Alibi In High Heels

staring at my own very silent phone.

'ca, mon ami, est aboutissement' Rachel said with a smirk. Canned laughter erupted, then the screen switched to a commercial for either tennis shoes or fitness water, I couldn't really tell.

I looked down at my cell readout. Completely dark. Five minutes, huh? I flipped open my phone. Yes, battery was charged. No, I hadn't missed any calls. Damn.

I'd give him another ten minutes.

By the time Friends was over and I was watching a dubbed I Love Lucy rerun where Ricky told Lucy she had some explicitation to do, I realized a) my libido had completely faded into exhaustion and b) I'd been stood up.

While I was disappointed, it was depressing to realize I wasn't entirely surprised. When the choice was between me or a case, I knew exactly where I stood with Ramirez. When a homicide came up, Maddie disappeared. I flipped off Lucy and closed my eyes, wondering if I'd ever have Ramirez's full attention.

* * *

Bright and early the next morning my alarm blared, a Black Eyed Peas song breaking through the pre-dawn light. For half a second I had seriously second thoughts about my getting up early plan. But, it was the Eiffel Tower we were talking about. Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of bed and hopped (quite literally) into the shower, doing a one-leg-in, one-leg-out thing with Wonder Boot, which resulted in shampoo in the eyes, a funky shaving job on my one good leg, and an aerobic workout to rival Dana's Step and Sculpt class. Twenty minutes later I felt like I'd run a marathon, but I was clean and dressed in black jeans (one leg rolled up past my knee), an Ed Hardy shirt with a skull and daisies printed on it, and a silver ballet flat (just one). I had the doorman grab me a cab and made tracks through the crisp morning air toward the Louvre. This time with a large cafe au lait from the Plaza's cafe. Don't ever let it be said that I'm not a fast learner.

By the time I arrived, the sun was just starting to peek out from behind the buildings, illuminating the impressive glass pyramid structure in the Louvre courtyard from behind. The light reflecting off the angles and slopes gave it an almost other worldy look that reminded me of the New Year's ball in New York. I took a moment just to watch the spreading pink hues of the sunrise reflecting off its surface as I finished my cafe au lait.

I made a mental note to buy a disposable camera before coming in tomorrow morning as I chucked my paper cup into a nearby trash can and hobbled through the plastic flaps of the Le Croix tent.

But I didn't get far as I ran smack into Jean Luc.

'Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm still a little clumsy on these things. The doctor said I'd get used to them, but-'

Jean Luc cut me off, grabbing me by both shoulders. His face was white as a sheet, his eyes wide, pupils dilated. 'Maddie,' he said in strangled voice. 'It's Gisella.'

He gestured toward the newly constructed runway. It was missing a few boards and the sides were still unfinished. Flanking it on one side was a pile of lumber scraps and on the other a sawhorse, ready for the coverall fellows to resume their work.

And in the center of it was Gisella. Jean Luc's top model. Laying face up. Her stick straight hair fanned around her head, being consumed by a thick, dark pool of crimson. One of my pointy toed, black ankle strap stiletto heels sticking out of her jugular.

Chapter Four

I staggered, my crutches slipping out from under me. I focused my eyes on the ground, the flapping plastic doorway, the image of the perfect Parisian sky beyond. Anywhere but at the ugly red pool of blood surrounding Gisella's head. I took in a deep breath. Bad idea. It held a cloyingly sweet scent that made my stomach roil in protest. Quickly, I made for the door. If I was going to puke, I didn't want to contaminate the crime scene. Because it was painfully obvious that's what this was.

And the worst thing about it all – I knew this crime scene. The stiletto heel to the neck. Just like I'd done to Miss When Mistresses Attack right after popping her implant. It had been unnerving then, but seeing a repeat of the same scene was creepy enough to make my latte feel like motor oil in my stomach.

And it didn't help that the shoe sticking out of her neck was my design.

I closed my eyes, the landscape waving, as I slipped to the ground outside the tent, my one good leg giving out. I put my head between my knees, taking deep breaths that smelled like coffee, wet grass, and leather ballet flats.

'We've got to call the police,' Jean Luc said, beside me, his voice sounding oddly far away.

With a shaky hand I reached for my cell phone. After staring at the buttons for what seemed like way too long, I realized I had no idea who to call and handed the phone over to Jean Luc.

Then promptly stuck my head between my knees again.

* * *

Minutes later, the tent was swarming with people.

Jean Luc had, thankfully, known exactly who to call. And within minutes they had arrived in droves. Policemen in blue uniforms that looked strikingly similar to American ones, crime scene technicians in black windbreakers with cases full of evidence baggies, and two men in long coats who'd wheeled in a metal gurney and black tarp. Then the second wave had arrived, the paparazzi. Flash bulbs went off, notepads came out and TV cameras from every country of the world fixed on the white, flapping door of the tent, waiting for a glimpse of Gisella's mangled body. I periodically scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Felix. I knew he wouldn't be far from a story like this.

Ann, Jean Luc and I waited off to one side, next to the growing group of models, dabbing at their eyes with tissues and muttering subdued ohmigod's as they arrived and heard the news. Ann's headset was eerily silent as we watched the scene unfold and Jean Luc was a sickly shade of yellow, popping antacids into his mouth like Pez. Me – I was still crumpled on the ground, my crutches splayed out beside me. Though, I was happy to report, my stomach had stopped trying to relieve me of my morning caffeine fix.

'I, I can't believe this,' Jean Luc said, his voice shaking as he popped another chalky white tablet into his mouth. 'This just can't be happening. Not a week before the show!'

'It is,' Ann assured him, her dark eyes intently watching the growing number of reporters.

'First the necklace, now this.' Jean Luc was wringing his hands. 'I've got to call Lord Ackerman. He's going to be livid.'

The tent flaps opened and we all held our breath, the paparazzi straining forward for on last shot of Gisella. Instead, a tall, stoop shouldered man with a mustache that looked like a small, furry animal had died on his upper lip emerged. He wore a cheap gray suit that was at least two sizes too big and had a cell phone glued to his ear. He spoke quickly into it in French, then snapped it shut, scanning the area until his eyes settled on our little group.

'Which one of you found the body?' he inquired in accented English as he approached.

I cleared my throat, grabbing my crutches and struggling to a vertical position.

'I did,' Jean Luc piped up. 'And, shortly after, Maddie arrived.'

'Ah. Mademoiselle…' The man pulled a small notebook encased in leather out of his pocket and consulted it. 'Springer?' he asked, nodding my direction.

I nodded.

'Detective Moreau.' The detective didn't offer his hand, instead flipping the notebook shut. 'Yes, I'd like to ask you some questions.'

I took a deep breath, trying to inhale some bravery I certainly didn't feel. 'Go ahead.'

'Actually, I would prefer to speak with you in private.' He shot a look at Jean Luc, whose face was whiter than a goth girl's. 'Is there somewhere we can go?' he asked, gesturing around the courtyard.

'The workroom,' Ann supplied. 'This way.'