“Detective,” Vanderpool cooed. “Does Ms. Goodman strike you as a cold-blooded murderer?”
They both swung their heads toward Jolie. Her entire left arm throbbed from the cut in her palm. Her head felt as if it were in a vise. Every cell in her body sagged. If she looked half as pitiful as she felt, Salyers would give her a cookie and send her home.
Salyers frowned. “Looks can be deceiving. Case in point,” she said, withdrawing a sheet of paper from the stack she held. “Ms. Goodman, you’ve just been served with a harassment restraining order, filed by Mr. Roger LeMon.”
Jolie pushed to her feet. “What?”
“This is the man you told me about?” Vanderpool asked her.
Jolie nodded, fury burning in her empty stomach.
“What’s this all about?” her attorney asked, taking the form.
“Mr. LeMon said he came to the party, but was forced to leave because he was afraid Ms. Goodman would accost him.”
“Accost him?” Jolie said. “That’s ridiculous!”
Salyers shrugged. “Ridiculous or not, if you knowingly come within fifty yards of the man, you will be arrested.”
“Don’t you see?” Jolie asked, flailing her good arm. “He’s giving himself an alibi! Roger LeMon killed Gary and is trying to pin it on me!”
“Another conspiracy theory?” Salyers asked, her eyebrow arched.
Jolie inhaled sharply and hiccupped.
Salyers considered her, then jerked her head toward the door. “You’re free to go, Ms. Goodman. But I’ll be keeping tabs on you—and your friends. Don’t even think about leaving the city.”
“Where are Carlotta and Hannah?”
“Ms. Wren and Ms. Kizer were released…with similar warnings.” The detective hesitated, then said, “I think you should know that both of your friends have had runins with the law before.”
Jolie blinked.
“Until this investigation is over, Ms. Goodman, you might want to steer clear of questionable company. And trust me, this investigation is only beginning.”
On that ominous note, Jolie skedaddled before the woman could change her mind. She walked out of the room one step ahead of her attorney. They stopped at a counter to retrieve Jolie’s personal effects which, since everything she’d been wearing and her purse had been confiscated as evidence, consisted of her keys and waterlogged wallet. As they rode down one floor on the elevator, she asked, “Now what?”
“Now you sit tight,” Vanderpool said. “Remember, the police and the district attorney have to build a case—let them do all the work.” She handed Jolie a carbon copy of the restraining order. “And steer clear of Roger LeMon—I know the man, and he’s formidable. Plus he’s a friend of the police department, even lobbied the city council for raises for the force.”
“Salyers told me as much,” Jolie said.
“Don’t fret. LeMon might be able to pull in a few favors, but that doesn’t mean he can get away with murder.”
“You think he might have killed Gary?” Jolie asked.
“I have no idea,” the woman said, her expression stern. “But something has Mr. LeMon spooked enough for him to take out a restraining order on a girl half his size and half his means.”
“Less than half his means,” Jolie assured her.
As they walked off the elevator, Pam Vanderpool stopped. “Ms. Goodman, do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
The older woman pressed her lips together. “Do you have a way to protect yourself?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there are already two people dead, and no one seems to know why. Maybe you should stay with a friend in town until this blows over.”
Jolie nodded solemnly, embarrassed to admit she didn’t have a friend in town with whom she was close enough to ask to hole her up. “I will.”
“And here’s my card. I sleep with my cell phone, so call if you need me, no matter what time it is.”
Jolie gripped the business card in her hand as if it were a lifeline. “I don’t know how to thank you for your help.”
“Don’t thank me,” Vanderpool said as she resumed walking. “Thank Beck.”
Beck. At the sound of his name, her nerve endings stirred. “How do you know Beck?”
“I’ve known Beck for years,” she said, smiling fondly. “We’ve worked on many charitable causes together.”
Jolie balked. She was a cause? She’d had similar thoughts herself concerning Beck’s motivation, but to hear someone else say it was like a punch to the spleen.
