Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

An hour later I was cross-eyed from reading tiny print on the screen and not a whole lot closer to finding Gisella's last lover.

There were more Charlie's in fashion than I could count – a handful of young, beautiful models as well as three designers who were showing at Fashion Week and countless booking agents. And those were just the ones I found. I set that name aside and tried Marcel instead.

That list was considerably smaller and, once I whittled it down to only those currently in Paris for Fashion Week, I had three Marcels to choose from. A makeup artist (who I dismissed as soon as I read that he was seen at a party with his boyfriend the night before), a style reporter for the TV entertainment show Paris Spectacle and a male model currently living just outside the city.

I found Paris Spectacle 's webpage and, after calling up the site directory, a contact page listing the telephone number of a Marcel Dubois, Style Reporter.

I slipped my cell out and dialed, waiting while it rang on the other end. Finally, five rings into it, a man picked up.

" Bon jour, ce Dubois ?" he answered.

"Uh, English?" I asked, crossing my fingers.

"Oui, how may I help you?"

I did a sigh of relief. "Hi, my name is Maddie Springer and I'm a-"

But I didn't get any further as I heard him suck in a quick breath. "The Couture Killer?"

I gritted my teeth. I was really beginning to hate that nickname.

"Yes. I mean, no, I'm not a killer but, yes, that's what the press is currently calling me." I paused.

"You prefer to be called something else?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes. "I prefer not to be called anything! I didn't do it."

"No, no, of course not," he said, his voice laced with a Spanish accent. "So, you are denying the current allegations?" he asked, and I could here him scrambling for a pen and paper in the background.

I bit my lip. Obviously Marcel thought I was calling him for an exclusive. But, for the moment, I decided to play along.

"Yes, I am denying them. I had nothing to do with Gisella's death. Or Donata's," I added as an afterthought. "I've been…" I cringed, borrowing a phrase from Mrs. Rosenblatt said, "Set up."

"I see." I heard the sound of furious scribbling. "By whom?"

"The real killer."

"Ah! The real killer," he repeated as he jotted down my comments. "And did you know the deceased?"

"I'd met her." I paused. "Did you know her?'

"Me? Uh…" he trailed off, not prepared to be the one questioned. "Yes, of course I knew who she was. Gisella Rossi. Everyone knows her."

"That's not what I meant. Did you know her personally?"

"Uh, I met her once or twice. But I am deeply saddened by her death. Which is why I promise a very tasteful segment. Now, the police say you have no alibi for the night of the murder, is this true?"

I bit my lip. "Yes. I was alone at the time of her death. Uh… how about you?'

"Me?" Clearly this was not how most of his interviews went.

"Yes, you."

"Well, I was here. Working."

"And other people saw you there?"

"Oui. But as soon as I heard, I was at the tent. I am very thorough in my investigations. I promise, I will not leave any details out. Anything you want to share with me, I will report."

"Hmmmm." I was beginning to think I was on the wrong track with this guy. If he'd really been working that night, and had witnesses, there was no way he was Gisella's partner. But, just for good measure, I had to ask. "Did you ever sleep with Gisella Rossi?"

"Eh… no." he answered, taken aback. "Why?" he asked, a devilish tint creeping into his voice. "Did you?'

Oh brother. "No. And I have no further comment at this time."

"Wait I-" he said.

But I hung up. Clearly he was not my mystery man. That left one more Marcel. The male model, Marcel Bertrand.

I looked up at the clock. Two thirty. I was due back at the tent in half an hour, anyway, I might was well go talk to Miss Everyone Who's Anyone and see if her BlackBerry could spit out a number for Mr. Bertrand.

I popped by Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt's room one more time (still empty) before grabbing my shoulder bag and heading down to the lobby.

Though as soon as I got off the elevators, I froze.

He was standing at the front desk, his back to me as he spoke with Pierre. From the back, his worn-in-the-right places jeans clung to his frame so tightly that every woman in the lobby gave a second (and sometimes third) glance his way. His black T-shirt was just a little too tight across his biceps, and a growth of stubble across his chin that looked like he hadn't slept or shaved in days. And his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck, like he was a week past a decent haircut.

Ramirez.

A black duffel bag sat at his feet and he slid a keycard across the counter to Pierre. Clearly he was checking out.

My heart caught in my throat and I quickly crossed the lobby to him.

Okay, fine, I tried to quickly cross the lobby. But thanks to Wonder Boot I didn't do anything quickly anymore. I saw him thank Pierre, grab the duffel and turn to go.

"Jack!" I called.

He spun around, his jaw immediately tensing at the sight of me.

I hobbled toward him, double time. But if there are three things that don't mix, they're a freshly waxed marble floor, a pair of crutches, and a blonde in a hurry. My eyes intent on Ramirez's frame, I moved one crutch a little ahead of the other, then felt it slide out from under me. As if in slow motion, crutch one went left, crutch two went right, and I slid down squarely in the middle, my arms flailing as my face planted firmly onto the floor.

I heard Ramirez mutter a "Jesus," under his breath, then he was suddenly at my side.

"Are you okay?" he asked, lifting me up by my armpits.

"I think so," I replied. Only it came out more like, "I ink ow" as my lip was already rapidly swelling.

Ramirez looked at me, his eyes doing a quick assessment of my person. He reached one hand out and ran the pad of his thumb lightly along my injured lip.

My breath caught in my throat.

"Jack," I whispered.

His dark eyes met mine.

And he quickly pulled his hand away, clearing his throat. He turned and swiftly picked up his duffel bag from the floor.

"I never got to thank you for bailing me out in Italy," I said.

No response.

"Thank you.

"So, you're leaving?" I asked. Though the answer to that was pretty obvious.

He nodded. "Captain called. They've got a double homicide in Brentwood."

I bit my lip to keep from protesting that there was a double homicide here . Because, sadly, between his captain and me, I already knew who'd win out.

"My flight leaves in two hours," he continued, making for the door.

"Wait," I called, gathering up my crutches and hobbling after him. "Please, just let me explain."

He shook his head. "You don't need to."

"I want to."

He didn't stop, if anything his pace picking up as he stalked purposefully toward the front doors.

"It didn't mean anything," I said, trailing after him. "You have to trust me, this was all just a big mistake."

He stopped just short of the front doors, then turned, his face inches from mine.

"Please don't go like this," I said.

He took a deep breath, shaking his head as he blew it out. "Like what, Maddie?"

I swallowed. "Mad."

He gave me his best Bad Cop stare. "I'm not mad."

"You look mad."

"No." He paused. "I'm disappointed."

I bit my lip. Wow. Somehow that was even worse. "In me?" I squeaked out.

He looked at a spot just over my head as if searching for the right words there. Finally he seemed to find them, giving me a long stare. "In us."

Again, worse. "Look, I don't know how many times I can say, it, Jack. I'm sorry. It was mistake. We all make mistakes."