write true crime. And I may have my…” Shahla became choked up and couldn’t continue for a moment, “…first story.”

“You have to be careful about doing your own investigating. What if you asked the real killer for an alibi? What do you think he’d do to you?”

Tears welled up in Shahla’s eyes and started running down her cheeks. Tony had an urge to comfort her, to touch her, to hold her. He knew that was the wrong thing to do. Empathy, not sympathy. He said, “This must be very diff….” He’d already said that. He gave her a tissue from a box on one of the tables.

Shahla wiped her eyes and said, “When I heard about Joy, I didn’t believe it. It still doesn’t seem real. She can’t be gone.”

The phone rang. Tony reached for it, but Shahla said, “I’ll get it,” and answered before Tony could. She immediately placed the call on the speaker. She pressed the mute button and said, “It’s him.”

The caller was saying, “…advice on how to prevent what happened to Joy from happening to you.”

“What’s your advice?” Shahla asked.

“You girls need to wear more clothes. When you walk around strutting your stuff, showing off your body, wearing tight short skirts up to your butt, with no underwear, you’re asking for it.”

It was an inappropriate call. The Hotline rules said to hang up at this point. But it was obvious that Shahla had no intention of hanging up.

She had the Chameleon’s page from the Green Book open in front of her. She said, “Is this Fred?” using one of several names the Chameleon had previously given Hotline listeners.

There was silence at the other end of the line. Shahla said, “I need to call you something. Is it okay if I call you Fred?”

More silence. Then the caller said, “All right. Tell me, Sally, are you wearing underwear?”

“Are you on a cell phone, Fred?” There was a pause, and Shahla said, “Fred, talk to me.”

“How did you know?”

“I’m clairvoyant. Are you at work?”

Tony was reading the Green Book over Shahla’s shoulder. Did he really work as a security guard?

“What makes you think that?”

“Just a guess. Where do you work?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You sound like an interesting person. I was hoping we could get together.”

Tony was disturbed by what Shahla was doing, but he knew if he cut off the call, she would hate him forever.

There was silence on the line. Tony and Shahla looked at each other. Tony found himself holding his breath.

“Are you on the level?” The voice was almost plaintive.

“What do you think, Fred?”

Shahla’s answer was brilliant. Let him draw his own conclusion. The imaginations of the callers didn’t work like those of “normal” people. He might convince himself that she was interested in him.

“Well, I don’t know.”

Tony suspected that Fred, or whatever his name was, had problems relating to women in real life.

“What time do you get off work?” Shahla asked.

“Midnight.”

“And what’s your cell phone number?”

After a hesitation, Fred reeled off an area code and seven-digit number. Tony quickly wrote it down and mouthed to Shahla to have him repeat it. She asked him again, and he gave the same number a second time.

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.

CHAPTER 7

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.

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.”

“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.

“I can give you the number of a sex hotline,” Tony said to the caller.

“Don’t brush me off,” the girl said. “Tell me what to do.”

“Have you talked to your parents about this?”

“Are you crazy? Of course not. I’m talking to you. So what should I do?”

“What would you like to do?” Tony repeated. He felt trapped. He wondered whether he should tell her this was an inappropriate call and hang up.

“You’re no help. You’re just like all the others.”

There was a click. She had hung up before he could. Tony stared at the receiver and said, “Whew.”

“Welcome to the club,” Shahla said. She had returned to the listening room with more chips. “You’re not a virgin anymore.”

“I guess not.” He wondered whether she was a female masturbator. Or perhaps it was a crank call. He finished filling out the call report and said, “Where were we?”

“We were talking about motives the other day. I was trying to think of someone who might have a motive to kill Joy.”

“And did you come up with anyone?”

“I’ve got a possibility. Her name is Martha, and she’s a listener on the Hotline.”

“You think the killer might be a female?”

“Detective Croyden said that was a possibility. And Martha is big enough and strong enough to do it.”

“Tell me about Martha.”

“She’s a senior at Bonita Beach, and she’s on the volleyball team.”

“Joy was on the volleyball team.”

“Joy was the star of the volleyball team. Because of her and several others, the team was expected to win the league championship.”

“How has the team been doing without her?”

“They’ve only played two games so far. They’ve split.”

“Sounds like they miss Joy.”

“Definitely.”

