Party Crashers

woman was only humoring her. "Why do you think Mr. LeMon killed Mr. Hagan?"
    "Because Gary was set up. He didn't kill that woman who was in his car."
    The detective leaned forward on her elbows. "And how would you know that?"
    She swallowed. If she told the detective about talking to Gary Wednesday night in her car, she could be in even more trouble for not coming forward sooner.
    There was a rap on the door, then Salyers' dark-haired partner stuck his head into the room. "Got a minute?" he asked Salyers.
    "Sure, Alexander."
    He darted a worried look at Jolie that made her pulse pick up and handed a note to Salyers. After she read it, they had a murmured conversation, then he closed the door and left.
    Salyers walked back to the table, note in hand, working her mouth from side to side. "Ms. Goodman, you were wearing a long, blue all-weather coat, Sears brand, size six, is that correct?"
    She nodded. "Did you find it?"
    "Sure did. And guess what was in the pocket?"
    Exhaustion was closing in. Jolie dragged her hands down her face. "Breath mints? Ticket stubs?"
    "Try the murder weapon."
    Jolie's mouth fell open. Tiny lights appeared behind her eyelids. A whining noise sounded in her ears.
    Salyers crossed her arms. "Now what do you have to say for yourself?"
    That I'm gullible . "I might be needing that phone book after all."

Chapter Nineteen

    DETECTIVE SALYERS SLID TWO three-inch-thick volumes of the Atlanta Yellow Pages across the table, then handed Jolie a cordless phone. Jolie stared at it and wondered if they were afraid jailbirds would hang themselves with a phone cord. Which, under the circumstances, seemed a preferable way to meet one's Maker than a needle in a vein.
    "I'll be back in a few minutes," Salyers said, then left the room.
    Jolie choked down her panic and gripped the phone so hard it made a popping sound. She had no idea how to go about choosing a criminal attorney—all the attorneys she knew represented irate buyers and sellers at mortgage closings. Generating enough paperwork to kill someone probably didn't qualify as the kind of experience she needed.
    The L-Z volume had telltale curled pages near the beginning—countless other inmates had rifled through the "Legal Services" listings, which were handily categorized under "Attorneys, by Practice Area." She ran her finger down the page: Bankruptcy (she'd probably need an attorney for that later), Corporate, Criminal. She scanned the listings and the ads. Names (singular and multi-partnered), pictures (from stern to smiling), and slogans ("If you're in a jam, call Pam!") ran together after a while. Jolie was secretly hoping to find an ad offering representation to the wrongly accused, while conceding that she'd accumulated enough circumstantial evidence to incriminate herself pretty convincingly. If she were the detective, she would arrest her.
    Knowing that time was running out, she narrowed the choices to office addresses that sounded affluent (Buckhead, downtown, anywhere on Peachtree Street), and had launched into the scientific elimination process of eenie, meenie, miney, moe when the door opened suddenly and Salyers stepped in. "That was quick," she said to Jolie.
    Jolie frowned in confusion as a woman who looked amazingly like Barbara Bush, except she was wearing a nylon running suit instead of a blue dress and pearls, strode into the room. She set a big, black briefcase on the table, and turned to Salyers.
    "I'd like a few minutes alone with my client before questioning resumes." Salyers nodded, then left.
    Still holding the phone, Jolie looked up at the woman. "I'm sorry—who are you?"
    "Pam Vanderpool."
    Jolie squinted. "'When you're in a jam, call Pam' Vanderpool?"
    The woman grinned. "That's right. I'm your attorney, Ms. Goodman."
    At a loss, Jolie shook her head. "How?"
    "We have a mutual friend—Beck Underwood."
    Jolie's eyes widened. "Beck called you?"
    The woman nodded and pulled out a steno pad. "We go way back, Beck and I." With a rustle of nylon, she sat down in the seat Salyers had vacated. "Now, bring me up to speed. Tell me everything you told the police, and everything you didn't."
    Jolie tingled with wonder, gratitude, and concern that Beck would take it upon himself to help her. Pam Vanderpool had a stern, motherly quality that comforted.
    "I don't know where to start," Jolie stammered.
    The woman shrugged. "Start at the beginning. How are you acquainted with the deceased?"
    The deceased . Jolie's chest ached and her