Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [11]
Brixton cleared his throat before saying, “I need to ask you a question, Mrs. Watkins. I don’t mean to upset you but—”
“You go right ahead and ask any question you wish, Mr. Brixton. Most of my upset is behind me.”
“Yeah. Well, when Louise was on the streets as a—as a prostitute—did she work for anybody?”
She looked puzzled.
“Did she have a boss, a pimp, a guy who managed her, if that’s what you’d call it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did she ever mention any of the other women she worked with?”
“No. Louise never said anything about those times. She was embarrassed enough, I suppose, that I even knew.”
“How did you know?”
“She called when she was arrested. I bailed her out.”
“Well, thank you, ma’am, for the talk and the sweet tea. It was excellent.”
He picked up the photo of the six girls again and looked closely at it before returning it to the bookcase.
“I was so pleased that Louise went to that retreat,” Mrs. Watkins said. “Maybe if she’d spent more time with girls like that she wouldn’t have strayed into trouble the way she did.”
Brixton didn’t know whether she was right or not and didn’t comment.
“But I suppose that wasn’t possible. Louise didn’t have much opportunity to be with young women like those in the picture. They come from—”
“The other side of town?”
“Yes, I suppose you could put it like that, Mr. Brixton. Thank you for coming all this way to see me.”
“Next time I hope to have more to report.”
“Would you be needing another check?”
“No, ma’am, not yet. Thanks for the hospitality. I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER 5
Cynthia was in a foul mood when Brixton returned to the office. Her husband, Jim, had done too good a job of weaving scary ghost stories into his commentary during one of the tours he’d hosted the night before, causing a mother with two frightened, small children to complain loudly about his lack of sensitivity where children were concerned.
“What’d Jim say?” Brixton asked.
“He told her that if she didn’t want her precious little darlings to be afraid, she shouldn’t take them on a ghost tour.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Brixton said.
“She complained to the tour operator and demanded her money back.”
“You husband was right,” Brixton said.
“Not if he loses his job. You got a call from an attorney who’s looking for an investigator. Here’s his number.”
“Thanks.”
Brixton returned the attorney’s call and made an appointment to meet with him later that afternoon. His next call was to Wayne St. Pierre at the police barracks on Habersham, at the corner of Oglethorpe.
“Nice dinner last night,” St. Pierre said. “Did I thank you? I think I did but if I didn’t, I do now.”
“You thanked me. Wayne, I need to access arrest records going back fifteen, sixteen years. Louise Watkins had been arrested for soliciting at least a few times. I’d like the names of other hookers who were brought in with her on those nights.”
St. Pierre laughed. “They’re probably grandmothers by now, Bobby.”
“I hope they are. Can do?”
“I’ll check and get back to you.”
He called less than an hour later. “Ready to write?” he said. “Your Ms. Watkins was dragged in with three other lovely ladies of the night, a couple of them veterans of the streets.” He rattled off the names.
“Whoa,” Brixton said. “Wanda Johnson? Isn’t she the one who left the biz and established some sort of mission for hookers, get ’em off the street and into the straight life?”
“That’s her. Moved to Atlanta, got plenty of TV coverage when she opened her mission.”
“The other names don’t ring a bell but that’s okay. I’ll try Johnson first. It’s a long shot that she’ll remember Louise Watkins, but worth a stab. Thanks, Wayne.”
A few calls to Atlanta gave Brixton a number for Wanda Johnson’s Refuge Project. Brixton placed the call and, after being put on hold, Wanda came on the line. Brixton introduced himself, told her why he was calling, and said he’d like some time with her.
“Louise Watkins, you say?” Ms. Johnson said in a husky voice. “I do remember her, sort of a lost soul as I recall. Didn’t belong out there on the streets, but then again