Party Crashers (3 page)

“Did Mr. Hagan have a key?”

“Yes. I had locked my keys in the car once, so we made a copy for the sake of convenience.”

“Was that your idea or Mr. Hagan’s?”

Jolie squinted. “Gary’s, I believe—why?”

“Just asking.” She consulted her notes. “You drove a 2001 gray Mercury Sable Sedan, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t make an immediate connection between your car missing and Mr. Hagan?”

“No. After I called the police to report my car stolen, I called Gary, but he didn’t answer his phone. Several hours later, I began to suspect that something was wrong, except I was worried about Gary, not my car.”

“You called his cell phone?”

Jolie nodded. “He was never without it. He didn’t even have a land line at his apartment.”

“And he lived in Buckhead?” The woman turned back a few pages in her notebook and read off the address.

Jolie nodded. “That’s right. But there was a fire at his complex a few days after h e…disappeared.”

Salyers heaved a sigh. “It seems like we had an apartment fire every week this summer. We have two serial arsonists in custody. His unit was damaged?”

“And almost everything in it.”

“Almost?”

“I called the manager to tell him that Gary was missing when I saw the news about the fire. The manager called me a couple of weeks ago, said he had salvaged a box of Gary’s things and if I wanted them, I should stop by.” She frowned. “When I got there, he tried to extort the overdue rent but wound up giving me a box of things that probably came from Gary’s fireproof desk—photographs, piled-up mail.”

“Did you keep them?”

“Yes, the box is at my place.”

“The same address listed for you on the missing persons report?”

“Yes, near Roswell,” she said, and she realized she had repeated the name of the area where Gary’s car had been found.

“Would it be possible for you to bring the box by the midtown precinct tomorrow?”

Jolie nodded.

Salyers made a note of it. “Ms. Goodman, when did you report Mr. Hagan missing?”

“The following Wednesday, I believe.”

“That seems like a long time to wait.”

Jolie bristled at the woman’s accusing tone. “Gary is an adult. I didn’t keep tabs on him.”

“But you still didn’t believe he had anything to do with your missing car?”

“No. I thought it was a coincidence. Gary had a nice car—I couldn’t imagine why he would have wanted mine.” Then again, it hadn’t occurred to her that he’d just rolled his own vehicle into the river and needed a getaway car.

“It didn’t cross your mind that he might simply have sold your car for cash?”

Jolie shook her head. “He wouldn’t have done something like that.”

Salyers pursed her mouth. “How long had you been seeing Mr. Hagan when he disappeared?”

“About four months.”

“How did you meet him?”

“I was working for the Sanders Agency. He came in one day to ask for directions.”

Salyers smiled. “And he got your number instead?”

Jolie nodded, smiling for the first time. “Gary was very…persuasive.”

“Were the two of you serious?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you date other people?”

Jolie rolled one shoulder. “We never discussed it—I didn’t date anyone else, and I guess I just assumed that he didn’t either.”

“In the box of personal effects that the manager gave you, do you remember seeing an address or schedule book?”

“No, but I didn’t go through the box closely.”

Salyers frowned. “Really? If my boyfriend was missing, I’d have gone through it with a fine-tooth comb.”

Again, the censure. Jolie tried to ignore the prickly nervousness that gathered around her pulse points. “Gary had a Palm Pilot, but he kept it with him—it wouldn’t be in that box.”

The detective studied her as if she were trying to size her up. Her entire life, Jolie had felt as if people were sizing her up, trying to figure her out. It unnerved her because she wasn’t nearly as complicated as people thought she was. She wanted the same things in life that other people wanted…except she hadn’t yet figured out how to get them.

“Has your insurance company paid the claim for your stolen car?”

“Not yet.” Jolie angled her head. “What are you getting at?”

Salyers sighed and pressed her hand against the table. “Ms. Goodman, this is no longer a missing persons case. This is now a homicide investigation.”

“Homicide?”

“And your boyfriend is a fugitive.”

“Fugitive?”

“And if you know more than you’re telling, you could be charged as an accessory.”

