Killer in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  I stared at the picture. After zapping his dog, the least I could do was give him the peace of mind that Monaldo wasn’t still out there somewhere. I left the paper on the counter and hailed a cab.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of Maurice’s condo. The same lawn furniture was overturned in the courtyard and in the late morning, I could hear Judge Judy and All My Children echoing through the thin walls from the units surrounding his.

  I knocked on the door of 24A and a few beats later Maurice appeared. The dark circles under his eyes had gained momentum, making him look older and more sunken than the last time I’d seen him. His gray pallor hadn’t improved, and he was still wearing somber, unrelieved black—a black turtleneck, black slacks and a black sweater vest. And those hideous loafers.

  Queenie danced around his legs, yapping a greeting.

  “Maddie,” Maurice said, his voice hoarse like he’d been crying nonstop since the funeral. “Please, come in.” He stepped back to allow me entry. “What can I do for you?” Maurice motioned for me to sit, then took a spot on the love seat opposite.

  I cleared my throat, the potpourri and Clorox combination making the air feel thick in his tiny living room. “Have you seen the papers today?” I asked.

  Maurice shook his head. “No. I haven’t been out much. Why?”

  “Monaldo’s been taken into custody,” I said, laying a comforting hand on his arm.

  Maurice’s eyes teared up and he pulled a tissue from the box on the coffee table, holding it under his nose. “He has?”

  I nodded. “The police arrested him last night.”

  “Oh thank god!” Maurice heaved a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging as if a huge weight had been lifted off of them. “You don’t know how nerve-wracking the last few days have been. Not only losing Hank but knowing that monster was out there somewhere.”

  I patted Maurice’s hand again. “I’m so sorry about Hank.”

  Maurice sniffled into his tissue. “Thank you. And thank you for coming to tell me about Monaldo too. You’re a good person, Maddie.”

  I smiled. “It’s the least I could do.” I didn’t add, especially since we’d zapped his dog.

  “So has he confessed?” Maurice asked. “Monaldo, I mean. Has he admitted to killing Hank?”

  I shifted in my seat. “Well, no, not exactly. But I’m sure he will. He’s confessed to being a part of an organized crime ring and from what the police say, he’ll be going away for a very, very long time.”

  Maurice nodded, sniffling and dabbing with the tissue again. He shrugged. “I guess it’s possible he really didn’t kill Hank. You know, Hank was a very sensitive soul. Maybe it was all too much for him. Maybe he really did kill himself. There was a note, after all.”

  I nodded. “Maybe.”

  I watched as Maurice twisted his Kleenex into oblivion, Queenie yapping at his heels for attention, the scent of Clorox heavy in the air. Silence stretched between us as his last comment replayed in my head. Something wasn’t right. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as realization crept over me.

  “Wait, what did you say?” I asked.

  Maurice blinked at me. “That Hank was a sensitive soul.”

  “No, not that,” I said, feeling my lips move in slow motion as puzzle pieces rapidly dropped into place. “About the suicide note?”

  Maurice slowly looked up. Our eyes locked.

  Ramirez had told me no one knew about the suicide note. They weren’t releasing that information to the public. There was only one other person who could have known that the police found a note.

  Hank’s killer.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I swallowed, my mouth going drier than the Santa Annas as I stared at the man across from me. Suddenly his red-rimmed eyes held more malice than grief.

  “I said Hank left a note,” Maurice said slowly, his face searching mine for hidden meaning.

  “You’re right,” I said quickly. “He did. So it was probably a suicide after all.”

  I had to get out of there! I had to call Ramirez. I had to leave. Now!

  “Anyway, I’m sorry for your loss and I have somewhere to be so I guess I should be going.” I grabbed my purse and stood up, making quick strides toward the door. Which would have been a whole lot quicker if Queenie hadn’t been dancing between my legs, begging with a little yap, yap, yap for a pat on the head. If it weren’t for her, I might have made it to the door before I heard an unmistakable click behind me.