The phone rang, and Shahla answered it. Tony could tell from what she said that the caller was a harmless repeat who called almost every day. She would be tied up with him for fifteen minutes. Tony wondered why she thought that this girl Martha might have killed Joy. Maybe Shahla didn’t like Martha. Was she so anxious to find a killer that she was guilty of wishful thinking? Tony had to admit that she was right about the Chameleon being a potential suspect. But Croyden was handling him now. It wouldn’t do any harm to listen to Shahla. But if Martha really was a suspect, they would contact Detective Croyden, regardless of how Shahla felt about it.

Tony wandered into the snack room and made himself some popcorn in the microwave. It didn’t have butter on it, so it couldn’t be fattening—could it? He carried the bag back into the outer room. He noticed that an envelope was lying on the carpet, partially underneath the outside door. It hadn’t been there when he came in. Somebody must have slid it under the door. Tony had locked the door after Kevin and Nathan left. He was going to observe the locked-door rule, especially when Shahla was with him. Now he was glad he had.

CHAPTER 9

The envelope was white, business-size; there was nothing odd about it. Tony picked it up and immediately wondered whether he should have done that. What about fingerprints? He held it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and looked at it from different angles. There was no writing on the outside. And it wasn’t sealed. The flap was just tucked in, and it would be easy to open. But should he open it? He held it up toward the overhead light. There was definitely a piece of paper inside. He set the envelope on the white table and stared at it.

Turn all evidence over to Detective Croyden. And Tony would. But first he was going to look at it. He took a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and picked up the envelope again, this time through a layer of cloth. He wasn’t going to get any more fingerprints on it. He covered his other hand with another piece of the handkerchief and worked the flap open. Then he carefully extracted the paper from the envelope, using the handkerchief to keep his fingers from touching the paper.

It was a regular piece of white paper, folded in thirds. Very neatly. Tony shook it to unfold it and placed it on the table.

“What’s going on?”

Tony jumped, startled by Shahla’s voice just behind him. He had been concentrating so hard that he had almost forgotten about her. “Do you always sneak up on people?” he asked to cover his loss of composure.

“Next time I’ll wear a bell so you’ll know I’m coming. I saw you out here looking as though you were practicing a magic trick. What are you trying to do, make the envelope disappear?”

“Somebody slid it under the door.”

“Do you think it was the murderer?” She looked apprehensively toward the door.

“I don’t know, but the door is locked. Don’t touch anything. We don’t want to leave fingerprints. Let’s see what it says on the paper.”

Tony and Shahla bent over the table. The writing on the paper was printed in black ink, by a computer printer.

“It’s a poem,” Shahla said.

“Read it,” Tony said. She was the writer. He had never read poetry, other than the few poems required in English classes, and didn’t want to embarrass himself by reading it badly, even if it was a bad poem, which it probably was.

“It’s called ‘Spaghetti Straps,’” Shahla said. She read:

“She wears a summer dress, spaghetti straps

to hold it up, or is this so? Perhaps

it's gravity, the gravity of con-

sequences should it fall. If she should don

her dress one day but then forget to pull

them up, those flimsy wisps of hope so full

of her ripe beauty, do you think the weight

of promises within, or hand of fate,

would slide it down, revealing priceless treasures?

If so, would she invoke heroic measures

to hide the truth, for fear this modest lapse

would air the secret of spaghetti straps?”

“What do you think?” Tony asked. He didn’t feel qualified to comment on it as a poem and he wasn’t about to be the first to comment on its contents.

“It’s actually a pretty good poem.”

“You’re not offended by it?”

“Are you kidding? After some of the stuff I’ve heard, this is a nursery rhyme. If our grosser callers like the Chameleon talked like this instead of the way they do, I wouldn’t hang up on them so fast.”

“So you don’t think the Chameleon is capable of writing this?”

“Not from what I know about him. Unless he’s hiding his talent under the bed with his dirty magazines.”

“Can you think of any callers who might be able to write like this?”

Shahla contemplated the question for a period of time. Finally, she said, “When I first started on the Hotline, there was this guy who called a lot who said he wrote poetry. But he wasn’t from around here. In fact, he said he lived in Las Vegas.”

“So he was calling long distance.”