“I will thank him,” Jolie murmured, her cheeks flaming. “When I see him.”
“Speak of the devil,” the woman said as they entered the narrow lobby, which was deserted except for a security guard and Beck Underwood. Beck tossed aside a newspaper and stood. Jolie’s heart beat wildly, and she had the crazy urge to run so she wouldn’t have to face him. Since she’d last seen him, he had found jeans and a sweatshirt. His dark blond hair had dried at funny angles. Jolie suspected that she looked less cute after her own dip in the pool and subsequent air-dry.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she squeaked.
“She’s free to go,” Vanderpool said, all business.
He reached out to clasp her hand. “Thanks, Pam.”
“You betcha,” she said, then marched toward the exit as if she were accustomed to being summoned in the wee hours of the morning.
Jolie listened to the sound of the woman’s retreating footsteps as if they were a ticking clock…counting down the time until she was alone with Beck. When the door closed with a resounding echo, Jolie finally found the nerve to meet his gaze. Abject mortification bled through her that she had allowed herself to become involved in such a mess…and had involved her friends and Beck Underwood by association. She was speechless with humiliation and weak from exhaustion.
He scanned her outfit with serious brown eyes. “How did they treat you in there?”
“Okay,” she said, then pressed her lips together. “Ms. Vanderpool arrived just in time—I don’t know how to thank you.”
He winked. “We’ll think of something. For now, let’s get you home and in bed.”
Since she looked like a ghoul and reeked of chlorine and now had this little murder rap hanging over her head, she was relatively sure that there was no innuendo intended. Still, that didn’t keep her sleep-deprived mind from conjuring up a wonderful fantasy of crawling into bed with Beck Underwood and curling up next to his big body, reveling in the protection his presence and his name afforded.
The Buckhead Bubble, as Gary had always called it. The working-class girl in her railed against the double standard, but the nearly indicted girl in her longed to be included. She followed him to a side door, which he held open.
“How do you know Pam Vanderpool?” she asked.
But his answer was thwarted by the flash of a camera. “Mr. Underwood, over here!”
Flash! Flash!
Jolie blinked at the huddle of reporters and cameras gathered, her mouth opening and closing like a guppy’s.
“Are you Jolie Goodman?” someone yelled.
“Are you under arrest for murder?”
“Mr. Underwood, is this woman your lover?”
“Come on,” Beck growled, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, putting himself between her and the cameras. Frozen with shock, she stumbled to keep up with him, blindly walking forward to the parking lot until they stopped next to a dark-colored SUV. He swung open the door and helped her up into the seat. She didn’t miss the concern on his face as he closed her door and glanced over his shoulder. The security guard had stopped the reporters at the mouth of the parking lot, but they were still shooting footage, and Beck would have to drive past them to get out of the lot. Dismay hit her like a slap when she realized how juicy a story it was for the media to cover one of their own. Rival networks of Underwood Broadcasting would be rubbing their hands with glee.
She covered her mouth wi
th her hand, choking back a sob. The man had gone above and beyond the call of duty to help her for no legitimate reason and at great professional risk to himself.
He opened the driver’s side door, climbed in, then slammed it shut.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I got you involved.”
“I got me involved,” he said, his voice brusque. And regretful? “Put on your seat belt,” he said, doing the same. “And look away from the cameras when we drive by.”
Sensing that talking would only make matters worse, she nodded and stared at her shaking hands. By the time they drove to the exit, reporters were on both sides, so Jolie looked down and shielded her face with her hands. Beck slowed enough to take the curve, then they were speeding away. At the street, he slowed and gave her a wry little smile. “Where do you live?”
“Roswell,” she said, pointing left, then gave him the street address and name of her apartment complex. She idly wondered how Carlotta and Hannah had gotten home, feeling yet another gush of remorse for involving them…and for trusting them. Their actions—and police records—made her look more guilty.
