SWF Seeks Same

“That’s so sick.”

“Oh, it is.”

“And another thing, he called me by name.”

“Ah!” Kennedy seemed to make a special mental note of that.

“There’s something else,” she said, leaning forward. And she told him about stopping to eat at Goya’s, the walk with Graham Knox, and the disappearance of her expired driver’s license and credit cards.

He tapped the pen several times on the gray metal desk, leaving tiny dark slashes, then noticed what he was doing and rubbed the desk clean with the heel of his hand. There was cigar ash on the desk; he brushed that away. “And did you notify the credit people of the loss of your cards?”

“Of course. Soon as I realized they were gone. It’s the phone calls and the cards being stolen that I guess has me spooked.”

“You sure the cards were stolen, not misplaced?”

“Almost certain.”

“Almost?”

“I’m almost certain the sun will set tonight, Sergeant Kennedy.”

He smiled. “Now, now, no need to get testy.”

She nodded and tried a return smile that barely broke the surface. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“The city’s full of sick and tortured people who use the telephone for reasons not dreamed about by Alexander Graham Bell. It’s probably nothing that should cause you undue concern.”

“But what about him calling me by name?”

“Well, I’m assuming you’re listed in the directory.”

“Yes. My full name, since I have such a common last name. But he didn’t say Allison, he said Allie. And that’s what I’m called, Allie.”

“Could be he guessed that. It must be the most popular nickname for Allison.”

“But what if he does know me?”

Kennedy put down the pen and leaned back in his chair. The buttons on his shirt threatened to pop. “Well, that’s possible, but I’ll tell you, Miss Jones, it’s been my experience that men who talk dirty to women on the phone usually don’t carry the matter any further. The psychiatrists could tell you why. I can only tell you the psychiatrists are right. These men are often sexual and social misfits who are too afraid of women to talk to them face to face. That’s why the miserable wretches use the phone.”

“That’s what Graham said.”

“The Graham who was with you when you noticed your credit cards were missing?”

“Yes, and he’s my neighbor. He’s also a playwright. And as I told you, a waiter at a restaurant near my apartment.”

“Well, Graham’s right about obscene callers.” Kennedy sat forward slowly and placed his elbows on the desk, rested one hand on top the other. “Tell you what. If it happens again, we can have the phone company put a tap on your phone.”

“Tap?”

“It’s a tracer, actually. It would enable us to find out what telephone any future obscene calls came from. But again, in my experience, these men usually call from public pay phones. And they don’t often use the same phone twice.”

“Then a tracer probably wouldn’t do much good.”

“To be candid, no good at all, most likely.”

“What about my stolen credit cards?”

“You should make a complaint on that one. At least give us the account numbers. But I need to be honest with you, there isn’t much chance they’ll be recovered. People who steal credit cards, if they’re pros, either sell the cards immediately or charge everything they can on them before they might be reported stolen. On the street, stolen credit cards depreciate by the hour. Whatever’s going to be done with them is done fast, then they’re often destroyed.” He clucked his tongue. “Some sad society we live in, isn’t it?”

Allie Jones smiled and shook her head in futility. “Have I wasted my time coming here, Sergeant Kennedy?”

“Maybe not. You never know. I’d advise you to fill out the forms, report the credit card theft. The cards might turn up on somebody we bring in. It’s happened.”

“All right, then,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

Kennedy ran the appropriate form into his typewriter and one-fingered out the information as she answered his questions. She was alert and efficient. From working with computers, Kennedy thought. He was uncomfortable around computers, didn’t understand them. What were microchips, miniature potato chips?

When he was finished he read over what he’d typed. After making a few sloppy corrections with Whiteout, he ratcheted the form from the typewriter and had Allison Jones sign it.

He said, “I promise we’ll call you right away if there’s any progress on this.”

She thanked him and stood up. There was something about this troubled young woman that intrigued Kennedy, evoking pity and concern. Did she resemble Jeanie? Maybe. A little. And it was the cruelest of cities out there, a crouching monster that waited patiently for as long as it took and then devoured its victims.