“For a while after 9/11 our 800 number was nationwide so that people suffering from—what’s it called?—post traumatic stress disorder could call us. But as I understand it, the number cost too much to keep so now our 800 number is just for California. Anyway, since that change, he doesn’t call as often as he did.”

Shahla went and got a copy of the Green Book and pointed out a page to Tony. The Hotline handle for him was “Paul the Poet.” His story was that he had been abused by his parents as a child.

The telephone rang. It was Tony’s turn to answer it. A woman with a cultured voice was on the line, with a slight New York accent. She was definitely a cut above the usual Hotline caller. Tony immediately pegged her as living in West Los Angeles, perhaps Beverly Hills. He would try to get that information before the end of the call.

The call went on and on. She was middle-aged, married and divorced, and trying to decide what to do about her boyfriend. He had his pluses and minuses. In fact, she recited them so readily that Tony wondered whether she had already taken a sheet of paper, drawn a line down the middle, and written the pluses on one side and the minuses on the other.

While they talked, Shahla took a number of calls. At the end of two hours Tony figured that he and his caller had solved most of the world’s problems. Or at least the problem of her boyfriend. She had a plan of action and thanked him for helping her arrive at it.

After Tony hung up, Shahla said, “I thought you were going to marry her.”

“She’s too old for me,” Tony said laughing, “but it sounds like she has some money. Maybe it’s not a bad idea.” He looked at the clock on the wall of the listening room. It was almost ten. He said, “Time flies when you’re straightening out the world. I want to make a copy of that poem before we get out of here.”

“On the copier?”

“No. Flattening it on the copier might destroy any fingerprints. I’ll enter it on one of the office computers and then print it out.” Tony went to the administration room, turned on Patty’s computer and typed in the poem, using Microsoft Word. He had honed his typing prowess writing papers in college and made short work of it. Then he printed it. Shahla asked him to print a copy for her. When he was through, he deleted the poem from the computer.

“No sense leaving evidence,” Tony said. “Now, we’ll replace the original poem in the envelope and place that in a larger envelope to preserve whatever there is to preserve.” He used his handkerchief to handle the documents, determined to keep them as clean as possible. “Then I’ll take the evidence to the police station.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight. No time like the present. And I need to explain to them how my fingerprints got on the envelope.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“We’ve been through this, Shahla.”

“This is different than the other night. First, it’s Friday night. There’s no school tomorrow. And it’s only a few blocks to the police station. I’ll call my mother and tell her exactly where I’m going so she won’t worry.” Tony’s look must have been disbelieving because she said, “Yes, some teenagers do actually communicate with their parents. Besides, I never got a chance to tell you why I think Martha may be a suspect.”

Shahla whipped out her cell phone before Tony could mount a solid defense and got her mother on the line. Her side of the conversation went something like this: “Hi, Mom, it’s me. I won’t be home for a little while…I have to go to the police station…Just to give them some evidence…Don’t worry, I’m going with Tony. He’s a lot older, but he’s pretty strong. He’ll keep us safe…I’ll see you later…Bye.”

“Do I have to show her my muscles and my AARP card?” Tony asked.

“It’s okay. I may have exaggerated a little, but she trusts me.”

CHAPTER 10

The guard who walked out with them was a middle-aged nonentity. Tony wondered whether he had been the one on duty the night Joy was killed but decided not to ask him because he didn’t want to get trapped into a long discussion about what had happened to her.

There was one slight deviation to the plan. Tony had Shahla drive her car home, and he followed her. It was a couple of miles out of their way, but he didn’t want to have to return her to the mall in the middle of the night. She ran inside her house and told her mom she was riding to the police station in his car.

“What kind of a car is this?” Shahla asked as she returned and settled into the passenger’s seat.

“It’s a Porsche Boxter.” Tony was proud of his car, the one outward sign that he had accomplished something in his life. Well, there was the townhouse, which he had shoehorned himself into, but he still needed to have Josh live there as a tenant to come up with the payments. He had leased the Porsche—a manageable down payment, and reasonable monthly payments made him look respectable. Of course, when the lease ran out, he would be left with nothing. But he would cross that bridge…

“It’s small. And it sounds as if the engine is behind us.”

“It’s behind our seats. Located for maximum stability.”

Shahla looked nervously over her shoulder. “I hope it stays there.”

