Party Crashers

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 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 assuming she could 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