Beck pulled into the sparse pre-predawn traffic, slowing to allow an indigent pedestrian to cross illegally. “Hope he makes it until morning,” Beck said ruefully.
With a start, Jolie wondered if that was how he saw her—as a poor person who needed a break? A handout? She gulped air. Pity? Waves of shame washed over her as they drove down the street. She didn’t want the man’s charity, but she was in no position to turn it down.
“I assume this will make the news,” she said quietly. “You…with me, I mean.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make a couple of phone calls, pull in some favors. With any luck, it won’t hit the air.”
She leaned her head back on the headrest. “Is that how things are done?”
“What do you mean?”
“Favors are owed, favors are exchanged.”
He shrugged. “I suppose that’s life, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t want you to waste a favor on…me.”
She felt his gaze on her, but she couldn’t look him in the eye. “Oh,” he said finally. “Well…there’s my family name to think of, too.”
Jolie wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse. “I owe you an explanation—I…I didn’t kill Gary Hagan.”
“I suspected as much,” he said. “And we can discuss everything later, after you’ve had a chance to recover.”
Although she was grateful for the reprieve, Jolie had never been so thoroughly miserable in her life. Gary was dead, and the people who should believe in her innocence didn’t, and the one person who shouldn’t did. She felt like a glove that a hand had been ripped from—her right side turned in, her insides exposed. Her body ached with the intensity of a profound wound laid open, but she didn’t have the energy to cry.
She concentrated on the rhythm of the engine and tires, the sound of her own breath entering and leaving her body. She closed her eyes, yielding to the hazy sense of nonbeing that sleep promised. Tension drained from her spine, sending the dead weight of her body into the seat.
Her next conscious thought was that the vehicle had stopped. A distant, dark feeling of dread came zooming back, jolting her upright. Moonlit hedges hemmed the nose of the SUV. Slowly Jolie became aware of streetlamps, sidewalks, connected two-story buildings. Her apartment complex.
“We’re here,” Beck said. “I think.”
She nodded.
“You didn’t say what your apartment number was.”
She looked around to get her bearings, trying to shake the cobwebs from her brain, then pointed. “I’m in that building over there. We can walk.”
She undid her seat belt and ran her tongue over her dry lips, moving gingerly to allow her sleep-laden limbs a chance to catch up. Before she realized what was happening, Beck was at the passenger door, helping her down in the dewy darkness. His hand against her waist, her back, sent a perilous feeling spiraling through her chest—she wasn’t afraid of him, but she was afraid of how good his touch felt. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had touched her just to comfort her instead of as a prelude to a sexual encounter. She leaned on Beck liberally while walking to her apartment door. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, overwhelmed with a sense of relief at being home.
Flipping on lights, she stumbled inside, not caring what Beck thought of her crocheted coasters and shabby furniture. He looked around, hands on hips, his expression unreadable, then he finally nodded toward her ancient sofa draped with a camouflaging throw. “Looks like a comfortable couch,” he said, and from the tone of his voice she realized with a start that he was looking for a spot to crash.
“You want to stay?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.
He turned over his wrist to consult his watch. “Well, it is four in the morning.” Beck cleared his throat. “And considering everything that’s happened, I thought it best if someone stayed with you.”
Was he afraid she would do something to hurt herself, or like Vanderpool, that someone else might? At the moment, Jolie didn’t care. “That would be nice.”
He returned to the door to check its security, then walked over to the picture window above the couch, pulled up the blinds, and tested the closing mechanisms. “Do you have any other windows?” he asked.
“Only in the bedroom,” she said, pointing. “Come on, I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket.”
“Just a pillow will be fine,” he said, following her into the bedroom.
He scrutinized the room where she slept, but his expression was devoid of personal interest in her intimate space—he seemed more concerned about the layout of the room. He strode to the window and nodded at the two-foot cactus she’d set on the floor beneath the sill.
