Hotline to Murder

by Alan Cook

  “But you haven’t been able to see it again.”

  “No. What do you think I should do?”

  “Would you like to see another tattoo?”

  Tony frowned. Shahla put her finger to her lips. He wanted to end the call, but something in her demeanor prevented him from disconnecting it.

  Shahla broke the silence saying, “I’m a high school girl, and I’ve got a tattoo. Would you like to see it?”

  Tony was almost positive that Shahla did not have a tattoo. More silence followed while he hoped that the Chameleon would hang up, as he had done before.

  “Where is it?”

  The Chameleon was hanging in there and not hanging up. Tony was pulled in two directions, wanting to protect Shahla on the one hand and wanting to see if she could hook him on the other.

  “It’s on my butt. I would have to take down my jeans to show it to you.”

  Now who was making the obscene call? Tony started to say something. Shahla put up a hand and stopped him.

  The Chameleon said, “When you said before that you’d meet me, a man came instead.”

  He remembered her name, or at least her Hotline name—Sally. Now he would surely hang up.

  Shahla said, “I’ll come alone. I really want to see you.”

  “The man drove a Porsche. What kind of car do you have?”

  Shahla pressed the mute button and looked at Tony. “What should I tell him?”

  “Uh…tell him you have a black Toyota Highlander.”

  Shahla got back on the phone and repeated the information.

  “Can you come to El Segundo tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence. They scarcely breathed. Had she hooked him? Or would the next sound they heard be the click of a disconnect?

  Shahla pressed the Mute again and said, “Should I ask him where to meet him?”

  Tony shook his head and put a finger to his lips. He knew that their only chance was to say nothing. Seconds passed. A whole minute. It was the longest minute of their lives. Tony gave a couple of head-fakes. Shahla fiddled with her hair.

  The caller said, “Meet me at Zook Sheeting at 11:30.” He gave an address. Then he said, “Ring the bell at the front door. I’ll know if you’re alone because there are surveillance cameras trained on the outside of the building.”

  “Will you be the only one there?” Shahla asked.

  “Yes.”

  The caller hung up before she could say anything else. Tony and Shahla looked at each other. Then Shahla jumped up from her chair and threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking his chair over.

  “We know where he works,” she cried. “We know where he works.”

  “Good job,” Tony said, grimacing as her leg hit his bad knee. “We can give that information to Detective Croyden, along with the panties.”

  Shahla leaned over him with her hands on his shoulders, her face close to his. She said, “He’d better not screw it up.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The meeting with Detective Croyden proceeded badly, as far as Tony was concerned. Croyden met Tony and Shahla in the conference room just off the waiting room of the police station. Tony reluctantly gave him the panties and told him how he had found them. In answer to Croyden’s questions, he tried to explain why Josh might be a suspect. His arguments sounded weak to himself, and he wondered whether he was accusing his roommate for no reason.

  Croyden took notes with his Mont Blanc pen and said that he would investigate Josh. In answer to Tony’s sudden plea, he promised that he wouldn’t use Tony’s name unless he had to.

  Next, Tony and Shahla told about the call from the Chameleon. When they got to the part where he agreed to meet Shahla at 11:30, Croyden asked Shahla how she had elicited this information. She told him about the discussion of tattoos.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to give personal information,” Croyden said.

  “I did it to try to get his address,” Shahla said. “I don’t have a tattoo.”

  “It worked,” Tony pointed out.

  “That remains to be seen,” Croyden said. “He’s a pretty tricky guy.”

  “It’s still worth a try,” Tony said. “Zook is only a couple of blocks from where I saw him before. He must live nearby. You are going to follow up, aren’t you?”

  “That address is in the jurisdiction of the El Segundo Police Department,” Croyden said. “We’ll have to coordinate with them.”

  There was no sense of urgency in his voice.

  “You’re not going to do anything tonight?” Shahla asked.

