“When Detective Croyden asked me what I was doing the night Joy was killed, I realized that I had nobody to vouch for me. Did you have that problem too?”
Martha noisily sucked the dregs of her milkshake through the straw and looked at Tony. She said, “I was studying at the library. When it closed at nine, I went over to visit Joy. She didn’t like to work alone at night.”
It took a moment for this to sink in. “You saw Joy the night she was killed?”
Martha nodded. “I was just there for a few minutes. I didn’t take any calls because I wasn’t working.”
“What time did you leave the Hotline?”
“About 9:30.”
“Did you walk out with the guard?”
“No. I left by myself.”
“And then did you go home?”
Martha shook her head. “I went and walked on the beach. Alone. I sometimes do that. I didn’t get home until about eleven.”
“How did Detective Croyden react to you telling him this?”
“He didn’t say anything; just wrote it all down. But he did ask me a lot of questions about my relationship with Joy. I think he was satisfied, especially because I volunteered that I had seen Joy. If I hadn’t told him, he wouldn’t have known.”
“Has it occurred to you,” Tony asked, “that you might have been the one to get killed?”
“Yeah. All the time.” Martha had a haunted look on her face. “I feel guilty about it. That Joy got it instead of me. Or that I didn’t stick around until she left. I might have been able to prevent it. I have nightmares about that night. It’s strange, but as a result, I’m working harder to be a better volleyball player. And a better person.”
CHAPTER 12
Tony arrived at the Hotline before Shahla. She had signed up to work every shift he worked. Although he knew she had done it only because she hoped that he could help solve Joy’s murder, he felt good about it, because it meant she trusted him more than the other men and boys on the Hotline. Still, there was the possibility that he wouldn’t meet her expectations. Again. He thought back to his encounter with the Chameleon.
A boy and girl were working the four-to-seven shift. Tony said hello to them but didn’t bother to introduce himself. They left before Shahla arrived, so she didn’t get the opportunity to quiz them about what they had been doing the night Joy was killed. Tony was glad, because he became embarrassed when she did that. He guessed he wasn’t cut out to be a detective.
He signed in and took the good seat by the window. No sooner had he sat down than the phone rang. He answered it with his usual greeting: “Central Hotline. This is Tony.”
“I’m fifteen, and I’m a runaway.”
There was nothing like being smacked in the face by the first pitch. It was a girl’s voice. Tony thought fast. He said, “Are you safe where you are right now?”
“I’m at a phone booth.” She named an intersection in Santa Monica. “And I’m not going back home.”
Tony decided not to ask her reasons. It wasn’t his job to judge her. It was his job to make sure she was safe. Shahla had just come in through the door he had left unlocked for her. He put the call on the speaker and looked out the window. The sun was setting. He didn’t want the girl to be out there alone in the dark.
“Do you have any friends or relatives who can help you?” Tony asked.
“Not here. Not nearby.”
She sounded frightened. She may be having second thoughts, but whatever crisis impelled her to leave home must outweigh her fear. Tony was frantically leafing through the directory of available services in Southern California. He said, “There are shelters you can go to. Some of them will pick you up.”
At that moment, his eyes focused on such a shelter with a Santa Monica address. Thank God. “I’ve got a number for you. Do you have money so you can call the number or do you want me to call it for you? Oh, they take collect calls.”
“I’ve got some money.”
“Do you have a pencil and paper?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, write this down.” He gave her the number. “Call it immediately. If they can’t help you, call us back. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“And call us back to let us know that you’re all right.”
She promised and hung up. Tony hated to lose the connection. The chances were that she wouldn’t call back.
“She’ll be okay.”
Tony looked up into Shahla’s dark eyes.
She said, “That’s a tough call because we probably won’t find out what happened. But you did the best you could.”
What if that wasn’t good enough? Tony continued to brood about it.
“I see you grabbed the good seat.”
Shahla feigned being upset and sat down at another table.
He had to shake himself out of his depression. “You snooze, you lose.”
“I had to take my mom to her class. It was the only way I could get the car.”
Apparently, they were a one-car family. Unusual for Bonita Beach. But with her father dead… She had a tough road to travel with only one parent.
Shahla went to the snack room and came back with her usual plate of chips. She said, “Have you thought over what I told you about Martha?”
He had not told her he was going to talk to Martha. He was hoping that as a result of their meeting he could report that she had an ironclad alibi and couldn’t possibly be a suspect. Unfortunately, it hadn’t turned out that way. Martha’s alibi was clad in a light mist that could be blown away by a gentle breeze. However, Detective Croyden also knew that.
Tony wanted to keep Shahla out of it. He didn’t believe Martha had a motive for murdering Joy, even though Shahla might not agree. If Shahla was jealous of Martha’s relationship with Joy, she might do something she would regret.
“I think Detective Croyden has already talked to her. I understand he talked to all the members of the volleyball team.”
“Who told you that?”
Who told him that? “I can’t remember. Maybe Croyden did.”
“But he hasn’t talked to all the members of the Hotline.”
“There are a lot more of us. And I think he’s talked to everybody who knew Joy.”
“How does he know who knew Joy?”
Tony didn’t like getting the third degree. He said, “Let’s work on that poem. Have you thought of anybody else who might have written it?”
“No. And before we start speculating, shouldn’t we find out if there were any fingerprints on it?”
“How are we going to do that? I know. I’ll call our Indian buddy and see if he’ll tell us.”
“Our Indian buddy?”
“Crooked Nose.” Tony took out his cell phone and then extracted Detective Croyden’s card from his wallet. Croyden had been working late on Friday. Maybe he was working the afternoon-evening shift to give him a better opportunity to talk to people who might have knowledge of Joy’s murder.
“Tony, it’s Native American, not Indian.”
“Sorry. When I went to school they were still Indians.” Tony called the number on the card. He could picture it being answered by the officer on the desk. He asked for Detective Croyden.
“Croyden.”
“Hi Detective Croyden, this is Tony Schmidt.”
“Tony Schmidt. What have you got for me?”
“A question. Were there any fingerprints on that envelope Shahla and I brought in?”
“Your fingerprints were on it.”
“Okay, but were there any other prints?”
“I 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?”