The sky was a pale blue now, the fist glimmer of stars shining above us. A cool wind had picked up, whipping my hair against my cheeks. I inhaled deeply, dragging slow, deliberate breaths into my lungs. After a few beats, Dana's cheeks started to return to their normal color and I almost had the sickening smell of blood out of my nostrils.
"She was killed with a shoe, Maddie," Dana said quietly.
"I noticed that." A fact that made me want to run and hide, quick, before the polizia arrived and pulled out their handcuffs. But I knew that would just make me look even more guilty than Moreau already thought I was. Instead, I took Dana's hand and squeezed, waiting silently for the police to arrive.
What felt like an eternity later, they did, two blue and white cars rounding the corner, their lights blazing. Four officers emerged in starched blue uniforms, all advancing on Dana and me, waving their arms and shouting in Italian.
I just shook my head. "I have no idea what you're saying."
Dana pointed toward the house. "Dead woman. In there."
The officers looked at each other. Then at us. Finally one went in while the other three stayed on the porch. He emerged quickly enough and the wild gesturing started again, this time accompanied by the first officer shouting into his walkie talkie, then motioning for a second guy, a tall skinny man with a long beak of a nose, to take charge of Dana and me. He did, shoving us in the back of a squad car, where we remained until the rest of the posse arrived.
By the time the sky had turned pitch black, the street was crawling with cop cars, crime scene investigation teams, and the Italian equivalent to a coroners van. Finally a female officer who looked eerily like James Gandolfini in a wig approached our car and wrenched the door open.
"You are the girls what found the body, si?" she asked in heavily accented English.
I nodded. "Yes."
"I interpret for you. Down at the station."
"But we-" I tried to protest, but she'd already slammed the door shut and gestured to Beak Nose to take us away.
I felt desperation bubble up in my throat as the car pulled away from Donata's house to God knows where. French prison hadn't been any fun. I had a feeling I wasn't going to like Italian prison any better.
* * *
While the brick facades and high archways on the outside of the police station resembled a museum more than the utilitarian government buildings in L.A., the interior looked like an almost exact replica of the squad room on NYPD Blue. Prompting me to wonder if maybe someone hadn't been watching a few too many reruns from American television. A tiny reception area was gated off from the main room, a woman in gray polyester manning the desk. Beyond her were rows of gunmetal gray desks and behind those sat a row of closed doors.
The first thing they officers did when we got inside was separate Dana and me. I watched as Beak Nose took her through one door, handing me off to the interpreter, who escorted me to another.
The room we entered was a small, six-by-six affair with a plain metal table in the center and four folding chairs. A big, round guy straining his uniform at the gut was waiting for us, seated in one of the chairs. Miss Gandolfini gestured for me to sit opposite him, then placed herself at my side.
I sat, twisting my hands in my lap beneath the table.
The big guy said something in Italian, then the interpreter turned to me.
"You find the victim, si?" she asked me.
I nodded. "Yes." I looked to the big guy. "Yes. I found the victim."
More Italian. I turned to Miss Gandolfini.
"He asks, 'You are friend of the victim?'"
"Well," I shifted in my seat. "Not exactly. I'd met her. In Paris."
Miss Gandolfini raised a pair of bushy, black eyebrows. Then relayed my answer to the big guy. He grunted, then shot back a reply.
"But she is in Italy," she said.
"Yes, she is now. But she wasn't. She was in Paris, with Gisella."
We went through the interpretation dance again, until she came back with, "Gisella? Is this the friend you find the body with?"
I shook my head, feeling a headache brewing behind my eyes. "No. That's Dana. Gisella's a model. Well, I guess Dana's a model now too, but that's only because Gisella is dead."
There went those eyebrows again. But she relayed my answer, resulting in big guy leaning in close, speaking more excitedly.
"I thought the victim is Donata?" Gandolfini's twin sister said.
"Yes. This one. The other one was Gisella. You see, I'm the Couture Killer."
