Hotline to Murder

room, dumped her pack, and took off her jeans and top. She was wearing her own bikini underneath.
    She took a sip of the punch as she headed for the patio. It had a sweetish taste. She understood that it contained alcohol, but it couldn’t be too potent. She wouldn’t drink much. Meanwhile, she was hungry. She headed for a table covered with food.
    ***
    A ray of sunlight slanting in through the open doors and into her eyes brought Shahla back to reality. She sat on one of the jumbo-sized leather couches while a boy regaled her with a tale about a wild weekend spent in Tijuana. The sun was setting over the ocean. She hadn’t noticed time passing. The party had gravitated indoors as the afternoon grew cooler, but she had talked, danced, eaten—and drank. She had not thought about Joy or her mother or the necessity for going home for several hours.
    Muttering an excuse, Shahla jumped up from the couch. She stumbled as a wave of dizziness overcame her, and she almost fell back down in a heap. Blinking her eyes to clear her head, she searched for her clothes and pack. Fortunately, they were in the corner where she had left them. As she struggled to pull on her jeans without falling, she experienced a moment of fear as she thought about what her mother would say.
    At least she hadn’t gone upstairs. Reports had drifted down from the upper two floors—reports about girls losing their tops. And other things. She hoisted her pack onto her shoulders and walked unsteadily out the still-open doors. The cooling evening air helped to sharpen her senses. She needed to call her mother.
    Shahla practiced talking to herself as she pulled her cell phone out of the pack, to make sure her voice sounded normal. At least one walker heading the other way on the beach path looked at her strangely. She turned off the path and headed up the hill on one of the residential streets—where the folks lived who couldn’t afford a McMansion adjoining the beach. She was about to place the call when the phone rang. Her mother had beaten her to the keypad.
    She pressed the “talk” button. “Hello.”
    At first she didn’t hear anything. This couldn’t be her mother. Her mother would have started in on her immediately. She said hello again.
    “Where are you?”
    The voice sounded unnatural. She couldn’t decide whether the caller was male or female. It sounded like one of the voices the Chameleon used. But of course it couldn’t be him.
    “Who is this?”
    “I need to talk to you.”
    She looked at the number of the caller. She didn’t recognize it. It certainly wasn’t a friend of hers, unless a joker was playing a trick on her. Could a listener on the Hotline who was familiar with the Chameleon be getting his jollies?
    “Who is this?” she asked again, more forcefully.
    “I’m trying to help you,” the voice said.
    “If you don’t tell me who this is, I’m going to hang up.”
    “Wait. I’m really trying to help you.”
    “Is this Fred?” Shahla asked, using the name she had called the Chameleon.
    The voice on the phone didn’t deny it. “Where can I meet you? When are you going home? You haven’t been there all afternoon?”
    How did he know that? Shahla’s hands began to shake. She was within ten minutes of her house. Was it safe to go there?
    “Where are you now?” Shahla asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.
    “I’m cruising along Sandview Street.”
    Sandview was the street where she lived. It ran most of the length of Bonita Beach, parallel to the ocean. Shahla was just now coming to it, preparing to turn right, toward her house. She quickly looked both ways on Sandview. None of the cars in sight was moving; all were parked. Instead of turning onto Sandview, she ran across it and continued to trot up the hill. Jane’s house was just two blocks from here. She had to get there. Jane and her father would help her.
    She heard a car behind her, and looked over her shoulder without stopping. This action made her a little dizzy. After a second or two, she could make out an older couple in the car. No danger there. She swiveled her head back to the front just in time to see a lamppost looming right in front of her eyes. Instinctively she threw out her hands to keep herself from crashing into it. As her left hand hit the post, she heard a sickening crack. The phone had crunched between her hand and the scalloped metal.
    There was no time to check for damage, so she shoved the phone into her pocket. She