Killer in High Heels

door popped open.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I pulled my sleeve down and rubbed a nose print off the mirror.

“Uh huh,” she said, believing me about as much as I believed no one was watching this whole exchange from the next room. She gestured to the table and I obediently sat down in one of the metal chairs as two men entered the room. The first was a short guy in brown slacks and a short sleeve button-down that looked like it came with a free pocket protector. His bald head and sparse mustache bore an uncanny resemblance to Detective Andy Sipowicz from NYPD Blue and his round figure just barely made it through the door.

But my gaze didn’t stick with Sipowicz for long, my attention immediately falling on the second guy as his broad-shouldered frame walked through the door.

Ramirez.

I had never been so glad to see anyone in my entire life. I would have jumped up and hugged him had he not been giving me the death look.

Ramirez and Sipowicz sat down on the opposite side of the table, the portly detective placing a lined yellow notepad in front of him.

“My name’s Detective Romanowsky,” he said with a Jersey accent. “You already know Detective Ramirez. We need to ask you a few questions about your activities over the past two days. Before we begin can I get you a soda?”

“No!” I blurted out.

Sipowicz jumped in his seat.

“Uh, I mean, no thank you.” I bit my lip, looking to Ramirez. He wouldn’t actually let them do the soda-no- bathroom routine on me, would he? I searched his face for any sign of leniency but he just stared back, doing his stony Bad Cop.

“Okay, then. Let’s start with your whereabouts this afternoon,” Sipowicz said, pen poised over the notepad.

I swallowed, my mouth feeling like sandpaper. “I went to a funeral and was on my way to the salon and after that I swear I was going to leave Vegas,” I said, addressing Ramirez’s poker face.

Sipowicz raised one eyebrow. “So you were on your way out of town when the officer picked you up?”

“No, wait. I mean, I didn’t try to leave leave. Not like I was skipping town ’cause I did something bad or anything. I was just going away. With a totally guiltfree conscience. Okay, well, maybe I feel a little guilty for lying to my mother about the whole Palm Springs thing, but that’s a whole different kind of guilt. I mean, that’s the I’m-going-to-have-to-endure-dinner-at-her-house-for-a-month-straight-to-make-up-for-it kind of guilt. Not the someone-died-and-I’m-not-taking-the-rap-for-it kind. Not that I want to take the rap for this. I don’t. Because I didn’t do it. Which is why I wasn’t fleeing at all. I was just leaving. Slowly. No fleeing.”

Sipowicz raised the other eyebrow.

I looked to Ramirez, desperation bubbling into my voice. “You believe me, don’t you?”

But all I got in return was Bad Cop.

See, here’s the thing: Last summer when I kind of got involved in that murder investigation, Ramirez had, for a fraction of an instant, believed I had something to do with it. In his defense, I did suspiciously keep turning up in the vicinity of dead bodies. But I’d hated the fact that he doubted me, even for a second. And now that our tongues had done the mambo together, I hated that blank, give-away-nothing stare of his even more.

My hands fidgeted in my lap as I waited for him to say something. (Anything!)

Finally he broke his silence, turning to Sipowicz. “Could you give us a minute?”

The balding detective looked from Ramirez to me. Then shrugged. “All right. I’ll be outside.”

I waited until the door clicked shut behind him before pleading my case again. “You have to believe me,” I blurted out. “I didn’t kill anyone! You know I wouldn’t do that.”

Ramirez sighed, rubbing one hand across his face. “Of course I know that. Jesus, Maddie, why can’t you just go shopping or get your hair done like a normal girl?”

I did an internal sigh of relief. Okay, so the comment was sexist on so many levels, but at least someone knew this was all a big mistake. “Then why am I here?” I asked. “What happened to Bobbi?”

“Bob Hostetler’s body was found this afternoon in your father’s garage.”

“But that’s impossible,” I protested. “I was just-” I paused. Oh my god, the bag of fertilizer! I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I hadn’t tripped over a soil treatment. I’d tripped over Bob!

“You were just what?” Ramirez leaned his elbows on the table, his eyes narrowing in on me.

“I was just…talking about Bobbi the other day.”

Ramirez shook his head. “Look, now is the time to come clean with me, Maddie. Your fingerprints are all over that house and the crime scene unit found half a credit card with your name on it wedged in the back door.”

Damn! My Macy’s card! In my haste to slip past Unibrow, I’d forgotten all about it.

“And,” Ramirez continued, “the shoe print of a size seven high heel was found next to the body. Any guess whose?”

“Jimmy Choo’s?”

Ramirez ground his teeth together. “Yours.”

“Okay, I can explain.”

“Oh, I bet you can.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Ramirez tilted his head from side to side, working a whole new set of kinks out of his neck. “Nothing. Go on.”

Considering he had handcuffs and I was currently a ward of the state, I let it go. “Okay, well, I just went to the house to talk to Larry. Only he wasn’t there so I thought I’d have a little look around, so I tried to get in the back door, but picking a lock with a credit card is a lot harder than it looks on TV, and it broke. So I tried the side door and that one was open, so I went in and looked around. That’s how my prints got there.”

Ramirez stared at me. “Do you realize you just admitted breaking and entering to a police officer?”

“I didn’t break and enter! My credit card broke, so I entered through an open door. Totally different.”

Ramirez looked up at the ceiling. I wondered which saint he was praying to. Probably the one that looked over men who had to endure babbling blondes.

“It wasn’t me,” I said again for good measure. “They’re framing Larry; don’t you see?”

“Who’s framing him, Maddie?”

“Monaldo and Unibrow!”

His eyebrows knitted together. “Unibrow?”

“That big guy who works with Monaldo. He was at Larry’s house yesterday too.”

Ramirez sat forward, all ears now. “You saw him with the body?”

“Well, no, not exactly. But I saw him in Larry’s house and then saw his car outside and the trunk was open. That must have been how he transported the body.”

“So let me get this straight.” Ramirez rubbed his temples again as if following my train of thought gave him a headache. “You actually saw Unibrow in Larry’s house.”

“Yes. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“I was hiding under the bed at the time. But I saw his shoes.”

Ramirez threw his hands up in the air. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“But I could totally pick them out of a lineup though. They were chocolate brown, soft leather, wingtips, thin rubber soles, with a tiny detail on the back like a diamond shape.”

Ramirez gritted his teeth together again. “We are not doing a shoe lineup.”

“But you’ve got to believe me. You know I didn’t do this!”

Ramirez sighed, blowing a big breath of air up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, Maddie,” he said, his voice a little softer, “but it doesn’t matter what I know; it only matters…”

“…what you can prove,” I finished for him. He was starting to sound like a broken record.

He nodded. “Look, I’ll see what I can do to get you out of here. But I’m telling you, the DA has enough to hold