Those were not the comments of a car buff. Shahla wasn’t impressed. Maybe he should have settled for a Honda. He made it all the way up to third gear on Pacific Coast Highway and felt a little better as he listened to the purr of the engine. He needed to take a trip to the desert so he could let it run for a while, like a racehorse. It was not built for the stop-and-go driving of a city.

They arrived at the police station within five minutes. Bonita Beach was a compact city. Joy’s murder had reverberated through it like a fire siren and left the residents feeling betrayed and anxious. The full impact to the city and to the Hotline had grown on Tony as his shock had worn off, and now he wanted to find the murderer as much as Shahla did.

They walked into the station together and approached the counter, behind which sat a young female officer doing something with a computer. After a few seconds, she looked up and said, “Can I help you?”

Tony explained that they had some possible evidence for the murder investigation. He expected her to just take the envelope and their names, but she said, “Detective Croyden’s here. I’ll get him. Have a seat in there.”

She pointed to a doorway that led into a conference room. Tony and Shahla went into the room containing a worn wooden table and worn wooden chairs. On the wall were posters relating to drugs, alcohol, and other temptations of the flesh. The posters exhorted the reader against yielding to these temptations.

Shahla said, “‘Can I help you?’ means, ‘Am I able to help you?’ I was tempted to say, ‘I don’t know. Can you?’”

“So what should she have said?” Tony asked. He had never paid much attention in English class.

“‘May I help you?’ That asks for permission.”

“Thank you for the lesson.”

“No charge.”

“Well, if it isn’t two of my favorite people. I might have known I’d see you on Friday the thirteenth.”

Detective Croyden had entered the room while they had their backs to the door, looking at posters. Tony turned around and said, “Working late, aren’t you?” He knew why Croyden might be sarcastic with him, but not Shahla, unless she had let some of her dislike of the police show when he talked to her.

“Crime never sleeps,” Croyden said. “What have you got for me?”

He didn’t ask them to sit down, and he didn’t take a seat himself, so the three of them remained standing. Tony thought he looked tired. There were bags under his eyes, and his facial wrinkles were pronounced, as was his broken nose. Tony pointed to the brown envelope he had set on the table and told Croyden what was inside. He related how he had found and handled the white envelope, mentioning that several of his own fingerprints might be on it.

“But at least you came to your senses before you covered it with your prints,” Croyden said, with what might be faint praise. “Do you know what’s inside it?”

Tony missed a beat while he reconsidered his first answer and then said, “No.” He hoped Croyden hadn’t noticed his involuntary head-fake.

“All right, we’ll take a look at it. You said the Hotline office door was locked. That’s good. Did anybody knock or did you hear any sounds outside the door?”

He directed this question to both of them. They shook their heads.

“All right. Tony, do you have any objection to the desk officer taking your fingerprints so that we can eliminate the ones on the envelope?”

He could probably refuse, at least temporarily, but what would be the point. “No objection.” It appeared that Croyden was dismissing them.

Shahla said, “Detective Croyden, since the person who left the envelope knows where the Hotline is, doesn’t that sound to you as if the…killer might work for the Hotline?”

Croyden looked at her for a while, and Tony began to wonder whether he wasn’t ogling her breasts instead of contemplating his answer. He finally said, “Sha…” and stumbled.

“Shahla.”

“Shahla, first of all, we don’t know whether the envelope was left by the killer. Assuming it was, there is a possibility that he—or she—works for the Hotline. But other people know where it is, too.”

“You mean, like ex-listeners. But we just moved to this building six months ago, so that eliminates most of them.”

“A smart caller could find out. One of your listeners could have slipped and given away your location to a caller. Like the Chameleon. I told Nancy she had a security leak big enough to drive a Hummer through.”

Tony said, “It’s my observation that the listeners are very security conscious. I don’t know how the Chameleon might have found out.”

“But you know and I know that some of these guys can sweet-talk the teenyboppers on the phone, and they’ll lose their heads. Look at all these young girls who are seduced on the Internet.”

“We’re not like them,” Shahla said hotly. “We’ve been through the training and, anyway, we’re a lot smarter than the dippy girls who look for love online.”

“What have you found out about the Chameleon?” Tony asked to try to defuse the situation.

“Still working on it,” Croyden said stiffly. “Did you get any calls from him today?”

“No.” If there had been calls from him during the previous shifts, his name would have been on the board.