Alarm squeezed Jolie’s chest. “Accessory? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice escalated until people around them turned to stare.

Salyers adopted a calming expression. “All I’m saying is that if Mr. Hagan came and knocked on your door that night and asked for your car, now is the time to say so, before this gets any worse for you.”

She knew her mouth was open—she could feel the air on her tongue. She snapped her jaw closed and pushed to her feet. “When I filed the report on my car and the missing persons report on Gary, you people made me feel like an idiot. I was patronized and told that I’d been conned.” She was shaking. “I didn’t see Gary later that night, or any time after he left my apartment Friday. Now, if you don’t have anything else to tell me, I’d really like to go.”

Salyers stood. “Ms. Goodman, I’m giving you this information for your own protection. If Gary Hagan is a dangerous man and he’s still alive, you could be in danger yourself.” She handed Jolie a card. “If he tries to contact you, call me.”

Jolie stared at the card, seeing nothing. She just wanted to escape to a quiet place where she could think. She shouldered her purse and stalked away, blinking rapidly. Nausea ebbed and flowed in her stomach. After threading her way through the food court, she stepped into the main corridor of the mall, into a stream of shoppers heading toward the exit. Dozens of people passed her, going in the opposite direction, brushing her shoulder, bumping her purse.

She searched their faces, desperately hoping to see Gary in his orange ball cap, laughing, saying everything had been a huge misunderstanding. But they were all
strangers to her, giving her a fleeting glance, if that. People staring past her and through her, shuffling toward their respective destinations. Life went on.

Then her gaze settled on one familiar face a few yards away, walking toward her: Beck Underwood. He was walking next to his sister, who was talking, her blonde head turned toward him. He was laden with Neiman Marcus shopping bags—apparently Michael had scored a fat sale. At that second, Beck’s gaze landed on her, and recognition registered on his face. Recognition and concern.

Jolie quickly turned her head and walked faster, carrying herself past and away from the man with the perceptive brown eyes. Unreasonable resentment flickered through her body—people with as much money as the Underwoods didn’t have to worry about things the way that normal people did. If they were wrongly implicated in a crime, they’d simply make a couple of phone calls and the problem would disappear. Gary had called it the “Buckhead Bubble”—a magic bubble, he said, that surrounded the country-club set that lived in the ritziest part of Atlanta.

For a few seconds, she fantasized what it would be like to walk in the designer shoes of the rich and famous…to have all doors and possibilities and pleasures at your fingertips. It was an attractive daydream when her own humdrum life seemed so precarious.

Swallowing past a lump in her throat, her mind jumped to who the dead woman could be, and why she had been in Gary’s car. Where was Gary, and why had he implicated
her
by stealing her car? And could Detective Salyers be right? Could she herself be in danger?

She pushed open the door leading to the parking garage
and stepped out into the uncharacteristic chill of the evening. It wasn’t quite 7
P.M
. yet, but the days were getting shorter, and the sunlight was already fading. In the parking garage, the light was even more diffuse, and two flickering bulbs didn’t help to dispel the darkness in the corners. She jumped when the heavy metal door slammed closed behind her.

The garage was full of cars, but empty of people, except a few who were unlocking trunks for their shopping bags. She walked down the ramp a half level to where she’d parked her car, her pumps clicking against the concrete, sending rhythmic echoes around her. Jolie pivoted her head right and left, telling herself it was good policy to be alert, that the detective’s words hadn’t spooked her. But when she spotted her rental car, she found herself walking faster and faster.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and a shadow fell upon hers. She walked faster and the footsteps kept coming. Her heart thrashed in her chest and she whipped around. A man walking a few yards behind her held up his arm, aiming something in his hand. A scream gathered at the back of her throat just as his thumb moved and the car next to hers bleated, the lights flashing in response to a keyless remote. Oblivious to the fact that she was on the verge of cardiac arrest, the man nodded briefly, then walked past her and opened his door and swung inside.