  I froze. I was beginning to know that sound all too well. The clinch of a bullet sliding into the chamber. For the second time in as many days I spun around to find myself face to face with the barrel of a gun. Maurice took a wide stance, both hands wrapped around Hank’s .38 special. Tears trickled down his cheeks and his hands were shaking, the gun barrel bobbing between my forehead and my chest.

  “I’m sorry, Maddie,” he said, sniffling again. “I liked you. I really did.”

  His use of the past tense was not reassuring. “Maurice,” I said slowly, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “Let’s talk about this.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Maddie, there’s nothing to talk about. It’s over. It’s finally all over. They’re both gone now. Don’t you understand? It’s all over.”

  I gulped. I didn’t understand. He wasn’t making a whole lot of sense and his tears were bordering on hysterical territory. The one thing I did understand was the gun pointed at my barely B chest, which at the moment I wanted to keep just the way it was, thank you very much.

  “Maurice, just put down the gun and we’ll talk.” My eyes searched wildly around the apartment for anything within reach that could be used as a weapon. But thanks to Maurice’s compulsive cleaning tendencies, the surfaces were not only free of clutter, but free of anything sharp, heavy, or useful as a projectile. Damn!

  He shook his head at me. “I’m sorry, Maddie, I can’t do that.” He stared crying even harder, big racking sobs. But, surprisingly, his grip on the gun seemed to be growing steadier. Not a good sign.

  “You wrote the suicide note?” I asked, stalling for time. Not that I was sure what good that would do. No one knew where I was or even that I’d left the hotel, for that matter. But the longer I could delay getting shot, the better, in my book.

  Maurice nodded. “I had to. I didn’t want anyone else to go to jail for killing him. I didn’t want anyone else to suffer.”

  “Just Hank?”

  More tears flowed and his nose starting running, only this time Maurice’s face contorted with anger. “He deserved to suffer! He cheated on me! Me! That jerk thought he could treat me that way. He was going to break up with me, move that big hairy ape of his into the home that I’d created for him. Sleep on my sheets, eat off my china, sit at the dining table I polished every week. I couldn’t let him do that. I couldn’t let him bring that Neanderthal into my home.”

  “What Neanderthal? Monaldo?” I asked, confused. Maurice had mentioned he’d seen Hank coming out of Monaldo’s office. Maybe it had been more than a business relationship after all.

  Maurice shook his head. “No. That goon of his. The one in need of a waxing.”

  Unibrow! “Unibrow was gay?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

  Maurice narrowed his watering eyes at me. “Yes, he was gay. We’re not all delicate little flowers, you know.”

  I mentally rolled my eyes. The man with the gun was lecturing me on political correctness.

  “So you pushed Hank off the roof?”

  Maurice nodded. “Don’t you see? I had to. He was going to ruin everything with that big hairy monster of his.”

  “Why naked?” I asked, remembering the little detail that had been bothering me from the start.

  Maurice gave me a “well duh” look. “He was wearing an off-the-shoulder vintage Dior evening gown. It would have gotten blood all over it. There’s no way you could get those kinds of stains out.”

  Good point.


  “Where is the dress now?” I asked. Though, honestly, I couldn’t care less. I was fishing for anything to buy time, to distract him. I slowly eased one hand into my purse, dangling at my side. If I could just get my fingers around my cell phone…

  “What are you doing?” The gun popped up from my chest to catch me smack between my eyes.

  A wave of pure panic surged up from my belly, every muscle in my body going tense as he took a step forward.

  “Nothing,” I squeaked out in a voice almost as shrill as Queenie’s nonstop yapping.

  “Drop your purse. Throw it on the floor.”

  I did as I was told, slowly slipping the thin strap off my shoulder and letting my one hope at rescue drop to my feet.

  “Now kick it toward me,” he commanded.

  I did, the contents spilling out the top as it bounced across the olive green shag. Queenie immediately pounced on the new toy and I cringed as her pointy little teeth dug into the Italian leather.

  “Now what?” I asked, half dreading the answer.

  “Now walk down the hallway,” Maurice said, gesturing with the tip of the gun. “Slowly.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The bathroom,” Maurice responded. “I’m going to shoot you in the bathtub. Easier to clean up.”

