Hotline to Murder Read online

  Shahla shrugged. “Who knows whether that’s correct? Our callers use a lot of aliases.”

  “But since we don’t ask for last names, he must have volunteered it. I’m going to Google him.”

  Tony went into the office and started up Patty’s computer. It asked him to enter a password. He looked at Shahla, who had followed him.

  “The password is ‘m-i-g-i-b,’” Shahla said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Patty told me. I helped her with some computer stuff one time.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me. But her boyfriend’s name is Marty. So I remember it as, ‘Marty is great in bed.’”

  Tony didn’t comment on that. He connected to the Internet and then the Google search engine. He typed in “Paul Vicksburg.” On the first try he got mostly references to pages about Vicksburg, Mississippi, and the Civil War, so he modified his search with the word poet.

  “He’s got a website,” Tony told Shahla, who had come in to see what he was doing. “And there’s poetry on it.”

  They looked at the pages together. The poems were the kind of plaintive meanderings that had always put Tony to sleep, but he noticed that some of them did rhyme, just like the spaghetti strap poem. They showed the egotistical nature of a person who thought his problems were the most important problems in the world. Still, Tony realized, many people believed that, including some of the Hotline callers. Poets went a step further and put the thought into words.

  “Is this the guy?” Tony asked Shahla, after she had read several of the poems.

  She reread one of the poems and said, “He recited that poem to me on the phone. I’m sure of it. Does it say where he lives?”

  It didn’t, but there was a “Contact me” button. Tony clicked on it and found the poet’s e-mail address. He said, “Let’s say we want to arrange a meeting with him, like you’re always trying to do with your beloved Chameleon. Would he respond better to an e-mail from a man or a woman?”

  “A woman. He likes girls. Isn’t this the point when we have to turn the evidence over to Detective Croyden?”

  Tony smiled at her imitation of his voice and said, “I haven’t been to Vegas for a while. I just might take a run up there. My car needs the exercise anyway. What’s your e-mail address?” He added, “Keeping in mind that you’re not going to be the one to meet him.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this? That’s a long drive for probably nothing.”

  “You’re the one who wants to follow up every lead.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  Tony was surprised at Shahla’s reluctance. It took him several minutes of talking before she agreed that this might be a good idea. But all at once her face lost its frown, and she smiled, like clouds parting to let the sun shine.

  She said, “Okay, you’re right. We need to check this out.”

  The first part of her e-mail address was “writeon,” which was gender-neutral. Having the word “write” in it didn’t hurt, either. Both of Tony’s addresses, business and personal, had “tony” in them, so they agreed to use Shahla’s. Shahla was able to log into her e-mail from Patty’s computer.

  Tony said, “You’re the writer. Compose a note to him that he can’t resist. Tell him you’d like to meet with him on Saturday afternoon. Let him name the place.”

  He watched as Shahla worked. She wrote fast and confidently and then made a few changes until she was satisfied: “Hi, Paul. I have read and enjoyed the poems on your website. They have spirituality that I find lacking in today’s poets. As I read them, I am drawn into an ethereal world of promise. I would love to meet you. I heard from another one of your admirers that you live in Las Vegas. Is this true? It so happens that I will be in Las Vegas on Saturday. Can we get together in the afternoon? That would be fantastic. Name the time and place. Yours, Sally.”

  “‘Spirituality’ and ‘ethereal world of promise’? What does all that mean?”

  “Not a thing,” Shahla said with a smile. “But poets love big words.”

  “You’re too smart for your own good. Just remember, if he should happen to reply to this, I’m the one who’s going to meet him, not you.”

  “Of course,” Shahla said, her eyes wide with innocence. “I never thought anything else.”

  CHAPTER 13

  As Tony opened the back gate to the small patio of his townhouse, he saw that all the downstairs lights appeared to be on. Then he heard explosions through the open sliding door and figured that Josh must be watching a war movie on his big-screen TV. He heard raucous laughter and knew that Josh had some of his friends over. On a Monday night.

  This had happened before, and Tony thought he had put a stop to it. The rule was that Josh could have friends over on Friday or Saturday nights, but not the other nights. Tony had hinted that he would make an exception for a well-behaved woman, as long as Josh and the woman did whatever consenting adults do behind the closed door of Josh’s bedroom, but Josh never seemed to have women over anymore. Was this the same Josh who had tried to date every coed at the University of Michigan?

  Time for action. Tony slid open the screen door and entered the townhouse. He marched through the family room, down the short hallway, and into the living room. The scene was much as he had anticipated. Josh reclined on the reclining chair with a can of beer in his hand. Two men sat on the couch, each with his own can of beer. They were all casually dressed, in jeans and T-shirts touting athletic teams or running events that they undoubtedly hadn’t participated in. If they were like Josh, their main exercise was elbow bending.

  Spilled potato chips littered the carpet and were in danger of becoming a permanent part of the weave. The ubiquitous cooler sat on the floor at Josh’s side. Tony glanced at the screen of the television set and recognized a scene from the movie, Saving Private Ryan. Nobody saw him for a few seconds. All eyes were intent on the screen. He cleared his throat, between explosions.

  Josh turned his head toward Tony and said, “Noodles. You’re home from the Hotstuff Line. The hero returns to collect his reward for valor.”

  Tony knew what was coming and stepped aside as Josh tossed a can of beer to him, so that most of the ice water flying in formation with it missed him as he reached out and deftly caught it with one hand. He had always had good hands. If he had only been taller and about twice as fast, he could have been a wide receiver. He popped open the beer and took a swig.

