Hotline to Murder by Alan Cook Page A

suppose you’ll bug me until I tell you.
No. There were no other prints on the envelope or on the paper
inside. Whoever sent it was probably wearing gloves. They shouldn’t
show those damn police shows on TV. They make the perps too
smart.”
    “One more question. What was in the
envelope?”
    “I don’t have to tell you that. You already
know.”
    “How would I know?”
    “You’re going to play dumb, is that it?
Okay, no games. It was a poem.”
    “Written by the killer?”
    “Either that or it’s a prank.”
    “May I have a copy of the poem?”
    “Go flog yourself.”
    Croyden hung up. Shahla was on a call. As
soon as she saw that Tony was free, she put the call on the
speaker. The voice sounded like a woman with a cold.
    “…stare at me when I go out without wearing
a bra. I think they can see my nipples. It makes me very
uncomfortable.”
    Shahla pressed the Mute button and said,
“It’s the Chameleon.”
    The Chameleon? Oh, yes, he sometimes
imitated women. “How do you know?”
    “Because I’ve heard him use this voice
before.”
    The breathy voice was saying, “What do you
think I should do?”
    Tony said, “Try to find out if he wrote the
poem.”
    Shahla cancelled the Mute and said, “So, do
you wear tops with spaghetti straps?”
    “Spaghetti straps. I love to wear spaghetti
straps. Do you like to wear spaghetti straps?”
    “Sometimes. But we have to wear bras in
school. Do you know that the assistant principal has the job of
bra-snapper?” Shahla winked at Tony. “It’s his job to make sure all
the girls are wearing bras. I don’t like it when he checks from the
front—and his hand slips. On purpose.”
    “It’s so…when men have their hands all over
you.” The Chameleon dragged this out, making it sound as if the
hands were at work on him.
    “He’s masturbating,” Shahla mouthed.
    “Hang up,” Tony mouthed back.
    Shahla shook her head.
    “I don’t like to wear a bra,” the Chameleon
said in a breathy monotone. “I like my tits to be free of
restraint. It makes me feel so…free.”
    “I know a poem about spaghetti straps,”
Shahla said.
    “Men shouldn’t be allowed to make us feel
uncomfortable. We should be able to wear what we want.”
    “She wears a summer dress, spaghetti straps
to hold it up…”
    “I love spaghetti straps. I could wear them
every day.”
    “You and I have a lot in common. Let’s get
together. What do you think?”
    There was a click.
    “I think you violated just about every
Hotline listening rule,” Tony said. “Again.” He was relieved that
the Chameleon had hung up.
    “Just following orders, General.”
    “But I didn’t ask you to try to meet him
again.”
    “Cold feet? I thought we were in this
together.”
    “Anyway, you scared him off. It’s probably
just as well. And he didn’t pick up on the poem.”
    “I guess I was a little abrupt. But I don’t
think he wrote the poem. He’s about as poetic as a mud fence. But
that doesn’t mean he isn’t the killer.”
    “Okay, but let’s let Croyden handle him.
Fill out a call report, and we’ll leave it for Nancy to give to
him. But don’t mention the poem.”
    “Aye aye, sir.” Shahla gave an imitation of
a salute. “I don’t know what you think of me, but I’m not really a
bad person. I get good grades. I don’t smoke, drink, or do drugs.
And if I listen to dirty talk, it’s because it’s part of my
job.”
    Tony was taken aback for a moment. She was
fishing for a compliment. He was not great at giving compliments.
“I-I think you’re doing a super job. Just don’t do anything
risky.”
    Shahla held his eyes. “Do you care what
happens to me?”
    “Of course I care what happens to you.”
    Shahla seemed satisfied with that. She
filled out the report while Tony took a call from somebody who
wanted a referral to a therapist. When he hung up, Shahla was on
another call. It wasn’t until an hour later that they were both
free at the same time. Tony still figured