  “Don’t worry; we’ll check it out. If he is the night guard there, we’ll find him. That w ll be easy enough.”

  “But not tonight,” Tony said.

  “There’s no hurry. If he’s working there tonight, he’ll be working there tomorrow night. We’ll check with the management at Zook and get all the information on him.” Croyden looked at his notes. “His story doesn’t ring true. If he’s working nights as a security guard, how could he be looking out his window at the tattoos of the girl who lives next door?”

  “That’s a fantasy,” Shahla said. “A real girl probably won’t even talk to him, let alone show him her tattoo. Our callers fantasize a lot.”

  “You shouldn’t be talking to weirdoes like that,” Croyden said.

  “It’s part of the job.”

  “That’s what I mean. This whole concept of the Hotline is a bad one. Putting teenage girls on the phone with these guys who are the scum of society. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Not all the callers are like that,” Shahla said hotly. “We help a lot of people.”

  “If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t let her work in a place like that. If this…Chameleon calls again, I want you to hang up on him. I’m going to talk to your boss, Nancy, about this. I want all the girls to hang up on him.”

  ***

  “I feel so frustrated. I wanted to take one of those old hatpins and stick it up Croyden’s ass to get him to do something.”

  Shahla must feel frustrated. This was one of the few times Tony could remember her using language that was even slightly off-color. He had followed her home to make sure she got there safely. He had even pulled into the driveway behind her to make sure she went into the house and didn’t take off for El Segundo. It was too late, anyway. His watch said 11:30.

  She stuck her head through the window of his SUV and said, “Croyden doesn’t appreciate that I got evidence for him. He doesn’t want girls working on the Hotline. I read a book that talks about men who want their women barefoot and pregnant. I’ll bet he’s one of them. And I don’t think he’s going to find Joy’s murderer, whoever he is. Croyden is incompetent, and I suspect the rest of the Bonita Beach police are the same way.”

  “They’ll get him,” Tony said with more confidence than he felt. “They know what they’re doing.” He lifted his hand to give her a reassuring pat, but she turned quickly away and walked toward the front door of the house. He watched until she went inside and shut the door. An upstairs light told him that Rasa was awake.

  Tony backed out of the driveway, intending to drive home. But instead of going directly home, he went to Pacific Coast Highway and turned north. North toward El Segundo. He didn’t know what he was going to do there, but he did remember the Chameleon saying previously that he got off work at midnight. Traffic was light. Tony would get there by midnight with no problem.

  ***

  Tony didn’t have a better plan when he drove past Zook Sheeting on Grand Avenue in El Segundo at five minutes to midnight. One problem was his lack of mobility. Another problem was that Shahla had told the Chameleon that she was driving a black Toyota Highlander—on his advice. That was a mistake. If he parked anywhere near Zook, the Chameleon would spot it as soon as he walked out of the building.

  Tony drove around a corner and made a U-turn, with the help of a driveway. He parked under a tree, away from the streetlights. Another car was between him and Grand. He suspecte
d that the Chameleon walked to work. He had been on foot when Tony saw him before. If he lived in one of the nearby apartments, he should walk along Grand in this direction to get home.

  What did the Chameleon think when Shahla didn’t show up? Was he disappointed? Or relieved because he couldn’t handle contact with a real girl? Just his job, night security guard, indicated that he preferred to be alone. Why had he told Shahla where he worked? Because he was delusional enough to believe that a girl returned his…desire? Lust? Or whatever?

  Tony wondered what he was doing here. What could he possibly accomplish? The impulse that had brought him—stemming from the frustration he and Shahla felt about Detective Croyden’s lack of action—had dissipated in the dark of the night. He should go home. And he would. Soon. But first he would wait a few minutes, just to see if he could catch a glimpse of the Chameleon. That by itself would be useful information and tend to confirm that the man did work at Zook.