  I felt the gun barrel at my back, poking and prodding me down a narrow hallway, into a small bathroom. The floor and tub were tiled in rosy ceramic squares, the walls a nauseating teal. The room smelled like someone had plugged in fifteen different air fresheners all at once. I gulped back the sickeningly sweet scent as Maurice spun me around.

  “Hold your hands out in front of you,” he commanded, the gun barrel mere inches from my face.

  What choice did I have? I held my hands out, palms up, wrists together. Maurice reached into a bathroom cabinet, all the while keeping the .38 pointed my direction, and pulled out a roll of duct tape. Using his teeth he pulled at the end, then wrapped the sticky gray stuff around my wrists until I was immobilized. That panic started to build again and I felt tears pricking my own eyes.

  “Maurice, please, let’s talk about this,” I pleaded.

  Maurice ripped off another piece of tape with his teeth, then gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Maddie. I truly am. But I have to do it.” Then he stuck the tape over my mouth, smoothing down the edges until any hope of making a sound more than a whimper was lost.

  And I’m not ashamed to say, I did in fact take the opportunity to whimper. In fact I whimpered so piteously as Maurice nudged me into the bathtub that Queenie bounced down the hallway to see what was happening. She still held the strap of my purse in her teeth and cosmetics, credit cards, tampons, and change trailed behind her. She padded into the bathroom, her little nails clicking on the tile, and rubbed against Maurice’s leg. He reached down absently and gave her head a pat. So grateful was she for the attention, that Queenie dropped the purse strap and started yapping a thank you up at Maurice. As my favorite leather handbag hit the floor, a cell phone tumbled toward the edge of the tub. My eyes grew big and I was glad the duct tape stifled my gasp as I saw it wasn’t my cell phone. It was Dana’s special cell phone.

  The stun gun.

  “Now, Maddie, please make this easy on both of us,” Maurice directed, sniffling and biting his lip as he held the gun in a straight-arm pose, taking his aim. “Don’t move, just stay right where you are.”

  Not on your life, pal.

  I took a deep breath, gave myself a two count, then lunged for the cell. My bound hands clamped around it just as I heard the gun erupt. The bullet whizzed so close to my ear that I felt it ruffle my hair before it embedded itself in the shower tiles, sending chips of rosecolored ceramic spraying in the air.

  “Look what you did!” Maurice shouted, aiming down at the floor where I was wriggling toward him like a snake, cell stunner shoved out in front of me, hoping to god I pushed the right button.

  “It’s too late to call for help, Maddie,” he said, popping off another shot. This one bounced on the tile beside me, sending Queenie into a tizzy. She bounded up and down like a yo-yo, thankfully springing between me and Maurice’s gun as I edged closer. Just a few more inches…

  “Move, you mutt,” Maurice yelled, squinting one eye shut as he tried to aim around the yapper.

  One more inch…

  I wriggled closer, reaching my arms out as far as they would go, then closed my eyes and hit the red button.

  Maurice gave a strangled little cry, then crumpled to the ground, his head landing inches from mine as his tongue lolled to the side.

  I sighed with relief and went limp myself, staring at the teal ceiling, taking deep breaths and basking in the glory of being alive.

  I gave myself a couple more beats of basking, then traded my stunner for Maurice’s .38 and backed up against the far wall. Holding the gun in one hand, I grabbed a corner of the duct tape covering my mouth and ripped.

  “Holy mother of god!” I cried. My eyes welled up with tears, my hands instinctively going to my throbbing upper lip. I think I ripped off a layer of skin. Or two. Well, on the up side, at least I didn’t have to worry about that mustache wax anymore.

  Trying to ignore the fire smoldering on my upper lip, I quickly grabbed my real cell phone from my purse and dialed Ramirez’s number.

  For once, he picked up. I tried to explain where I was and what was going on without giving him another heart attack, though I’m not sure I completely succeeded. He was quiet for a second, then let out a whole string of curses, some of which I had to give points for creativity. Once he ran out of curses, he said he’d be right there. I hung up just as Maurice began to twitch on the floor.

