Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

I loaded my toothbrush with Crest and, figuring I might as well go all the way, turned on the shower and quickly did a shampoo and rinse. I towel-dried my hair into a fairly passable sexy-wet look and threw on a little make-up. Hey, just because we'd seen each other naked didn't mean Ramirez had to see me without my eyeliner. By the time I emerged from the bathroom, a white hotel-issue towel wrapped around my midsection, Ramirez was propped up in bed, one hand behind his head as he watched a soccer match on TV.

"That was one hell of a tooth brushing."

I shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a hygienic sort of gal."

He shook his head at me, the corner of his mouth twisting up until a dimple flashed in his left cheek. He curled an index finger at me. "Come 'ere."

I shook my head. "Uhn uh. Your turn."

His grin faltered for a half a second before he conceded, sliding out of bed. "All right. But that towel better be history by the time I come out," he warned.

I shot him my best come hither look as he brushed past me and into the bathroom.

And as soon as he shut the door I sprang into action. I dropped the towel and threw on a denim skirt, pink baby T, and a deconstructed jacket to match my one black ballet flat. Thankfully, I still heard the water running as I grabbed my purse and crutches and bolted out the door.

I know. Totally dirty trick to play on Ramirez. Especially when he was being all cute. But there was no way I was going to question Gisella's agent with Ramirez playing bodyguard. And, as much as I loved him, there was no way I was leaving this all to the police.

The thing about Ramirez was that he wasn't a guy who did gray. Life was either black or white to him. Cops: good. Criminals: bad. Victims were victims and if you found yourself behind bars, there was probably a good reason for it. Which is why Ramirez and I spent 90% of our time together butting heads. Me – I was all about the gray stuff. Sometimes I wasn't entirely sure Ramirez could handle a girlfriend who, once in awhile, found herself sitting in a holding cell. Or who, on the rare occasion, had been known to do a little B &E for a good cause. I wasn't sure Ramirez could handle gray. And, on days like this, I wasn't sure how much longer he'd continue trying to for my sake.

Especially when he found the hotel room empty.

I tried to shrug that thought to the back of my mind as I grabbed a cab outside the hotel. As we pulled away from the curb, I glanced over my shoulder, afraid any second now Ramirez would come bolting out the front doors wearing nothing but his boxers. Luckily we were weaving our way into morning traffic before my cell rang, my own room number showing up on the caller ID.

I bit my lip. Then hit the "ignore" button with a deep pang of Catholic guilt.

Even if Moreau never formally charged me with Gisella's killing, I could tell the press had already convicted me. Unless I found out who had really done this, my career as a designer was in the toilet.

So, really, I was sure Ramirez would understand. I was just doing my job.

Fifteen minutes (and two more phone calls) later we pulled up to the Hotel de Crillon. Thankfully, it was relatively paparazzi free, every news hound in town still haunting the Le Croix tent and the Plaza Athenee. I stopped in the lobby only long enough to a) grab a cup of coffee and b) ask which room Donata Girardi was staying in. Of course the kid on duty, a short, chubby guy with bad acne, said it was against hotel policy to give out that information. Instead, he handed me a courtesy phone and dialed in Donata's number for me. Luckily, she was in. And, after I briefly explained who I was, agreed to see me.

I downed my coffee and made for the elevators. With no small effort, I ignored the "William Tell Overture" ringing from my purse yet again as I knocked on Donata's door. I heard movement on the other side, then it was opened by a slim woman in her fifties, with thick black hair, thick black lashes, and I suspected without the help of Nair, a thick black mustache. She wore a pale blue tailored suit with a cream colored scarf knotted at her neck and pointy-toed leather heels on her feet. Her eyes held a slightly squinty appearance, as if she'd had an aggressive facelift in the recent past, and her lips puckered in an unnatural way beneath her coral colored lipstick. Despite the obvious work, I could tell by her high cheekbones and heart shaped chin that she was once a very naturally beautiful woman. She was slim though the hips, with long legs, and had the faintest hint of a small, heart shaped birthmark just above her left cheek at the hairline. I immediately got the sense that, like so many other agents, Donata was a former model herself. An idea that was reinforced as she ushered me in and crossed the room with a grace I sorely coveted at the moment. I awkwardly hobbled in, setting my crutches down as I clumsily plopped into an armchair by the window.

"Your purse appears to be ringing," she said, a soft Italian lilt coloring her voice.

I waved the comment off. "Voicemail will get it."

"I see. So, you are one of Le Croix's designers, si?"

I nodded. "Yes, Maddie Springer. I'm doing the shoes for his collection."

She nodded. "The black stiletto heel."

I cringed. "Yes. And I want to express my sincere condolences. I'm sorry for what happened to Gisella."

She raised an eyebrow. "You are sorry?"

"Yes. I mean, no, not that I'm sorry, like I'm apologizing. I mean, I'm sorry it happened, not I'm sorry I did it. Because I didn't. I had nothing to do with it happening. This was just a coincidence."

"I see." Though I noticed she scooted her chair a fraction of an inch away from me. Clearly she wasn't entirely convinced.

Join the club.

"And, what is it I can do for you, Signorina Springer?"

Tell me who was fencing stolen property for your client. But I figured the subtle approach was probably best. "I was wondering what you could tell me about Gisella's social life?"

Donata looked out the window. "Gisella was a very social girl. She loved parties."

"Like the one you threw here in the hotel?"

Donata nodded. "Si." She clasped her hands in her lap but didn't elaborate. I had the feeling she was a woman who had learned to play her hand close to her heart.

"Do know if Gisealla was seeing anyone?"

"Gieslla always had men around."

"Anyone special?"

She shrugged, a barely detectable movement of her shoulders.

"What about Ryan? Does that name ring a bell?" I asked, reciting the last file entry from Gisella's camera.

Donata paused. "She mentioned a Ryan. I think they may have dated."

"Did she happen to mention Ryan's last name?"

She sucked in her cheeks. "Jones? Jeffries? One of those, I believe. He was English."

My phone took that moment to chirp to life inside my purse again. I ignored it.

"Do you know if Ryan was here in Paris with Gisella?"

Donata looked down at my Kate Spade. "Are you not going to answer that?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

She raised an eyebrow at me, but said nothing.

"So, was Ryan in Paris?"

She shrugged. "I could not tell you. Gisella and I, we were not so close that she would informed me of her boyfriends' whereabouts."

"But you did talk often. Several times a day?"

She nodded. "Si. For work."

Hmm… modeling work or burglary? "When was the last time you saw Gisella?"

Donata's lips twitched and I watched her throat bob up and down. She looked down at her hands to hide some emotion flitting across her eyes. Though whether it was guilt or genuine sorrow I'd be hard pressed to answer.

"The night before she died. I went up to her room to fill her in on the next day's fitting schedule. But I was there only a brief time. She said she was expecting company."