by Alan Cook
Tony hadn’t seen Joy play volleyball, but he suspected that she had looked a lot like Martha on the court—with better coordination. Shahla said she had been a league all-star. Bonita Beach could have used her today. The opponents lacked an outstanding player, but their teamwork eventually paid off in a close victory. Their players were ecstatic. They probably hadn’t beaten Bonita Beach for a long time.
After the game, the Bonita Beach players congratulated the players of the other team, an act of good sportsmanship Tony appreciated. As the sweat-soaked players headed toward the locker room, he stepped in front of Martha and said, “Nice game, Martha.”
She glanced at him with a who-is-this-guy look, made a rueful face and said, “Thanks.”
“I’m Tony, from the Hotline,” he said, falling into step beside her. She was taller than he was.
“Oh.” She stopped walking and faced him. “I’ve heard about you. What are you doing here?”
Who had talked to her about him? “I’ve been reading good things about your team, and I wanted to see it in action.”
“Yeah, right. It was good before Joy…” her voice broke, “when Joy was on the team.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Tony said. “May I buy you a coke at the Beach House?” It was only a few blocks away.
“I’ve got to shower. And I’ve got a lot of homework.”
“I’ll wait here until you shower. And I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.” Tony gave her his best pickup smile, the one he had used so successfully in college.
“Well, all right. I’ll meet you outside in a few minutes.”
Tony congratulated himself on still having the old charm, but he suspected that the reason she had accepted had more to do with the fact that they both worked on the Hotline. That created a bond between people.
***
“Joy was my best friend,” Martha said, stirring the milkshake she had ordered, with a straw. “I loved her. We grew up together. We did everything together. We learned to play volleyball together.”
Shahla had also said that Joy was her best friend. This tended to confirm his jealousy theory—not that Martha was jealous of Joy, but that Shahla was jealous of Martha. He said, “I suppose the other players were a little envious of the fact that Joy was an all-star.”
They had driven to the Beach House in separate cars. Many of the Bonita Beach students had their own cars, or at least had ready access to cars. This amazed Tony, who hadn’t had a car until he had bought one for himself after he finished college. He wondered if this affluence was good for them.
Martha shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way. When you’re part of a team, you want the team to win. With Joy on the team, we were winners. Without Joy, we’re…well, we’re kind of mediocre. And she didn’t have a big head. She was a team player. We shouldn’t have lost today. With Joy, we would have won easily.”
She was lecturing him. Could she fake that level of intensity? Tony knew from his own experience as a teenager that they could be devious. But she sounded sincere. Seeing her up close, he realized that when she lost her acne, she would be a knockout. And when her coordination improved, she would be a good volleyball player. She didn’t have to take a backseat to anybody. He sipped his black coffee and shifted tactics. “Do you have any idea who might have killed Joy?”
“Detective Croyden asked me that question. It sounds crazy, but maybe it was somebody who wants the Bonita Beach volleyball team to lose. We’ve been dominating the league for years. The other teams would give a lot to beat us. You saw how they celebrated today. And it’s not just the kids. It’s the parents. When I was playing AYSO soccer, sometimes the referees had to red-card a rowdy parent.”
“Well, that narrows it down to a few hundred suspects.”
Martha smiled. “It’s just my idea. I don’t know of anybody in particular.”
“When Detective Croyden asked me what I was doing the night Joy was killed, I realized that I had nobody to vouch for me. Did you have that problem too?”
Martha noisily sucked the dregs of her milkshake through the straw and looked at Tony. She said, “I was studying at the library. When it closed at nine, I went over to visit Joy. She didn’t like to work alone at night.”
It took a moment for this to sink in. “You saw Joy the night she was killed?”
Martha nodded. “I was just there for a few minutes. I didn’t take any calls because I wasn’t working.”
“What time did you leave the Hotline?”
“About 9:30.”
“Did you walk out with the guard?”
“No. I left by myself.”
“And then did you go home?”
Martha shook her head. “I went and walked on the beach. Alone. I sometimes do that. I didn’t get home until about eleven.”
“How did Detective Croyden react to you telling him this?”
“He didn’t say anything; just wrote it all down. But he did ask me a lot of questions about my relationship with Joy. I think he was satisfied, especially because I volunteered that I had seen Joy. If I hadn’t told him, he wouldn’t have known.”
“Has it occurred to you,” Tony asked, “that you might have been the one to get killed?”
“Yeah. All the time.” Martha had a haunted look on her face. “I feel guilty about it. That Joy got it instead of me. Or that I didn’t stick around until she left. I might have been able to prevent it. I have nightmares about that night. It’s strange, but as a result, I’m working harder to be a better volleyball player. And a better person.”
CHAPTER 12
Tony arrived at the Hotline before Shahla. She had signed up to work every shift he worked. Although he knew she had done it only because she hoped that he could help solve Joy’s murder, he felt good about it, because it meant she trusted him more than the other men and boys on the Hotline. Still, there was the possibility that he wouldn’t meet her expectations. Again. He thought back to his encounter with the Chameleon.