  Shit. I grabbed the roll of duct tape and, with my own hands still stuck together, awkwardly wrapped it around Maurice’s ankles and wrists. Then, just for good measure, I smoothed a piece over his mouth too. Which, knowing how much that sucker was going to hurt to take off, was rather evil of me. But what could I say? Being duct taped put me in a vindictive mood.

  Once I had him bound, I propped him against the tub, then scooted to the far wall and picked up the .38 again, pointing it straight at Maurice as his eyes flickered open in surprise.

  He looked down at his bound hands, then up at the gun, his eyes going wide and weepy.

  “Sorry, Maurice,” I said, keeping the gun aimed at his bald head. “I had to do it.”

  As I may have mentioned before, there are two things in this world I hate more than getting shot at. Birkenstocks (which no matter what kind of pedicure you wear them with, always make a girl’s feet look like they should be drenched in patchouli at a Grateful Dead concert) and sit-ups (the cruelest form of punishment still currently legal). But, I realized as Ramirez tugged at my wrists, I had a third item to add to the list.

  Duct tape.

  “Owww!” I whined, watching the evil gray strips rip the peach fuzz off my arms.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Ramirez said, dropping another piece on the floor.

  “But it hurts!”

  “We’re almost done. Just one more piece.” He shot me one of his lopsided grins, then ripped the little sucker off.

  “Owww!” I wailed.

  Okay, I admit, I was playing up the baby thing just a little. But the way Ramirez had fawned over me ever since he burst through Maurice’s bathroom door, I’d be an idiot not to. The first thing he’d done was grab me in another rib-crushing hug that lasted so long I feared I’d pass out. Then he’d promised he was not letting me out of his sight again. Ever. Okay, so probably a little heat-of-the-moment and unrealistic, but it made my heart go all mushy inside anyway.

  After the LVMPD had arrived and taken Maurice into custody (sobbing all the way to the squad car), Ramirez had held my hand while the paramedics checked me out, and Detective Sipowicz (who was looking a little peeved at seeing me yet again) took my statement. Then Ramirez had packed me into his SUV and driven me back to the New York, New York, where he was currently removing
the last remainders of my latest encounter with the homicidal Mr. Clean.

  “There,” he said, pulling one more bit of sticky tape from my arm. “All done.”

  I rubbed my wrists. “It still hurts,” I whined.

  Ramirez got a wicked look in his eyes and his lopsided grin grew to Big Bad Wolf proportions. “Maybe I should kiss it and make it better.”

  “Seriously? I just almost get killed—again—and you’re thinking about sex?”

  He grinned. “I’m male. I’m always thinking about sex.”

  “Oh brother.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Come on. You. Me. A quiet hotel room.” He looked down at the double. “A big bed…”

  Hmmm…I had to admit, he made a persuasive argument. Which became even more persuasive when he grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips, whispering a soft kiss along the inside of my wrist.

  I closed my eyes, my temperature rising about fifteen degrees.

  “Feeling sexy yet?” he murmured against my skin.

  I shook my head. “Unh uhn,” I lied.

  His mouth traveled upward, nibbling at the inside of my elbow. “How about now?”

  I swallowed back a sigh as his sexy day-old stubble skimmed over my skin. “Nope.”

  He wrapped one arm around my middle, pulling me flush against his rock-hard body. His mouth hovered over mine, so closely I could feel his hot breath on my lips. “Now?” he whispered.

  “Okay, maybe just a little.”

  He grinned, showing off that deceptively boyish dimple. “I knew you’d come around,” he growled, his deep voice vibrating against my lips. Then his mouth closed over mine. Softly, slowly, igniting an instant fire that started somewhere in my belly and quickly spread south.

  I kissed him back. Hard. Okay, fine, I was female. Around Ramirez, I was always thinking about sex too. So much so that right at the moment, I didn’t care if my legs weren’t shaved, if my underwear didn’t match my bra, or that my upper lip was still red and swollen from my duct tape facial. Screw it. We were all alone, the bad guys with guns were behind bars, and Ramirez was kissing me. Oh boy, was he kissing me.