Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

" Desidera ?"

"Uh, I need help. I have a dead woman."

" Come ?"

"Uh," I looked to Dana. "How do you say 'dead' in Italian?"

Dana shrugged.

"Uh, dead-o. Molto, molto dead-o. Si?"

There was silence on the other end. Then finally, " Polizia ?"

"Yes! Polizia . Lots of polizia . Pronto!"

The woman busted out with another string of Italian, which I hoped meant, "We'll be right there," then I hung up.

"Come on," I said to Dana, who was still doing her Casper impression, "let's wait outside."

She nodded. "Yeah. Good idea."

We walked back down the hall, careful not to touch anything else, lest we disturb the crime scene. We both looked straight forward as if we were wearing blinders as we passed the room where Donata had enjoyed her last glass of wine, and did a collective slump once we made it outside, sitting down on the stone steps in silence.

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, s i ?" 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."