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 that their best bet to help the investigation was to try to track down the writer of the poem, especially since Croyden didn’t have any leads there.
He looked up the information on Paul the Poet. The page in the Green Book said that Paul still lived at home, even though he was in his late twenties. He apparently had a job and girlfriends, so he wasn’t completely stunted. That he lived at home didn’t square with his claim of having been abused by his parents. But he did admit to sleeping with a teddy bear and a night-light.
“It’s funny,” Shahla said as they read it. “When you talk to him, he brings up this abuse issue, but then if you ask him where he lives, he says he lives at home. I asked him once who paid his phone bill. He didn’t give a straight answer. And I think he has a job. It doesn’t all make sense.”
“I’ve discovered that our callers don’t always make sense. How often have you talked to this guy?”
“Many times.” Shahla spun her chair around to face him. “He’s one of our more intelligent callers, in spite of the contradictions. We actually had some good conversations about poetry. He read a few of his poems to me.”
“And were they really good?”
“They weren’t bad. They showed talent.”
“So you think he could have written the poem?”
Shahla hesitated and then said, “He’s the best guess I have right now.”
“So he just happened to be in Southern California. And he just happened to write a poem he wanted to deliver to the Hotline. And somehow, he found out the address of the Hotline.”
“Sounds farfetched, doesn’t it?”
“Especially if he’s going to be a murder suspect. Why would he come all the way here to murder somebody? Did he ever show animosity to you on the phone?”
“No, he was one of the easiest repeat callers to talk to. He was always appreciative. He often thanked me for listening to him.” Shahla kicked the floor with her feet and spun her chair around, a child at play. “I guess we can eliminate him.”
Tony furrowed his brow. “Still, it would be nice to talk to him. Did he ever give any indication of where in Vegas he lives? Or where he works? There’s nothing here.”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Wait. The book gives a last name for him. Vicksburg.”
Shahla shrugged. “Who knows whether that’s correct? Our callers use a lot of aliases.”
“But since we don’t ask for last names, he must have volunteered it. I’m going to Google him.”
Tony went into the office and started up Patty’s computer. It asked him to enter a password. He looked at Shahla, who had followed him.
“The password is ‘m-i-g-i-b,’” Shahla said.
“How do you know that?”
“Patty told me. I helped her with some computer stuff one time.”
“What does it mean?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. But her boyfriend’s name is Marty. So I remember it as, ‘Marty is great in bed.’”
Tony didn’t comment on that. He connected to the Internet and then the Google search engine. He typed in “Paul Vicksburg.” On the first try he got mostly references to pages about Vicksburg, Mississippi, and the Civil War, so he modified his search with the word poet.
“He’s got a website,” Tony told Shahla, who had come in to see what he was doing. “And there’s poetry on it.”
They looked at the pages together. The poems were the kind of plaintive meanderings that had always put Tony to sleep, but he noticed that some of them did rhyme, just like the spaghetti strap poem. They showed the egotistical nature of a person who thought his problems were the most important problems in the world. Still, Tony realized, many people believed that, including some of the Hotline callers. Poets went a step further and put the thought into words.
“Is this the guy?” Tony asked Shahla, after she had read several of the poems.
She reread one of the poems and said, “He recited that poem to me on the phone. I’m sure of it. Does it say where he lives?”
It didn’t, but there was a “Contact me” button. Tony clicked on it and found the poet’s e-mail address. He said, “Let’s say we want to arrange a meeting with him, like you’re always trying to do with your beloved Chameleon. Would he respond better to an e-mail from a man or a woman?”
“A woman. He likes girls. Isn’t this the point when we have to turn the evidence over to Detective Croyden?”
Tony smiled at her imitation of his voice and said, “I haven’t been to Vegas for a while. I just might take a run up there. My car needs the exercise anyway. What’s your e-mail address?” He added, “Keeping in mind that you’re not going to be the one to meet him.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? That’s a long drive for probably nothing.”
“You’re the one who wants to follow up every lead.”
“Yeah, but…”
Tony was surprised at Shahla’s reluctance. It took him several minutes of talking before she agreed that this might be a good idea. But all at once her face lost its frown, and she smiled, like clouds parting to let the sun shine.
She said, “Okay, you’re right. We need to check this out.”
The first part of her e-mail address was “writeon,” which was gender-neutral. Having the word “write” in it didn’t hurt, either. Both of Tony’s addresses, business and personal, had “tony” in them, so they agreed to use Shahla’s. Shahla was able to log into her e-mail from Patty’s computer.
Tony said, “You’re the writer. Compose a note to him that he can’t resist. Tell him you’d like to meet with him on Saturday afternoon. Let him name the place.”
He watched as Shahla worked. She wrote fast and confidently and then made a few changes until she was satisfied: “Hi, Paul. I have read and enjoyed the poems on your website. They have spirituality that I find lacking in today’s poets. As I read them, I am drawn into an ethereal world of promise. I would love to meet you. I heard from another one of your admirers that you live in Las Vegas. Is this true? It so happens that I will be in Las Vegas on Saturday. Can we get together in the afternoon? That would be fantastic. Name the time and place. Yours, Sally.”
“‘Spirituality’ and ‘ethereal world of promise’? What does all that mean?”
“Not a thing,” Shahla said with a smile. “But poets love big words.”
“You’re too smart for your own good. Just remember, if he should happen to reply to this, I’m the one who’s going to meet him, not you.”
“Of course,” Shahla said, her eyes wide with innocence. “I never thought anything else.”
CHAPTER 13
As Tony opened the back gate to the small patio of his townhouse, he saw that all the downstairs lights appeared to be on. Then he heard explosions through the open sliding door and figured that Josh must be watching a war movie on his big-screen TV. He heard raucous laughter and knew that Josh had some of his friends over. On a Monday night.
This had happened before, and Tony thought he had put a stop to it. The rule was that Josh could have friends over on Friday or Saturday nights, but not the other nights. Tony had hinted that he would make an exception for a well-behaved woman, as long as Josh and the woman did whatever consenting adults do behind the closed door of Josh’s bedroom, but Josh never seemed to have women over anymore. Was this the same Josh who
