Authors: Stephanie Bond
“Both,” he said mildly. “My sister is going to be a while, and I need shoes, so this works for me.”
At the twinkle in his eyes, her tongue lodged at the roof of her mouth. Like a mime, she gestured to a nearby chair, and made her feet follow him. As he sat, she scanned the area for signs of Sammy.
“She’s behind the insoles rack,” he whispered.
Jolie flushed and made herself not look. The man probably thought she was clumsy
and
paranoid. She busied herself unpacking the expensive shoes. “Will you be needing a dress sock, sir?”
He slipped off his tennis shoe and wiggled bare, brown toes. “I suppose so. I’m afraid I’ve gotten into the habit of not wearing socks.” He smiled. “And my dad is ‘sir’—I’m just Beck.”
She suddenly felt small. And poor. “I…know who you are.”
“Ah. Well, promise you won’t hold it against me.”
She smiled and retrieved a pair of tan-colored socks to match the loafers. When she started to slip one of the socks over his foot, he took it from her. “I can do it.”
“I don’t mind,” she said quickly. Customers expected it—to be dressed and undressed and re-dressed if necessary. It was an unwritten rule:
No one leaves the store without being touched.
“I don’t have to be catered to,” he said, his tone brittle.
Jolie blinked. “I’m sorry.”
He looked contrite and exhaled, shaking his head. “Don’t be. It’s me.” Then he grinned unexpectedly. “Besides, under more private circumstances, I might take you upon your offer.”
Heat climbed her neck and cheeks. He was teasing her—his good deed for the day. Upon closer scrutiny, his face was even more interesting—his eyes a deep brown, bracketed by untanned lines created from squinting in the sun. Late thirties, she guessed. His skin was ruddy, his strong nose peeling from a recent burn. Despite the pale streaks in his hair, he was about as far from a beach boy as a man could be. When he leaned over to slip on the shoes, she caught a glimpse of his powerful torso beneath the sport coat.
She averted her gaze and concentrated on the stitched design on the vamp of the shoe he was trying on, handing him a shoe horn to protect the heel counter. (This morning Michael had given her an “anatomy of a shoe” lesson, complete with metal pointer and pop quiz.)
The man stood and hefted his weight from foot to foot, then took a couple of steps in one direction and came back. “I’ll take them.”
A salesperson’s favorite words. She smiled. “That was fast.”
He laughed. “Men don’t have a complicated relationship with shoes.”
She liked his easy laugh, it was a happy noise that drew attention—including Sammy’s, Jolie noticed. Her former boss came over, her pale brows knit in frustration. “Jolie, were you able to find the shoe I wanted?”
Jolie glanced in Beck’s direction. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll wait.”
“Give me just a minute,” Jolie murmured, then manufactured a smile for Sammy. “A size seven, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. And please hurry—I have a big closing in thirty minutes.”
Embarrassment flooded Jolie, setting her skin on fire. For the thousandth time, Jolie thought how attractive Sammy would be without her permanent smugness. “Yes, ma’am.” She returned to the stockroom, her ego smarting.
Despite the fact that she’d worked for the Sanders Agency for over a decade, it had been inevitable that she and Sammy would part on bad terms. Edgar Sanders had hired her as a receptionist right out of high school, and from the beginning she had clashed with the man’s daughter. Sammy was a few years older than Jolie and on the fast track to realty royalty. She’d hated Jolie at first sight. Mr. Sanders, on the other hand, had rewarded Jolie’s hard work by moving her up through the company. The two women had developed an uneasy relationship based on avoidance. Jolie had managed to put herself through night school, to become an experienced agent, and three months ago, to obtain her broker’s license with an eye toward commercial real estate. Unfortunately, it had coincided with Mr. Sanders’ retirement, and suddenly, Jolie had found herself working for Sammy.
Remarkably, the woman’s personality seemed to change overnight. She’d been downright helpful to Jolie…and two weeks ago, Jolie had discovered why. In order to close a big deal, Sammy wanted Jolie to pass information to the buyer that would breach the company’s confidentiality agreement with the seller. Gary had been missing for a few days, and Jolie was already stressed. In fact, she had a feeling that Sammy had purposefully targeted her during a vulnerable time, thinking she would cave. Jolie didn’t, and Sammy threatened to fire her. Instead, Jolie had quit.
Sammy said Jolie’d lost her mind—no one left the Sanders Agency voluntarily.
And now Jolie was selling shoes. Boy, she had really shown
her
.
She sighed and scanned for the pair that cost more than her week’s salary selling shoes, then removed two boxes from the shelf. She carried them out to Sammy, who apparently had taken advantage of the opportunity to introduce herself to Beck Underwood. The oversize Barbie doll had extended her business card in his direction and he was accepting it, although somewhat reluctantly, Jolie noted.
