Love Can Be Murder

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 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. And various bellhops.
    "What