Suckers - J.A. Konrath

"We could pretend we were strangers from out of town who were peeking in his windows."
Roger grinned. "It might be kind of funny."
"Do you want to call him?"
"No, but you can."
"I might."
"Go for it."
"What’s his name?"
"Dennis Catovin."
"Have you got a phone book."
"In the kitchen."
We tiptoed into the kitchen (well, not literally, we just walked quietly) to avoid waking up
Roger’s parents, although if they could sleep through the monster belches, they could sleep
through anything. Roger handed me the phone as he looked up Dennis’s number. "Make sure
you disguise your voice," he said.
"Yes, sir," I said, disguising my voice.
"Disguise it better."
"Yes, sir," I said, disguising it better. I was going for something in a low, raspy, vaguely
sinister motif, but thinking back, it probably just sounded like puberty gone terribly wrong.
I dialed the number and waited.
"Hello?"
"We saw the butcher knife," I whispered. "We know..."
"Fuck!"
A click on the other end, and then a dial tone.
"Oops," I said.
"What happened?" Roger asked.
"He said ‘fuck’ and hung up."
"Why did he do that?"
"I dunno."
"Well, call him back. Let him know we were just kidding."
I dialed again.
No answer.
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