She stifled a gasp. Then interpreted for big guy. He threw his hands up, shouting something in Italian.
"Wait, no! I mean, I didn't really kill anyone. I'm just... the press, they... I mean, it's all a misunderstanding, you see... " I gave up. It was clear neither of them had any idea what I was talking about. To be honest, I'm not even sure I knew anymore.
The door opened and Beak Nose said something in Italian to the big guy and my so-called interpreter. They shared a look, then both quickly got up from the table. I stood as well, but as the two of them filed out of the room, Beak Nose motioned for me to stay, then shut the door again.
I bit my lip, fully aware that I'd been doing that so much today, I'd eaten off any trace of Raspberry Perfection that might have been lingering, as I wondered what had cut my interview short.
I didn't have to wonder long, as the door popped open again.
And there stood Moreau.
Again he was dressed in a suit that was clearly made for someone two sizes larger, the cuffs hanging over his hands as he walked into the room and sat down opposite me. His scraggly little mustache twitched as he scrutinized me.
"You found another body, Mademoiselle Springer?"
I opened my mouth to speak. But nothing came out. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Yes," I croaked out. "Dana and I did."
"This is Dana?" he asked. "She is a model with the show, no?
I nodded. "Yes."
"And you two were here because...?" He raised an eyebrow at me.
I hesitated, wondering just how much to divulge. He must have noticed because he leaned forward a fraction of an inch in his chair, his mustache twitching ever so slightly.
"We had a hunch Donata might be involved in the jewel thefts. We were going to confront her."
"I see." I leaned his elbow on the table, steepling his fingers. "And what happened? Things got out of hand?"
"Yes." I paused. "Wait, no. I mean we never confronted her."
"You killed her instead."
"No! I didn't kill anyone. She was... like that when we got there."
"I see. Anyone see you arrive?"
"We came in a cab. You can ask the driver."
"His name would be?" Moreau asked, extracting his trusty notepad from an oversized pocket.
"Arturo. Antonio. Something like that."
Moreau gave me a look. Then put the pad back in his pocket. "I see."
"No, no I don't think you do see. I didn't kill Donata. She was dead when we got here. The front door was open, and she was lying in the floor."
"The door was open."
"Yes."
"So, you went inside?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Into the foyer. And the room we found her in."
"That is all?"
"Yes." I paused. "Wait, no."
"You keep changing your story."
"No, it's the same story. I just remember we went into the office, too. To use the phone."
"The cordless?" he clarified.
"Yes."
"And this was the only thing you touched, oui?"
"Yes."
He leaned in, his eyes intent on mine. "Then why are your prints all over the wine glass in Miss Girardi's foyer?"
Shit.
"I forgot. I touched that, too."
"You seem to do a lot of forgetting."
"Look, I knocked it over when we found the body and I cleaned up the pieces of broken glass."
/> He raised an eyebrow. "You see a dead woman, yet before you call the police, you stop to do a little housekeeping?"
"No. Yes. I, I don't know. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was panicked."
"Because you had just killed a woman?'
"Because I'd just found a dead woman."
"Hmmmm." He narrowed his eyes at me, pursing his lips in a way that made his mustache dance. "Where were you this afternoon?"
"At Donata's office. Dana was with me the whole time," I said quickly. "I have an alibi."
"This time," he added, skeptically.
I didn't say anything, crossing my arms over my chest.
"What were you doing at Donata's office?" he asked.
"Looking for her. She wasn't there, so I got her home address and we came here. Look, you can ask Donata's assistant, Debbie."
"She is being questioned now."
Wow, he was quick.
"Good," I said, defiantly.
"We also have a team going though Donata's office. Care to know what they have found so far?"
I froze. Uh oh. He looked a little too pleased with himself.
Only, he didn't wait for me to answer. "Your fingerprints. All over the file cabinets in Mademoiselle Girardi's private office." He did a little smirk. "I supposed you forgot to mention that, too?"