“We only have a size six and a half and a size seven and a half,” Jolie said to Sammy, holding up the boxes. “Would you like to try them?”
Sammy made a face and waved her hand. “No, that’s okay. I really was only killing time until my big closing.”
Jolie nodded. “It must be a really big closing, since you’ve already mentioned it twice.”
Sammy’s eyes narrowed. “Happy
shoeing,
Jolie.”
Jolie watched Sammy sashay away, her stomach churning over the way she’d handled the situation. This was a bad time to be starting her own brokerage company, and she had very few resources to fall back on. Considering how many agencies were struggling, if she couldn’t get enough business going in the next few months, she might have to go crawling back to Sammy or start at square one somewhere else.
She glanced down at the boxes in her hands. She didn’t seem to have much of a future in shoes.
“I sense history between the two of you.”
Jolie glanced at Beck Underwood, who sat patiently
with his new shoes on his lap. He had put his old tennis shoes back on, and Jolie wondered about the ground those battered shoes had covered, places she hoped to see someday.
“Former boss,” Jolie murmured, then reached for his new shoes. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Do you need anything else?”
“Yeah.” Then he smiled. “But it’ll give me an excuse to come back—this is the most excitement I’ve had since I returned to Atlanta.”
She managed a shaky smile, thinking she didn’t know how much more excitement she could take today. She just wanted to go home and soak her feet, and maybe call her friend Leann to report on what had to be the world’s worst first day on the job.
She set aside the shoes Sammy had passed on and carried Beck’s loafers to the counter to ring up his sale.
A willowy black woman wearing chinos and a dark jacket walked up to the counter.
“I’ll be right with you,” Jolie said.
“Jolie Goodman?”
Jolie tensed. “Yes.”
The woman opened her coat to reveal a silver badge. “I’m Detective Salyers with the Atlanta PD. I need to speak with you.”
J
olie stared at the detective and her stomach caved. “Is something wrong?”
“I just need to talk with you, ma’am.”
“Is this about Gary?”
“Yes.” The woman’s expression gave away nothing.
Jolie’s mind reeled. She looked up and saw that Beck Underwood had overheard everything and was watching her carefully. Across the sales floor, Michael Lane stared curiously in her direction. She glanced at her watch, then looked back to the detective. “My shift ends in fifteen minutes. Can you wait?”
The woman nodded. “How about meeting me at the Coffee Shack in the food court?”
Jolie swallowed hard. “Okay.” She watched the policewoman walk away and wanted desperately to run after her. Her heart slammed against her breastbone, and her hands were shaking so badly, she could barely finish ringing up the sale.
She looked up and tried to fix her face in a natural expression. “Will you be using your Neiman Marcus card?”
Beck was staring at her. Slowly, he reached for his wallet and flipped through before removing a platinum bank credit card. “There isn’t a Neiman Marcus where I’ve been living.”
She ran the card and handed him a receipt to sign. While she bagged his purchase, her gaze drifted toward the mall entrance. The detective had to have some kind of news, didn’t she? And if it were good news, the police would have called, wouldn’t they? Or Gary himself?
“Jolie?”
She started, then took the signed receipt he extended. “Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “This is none of my business, but is everything okay?”
She nodded and held up his shopping bag. “Thank you for shopping at Neiman Marcus.” Then she gave him the best smile she could manage. “Please come back and I’ll try not to bulldoze you.”
He hesitated, then took his bag. “Take care.”
She maintained a cheery smile until he turned away. Then she grabbed the Sammy rejects and checked the floor for debris she might have overlooked from the crash. In the stockroom, she spent the last few minutes of her shift methodically returning the jumble of boxes, lids, and shoes to order.
Snippets of Gary Hagan kept popping into her head—his crooked smile, his curly black hair that he kept gelled in place or covered with an orange cap, the cell phone that was at his ear more often than it was in his pocket. He was wiry and athletic, with an electric personality, always
moving. Gary had been the most thoughtful man she’d known—he’d never missed an opportunity to celebrate an occasion, and often had brought her flowers for no reason. But the police didn’t understand any of those things.
She climbed onto a stool to reshelve the boxes, and unbidden tears clouded her vision. She swayed, then grabbed the edge of the shelf to keep from falling.
“Jolie?” Michael Lane was behind her, his hand against her back. “Are you okay?”
“Just a little light-headed,” she said, allowing him to help her down.
“Who was that woman? She asked me to point you out to her.”
Jolie hesitated, but if Michael was left to concoct his own answer, he might come up with something worse than the truth. “She’s a detective from the police department. A guy I was dating disappeared a few weeks ago.”
“Disappeared?”
