Monument to Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 none of my girls do. Sure, happy to see you, Mr. Brixton. When do you want to come?”
    “Tomorrow?”
    “Sounds fine with me long as it’s in the daytime. I’m out doing God’s work most nights.”
    They agreed on a time, noon the following day, and he received directions.
    “I’ll be in Atlanta tomorrow,” Brixton told Cynthia when she came into his office with checks to sign. He told her why.
    “You’re really into this case, aren’t you?” she said.
    “Just doing what I promised, looking for information about what happened to Mrs. Watkins’ daughter.”
    “You buy her theory that her daughter was paid to go to prison?”
    “Maybe. If it’s true, her murder might be linked to it.” He raised his hand against her reservations. “I know, I know, it’s all supposition at this point. But I owe it to my client to at least try and prove that she’s right. Will I? Prove it?” A shrug. “I’ll give it a week. If I haven’t made any headway, I’ll tell her I bombed and suggest she save the rest of the money her daughter gave her.”
    The attorney’s office was too close to drive to but far enough that by the time Brixton walked there in the late-afternoon sun and humidity, his shirt stuck to his body and perspiration ran down his face. He’d put on a tie to look professional even though he knew it wasn’t necessary. Old habits die hard. Besides, he wasn’t pleased with society’s casual approach to dress these days. He’d been on airplanes where his seat companion, if male, was dressed as though he were going to a mud-wrestling contest. Females too often viewed a commercial flight as a teenage sleepover with plenty of skin showing. He had nothing against female skin, liked it as much as the next guy. But it was a matter of time and place, like going to see a potential client wearing a tie.
    He knew the lawyer by reputation, a matrimonial specialist with a not particularly savory image. Probably needs a tail on a philandering husband or wife to see whether the guy really did go bowling with his buddies every Tuesday night, or whether she actually attended weekly Tupperware parties at a girlfriend’s house. He had done his share of those assignments since opening his agency and never felt clean when one was concluded