I bit my lip. Shit.
"Look, I didn't take anything. I... I was just looking."
"For?"
"Evidence."
"Of?"
"Her involvement in the jewel heists."
"Find any?"
"Well, not exactly. But, did you know that Donata used to be a man? She was a male model in the seventies and someone found out and they sent her some pictures of her as a him and I think they were blackmailing her into sending Gisella on all the good jobs where she could get her hands on the jewelry. Or her partner could. Like the Corbett Winston account, because Angelica said that Donata wouldn't even let her go on a go-see, so I'm pretty sure that Donata was involved and that's why she got killed. Not by me."
Moreau blinked at me. His mustache twitched.
But he didn't get a chance to answer as the door opened again and Beak Nose said something to Moreau in Italian. Moreau answered back, then shot a pointed look at me before disappearing through the door.
I thunked my head down on the table. Could life get any worse?
I'm not sure how long I sat like that, but by the time the door opened again, my forehead made a little suction sound when I lifted it up.
Beak Nose stood in the doorway again. "Okay," he said in broken English. "You can go now."
"I can go?" I asked.
He nodded, holding the door open for me.
I stepped out, wondering what had changed. Two minutes ago Moreau had seemed ready to read me my rights. Now I was free to go.
And then I saw what had changed.
Ramirez.
He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot, his posture tilting slightly forward. A generous dusting of five o'clock shadow covered his jaw, making his cheeks look hollow, like he hadn't slept. My heart clenched in my chest and all I wanted to do was give him a hug.
Beside him stood Moreau, the two of them deep in conversation.
As if he could feel me watching him, Ramirez suddenly straightened his spine, spinning around, his gaze traveling my way. Our eyes locked for a full two seconds.
Then he turned away.
He muttered a brief something to Moreau, before walking past the gate and through the dinky reception area.
"Wait!" I called.
Moreau looked up, as did several of the other officers, all eyes turning my way.
But not Ramirez. In an instant, he was out the door and gone.
I felt my heart sink, my stomach doing a hollow, empty thing that had nothing to do with the fact I hadn't eaten. And everything to do with the fact that I wasn't sure how many more times Ramirez would walk away from me before he stopped coming back.
I felt tears well behind my eyes, but bravely sniffed them back, instead hobbling over to where Moreau stood waiting for me.
"You are free to go," he said, slowly. Then added, "For now."
I nodded, still staring at the doorway Ramirez had disappeared through.
"And Dana?"
"Your friend is waiting for you downstairs. I have a car ready to take you both back to the airport."
I nodded again.
"I expect you will inform me if you feel the urge to travel out of France again?" he asked. Though I could tell that wasn't exactly a question.
I nodded meekly, all the fight having drained out of me the second I'd seen Ramirez.
"Good." Moreau singled to Beak Nose, who led me down a flight of stairs to where Dana was waiting for me at the bottom.
She gave me a fierce hug. "I hope I did the right thing calling Ramirez?" she asked.
I nodded. Even as tears welled behind my eyes at the sound of his name.
We both piled into the waiting blue and white, riding to the airport in silence. Needless to say, there were no kisses on the cheek from Beak Nose as he saw us onto our flight.
I tried to sleep on the brief plane ride back to Paris, but it was nearly impossible. Images of Ramirez, Moreau, Felix, and Donata all mixed together, making my head hurt so badly, I begged the flight attendant for an aspirin.
By the time we'd landed and caught a cab back to the Plaza Athenee, I was beat. I crawled into bed, fully clothed and collapsed, just as the sun was coming up.
* * *
I wasn't sure how long I slept, but the sounds of room service carts woke me several hours later. I rolled over, looking at the clock. It was past noon. I felt like I'd been asleep for days. I stripped off my clothes, hopped in the shower and attempted to wash the previous day's events off of me while trying to keep Wonder Boot dry. The hot water helped, and I was feeling almost human again by the time I stepped into a clean denim skirt, white tank, and cropped black collarless jacket. An much as I would have liked to don my red heel again, Doctor Ponytail had been right, my legged throbbed today after running around Europe in one heel. Instead, I slipped on a black ballet flat and added an extra swipe of lip gloss as a concession.