  Since there were no pedestrians about and very little auto traffic, the Chameleon should be easy to spot. And he was; his baseball cap and his rapid, slouching walk with his hands in his pockets gave him away. Tony recognized him instantly as he crossed the street where the SUV was parked. He looked neither to the right nor to the left—thankfully.

  Well, that’s it, Tony thought. Mission accomplished. I’ll wait a few minutes for him to get away from the intersection and then drive home. But maybe he could do more. What if he could find out where the Chameleon lived? After a minute, he cautiously drove to the intersection and looked to the right. He could see the Chameleon by the light of the streetlights, walking away from him.

  Tony looked away for a moment, and when he looked back, the Chameleon had disappeared. Had he seen a mirage? No, the man must have turned a corner. Tony drove along Grand to where he had seen the Chameleon. A side street went off to the right. He stopped just short of the intersection and looked along the street.

  At first he saw nothing moving. Just shadows, parked cars, trees, and the gray shapes of apartment buildings. Then he saw movement. Someone was climbing the outside stairs of one of the buildings. Tony had trouble seeing him in the dark, but he was positive the man was wearing a baseball cap. At the top of the stairs he opened a door and went inside.

  Tony waited thirty seconds and then drove to the building. He pulled out one of his business cards and wrote the address on it. Now he should leave. But his adrenaline was flowing again. He couldn’t leave yet. He’d love to get a good look at the Chameleon, get inside his apartment. How could he do it? Not with crutches, that’s for sure. Could he walk up those steps without crutches? His knee was feeling better.

  Tony parked the car far enough away from the Chameleon’s building so that it wasn’t visible from a window. He opened the door and swung his body around so he could place his right foot on the ground. He stood up on his right leg and gingerly shifted some of the weight to his left leg. It hurt, but it was bearable. He shut the door and walked slowly toward the Chameleon’s building, favoring his left leg.

  It was still warm. Some of the warmest LA nights occurred in September. It would be a pleasant night for a walk if one wasn’t limping. Tony was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and he wasn’t cold. Just a little chilly. He remembered watching fireflies on summer nights back home. And catching them in bottles. In days long gone.

  When he came to the wooden stairs, he climbed up one step with his right leg and then brought his left leg up to the step. It was slow, but it worked. He climbed the fifteen or so steps in this manner and found himself facing a door. A plain wooden door that could use a coat of paint. The door the Chameleon had gone through. There was a window beside the door, but the blinds were closed. However, a light was on inside.

  Tony suddenly remembered that he didn’t have a gun with him. And he was certainly in no position to make a fast retreat down the stairs. In his favor was the fact that there was no evidence that the murderer had used a gun. But there was also no evidence that he hadn’t. Would the Chameleon recognize him? He had looked at him for about a tenth of a second in the dark several weeks ago. Surely, a memory couldn’t have been imprinted on his brain.

  Tony didn’t see a doorbell. He knocked on the door. He listened but couldn’t hear any movement inside. He called out, “Pizza man.”

  In a few seconds footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A bolt slid open. Then the door opened.

  “I didn’t order any…” The man stopped talking when he saw that Tony wasn’t holding a pizza.

  “Sorry,” Tony said. “That was the only way I could think of to get your attention. I saw your light. I-I’m looking for a friend, but I must have his address wrong.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Uh…Sam. Sam Jones.”

  “I don’t know any Sam Jones.”

  He started to close the door. Tony saw a large picture on the wall beside the doorway.

  “Is that Britney? Britney Spears? I love Britney.”

  The door stopped closing.

  “Yeah, that’s her. She’s great, isn’t she?

  “For sure. You don’t by any chance have a phone book do you?”

  “Come on in.”

  Tony carefully walked through the doorway, trying not to spook this man who looked as if the slightest sound or movement would make him jump. An unpleasant stench hit him in the nostrils. It smelled like rotting garbage. The Chameleon was thin and short and his head was narrow, with a pointed nose that reminded Tony of a ferret. He was bald in front, and what hair he had in other places was overgrown, like a bush that needed trimming. He wore jeans and a stained T-shirt.

