Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [16]
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He left Savannah at seven. The 250-mile drive to Atlanta usually took him about four hours, but the rain and two accidents on I-75 slowed him down. On the long list of things he didn’t enjoy, long drives were at or near the top. His orthopedic problems were made worse when behind the wheel for longer than a half hour, and the number of yahoos sharing the road seemed to increase each day, gobbling messy sandwiches while driving, blathering on cell phones, and more recently dunderheads composing text messages on the highway while doing seventy-five.
The only positive thing he found about driving long distances was the time it gave him to think. Shutting off his cell phone while behind the wheel was as second nature to him as silencing it in theaters. There was no call important enough that couldn’t wait until he’d arrived at his destination and gotten out of the car.
He’d researched Wanda Johnson on the Internet the night before. Now in her early forties, she’d been turning tricks for years—Vegas, Boston, Chicago, Atlanta, and finally her hometown, Savannah. Her rap sheet took up enough pages to fill a novella; the Savannah PD’s vice squad knew her well enough to call her by her nickname, “Puddin’.”
She’d had her epiphany following her last arrest. A local clergyman, whose flock consisted of the city’s criminal population, did for Puddin’ whatever it is that clergymen do. Presto! Wanda gave up “the life” and started counseling other hookers to get off the streets—and their backs—dump their pimps, and start living straight.
She got plenty of local press for it but soon decided that there weren’t enough clients in Savannah to sustain her efforts. She packed up and moved to the big city, Atlanta, where there were more in need of her services, and more civic-minded money to sustain her mission.
Wanda Johnson’s Refuge Project was housed in a storefront in a seedy section of the city, flanked by a boarded-up former take-out-chicken shack and an active pawnshop. A fresh coat of white paint and a tastefully painted sign above the door caused it to stand out from its surroundings.
Brixton stepped through the door and was greeted by a young black woman seated behind a makeshift desk created by a hollow door on two file cabinets. A large bulletin board featured dozens of color snapshots of women who Brixton presumed had been rescued from the streets by the mission’s founder. A series of six watercolors depicting city life were grouped on one wall along with a clock with an Atlanta Falcons face, some photographs, and a large blackboard.
Brixton introduced himself and said he had an appointment with Ms. Johnson. The receptionist disappeared through a door and reappeared moments later accompanied by Wanda. Now a stout, middle-aged woman, she wore a flowing white linen robe with colorful embroidery at the hem, cuffs, and neckline, and a floppy red hat, a far cry from what she must have worn during her days as a prostitute. Her dark brown face was heavily made up: vivid red lipstick, greenish eye shadow, and pink rouge. She extended her hand and said, “I don’t remember seeing you around Savannah. You ever work vice?”
“No, ma’am.”
“The vice squad cops were pretty nice, not out to bust chops.”
“I hope you told them that.”
“Every time they hauled me in,” she said with a hearty laugh. “Come back to my office, if that’s what you can call it. Times are tough.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Her office wasn’t much bigger than a good-size walk-in closet. She’d squeezed a yellow vinyl couch that had seen better days into the space along with a small, round table that functioned as a desk, the only thing on it a cordless telephone. Another bulletin board held photos similar to the ones outside, as well as a large calendar. There were photos of Wanda receiving awards of some sort from politicians, and candid shots of her with Atlanta athletes at what Brixton