Hotline to Murder

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