  “I’m T…I’m Ted,” Tony said. He couldn’t give his real name or the Chameleon might recognize him from the Hotline. He was sure that some of his hang ups had been from the Chameleon. He tentatively offered his hand.

  “Fred.” Fred gave him a quick, clammy shake and then withdrew. “I’ve got a phone book here someplace.”

  A look around convinced Tony that it might be hard to find. The apartment was a filthy mess. The sparsely furnished room was piled high with magazines and notebooks. Newspapers littered the floor, along with uneaten food, some on plates, some just lying on the worn carpet. This was the source of the stench.

  A wave of sadness went through Tony. My God, what kind of a life is he living, was the first thought that occurred to him. And then fear. This could have been me. A couple of wrong turns, and this could have been me. He had a sense of how thin the barrier was that separated the two of them. And he desperately wanted to get out of here. But he couldn’t—just yet.

  Fred was methodically going through the piles of written material, hunting for a phone book. Tony lifted his gaze. Hundreds of pictures were taped to the walls. Pictures of girls. Almost every square inch of the walls was covered. Most had evidently been cut out of magazines. A few, like the one of Britney, were posters. Tony recognized some of the pictures of models, actresses, and singers. Others were unknown to him. All were young and beautiful. Tony didn’t see any nudes among the pictures. No Playboy centerfolds, such as had graced the walls of his fraternity in college. All the girls were at least wearing swimsuits.

  “Great pictures,” Tony said, for lack of something better to say.

  “Yeah,” was all Fred said, but he did smile for the first time.

  “You must know every pretty girl in the world.”

  “Not quite.”

  There was only one other window in the room, in addition to the one beside the front door. An inside door led to another room, probably a bathroom. But that couldn’t have a window because its outside wall abutted the wall of the next apartment. The windows didn’t have a good view of another building. So Fred wasn’t looking at any tattoos out his windows. Shahla was right; that was a fantasy.

  “Where do you sleep?” Tony asked.

  Fred nodded toward the side wall opposite the internal doorway. “Hide-a-bed.”

  The bed folded into the wall. Tony coul
d make out its outline. It was covered with pictures. That’s why he hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Here,” Fred said, pulling a phone book out from one of the piles. He handed it to Tony.

  “Thanks.” Fred didn’t look at him when he handed him the book. In fact, he hadn’t looked him in the eye since he first opened the door.

  Tony noticed a cell phone for the first time. The cell phone from which Fred made his calls to the Hotline? It was sitting on top of some magazines, on an end table beside a dilapidated chair, which was also covered with junk. There was a plastic gizmo beside it that looked like a toy. Tony had never seen anything like it. It occurred to him that it might be the voice-altering mechanism that the Chameleon used.

  Tony pretended to be looking through the phone book. He said, “Are you a writer? I see you’ve got some notebooks.”

  “No. I just use them to put…put pictures in.”

  More pictures. “So you don’t write poetry?”

  “Not a chance. I’m the world’s worst poet. Excuse me for a minute.”

  Fred went through the doorway leading to what Tony assumed was the bathroom and closed the door. Tony took a step and picked up one of the loose-leaf notebooks sitting on the chair. He quickly riffled through it. Sure enough, it was crammed with more pictures of girls, taped to the pages. He didn’t see one word of writing.

  Tony replaced the notebook before Fred returned and resumed his perusal of the telephone directory. It was time for him to make as graceful an exit as possible. But first, was there any way to figure out whether Fred had the potential to be a killer? He remembered his Hotline training regarding noninvasive questioning.

  “You must really love girls,” Tony said as Fred returned to the room.

  Fred shrugged without looking at him.

  “Do you ever get irritated with them?”

  Fred thought about that for a moment, still without looking at Tony. “Yeah. They don’t pay much attention to me.”

  “And you wish they would.”