Party Crashers (22 page)

J
olie was a bona fide basket case on the drive home. She’d done her best to keep her panic at bay around Carlotta, but after they’d picked at a salad and she’d dropped her friend at her townhouse, Jolie had yielded to the shakes. Her mind ran in circles, shifting bits and pieces of the puzzle around to see if one detail would fall unexpectedly in place next to another. Only she kept coming up with the same scenario: Gary had killed Janet LeMon, and Roger LeMon had killed Gary in retaliation. It was a classic lovers’ triangle, except LeMon was trying to position
her
as the third party.

The news of Coffee’s death had shaken her. A car accident seemed too pat, too coincidental. Coffee was a loose cannon whose range was extended with each cocktail. Whatever he had been on the verge of telling them at that party had probably gotten him killed.

She flipped on her turn signal and veered right onto Roswell Road from Peachtree in the waning light, eager to arrive home…or rather, at Leann’s apartment, located in
another building in the complex. She had arranged to have her land-line calls forwarded to Leann’s number, then packed a duffel bag of clothes and toiletries and tossed it in the trunk before leaving, so she wouldn’t have to go back to her own place when she returned.

Last night’s irregular sleep was catching up to her, along with the day’s events. And her palm was throbbing again beneath the bandage. Being tired
and
nervous was a dangerous combination on any roadway, but in Atlanta traffic, the mixture was almost guaranteed deadly. She fought to stay awake.

Suddenly a pair of headlights came zooming up behind her. Adrenaline flooded her limbs at the reminder that something could go wrong so quickly. She tapped the brake and gripped the steering wheel tighter. The car moved into the left lane, presumably to pass her, but when the car came abreast of hers, it cut into her lane, scraping metal against metal.

Jolie screamed and glanced over at the other driver. The man sneered at her and recognition hit: the man from the parking garage who had been having “car trouble.” He cut his wheel right again. He was trying to kill her. She hit the brakes, sending her car into a skid onto the grassy shoulder. She fought to regain control, then guided the car to a safe stop while the other car roared away, lost in the sea of taillights heading north. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and the bandage on her hand was bloody from gripping the wheel so hard.

She put on her hazard lights and checked to make sure that everything was in working order (on the car and on her person) before pulling back into traffic. This was perfect timing too—just when she was on the verge of returning her rental car and retrieving her violated Mercury, she
had another insurance claim on her hands. Then there were the clothes, of course.

Top that with a funeral bill for Gary, and she was pretty much going to be in debt the rest of her life unless she could sell Beck Underwood a palace and get her brokerage business under way. Oh, and stay out of prison.

At the next traffic light, she made a U-turn into the southbound lanes. No way was she going back to the apartment complex tonight. And Carlotta’s place was already crowded with her brother. She would simply have to get a hotel room. Then another solution presented itself.

She removed her cell phone and punched in a number with her thumb. After a couple of rings, a voice came on the line. “This is Beck.”

“Beck…this is Jolie.”

“Hi. I saw the news about Janet LeMon come over the wire. Are you okay?”

At least he sounded genuinely interested. “Um, not really. Kyle Coffee is dead, too.”

“The guy I spoke to at the media reception?”

“Yeah, the one who was buddies with LeMon. Supposedly, he was in a car accident in Vegas, but—”

“But the timing seems pretty coincidental.”

“Right. Anyway, I was wondering if that offer of your extra bed is still good?”

“Absolutely. Do you want me to come and get you?”

“No. I’m in my car—I can be there in a few minutes.”

“Valet your car. I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”

“Do you think Ms. Vanderpool could join us?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’ll call her,” in a strained tone.

Jolie disconnected the call, feeling torn about using Beck for protection, but rationalized that they were using
each other. During the drive, she dialed Salyers’ cell phone.

“Salyers here.”

“Detective Salyers, this is Jolie Goodman.”

“Ms. Goodman, I apologize for the scene at the morgue. Mr. LeMon, as you can understand, is very upset.”

“I could see that,” Jolie said. “Detective, did you know that Kyle Coffee is dead?”

“Mr. LeMon told me that he was killed in a car accident this morning in Vegas.”