A boy and girl were working the four-to-seven shift. Tony said hello to them but didn’t bother to introduce himself. They left before Shahla arrived, so she didn’t get the opportunity to quiz them about what they had been doing the night Joy was killed. Tony was glad, because he became embarrassed when she did that. He guessed he wasn’t cut out to be a detective.
He signed in and took the good seat by the window. No sooner had he sat down than the phone rang. He answered it with his usual greeting: “Central Hotline. This is Tony.”
“I’m fifteen, and I’m a runaway.”
There was nothing like being smacked in the face by the first pitch. It was a girl’s voice. Tony thought fast. He said, “Are you safe where you are right now?”
“I’m at a phone booth.” She named an intersection in Santa Monica. “And I’m not going back home.”
Tony decided not to ask her reasons. It wasn’t his job to judge her. It was his job to make sure she was safe. Shahla had just come in through the door he had left unlocked for her. He put the call on the speaker and looked out the window. The sun was setting. He didn’t want the girl to be out there alone in the dark.
“Do you have any friends or relatives who can help you?” Tony asked.
“Not here. Not nearby.”
She sounded frightened. She may be having second thoughts, but whatever crisis impelled her to leave home must outweigh her fear. Tony was frantically leafing through the directory of available services in Southern California. He said, “There are shelters you can go to. Some of them will pick you up.”
At that moment, his eyes focused on such a shelter with a Santa Monica address. Thank God. “I’ve got a number for you. Do you have money so you can call the number or do you want me to call it for you? Oh, they take collect calls.”
“I’ve got some money.”
“Do you have a pencil and paper?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, write this down.” He gave her the number. “Call it immedia
tely. If they can’t help you, call us back. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“And call us back to let us know that you’re all right.”
She promised and hung up. Tony hated to lose the connection. The chances were that she wouldn’t call back.
“She’ll be okay.”
Tony looked up into Shahla’s dark eyes.
She said, “That’s a tough call because we probably won’t find out what happened. But you did the best you could.”
What if that wasn’t good enough? Tony continued to brood about it.
“I see you grabbed the good seat.”
Shahla feigned being upset and sat down at another table.
He had to shake himself out of his depression. “You snooze, you lose.”
“I had to take my mom to her class. It was the only way I could get the car.”
Apparently, they were a one-car family. Unusual for Bonita Beach. But with her father dead…. She had a tough road to travel with only one parent.
Shahla went to the snack room and came back with her usual plate of chips. She said, “Have you thought over what I told you about Martha?”
He had not told her he was going to talk to Martha. He was hoping that as a result of their meeting he could report that she had an ironclad alibi and couldn’t possibly be a suspect. Unfortunately, it hadn’t turned out that way. Martha’s alibi was clad in a light mist that could be blown away by a gentle breeze. However, Detective Croyden also knew that.
Tony wanted to keep Shahla out of it. He didn’t believe Martha had a motive for murdering Joy, even though Shahla might not agree. If Shahla was jealous of Martha’s relationship with Joy, she might do something she would regret.
“I think Detective Croyden has already talked to her. I understand he talked to all the members of the volleyball team.”
“Who told you that?”
Who told him that? “I can’t remember. Maybe Croyden did.”
“But he hasn’t talked to all the members of the Hotline.”
“There are a lot more of us. And I think he’s talked to everybody who knew Joy.”
“How does he know who knew Joy?”
Tony didn’t like getting the third degree. He said, “Let’s work on that poem. Have you thought of anybody else who might have written it?”
“No. And before we start speculating, shouldn’t we find out if there were any fingerprints on it?”
“How are we going to do that? I know. I’ll call our Indian buddy and see if he’ll tell us.”
“Our Indian buddy?”
“Crooked Nose.” Tony took out his cell phone and then extracted Detective Croyden’s card from his wallet. Croyden had been working late on Friday. Maybe he was working the afternoon-evening shift to give him a better opportunity to talk to people who might have knowledge of Joy’s murder.
“Tony, it’s Native American, not Indian.”
“Sorry. When I went to school they were still Indians.” Tony called the number on the card. He could picture it being answered by the officer on the desk. He asked for Detective Croyden.
“Croyden.”
“Hi Detective Croyden, this is Tony Schmidt.”
“Tony Schmidt. What have you got for me?”
“A question. Were there any fingerprints on that envelope Shahla and I brought in?”
“Your fingerprints were on it.”
“Okay, but were there any other prints?”
“I suppose you’ll bug me until I tell you. No. There were no other prints on the envelope or on the paper inside. Whoever sent it was probably wearing gloves. They shouldn’t show those damn police shows on TV. They make the perps too smart.”
“One more question. What was in the envelope?”
“I don’t have to tell you that. You already know.”
“How would I know?”
“You’re going to play dumb, is that it? Okay, no games. It was a poem.”
“Written by the killer?”
