Hotline to Murder

help?”
    “That’s their job.”
    ***
    It was after 9 when Tony got back to his townhouse, emotionally exhausted and starving. He hadn’t had anything to eat since about noon. He rummaged through the refrigerator and found some leftover chicken that Josh had bought at a fast-food restaurant and not finished. A parting gift from his ex-roommate. He gave it the sniff test, and it passed, so he ate it, along with a potato and some frozen corn that he microwaved.
    It had been a thoroughly bad day. First Josh and then Shahla. After Tony had called the Bonita Beach Police, the desk officer had called Detective Croyden who was at home. Tony had actually been shocked that Croyden wasn’t working. And then he realized that he expected Croyden to be on duty all the time. And it almost seemed as if he was. When Shahla and others badmouthed the police for not solving the murder, they were ignoring Croyden’s work ethic.
    Croyden had come to Rasa’s home. She had repeated her story to him. Tony had told him about his meeting with the Chameleon. Otherwise, he would have been withholding evidence. Croyden hadn’t even chewed him out. He just took notes with his Mont Blanc pen and looked properly concerned. An officer Croyden had brought with him started calling friends of Shahla from a list supplied by Rasa.
    Tony belatedly told Croyden that Josh had moved out. Croyden made a note and looked at Tony for a moment with what was almost a compassionate expression. He said, “You still did the right thing. It’s hard to rat out your buddy, but sometimes to have to do it.”
    “You don’t think he’s involved in this, do you?” Tony asked, shocked by Croyden’s serious tone.
    “His story about the panties sounds legit. We’re checking on his alibi for the night of the murder.”
    Tony couldn’t recall that Josh had given him an alibi. But he felt relieved. Even if Josh never spoke to him again, he didn’t want him to be convicted of murder.
    A female friend of Rasa’s arrived to comfort her. Detective Croyden was using the house as a temporary command post while he coordinated the efforts of several officers in the field. In between phone calls, he asked Rasa questions about Shahla’s friends and habits.
    After watching him in action for a while, Tony began to see him in a better light. He really was a good policeman. It relieved Tony’s mind a little. He still wasn’t convinced that Shahla had met with foul play, but whether she had or whether she hadn’t, Croyden was doing his best to find her.
    Eventually, Tony began to feel expendable, like a disposable razor. So he left. He decided to conduct his own search. He drove slowly, up and down almost every street in Bonita Beach—the streets that crossed Pacific Coast Highway and ran downhill to the water, and the cross streets parallel to PCH and the coastline. He did this for two hours—until his gas gauge registered empty.
    What else could he do? The more he tried to think, the more his brain wouldn’t function. It was then he realized that he was exhausted and starving. He drove home and parked in his carport. After staring at the empty space where Josh’s car used to be, he dragged himself into the house and went to the refrigerator.
    ***
    Tony leafed through the pages of the Green Book at the Hotline office on Sunday morning, concentrating on the inactive callers at the back of the book. Detective Croyden had considered all of the active callers as possible suspects, and as far as Tony knew, he had discarded all of them except Fred the Chameleon. And Tony had discarded Fred as a suspect. Tony was sure that Croyden had also looked at the inactive pages, but because there was no way to contact the people who were no longer calling the Hotline, he really didn’t have any leads to follow.
    Tony wasn’t sure he could do any better, but he read the description of each caller, looking for something—he didn’t know what— that might set off an alarm in his brain. He read the information for each inactive caller and then went back and reread it for just the male callers. Then, for some reason, he came back and read the page for one caller a third time.
    This was a man who had given a variety of names, none of which had any special meaning for Tony. His Hotline nickname was Cackling Crucifier. He had called for several years and apparently stopped calling very abruptly about nine or ten months ago. He was given the name because of his weird laugh and because