Jolie slumped against the door of her own car in abject relief, chiding herself for letting the detective’s words get to her. No doubt that Gary, wherever he was, was in a lot of trouble, but she had no reason to be afraid.

Then she wet her lips and listened to the blood rushing in her ears. So why was she?

J
olie scooted into the tan Chevy Cavalier rental and closed the door behind her. When she pulled the seat belt across her shoulder, she had a grisly vision of a faceless woman belted into the passenger seat of Gary’s Mercedes, the clawing fear she must have felt when she realized the car was going into the muddy river, the car filling up with water—

Her cell phone rang, sending her pulse and imagination into overdrive. Gary? She pulled the phone out of her purse with a shaking hand and checked the screen: Leann. With a sigh of relief, she flipped up the receiver. “Hi.”

“The police called me looking for you!”

“They found me.”

“What’s going on?”

“They found Gary’s car.”

“You’re kidding. Where?”

“In the Chattahoochee River.” She bit her lip, loath to say the words. “There was a body inside the car…a woman.”

“What? Oh, my God, who?”

Jolie released a shaky sigh. “No one knows yet.”

“Did…did they find Gary?”

“No, just his hat.”

“So they think he’s still alive?”

“I believe so. They seem to think that he stole my car after sending his into the river.”

“Omigod.”

“It gets worse. They think I know something about…what happened. That I gave him my car so he could get away.” She swallowed a wad of tears, but her voice still wobbled. “A detective told me I could be charged with accessory.”

“To
murder
?”

“To whatever they charge him with.”

“I can’t believe this. Are you going to get a lawyer?”

She felt faint. “With what?” Her laugh sounded hysterical to her own ears. “My savings is gone from trying to get my business off the ground. I’m already eating into my credit cards. Besides, wouldn’t that make me look guilty?”

“Possibly.” Leann sighed. “I should be there for you.”

“Your sister needs you right now.”

“I know, I’m just sorry about the timing of this visit.”

“I’m fine. A little shell-shocked, but fine.” Salyers’ warning about her safety reverberated in her head, and she looked over her shoulder at the dim, deserted parking garage. “I just keep hoping that Gary will turn up and this will end.”

“What are the police going to do next?”

“I didn’t ask,” Jolie admitted. “They’re trying to identify the woman.”

“Did they give you a description of her?”

“Only that she was Caucasian with dark hair.”

“Hm. What kinds of questions did they ask about Gary?”

“It was just one detective, a woman, and she asked me a lot about Gary’s job.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Not much—like I told you before, Gary was vague about that part of his life.” Jolie hesitated, then said, “Leann?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you only met Gary a few times, and I know you didn’t exactly click with him, but did you ever get the feeling that he was capable of…murder?”

“He was a little manic maybe, but capable of murder? I just don’t know.” Leann made a rueful noise. “On the other hand, Jolie, you have to admit that you might be a little gullible where men are concerned.”

She blinked and allowed that painful tidbit to sink in.

“I’m sorry, Jolie, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” Jolie said in a hoarse voice, “it’s okay. But I should go. I’ll call you soon.”

She disconnected the call and turned off her phone, then focused on the designs on her windshield made from various bugs whose lives had ended suddenly simply because she’d been going in the opposite direction. The randomness of it all was mind-blowing. She was assailed with an overwhelming sense of “float,” that her life seemed to be shifting out from under her.

Maybe Leann was right. Maybe she was gullible where men were concerned…where Gary was concerned. She’d taken his smiles and stories at face value, and when red flags had raised in her mind, she hadn’t probed or pushed because…Why? Because she felt special that someone like him wanted to be with someone like her and she didn’t want to risk breaking the spell?

Waves of shame rolled over her. Forget what Gary had gotten himself into. What had
she
gotten
herself
into?

She had obviously overestimated Gary’s feelings for her—but had she also overestimated her feelings for him? Maybe she intentionally turned a blind eye to the problem areas of their relationship because he had been such a source of moral support for her, he had constantly encouraged her to break out of her shell, to take on the world. Her shyness and aversion to new people and new situations had confounded Gary. Over and over he had said she had the makings of a successful individual—she simply needed to crash through her self-imposed barriers. She had believed him, had started making changes in her life even after his disappearanc e…only now to discover that he’d left her saddled with this unbelievable debacle.

