Evelyn smiled. “Hank Bennett was wearing a UGA class ring.”
“Georgia Bulldogs, class of 1974.” Once again, Amanda pulled out onto Ponce de Leon Avenue. “They could’ve met at a mixer or a social. All those frat boys are thick as thieves.” She’d interviewed her share for the sex crimes unit. They lied like carpets.
“What’s going on there?” Evelyn pointed at the Union Mission. An APD squad car blocked the entrance.
“I have no idea.” Amanda pulled onto the sidewalk and got out of the car. She recognized the patrolman walking out of the building, though she didn’t know his name. He obviously knew both Amanda and Evelyn. His pace quickened as he headed toward his car.
“Excuse me—” Amanda tried, but it was too late. The man got into his cruiser. Rubber squealed against asphalt as he peeled off.
“And the beat goes on,” Evelyn said. She didn’t seem too daunted as she headed toward the mission entrance. Instead of finding Trey Callahan, they saw a pudgy older man wearing a priest’s collar. He was sweeping broken glass off the floor. The front window had been broken. A brick was among the shards.
“Yes?” he asked.
Evelyn took the lead. “We’re with the Atlanta Police Department. We’re looking for Trey Callahan.”
The man seemed confused. “So am I.”
Amanda gathered they’d missed something. “Callahan isn’t here?”
“Who do you think caused this mess?” He indicated the broken glass. “Trey was supposed to open the shelter last night. He didn’t show up, so one of the girls threw a brick through the window.” He leaned against the broom. “I’m sorry, I’ve never dealt with the police before. Are you gals secretaries? The officer who just left said he would need a typed statement.”
Amanda suppressed a groan. The officer had been giving him the runaround. “We’re not secretaries. We’re plainclothes—”
“Detectives,” Evelyn interrupted, sounding very sure of herself. “And we don’t type statements. What’s your name, sir?”
“Father Bailey. I work at the soup kitchen down the street.”
He didn’t match the descriptions they’d been given. The priest was only a few inches taller than Amanda. “Are you the only one who works at the kitchen?”
“No, my associate does the cooking. Sometimes, I help with the cleaning, but my main duties are to provide spiritual support.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m actually late, so if you girls—”
Evelyn interrupted, “If you work at the soup kitchen, why are you here?”
“I was supposed to meet with Trey this morning. We coordinate once a month, talk about the girls, who might be in trouble, who to look out for.”
“And you pulled in and saw the broken window?”
“And a room full of girls sleeping away the morning when they should’ve been locked out of the building.” He indicated the back of the room. “Trey’s office has been rifled. Probably one of the girls.”
“Did any of them see anything?”
“I hate to be uncharitable, but none of them are particularly helpful unless it directly benefits themselves.”
Amanda remembered, “What about Callahan’s girlfriend? She’s training to be a nurse at Georgia Baptist.”
He studied her for a moment. “Yes, I called over there looking for her. Eileen Sapperson. They say she missed her shift last night, too.”
“Did the hospital have a home number for her?”
“She doesn’t have a home line.”
“Do you mind if we—” Amanda indicated Callahan’s office. The priest shrugged. He resumed sweeping as they walked to the back of the room.
The office had clearly been tossed, but Amanda wasn’t sure whether the perpetrator was a junkie looking for money or a man trying to quickly leave town. Callahan’s desk was cleared of all his personal items. No framed photo of his dog and girlfriend. No Slinky. No funk posters. No transistor radio. There were a few joints smoked down to the last centimeter in the ashtray. The drawers hung open. Most important, the stack of typewriter pages was gone.
Evelyn noticed it, too. “Where’s his manuscript?”
“I can’t imagine a whore using it for anything but toilet paper.”
“Callahan got out of here fast. He must’ve taken the girlfriend.”
“On the same night Mary Halston was left dead at Techwood.”
“Coincidence?”
Amanda didn’t know anymore.
“Let’s go talk to the guy at the soup kitchen.”
“We can at least ask the priest his name.” They walked back into the main room. The priest was gone.
“Hello?” Evelyn called, though they could see every corner of the room. Amanda followed her outside. The sidewalk was empty. No one was in the parking lot. They even checked behind the building. “Well, at least he didn’t lie to us.”
“That we know of.” Amanda walked back toward the Plymouth. The inside of the car was already baking. She turned the key in the ignition. “I’m so sick and tired of being in this car.”
“You never really see Columbo driving anywhere.”
“I guess Ironside doesn’t count.”
“I’d like to see what Techwood Homes would make of a cripple in a bread truck.”
Amanda pulled out onto the street. “Pepper Anderson just magically appears wherever she needs to be.”
“One week, she’s a nurse at the hospital. Next week, she’s racing on a speedboat. Then she’s a go-go dancer, then a flight attendant flirting with some dreamy pilot. Hey—”
“Shut up.”
Evelyn chuckled as she leaned her arm on the door. They were both quiet as Amanda drove the few blocks up to Juniper Street.
She asked, “Left? Right?”
“Pick one.”
Amanda turned left. She slowed the car, checking each building on the left as Evelyn scanned the right.
They were almost to Pine Street when Evelyn said, “That must be it.”
The building was derelict, nothing to indicate it was a church except the large wooden cross stuck in the small patch of yard. It was painted black. Someone had thought to put nails where Jesus’s hands and feet would’ve been. Little red dots of paint indicated His suffering.
“What a dump,” Evelyn said.
She was right. The brick façade was crumbling. There were large vertical cracks in the mortar. Graffiti riddled the stoop, which was constructed of dry-stacked cinder blocks. Two of the four downstairs windows were boarded over, but the corresponding windows up top seemed intact.
They both got out of the car and headed toward the building. Amanda felt a breeze from a car passing in the street. It was an Atlanta Police cruiser. The blue light flashed once in greeting, but the driver didn’t stop.
The front door to the soup kitchen was open. Amanda smelled herbs and spices as soon as she crossed the threshold. Picnic tables filled the room. Plates and bowls were laid out. Napkins and spoons.
“No sharp objects,” Evelyn noted.
“Probably wise.” Amanda raised her voice. “Hello?”
“Just a minute,” a gruff voice called from the back. They heard pots clattering. Heavy footsteps across the floor. The man came out of the kitchen. Amanda felt gripped by an unexpected fear. They’d learned at the academy that the average door was six feet eight inches high and thirty inches wide. It was a good gauge to estimate a person’s height and weight. The man filled the kitchen doorway. His shoulders were almost as wide as the space between the jambs. His head nearly touched the top of the opening.