  Josh aimed his remote at the TV and put the movie on Pause. “Noodles, I want you to meet two of my buds.”

  Josh named two names that didn’t register in Tony’s consciousness. He did shake hands with them, not bothering to apologize for having a wet and cold hand from the beer, because their hands were equally wet and cold.

  “There was a time when Tony would have been here partying with us,” Josh said. “But, alas, that doesn’t happen anymore. Because Tony has been saved. Speaking of being saved, how went the battle tonight? Did you convince any queers with AIDS that were about to blow their brains out not to, even though that’s probably a mistake? And was that underage babe working with you tonight? What’s her name—Sarah?”

  “Sally.”

  “Sally.” He turned to his friends. “Tony has a tough job. He answers telephones and listens to the problems of people more fucked up than we are, all night. So you think you should feel sorry for him, right? But what you don’t know is that while he’s doing it, he hangs out with these teenage babes who don’t wear any clothes.”

  “Cool,” friend one said. “I wish I could get a job like that.”

  “The only problem,” Josh said, standing up, “is that they have their bodies pierced in so many places that you can’t touch them without getting stabbed.”

  “That’s not true,” Tony said, realizing how dorky he sounded.

  Josh ignored him and said, “It’s not just their ears, although some of them have enough metal in their ears to build a tank.” He lifted his T-shirt and said, �
��Belly buttons.” He pointed to his own belly button, which stuck out, along with the rest of his belly. “Wouldn’t I look great with a navel ring?” He moved his belly in and out, using more muscles than Tony had seen him use in a while.

  The friends laughed. Tony wondered how he could put a stop to this.

  “Nipple rings.” He pushed his T-shirt higher and grabbed one of his nipples with the same hand. The other hand still held a can of beer. “How do you suck on that with a ring in your mouth. Ugh. But worst of all is the clit ring. Does Sally have a clit ring, Tony?”

  Tony had to restrain himself to keep from throwing his beer can at Josh. He said, “I want to talk to you in the other room. Now.”

  Josh was still playing to his friends. He shook his head and said, “When Noodles uses his school-teacher voice, I have to listen. It won’t be pretty.” He unpaused the movie and said, “I don’t want you guys to have to hear it.”

  Tony led the way through a short hallway into the family room and then turned left into the kitchen, placing the maximum amount of distance between them and the living room. He turned to face Josh, who had followed him. He was seething so much he couldn’t talk. Josh stood and sipped beer, an innocent look on his face.

  “First of all,” Tony said, finding his voice, “you’re not supposed to have guys over during the week.”

  “Oh, yes. Dumb me.” Josh struck himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Dorm rules. But I figured since you weren’t here, it would be okay. I planned to kick them out before you got home. Sorry. I lost track of the time. What time is it, anyway?”

  “It’s ten-thirty. And I don’t care whether I’m home or not. You disturb the neighbors with all your noise.”

  “Okay, okay, I know when you’re provoked. I’ll tell them to leave now.”

  “Wait. I’ve got something more to say. I don’t like the way you talk about the girls on the Hotline. In fact, I don’t like the way you talk about all women. You know what you are? You’re a misogynist.”

  “A what-gynist? Is that anything like a gynecologist? Tony, my boy, you have flipped. You have absolutely flipped. Do you know what that job has done to you? It has made you into a wimp, a wuss. A goddamned wuss. You are not the same Tony I knew. And I don’t like the new model.”

  “Well then, maybe you should move out.”

  This stopped Josh in his tracks. He became quiet. Gone was the bluster. His face became as red as his hair. He stared at Tony. “Move out? You want me to move out?”

  “If you don’t like what you call the new me. If you don’t like the rules around here. If you can’t become a civilized member of society. Don’t you think, Josh, that after all these years, it’s time for us to grow up? If you can’t handle that, then yes, you should move out.”

  “I’ll be out of here in thirty days.” Josh turned on his heel and stomped out of the room.

  ***

  Tony couldn’t sleep. He was having second thoughts about Josh moving out. For financial reasons. How was he going to make the payments on the townhouse without Josh? He might have to get another housemate. And as obnoxious as Josh was, at least Tony knew him and his habits.

  He knew that although Josh might spill beer and potato chips on the living room rug, he wouldn’t completely trash the place. He had a steady job and paid his bills. He might bring in loud friends to party with, but at least they wouldn’t be drug dealers and hoods. He was a bigot, but Tony could ignore that. Most of the time. He might badmouth women, but he didn’t physically abuse them. He might belittle Tony’s job on the Hotline, but he wouldn’t actually interfere with anything Tony did.

  Maybe he should talk to Josh in the morning. Well, he probably wouldn’t see him in the morning because Josh would still be in bed when he left. But tomorrow evening for sure. This thought didn’t give Tony peace. There was something else. Something unresolved. He had called Josh a misogynist. A woman hater. He had never thought of Josh as hating women before. Was this true?

  Tony started remembering things. Josh aggressively pursuing women in college. But did he do it because he liked them? Sometimes it had seemed to Tony as if he had a score to settle. Josh had been his hero because he could get the girls. Tony had learned from him. Learned very well from him. But in spite of the reputation he had gained of picking them up and then dumping them, Tony’s relationships had lasted longer than Josh’s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 14

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

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

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

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

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

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