She inhaled a cleansing breath, then started her car and eased her way out of the parking garage and into traffic. The worst of the rush hour was over, but there were still plenty of cars to weave through from where the Lenox mall was located in Buckhead north to her apartment complex in Roswell. Her route took her over a section of the muddy Chattahoochee River, running high from recent rains. Her throat convulsed as she gazed over the broken, angry surface of the rushing water.

Shortly after she’d met Gary, Mr. Sanders had put together an outing for the employees of the agency and their families that included an afternoon of “tubing” down the ’Hooch. Single employees were allowed to invite two guests, so she’d asked Leann and after much hesitation, Gary, to sit in an inner tube and float, butt in water, down the river. Leann had taken an instant dislike to Gary, but Jolie had felt the first stirrings of something deeper as he made jokes and entertained them all afternoon.

A memory chord strummed…Gary teasing her about
her fear of the brown, frothy water, about not knowing what was beneath the surface.

“
The ’Hooch would be the perfect place to dump something you wanted to get rid of
,” he’d said. “
There’s no telling how many cars and guns and bodies are just beneath us
.” Then he’d reached over and grabbed her bare leg like a snake striking, howling with laughter when she’d let out a little scream.

Had he remembered his observation when he was looking for a place to dump his car and a body? Had the woman already been dead? The likelihood of him being near the river bank and accidentally driving into the water seemed remote, and if it had been an accident, why hadn’t he contacted the police?

Fear took root in her stomach, slowly encompassing all of her internal organs. Denial warred with reality. Had she allowed a cold-blooded killer into her home and into her bed? Was it only happenstance that had kept
her
from being the woman strapped into his car and sent to a watery grave?

When the enormity of her gullibility hit home, tears threatened to engulf her. She gripped the steering wheel and gulped for air until she gave herself the hiccups. By the time she pulled into her assigned parking space in the apartment complex, the day sat on the precipice of darkness, and she was thoroughly spooked. She gathered her things and swung out of the car in one motion, slamming the door behind her. She trotted to her first-floor apartment door, warily looking for movement, shadows, anything.

Looking over her shoulder, she stuck her key in the lock and turned the deadbolt, then practically fell into the dark interior. A ringing phone pierced the silence. She fumbled for a light and scanned the kitchen and living room for intruders.
Seeing none standing out in the open, she pulled the door closed behind her and clambered for the phone. She yanked up the cordless unit, her heart hammering. “Hello?”

“I’m sorry,” Leann said.

Jolie’s shoulders yielded to the pleading tone in her friend’s voice and she dropped into her favorite chair, an overstuffed wingback, with a heavy sigh. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t. You’ve probably had a nightmarish day, and I go and say something stupid like that.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Jolie said miserably, kicking off her shoes. “It’s true—I’m gullible when it comes to men, else how could this have happened?”

“We’ve all been fooled by men,” Leann said, her voice wistful. “Let’s just pray the police leave you out of this.”

Jolie murmured her agreement.

“So…how was your first day as a shoe salesperson?”

“Exhausting. I never knew how much there was to know about shoes. Oh, and get this: Sammy Sanders stopped by.”

“Ew. Was she terrible?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well, between her and the police officer, were there any bright spots?”

Beck Underwood’s interesting face flashed into her mind. “Well, I crashed into a guy while I was carrying an armload of shoes.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bright spot.”

“The bright spot is I didn’t get fired.”

Leann laughed. “I admire you, Jolie—no matter what life hands you, you simply take it in stride.”

“Give me an alternative,” Jolie said lightly. “How’s your sister?”

“Bloated, nauseous, and depressed.”

Jolie hummed her sympathy. “Do you know how much longer you’ll be there?”