She nodded. “The detective must have news, because she wants to talk to me. I asked her to meet me when my shift ended.”
“Go,” he said, pointing toward the door. “I’ll put everything back. I hope she has good news.”
She nodded gratefully, then retrieved her purse from a locker in the break room and walked out across the showroom toward the entrance to the mall. She resisted the urge to look for Beck Underwood. In the space of a few minutes, he had learned that she was a hopeless klutz, estranged from her former boss, and that the police wanted to talk to her. The man probably thought she was a total drama queen. He’d never know how much she’d appreciated his concern.
She nodded to the security guard at the doorway and hurried out into the mall, instantly assaulted with voices, music, and crowd noise reverberating between tile floors and glass ceilings. Because of Columbus Day, kids were off school and had been at the mall all day in full force, cruising for attention and trouble. The girls were squeezed into provocative clothes and looked old enough to do things they shouldn’t. The boys looked overwhelmed.
A far cry from her own sheltered upbringing. She had been an only child, a change-of-life baby, and her frugal parents had harbored rather old-fashioned notions about child-rearing. But even if she hadn’t worn the most fashionable clothes or obtained her driver’s license until she was eighteen, she could thank her parents for loving her and for giving her a good value system. She’d lost them both to illness when she was in her early twenties. Work had been her solace, and night school had kept her plenty busy. Oh, there had been occasional dates and sporadic boyfriends, but Gary Hagan had been the first man who had made her think about sharing her future. He was an orphan too, having lost his parents to a car accident. She thought it had made them closer, their aloneness.
Would her parents have approved of Gary? She’d asked herself this question many times over the months they had dated. In the beginning they would have been uncomfortable with his exuberance, just as she’d been. But eventually, they would’ve been won over by his relentless cheerfulness.
At least she liked to think so.
Through gaps in the crowd, Jolie saw the lady detective up ahead, pacing in front of the coffee vendor.
Pacing…that couldn’t be good.
Jolie drew in a shaky breath and strode forward, eager to get the meeting over with. Detective Salyers spotted her and stood still, waiting until she came close enough to speak.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Jolie shook her head.
“I’m going to get a cup, why don’t you grab us a table?”
Another delay. Jolie found a table for two away from the din and studied what looked to be cookie crumbs left from the previous occupant. It was a trick she’d learned: Focusing on mundane details allowed her to get through difficult times because they were reminders that life went on. No matter what the detective had to say, life would go on. Tomorrow someone else would be sitting here, maybe falling in love for the first time, or contemplating what to cook for dinner. And Gary would either be dead or alive.
“Here you go,” Dectective Salyers said, sliding a cup of caramel-colored coffee in front of her. The woman smiled. “I thought you might change your mind.”
Jolie thanked her.
The detective claimed the opposite seat. “Ms. Goodman, you’re a difficult woman to track down. You weren’t home, and we have your employer listed as the Sanders Agency.”
“I left there a couple of weeks ago.”
“We contacted the woman you had listed as your closest relative on the missing person’s report you filed on Gary Hagan—a Leann Renaldi in Jacksonville?”
“Yes, she’s a good friend.” And she was probably frantic by now.
“She told us where we could find you.”
Jolie sipped the coffee, flinching when the scalding liquid
hit her tongue. “Did you find Gary?” she blurted. “Is he alive?”
Detective Salyers sat forward, her long, dark fingers wrapped around the paper cup. “No. And we don’t know.”
Jolie heaved a sigh of relief and frustration. “What’s this all about then?”
“We found your boyfriend’s car.”
“His Mercedes? Where?”
“In the Chattahoochee River.”
Jolie’s heart jerked. “In the river? Where?”
“Near Roswell.” The detective wet her lips. “And we found a body inside.”
Jolie inhaled against the sharp pain in her chest and covered her mouth with her hand. “I thought you said—”
“It’s not Mr. Hagan. It’s…a woman. Belted into the passenger seat.”
Jolie’s mind spun in confusion. “A woman? Who?”
“The body hasn’t yet been identified. I was hoping you could give us some idea who it might be. She’s Caucasian, dark hair.”
Jolie shook her head, trying to make sense of what the woman was saying. “I don’t…I can’t…think…”
“His sister?”
“No. Gary was—
is
an only child.”
“Mother?”
“She’s deceased. As well as Gary’s father.”
“Business associate? Secretary, maybe.”
Jolie shook her head. “Gary worked for himself and he worked alone.”
Detective Salyers sipped from her coffee cup. “Perhaps an old girlfriend?”
Jolie bit her lip and closed her eyes briefly. Nothing
about this situation sounded sane. A woman was dead…in Gary’s car…He was missing…
and so was her own car.
