Rebane into porn films as well?” asked Pine. “That would explain some of what we found at her autopsy.”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
The apartment complex they drove into was within sight of the Chattahoochee River, which formed the boundary line between Georgia and its neighboring state of Alabama.
Pine looked around at the upscale building as they got out of the car.
“It’s nicer than I thought it would be,” she said.
“I guess her work pays well,” noted Blum.
“I phoned ahead; Clemmons is waiting for us,” said Wallis.
They checked in with the building concierge. Pine gazed around at the plush interior of the lobby and thought that it was far nicer than where she lived in Arizona.
They rode up on the elevator to the sixth floor, where Wallis knocked on the door of Number 611. It was instantly opened by a petite, busty woman with dyed blond hair and bloodshot eyes. She had on a halter top and black leggings and was barefoot. A clump of tissues was clutched in one hand.
Beth Clemmons looked devastated.
She stepped back to allow them in after Wallis and Pine badged her.
Clemmons led them into a sun-streamed room with sweeping views of the countryside and the Chattahoochee River beyond. To Pine’s eye the place was professionally decorated, and the furniture and paint choices were informed and imaginative. She had led a Spartan existence, but during her investigations Pine had seen the homes of a great many people with financial means, and thus she knew the difference between good taste and throwing cash at something to see what stuck.
They sat around a large wooden-and-metal coffee table. Clemmons patted her eyes dry and gazed at them.
“Are you sure it’s Hanna?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
Wallis took out a photo. “Her prints matched. But I can show you this.”
“Is she…?” said Clemmons fearfully, her eyes wide as quarters.
“Yes. But it just looks like she’s sleeping.”
He passed it across. Clemmons glanced at it for a second and then handed it back and nodded. “That’s her. That’s Hanna.” She looked like she might be sick.
“I’m sorry,” said Wallis. “No one should have to die that way.”
Clemmons let out three deep breaths and calmed.
“You said she was strangled and left on the street in, what town again?”
“Andersonville, Georgia.”
“Had you or she ever been there?” asked Pine.
Clemmons shook her head. “I’ve never even heard of it. I don’t think Hanna had been there before, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Exactly how did you know her?” asked Wallis, his notebook and pen ready.
“I won’t beat around the bush. We met when we were both employed as…escorts.” She eyed Wallis nervously.
He caught the look and said quickly, “I’m investigating a murder, Ms. Clemmons. I have no interest in anything else. Nor do I plan on passing along anything you tell us to colleagues who might have jurisdiction over…escorts.”
She nodded. “But the fact is we were no longer escorts. We were actors in film. I got into it first and then got Hanna involved. She had this incredibly exotic look to her. Different from the other girls. Facial bone structure I would die for. My looks are a dime a dozen, but not Hanna’s. She was going places.”
“This is the adult film industry you’re talking about?” noted Blum.
“Yes,” said Clemmons, a defiant look in her eyes.
“But you can’t shoot porn films in Georgia,” said Wallis. “Can you?”
Pine interjected, “The Supreme Court considers it free speech so long as everyone is over eighteen. You put a camera in the equation and pay everyone a wage and it’s art, not prostitution. But I don’t know specifically about Georgia’s laws.”
“It doesn’t matter because we don’t film in Georgia,” said Clemmons. “We fly out to South Florida every two months, film for two weeks, and then come back here.”
Wallis looked around at the richly appointed room. “How much does it pay?”
“Well, it varies a lot depending on your name recognition, popularity, and experience. We both worked our way up. Hanna was making about three grand per film. And I was pulling in twenty-five hundred even though I started before her. That was the exotic look I was talking about. And we could shoot about a dozen films in two weeks.”
“Twelve films in fourteen days?” exclaimed Blum.
Clemmons nodded. “Well, it’s not Shakespeare. I mean, nobody’s getting an Oscar for this. The story lines are pretty basic and the dialogue, well, people don’t watch porn for the dialogue. Hair and makeup can take a couple of hours. But we typically use