“At least five more months, unless the baby comes early. This sounds selfish, but I keep thinking about all the clients I’m losing to other interior designers.” Leann sighed. “And now this business with Gary. Listen, you probably just got home, so I’ll let you go. But call me if you need to talk about it.”

“I will,” Jolie promised, said goodbye, then returned the phone to its cradle. She sighed, missing her neighbor friend. They had met only months ago at the apartment laundry room, but they had become fast friends, bonded by Leann’s occupation in interior design and her own job in real estate. Even though she was seeing Gary, Jolie had made time to foster the new friendship because she appreciated the other woman’s plain-talking wisdom. She sent good thoughts toward the ceiling for Leann’s sister’s problem pregnancy. As she pushed herself up from the chair, the phone rang again—classic Leann.

Jolie picked up the phone and smiled into the receiver. “What did you forget?”

Silence greeted her.

“Leann?”

Someone was there, she could hear the openness of the connected call, a faint rustle in the background. “Leann, is that you?” When there was no answer, her heart skipped a beat. “Gary?”

The rustling sound grew louder, then a click disconnected the call. Jolie swallowed and listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, then set down the phone and looked toward the darkened bedroom. Unbidden, a horror movie came to mind, the one about the cute coed receiving threatening calls
all evening, only to have the police to call her later and tell her they’d traced the calls as coming from inside the house.

She wasn’t a cute coed, and for the life of her she couldn’t remember how the movie had ended.
For the life of her?
Bad choice of words, she conceded, moving toward the bedroom as quietly as possible. She had her cell phone in her right hand, ready to punch the speed dial button for 911. Remembering something on an airline safety report about shoes being a ready weapon, she scooped up one of her chunky-heel pumps and wielded it in the other hand, thinking that if Gary Hagan was crouching in the bedroom, he would be more likely to die from laughter than from any wound she might inflict.

Moisture gathered around her hairline as she pounced on the light switch. When she stepped into the doorway, though, the most dangerous-looking thing in her bedroom was the multi-outlet strip in the floor overloaded with a spaghetti knot of appliance cords. She scoffed at her foolishness and sat on the mossy-colored duvet to remove her pantyhose, thinking she had to get a grip on herself. Gary Hagan wasn’t a murderer. It was more likely that he’d been drinking and somehow had driven into the river, then panicked when he couldn’t get his companion out.

Except why would he have been near the river, so far from his apartment, so far from his neighborhood of Buckhead? And who was the dead woman?

Her gaze landed on the book that Gary had given her to read—the sales bible, he had called it.
The Magic of Thinking Big
by David J. Schwartz. She had gotten a couple of chapters into it, but had quit reading it when he disappeared, because she’d begun to feel patronized…not by the author, but by Gary. He was always pushing her to
think about the future, to become her own boss.
“Don’t spend the rest of your life working for someone else, Jolie. Why spend your energy making someone else rich?”

It was one of the reasons she had quit the Sanders Agency; when Sammy had made a snide remark about Gary absconding with her car, quitting had seemed like both a way to defend Gary and a way to follow his advice.

Now who felt like a big, broke fool?

She rubbed her temples and decided there was no warding off the headache that had been coming on all day. Backtracking to the kitchen, she tossed down a couple of aspirin and peered into the freezer for dinner options. One chicken breast and a package of frozen whole-wheat waffles.

The waffles won. She dropped two in the toaster, then walked to her desk and flipped on her computer. She’d missed the early local news, but suspected she’d be able to find something online about the discovery reeled out of the Chattahoochee River. She glanced at the to-do list next to her computer and frowned.

The errors and omissions insurance was a must to prevent an honest contractual mistake from wrecking her real-estate career, but thankfully, it was affordable. A lifetime membership to the Multiple Listing System to access home listings online would be less expensive in the long run, but five grand stood between her and that option. For
now, she’d have to go the monthly subscription route. And advertising on a shoestring budget meant lots of postcards, flyers, and good old-fashioned cold-calling. She was tempted not to do anything until this bizarre situation with Gary was resolved, but when the holidays were over, the brokerage company had to be up and running. Life would go on, and she needed to be able to support herself.