She hadn’t wanted to believe that Gary had stolen her car, couldn’t imagine why he would have needed it. But now…
“I don’t know any of Gary’s old girlfriends.” She touched her temple. “Although he did mention once that he’d had problems with a girl he’d dated.”
“Problems?”
She frowned, trying to remember. “It was an off hand comment about a fatal attraction.”
Salyers looked interested. “Did he mention a name?”
“No. You’d have to talk to his friends.”
“You’re my first stop. Since you filed the missing persons report, I assumed you two were…close.”
Jolie paused, wondering how she could best describe her relationship with Gary. Friendly lovers? Loverly friends? “We dated, but Gary kept company i n…high circles. I never met any of his friends.”
“You didn’t find that to be suspicious?”
She could feel the older woman’s censure. “I got the feeling that he wanted to keep that part of his life separate.”
“You mean, that he was ashamed of you?”
Anger sparked in Jolie’s stomach. “Actually, I thought he might be ashamed of
them
.”
Salyers put pen to paper. “I need names.”
Jolie shook her head. “I’d tell you if I knew any, but I don’t.”
The detective pursed her mouth and withdrew a notebook. “Would you mind if we started from the beginning? I inherited this case, and I’d like to get some fresh notes now that we have a new lead.”
Jolie shrugged, suddenly very glad for the coffee.
“Your boyfriend’s name is Gary Hagan—H-A-G-A-N, right?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Hagan?”
“A month ago, September tenth.”
“Do you remember what day of the week that was?”
“Friday.”
“What was he doing the last time you saw him?”
“He dropped me off at my apartment around eight thirty.”
“And was headed where? Do you know?”
“To Buckhead. We’d had an early dinner near my apartment. He said he had a few things to take care of and that he’d call me the next day. He wasn’t specific.”
“Was that typical, for him to go out after the two of you had had a date?”
Jolie frowned. “I wouldn’t say it was typical, but it had happened a few times.”
“Did he seem different to you that night?”
“What do you mean?”
Salyers shrugged. “Had he received a phone call that upset him? Was he overly tired? Had he been drinking?”
She had replayed her last conversation with Gary so many times, looking for clues as to his frame of mind. “He seemed a little…irritable.”
“Had you argued?”
Jolie shrugged. “It was nothing, really. Gary was a bit of a slob, and I was picking up after him. He snapped at me.”
“So he had a temper.”
“I’d heard him raise his voice during phone calls, but he’d never lost his temper with me.”
“Until that night?”
Jolie nodded.
“Did you break up?”
She bit her lip. “No.”
“Did you get the feeling that he wanted to stop seeing you?”
Yes.
“Maybe. He’d grown distant in the previous few days, and when he snapped at me for picking up after him…Well, I remember thinking it was the kind of nit-picking that couples go through when they’re on the verge of breaking up.”
“Was he wearing a hat when you last saw him?”
Jolie’s heart jumped. “Why?”
“We found a man’s hat in the car.”
“H—he liked to wear an orange ball cap, one of those rounded ones that fit close to the head, with a gray bill. Is that the cap you found?”
“After that much time in the mud, it’s hard to say what the original color was, but the shape is similar.”
Jolie covered her mouth, the image of Gary’s body submerged in the thick muddy water of the Chattahoochee too awful to imagine.
“Ms. Goodman, what exactly was Mr. Hagan’s occupation?”
Jolie squirmed—it was the one point of contention between her and Gary. “He was vague about what he did, but he called himself a services broker.”
“A services broker?”
“Gary had this incredible network of acquaintances. If a person wanted something special, they called Gary. He said he could arrange a ride in a traffic helicopter, or courtside seats for the Hawks, things like that.”
Salyers nodded, making notes. “Did his services extend to supplying drugs or prostitutes?”
Jolie winced. “What? No, of course not.”
“Are you certain? If he were deliberately vague about what he did, maybe he was covering up.”
Jolie didn’t know what to say, so she simply lifted a hand. “I suppose anything is possible.”
“Did the two of you ever do drugs?”
“
No
.”
“Were you aware that Mr. Hagan has a record for dealing coke?”
She felt nauseous. “No. When?”
“Eight years ago in Orlando.”
“I didn’t even know he’d lived in Orlando.”
The look that Salyers gave her made her feel stupid and susceptible. “Did Mr. Hagan own a gun?”
Anxiety eddied in her chest. “If he did, he never mentioned it.”
“You didn’t see a gun at his apartment, in his car?”
“I only visited his apartment a couple of times, but no.”
Salyers made more notes. “Okay, you said that Mr. Hagan left that night to go out—what happened next?”
“I watched TV, then I went to bed. I got up the next morning and when I went out to run errands around nine o’clock, my car was gone.”
“Were there signs that the car had been broken into—glass on the ground, for instance?”
“No.”