FOR A MOMENT, I think I’m having a coronary. With relief, I realize it’s my mobile phone vibrating across the nightstand. Four fifteen a.m., caller ID Unknown. I swipe to answer.
“Glad you made it home alive.”
Still foggy from sleep, I say, “What?”
“For a moment, I thought you might die on me in the park. Or I might need to perform CPR. Wouldn’t that be ironic.”
Too shaken to reply, I don’t.
“You have a big day ahead of you, Detective. You’ll have a lot to answer for.”
“Why would I have a lot to answer for?”
“You paid me no attention at all, Dex. As if I was the invisible man. No respect. That was a mistake. I’m a celebrity, now. You should be asking for my autograph.”
Realization dawning, I struggle to keep my wits.
“No respect. Someone needs to pay. This one is on you, my friend.”
Reciting the details of the fifth murder, The Chatterbox disconnects.