“Right. Don’t you find that suspicious since he’s involved in this case?”

Salyers sighed. “The only reason Mr. Coffee’s name came up in association with this case, Ms. Goodman, is because you mentioned it. People die in car crashes every day—it’s a horrible coincidence.” Papers rattled in the background.

“Did you check into the photo of Sammy Sanders I told you about?”

“Yes, but as it turns out, only the frame was taken into evidence. The photo was returned to Ms. Sanders, who said she threw it away because it was ruined.”

Jolie grunted. “Great.”

“But I did question Ms. Sanders, and she denied being romantically involved with Mr. Hagan.”

And Sammy never lied, Jolie noted wryly. “Okay, here’s something else—Russell Island, the man my friend Hannah, um, assaulted at the party is in the photos with Gary, Roger LeMon, and Kyle Coffee. The other man’s name is Gordon Bear, possibly with a German spelling.”

“Where did you get that information?”

“Beck Underwood identified them from the photo I kept.”

“Hmm. While we’re on the subject, Ms. Goodman, I have a waiter from the Sanders party who says he overheard you and Mr. Underwood say something about getting rid of your boyfriend.”

Jolie swallowed past a dry throat. “That was a joke—I’d told Beck that I had a boyfriend who was in trouble. He had no idea who Gary was, or that he was missing.”

“So are you and Mr. Underwood romantically involved?”

“No.”

“Really? Because Ms. Sanders said she walked in on the two of you kissing in a bedroom at her party.”

“I…trust me, that is irrelevant to this investigation.”

“I’d say the fact that you have a new boyfriend could be damned relevant to your former boyfriend being dead.”

She gripped the wheel tighter, sending pain shooting through her bad hand. “I didn’t kill Gary, and I think you know that, Detective.”

“Give me a better alternative.”

She sighed. “
Roger LeMon
.”

“He has an alibi—a guest saw him leave the party a few minutes after he arrived.”

“He could have returned. Have you questioned LeMon about his tattoo?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Salyers covered the mouthpiece and made a brusque comment to someone in the background, then came back on the line. “I’m sorry, where were we?”

“Roger LeMon’s tattoo. And have you looked into the cause of the fire at Gary’s apartment complex?”

Salyers emitted a long-suffering sigh. “Look, Ms. Goodman, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a file folder full of murders to investigate and limited resources to do it
with. I can’t chase down every tangent, especially when it’s given to me by the prime suspect in the case.”

Jolie fumed. “Well, here’s another tangent: I was just run off the road—purposefully.”

“Where?”

“Roswell Road, heading north just past Peachtree. The driver was a man I’d seen before, in the parking garage of the hotel where the media reception took place Friday night.”

“Were there any witnesses?”

“To me being run off the road? Scores of them, but in Atlanta this kind of thing barely warrants a horn blow. Maybe the scratches and dents down the side of my rental car will convince you?”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Can you give me a description of the other car and the driver?”

Jolie squinted. “Dark-colored two-door…boxy…” Her voice petered out when she realized how little information she was giving the woman to act on. “The driver was dark-headed, maybe forty, possibly Hispanic…or not,” she finished weakly.

“Okay, Ms. Goodman, I made a note of it, and I’ll have units notified to keep an eye out for an errant driver of that er, description.”

Frustration welled in Jolie’s chest. “I don’t blame you for not believing me, Detective, but I think there’s something bigger going on, and Janet LeMon, Gary, and Kyle Coffee all died because they knew about it. Make a note of
that
.” She disconnected the call, wondering too late if it was a crime to hang up on a cop. If so, maybe they
would allow her to serve concurrent terms for murder and impoliteness.

Jolie flexed her aching hand and glanced in her rearview mirror. She might not have managed to spook Detective Salyers, but she’d managed to spook herself. Especially since she was returning to the same hotel where she’d first seen the driver of the car that had run her off the road. She took as winding a route as possible when traveling into the heart of Buckhead, exhaling a sigh of relief when she saw the canopy for the hotel.