“He hasn’t called since you went after him. Looks like you scared him away. And made our job harder.”

Tony was tempted to make a retort about the police not being able to find him, even with subpoenaed call records, but Shahla didn’t know about those.

Croyden said, “Listen, I’d love to chat with you, but I’ve got work to do. Tony, come over to the counter, and we’ll get your prints.”

“What if there are prints on the envelope that aren’t on file somewhere?” Shahla asked.

“We’ll try to match them against any suspects’ prints. Why, did you touch the envelope? Do we need to take your prints?”

“No,” Shahla said hastily. “I…don’t want to get my fingers dirty.”

***

“I’ll have a piece of cherry pie with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on top,” Shahla said to the waitress at the Beach House, the local all-night diner.

“Uh…coffee—decaf,” Tony said when she looked at him. He didn’t want to stay awake the rest of the night.

“Well, at least you’re not anorexic,” Tony said to Shahla. “But we can’t eliminate the possibility that you’re a binge eater.” It had been Shahla’s idea to stop here.

“I’m not a binge eater unless you call eating all the time bingeing.”

It was true. She was always munching on something at the Hotline. “So how do you maintain your girlish figure?”

“I’m on the cross-country team.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“A girl doesn’t tell all her secrets.”

“I thought you were going to get a job.”

“With all that’s been happening, I haven’t had time to look for a job. But what about you? I don’t know anything about you except that you own a condo…”

“Town house.”

“…you own a town house and drive a noisy car.”

“I’m one of those poor people who have to work for a living.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m marketing manager for an Internet company that gives people who are dissatisfied with their weight or the appearance of their bodies alternatives as to what to do.”

“You mean like plastic surgery?”

“Yeah, and having their stomachs stapled.”

“Ugh, gross. Who would want to do any of that?”

“Lots of people. When you’re young and have a perfect body, you don’t realize that not everybody else does. Do you know how many teenagers want nose jobs or even boob jobs?”

“I don’t have a perfect body.”

“Okay, the violins are playing, but I don’t want to hear about it and 99.9% of the rest of the world doesn’t want to, either.”

Shahla smiled. “Tony, you’re funny. So what do you do when you aren’t working or driving your noisy car?”

Or going out with women. But his love life was in a tailspin, and he wasn’t about to discuss it. “I like to hike.” Although he hadn’t been hiking for a long time. And his gut showed it.

“Where do you like to hike?”

“Have you ever been up the Palm Springs Tramway?”

“No.”

“Well, from the top of the tram you can hike up Mt. San Jacinto. It’s beautiful up there.”

“I’d like to do that sometime.”

The waitress brought their food, and Shahla dove into her pie and ice cream. Tony sipped on his decaf. After he had allowed her to take several bites, he said, “Tell me about why you think Martha might be a suspect.”

“Jealousy. Joy was the star of the volleyball team, and Martha was riding the bench, mostly. Now she’s replaced Joy in the lineup as an outside hitter. But she’s not as good as Joy and never will be.” Shahla emphasized the last sentence.

“That doesn’t mean she killed Joy. Jealousy? There must be more to it than that.”

“How about insane jealousy? They’ve known each other all their lives, and Joy has always been better at everything. School. Sports. Attracting boys.”

“How do you fit into this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said that they’ve known each other all their lives. But Joy was your best friend. Couldn’t you be feeling a little jealousy because of their closeness?”

Shahla glowered at him and took a big bite of pie.

“Well, look who’s here.”

Tony knew who it was even before he raised his eyes. He would know his ex-girlfriend’s voice anywhere. And Carol was with a man—not a bad looking man, a prosperous-looking man. Tony felt a twinge of something inside. And she was looking good, with a skirt and sweater that didn’t hide her curves. Her short brown hair with red highlights set off a smiling and perfectly proportioned face. No need for a nose job there. And she looked happy.

“Hi, Carol,” he said belatedly. “Uh, this is Shahla. Shahla works on the Hotline with me.”

“Working the late shift, eh?” Carol said, pointedly looking at her watch. Tony realized it was almost midnight. “Hi, Shahla. I’m so glad to meet you. This is Horace.”

Tony awkwardly stood up from the booth and shook hands with Horace. He didn’t see a ring through his nose, but maybe it was invisible.