“Either that or it’s a prank.”
“May I have a copy of the poem?”
“Go flog yourself.”
Croyden hung up. Shahla was on a call. As soon as she saw that Tony was free, she put the call on the speaker. The voice sounded like a woman with a cold.
“…stare at me when I go out without wearing a bra. I think they can see my nipples. It makes me very uncomfortable.”
Shahla pressed the Mute button and said, “It’s the Chameleon.”
The Chameleon? Oh, yes, he sometimes imitated women. “How do you know?”
“Because I’ve heard him use this voice before.”
The breathy voice was saying, “What do you think I should do?”
Tony said, “Try to find out if he wrote the poem.”
Shahla cancelled the Mute and said, “So, do you wear tops with spaghetti straps?”
“Spaghetti straps. I love to wear spaghetti straps. Do you like to wear spaghetti straps?”
“Sometimes. But we have to wear bras in school. Do you know that the assistant principal has the job of bra-snapper?” Shahla winked at Tony. “It’s his job to make sure all the girls are wearing bras. I don’t like it when he checks from the front—and his hand slips. On purpose.”
“It’s so…when men have their hands all over you.” The Chameleon dragged this out, making it sound as if the hands were at work on him.
“He’s masturbating,” Shahla mouthed.
“Hang up,” Tony mouthed back.
Shahla shook her head.
“I don’t like to wear a bra,” the Chameleon said in a breathy monotone. “I like my tits to be free of restraint. It makes me feel so…free.”
“I know a poem about spaghetti straps,” Shahla said.
“Men shouldn’t be allowed to make us feel uncomfortable. We should be able to wear what we want.”
“She wears a summer dress, spaghetti straps to hold it up…”
“I love spaghetti straps. I could wear them every day.”
“You and I have a lot in common. Let’s get together. What do you think?”
There was a click.
“I think you violated just about every Hotline listening rule,” Tony said. “Again.” He was relieved that the Chameleon had hung up.
“Just following orders, General.”
“But I didn’t ask you to try to meet him again.”
“Cold feet? I thought we were in this together.”
“Anyway, you scared him off. It’s probably just as well. And he didn’t pick up on the poem.”
“I guess I was a little abrupt. But I don’t think he wrote the poem. He’s about as poetic as a mud fence. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t the killer.”
“Okay, but let’s let Croyden handle him. Fill out a call report, and we’ll leave it for Nancy to give to him. But don’t mention the poem.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Shahla gave an imitation of a salute. “I don’t know what you think of me, but I’m not really a bad person. I get good grades. I don’t smoke, drink, or do drugs. And if I listen to dirty talk, it’s because it’s part of my job.”
Tony was taken aback for a moment. She was fishing for a compliment. He was not great at giving compliments. “I-I think you’re doing a super job. Just don’t do anything risky.”
Shahla held his eyes. “Do you care what happens to me?”
“Of course I care what happens to you.”
Shahla seemed satisfied with that. She filled out the report while Tony took a call from somebody who wanted a referral to a therapist. When he hung up, Shahla was on another call. It wasn’t until an hour later that they were both free at the same time. Tony still figured that their best bet to help the investigation was to try to track down the writer of the poem, especially since Croyden didn’t have any leads there.
He looked up the information on Paul the Poet. The page in the Green Book said that Paul still lived at home, even though he was in his late twenties. He apparently had a job and girlf
riends, so he wasn’t completely stunted. That he lived at home didn’t square with his claim of having been abused by his parents. But he did admit to sleeping with a teddy bear and a night-light.
“It’s funny,” Shahla said as they read it. “When you talk to him, he brings up this abuse issue, but then if you ask him where he lives, he says he lives at home. I asked him once who paid his phone bill. He didn’t give a straight answer. And I think he has a job. It doesn’t all make sense.”
“I’ve discovered that our callers don’t always make sense. How often have you talked to this guy?”
“Many times.” Shahla spun her chair around to face him. “He’s one of our more intelligent callers, in spite of the contradictions. We actually had some good conversations about poetry. He read a few of his poems to me.”
“And were they really good?”
“They weren’t bad. They showed talent.”
“So you think he could have written the poem?”
Shahla hesitated and then said, “He’s the best guess I have right now.”
“So he just happened to be in Southern California. And he just happened to write a poem he wanted to deliver to the Hotline. And somehow, he found out the address of the Hotline.”
“Sounds farfetched, doesn’t it?”
“Especially if he’s going to be a murder suspect. Why would he come all the way here to murder somebody? Did he ever show animosity to you on the phone?”
“No, he was one of the easiest repeat callers to talk to. He was always appreciative. He often thanked me for listening to him.” Shahla kicked the floor with her feet and spun her chair around, a child at play. “I guess we can eliminate him.”
Tony furrowed his brow. “Still, it would be nice to talk to him. Did he ever give any indication of where in Vegas he lives? Or where he works? There’s nothing here.”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Wait. The book gives a last name for him. Vicksburg.”