I ordered room service in and dialed Dana's number while I waited for my waffles and eggs to appear.
"Hello?" she croaked out.
"Are you up?"
"I am now."
"I ordered waffles."
She groaned.
"And a grapefruit half for you."
"I'll be right over."
Ten minutes later I opened the door and let her in. She was still in her pajama bottoms, pink with leopard print, and a rumpled T-shirt that read "Aerobics Instructors Do It In Step". She flopped onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling.
"Get much sleep?" I asked.
"Some." She yawned. "Not enough."
Ditto.
Luckily, when sleep escapes me, sugar and caffeine are readily available substitutes. Both of which I indulged in as room service arrived with a big plate of waffles and maple syrup and two carafes of coffee - decaf for Dana, regular with loads of cream for me.
I slathered the syrup on, my mouth watering as I watched it make little pools in the waffle squares. I took one bite. Heaven.
Dana scrunched up her nose and dug into her grapefruit. "So, any thoughts about Donata's killer this morning?" she asked, covering her breakfast with one hand to avoid grapefruit-juice-in-the-eye.
I shook my head. "Nope. And here's what's been bothering me," I said, shoveling a forkful of waffle into my mouth. "Why kill Donata? I mean, assuming Gisella was working with a partner, it seemed like they had the perfect set-up. Why ruin that?"
Dana shook her head. "Good question. Okay, let's say the partner offed Gisella for a bigger piece of the profits. Or, maybe Gisella was getting sloppy and the partner was worried about someone finding out."
"The last one seems more likely to me," I said. "If he was just greedy, he'd want to keep Gisella around
, right? Without her, the scam is over. On the other hand, Gisella was risking a lot by hitting four designers in one Fashion Week. Someone was bound to start putting it together sooner or later."
"Okay, so the partner's worried about being found out, so he kills Gisella. Lucky for him, you're in town and he can throw suspicion on you with the stiletto thing."
"Lucky him,' I mumbled, pouring more syrup on my waffles.
"So - why Donata? I mean, it doesn't seem likely she'd go to the police, does it? Not when she had a secret of her own to protect."
I shook my head. "No. It doesn't." I took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Dana, who did you tell that we were going to Milan?"
She paused, grapefruit wedge halfway to her lips. "Just Jean Luc. Why?"
"Maybe the killer was afraid Donata would let something slip to us?"
"You think?"
I shrugged. "Either way, the killer must have known we'd be in Milan. Otherwise, there'd be no point in doing the stiletto thing again. He couldn't very well point the finger at me if I'd been in Paris with an iron-clad alibi at the time of the murder. He had to have known I'd be in Milan."
Dana put her spoon down. "Wow. You're totally right. Okay, who knew you were going? Jean Luc. Who else?"
I bit my lip. "No one. I mean, I called Ann for Donata's address. I didn't exactly tell her I was going to Milan, but I guess she could have found out if she tried. And I did ask Angelica about Donata. She could have easily followed me there, I suppose. But the only person I really told was..." I trailed off.
"Who?"
"Felix."
Dana paused. "Maddie, there is a chance that he actually did it."
I shook my head. "No. I mean..." I thought about it. Then shook my head. "No. He couldn't have."
"Maddie, I know you like him-"
"I do not like him. I loathe him."
She shot me a "get real" look, completely ignoring my protests. "-but all the clues point to him. And, if he did, that means he must have been the one blackmailing Donata about her past in the first place."
"Which is completely ridiculous. You've seen Felix. He knows nothing about fashion. There's no way he'd know about a seventies male model."
"He works at a newspaper. He has all kinds of access."
Alibi in High Heels Page 16