“Nice touch,” he said approvingly. He raised the blinds and ran his hands along the closure, then frowned. “Have you had this window open lately?”
Jolie shook her head and walked over, her heart jumping in her chest.
“This latch is open.” He leaned down to peer at the window sill, then indicated the clean scrape in the dust. “Looks like someone has either come in or left by this window in the past few days.”
Her lungs squeezed as she remembered the finger swipe in the dust on her bookshelf headboard. She really needed to dust more often.
“Have you noticed anything missing?”
“No.” Although she hadn’t looked. She gasped and hurried to her hand-me-down dresser, lifting the lid of her jewelry box with trepidation. Her shoulders fell in relief when she removed the little felt bag holding her pearl choker. “Everything’s here,” she said.
She turned to find him studying her, and she flushed when she realized how meager her “everything” must seem to him. “They were my mother’s,” she murmured.
He nodded, then gestured vaguely toward the other rooms. “Any stereo equipment missing? Computer? Cash?”
She shook her head. “There’s only the computer on my desk, and it’s almost as outdated as my television. And…I don’t keep cash here.”
Nor in her bank account, but that was off topic.
He scratched his head, then spotted the fire extinguisher on her nightstand. “Have you had a fire recently?”
She flushed to the roots of her gritty hair. “That’s the closest thing I had to a weapon.”
He looked incredulous. “You’ve been sleeping here alone and afraid, with a fire extinguisher to protect you?”
She sagged onto the foot of her bed. “I didn’t feel as if I was in imminent danger.” She nodded toward the window. “If someone was in my apartment, they obviously didn’t mean me harm.”
“This time,” he added, his mouth drawn downward. “I’ve probably obliterated any prints,” he said, but used the hem of his sweatshirt to refasten the window. The movement gave her a glimpse of the planes of his brown stomach, and she remembered the way he’d looked
climbing out of Sammy’s pool, his boxers clamped to his body, water streaming off his powerful shoulders. A wholly inappropriate pang of lust hit her, and she stood abruptly to distract herself, turning her back to remove one of the two pillows from her bed.
“You should report the entry to the police,” he said, coming up behind her.
“I will,” she said, then turned and smiled up at him. “Thank you for…thank you.” She handed him the pillow and their fingers brushed. His eyes were dark with concern and other emotions she didn’t want to investigate—regret? The most eligible bachelor in Atlanta probably could have found a more entertaining way to spend his evening, and with a less complicated partner. Or two.
“Try to get some sleep,” he said. “But yell if you suspect that anything is wrong.”
Everything was wrong, but Jolie nodded. He walked out, leaving the bedroom door ajar and a warm feeling of assurance in the cool air. She flipped off the light and crawled on top of the bed covers fully clothed. Hugging her remaining pillow, she willed her body to indulge in as much rest as possible, because she suspected the light of day would only reveal more and bigger dilemmas.
The dilemma sleeping on her couch notwithstanding.
Twenty
Jolie awoke to a sound alien to a single person—the shower running. Adrenaline shot through her, bringing her upright. Then she saw the “Property of Fulton County, Georgia” sweats she was still wearing, and the horrific events of the previous evening came crashing back down on her. Her first instinct was to pull the covers over her head, but her mother had once told her that the only thing that went away faster if a person ignored it was time.
The clock read 11:47 A.M. The day was already almost half gone.
She pushed herself up and took stock of her physical condition, running her finger over the knot on her forehead—better, but tender. The bandage on her hand seemed a little tighter, but the absence of dried blood indicated that the wound had not reopened during the night. Her throat and adenoids felt raw from the pool water she’d ingested and expelled violently.
She dared a glance in the mirror and cringed. Her fine, frizzy hair had exploded to new heights, and there wasn’t enough concealer in Neiman’s makeup department to neutralize the circles under her eyes. The sweat suit hung off her like a feed sack on a scarecrow.
Party Crashers Page 21