The valet seemed slightly less happy to see her—or rather, her tin-can rental car, degraded even more by the freshly ruined paint job on the driver’s side. She emerged with an apologetic look, then withdrew her decidedly inelegant duffel bag from the trunk. Beck came striding out, dressed in jeans and a different sweatshirt than he’d left wearing that morning. The sight of him was so comforting she felt a rush of sadness, although she took solace in the knowledge that he probably had the same effect on women everywhere.

She looked around. At various bellhops.

“What happened?” he said, inspecting the car.

She opened her mouth and burst into tears—God, that was the second time she’d done that around him.

“Hey, hey,” he said, taking her bag and drawing her against his chest. He walked her toward the lobby. “You’re safe now. Let’s go in. Pam will be here as soon as she can.”

She blubbered her story to him, letting the day’s stress ooze down her cheeks. He wiped her tears with his thumbs, his expression troubled. “Did you call the police?”

She nodded. “But I think Detective Salyers is ready to lock me up just so I’ll leave her alone.”

“And you’re sure it was the same guy you saw here?”

“I’m sure. He gave me the heebie-jeebies, so I didn’t get into the parking garage elevator with him. I was going to wait until I saw him drive away before going to my car, but he came back down and supposedly was having car trouble. The concierge called an auto service for him.”

“But you think that might have been a ploy?”

She shrugged.

“Come with me.”

He walked across the hotel lobby to the concierge desk. Jolie recognized the attractive woman behind the counter. Her instant perkiness when she caught sight of Beck was familiar…Jolie’d seen that same look in her own mirror.

“Hello, Mr. Underwood. How can I assist you?”

“Can you help me track down some information about a man for whom you called an auto service Friday evening?”

She frowned. “That was at the end of the reception, wasn’t it?”

He nodded.

She opened a log and ran her finger down a list of entries. “I don’t have the gentleman’s name, but here’s the service I called—want me to write it down for you?”

“Please.”

She gave him the information, then glanced at Jolie’s duffel. “Will you be needing extra linens for your guest?” she asked slyly.

Jolie’s face flamed.

“I’ll let you know,” Beck said easily, then guided Jolie toward the elevator bay. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” she murmured, following him into a mahogany-lined elevator.

When the doors closed, he lifted her hand in his. “You’re bleeding again.”

“I broke it open during the car-chase scene,” she said with a little smile. His warm touch sent little thrills up her arm that made her forget the itchy pain.

He winked. “We’ll get you fixed up.”

They rode to a floor that was exclusive enough to require guests to insert their room key just to gain access. Jolie followed him down a plushly carpeted hallway and into a suite that was twice as big as her apartment, and decorated in a style that was at least two decades more current. Cocoas and creams and beiges and black, very masculine, very posh. His bed was enormous…she tingled with embarrassment over the thought of him bunking down on her lumpy sofa.

“Wow,” she said, feeling a tad out of place standing there with her shabby duffel bag.

“The place is a little much,” he said sheepishly, “but it’s one of the company’s corporate apartments, and since it sits empty most of the time, I thought I’d hang out here until I…decide what to do.”

She looked up at him. “You mean until you decide if you’re going to stay in Atlanta?”

He nodded, then pointed toward a door off the entryway. “There’s a first-aid kit in this bathroom, let’s take a look at your hand.”

She followed him into a high-ceilinged, lavish cream-and-gold room. He found the first-aid kit and spread the items he needed on the vanity, then sat on a low stool and pulled her hand toward the sink. She stood and pivoted her head like a tourist while he carefully removed the bloodstained bandage from her hand.

“It looks puffy,” he said. “It might be a little infected.”

She sucked air through her teeth when he held her hand under a gentle stream of cold water from the faucet.

“Maybe you should go to the emergency room and get stitches.”

“It’ll be okay,” she said. “I’ll just be more careful.”

“I’ll put antibiotic cream on it,” he said, then dabbed it on so carefully, she could barely feel it. The man was a paradox, raised in luxury but plainly uncomfortable with the idea of having so much. He could probably live the rest of his life off his trust fund, but his hands were calloused from physical work. And by right, no man so masculine should be so gentle. He wrapped her hand with a fresh bandage and taped it into place.