Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

She took a step forward, the gun pointed at my chest. "Just like I'm putting an end to this farce. Goodbye – Maddie," she said, her voice low, her eyes flat.

Chicken that I am, I closed my eyes. I know. Silly. But if my brains were going to be splattered all over this lovely Parisian hotel room, that wasn't the last thing I wanted to see.

I held my breath and felt tears well up.

And my last irrational thought as I stood there was that I was sorry. So amazingly sorry for dragging Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt into this. Sorry that I'd ever thought the killer could be Felix. And most of all, sorry that I'd hurt Ramirez. A picture of his face as he'd stared at me through the doorway of Felix's room haunted me as the tears fell down my cheeks in wet, hot streams. I would never, ever be able to forgive myself for hurting him. I hoped though that maybe, some day, he might forgive me.

I did a little hiccup sob as I heard the chamber of Charlene's gun cock, time seeming to stand still.

I held my breath, turned my head in anticipation.

But the next sound I heard was not the report of gunfire ripping into me, but the sound of a door bursting open.

I peeked one eye open.

"Freeze!" a voice yelled.

I froze. Willing myself not to pee my pants.

Until I realize the command was not directed at me – but at Charlene.

Only she wasn't quite as compliant as I was. She turned her gun on the voice, shooting off two rounds.

"What's going on out there!" Mrs. R cried from the bathroom.

"Duck, Betty," she told my mom.

The voice returned fire, hitting Charlene once in the shoulder and again in the kneecap. She screamed, dropping her gun and falling to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Then three armed officers wearing bullet proof vests ran into the room, converging on Charlene. One applied pressure to her gunshot wounds while another stuck handcuffs at her back and yet a third kept a gun trained on her.

I blinked, the air rushing out of me, the tears flowing freely again, but for a whole different reason as I looked up and saw the fourth guy walk into the room.

Moreau.

I shook my head, my mouth moving but no words coming out. Finally I managed one. "How…?"

Moreau smiled. "You didn't really think I suspected you, did you?"

My shoulders sagged and I crumpled to the ground.

Among cries from the bathroom of, "What the hell is going on out there?!"

I'm not sure how long I was crumpled like that on the floor, but at some point a uniformed officer scooped me up and moved me across the hall to another hotel room full of police scanners, walkie talkies, and other electronic devise I couldn't begin to guess the functions of. He sat me on the edge of the bed and a man in a white uniform with a red cross on it asked me a bunch of questions in French, to which I just shook my head, more tears falling. Finally he gave up, pulling out a first aid kit and checking me from head to toe. I had a few bruises, and very sore roots, but other than that I think he gave me a clean bill of health. I think, as he did it all in French. Though my leg throbbed like crazy under Wonder Boot. I guess fighting off a homicidal maniac was putting a little more pressure on it than Doctor Pontytail would advise.

I don't know long my exam took, but a few minutes later, Mom and Mrs. Rosneblatt were ushered across the hall, as well. I jumped up, giving them both a hug. For a second we kind of stuck to each other from the duct tape residue, but I didn't care. I'd never been so happy to see anybody in my life.

"I've never been so happy to see you in my life," Mom said, voicing my exact thoughts. "Oh, honey, are you okay?"

She finally pulled back a moment to look at me. I'm pretty sure I had long, horror movie streaks of mascara running down my cheeks, but at least I was minus gunshot wounds.

Which was more than I could say for Charlene. I could still hear her howling across the hallway as more guys in white stabilized her.

The man with the red cross did a repeat of his head-to-toe with Mom and Mrs. R, checking their persons. Mrs. R said the guy got a little fresh, but I'm pretty sure that was just wishful thinking on her part. Finally they were pronounced fine. A little dehydrated and hungry from being locked up and given drugged tea for two days. But a meal and some fluids and they'd be okay.

Which prompted another round of sticky hugging and grateful tears all around.

Finally, the guy with the first aid kit left and Moreau walked into the room.

"Madame Springer, Mademoiselle Rosenblatt," he said, nodding in Mom and Mrs. R's directions. Then his eyes settled on me. "Mademoiselle Springer. We meet again."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Yes we do. And I think it's you who has some explaining to do this time. What did you mean back there about not suspecting me?"

The dead squirrel on Moreau's upper lip shifted and I think it might have been his attempt at a smile. He sat down on an armchair opposite the bed.

"I'm sorry to have kept you in the dark, but I knew as long as the killer thought you were the prime suspect, she wouldn't flee."

"You used my daughter as bait?" Mom asked, doing a twin crossed arms thing.

"Uh…" Moreau looked from Mom to me, clearly feeling outnumbered. "No. Not exactly. But we felt as long as the killer thought her job of framing Mademoiselle Springer was working, she would feel safe enough to stay in Paris."

"So, you knew it was Charlene all along?"

He paused. "I'll admit, at first you were the focus of our investigations. It was impossible to overlook the similarities in the current deaths and your past, no?"

I shrugged. "I suppose."

"But," he went on, "as soon as we saw your DNA did not match the hairs found at the crime scene, you were cleared."

I'd forgotten all about the DNA sample I'd given up. "What about Charlene? What made you suspect her?" I asked.

He spread his hands out wide. "It was a simple matter of finances. She had recently made some large deposits which were unaccounted for. We did some digging into her life and found she had a record of petty thievery as a teenager. We were in the process of obtaining a warrant for a DNA sample from her when we were informed that you might be here with her."

I cocked my head to the side. "Informed?"

"Eh…" he paused. "How do you Americans say… a tip-off?"

"Who?"

He paused. His mustache twitching. "I'm sorry, I cannot say."

I narrowed my eyes. "Cannot or will not."

He looked down at the ground, up at the ceiling, everywhere but at my eyes.

I cleared my throat. "Look, I think after letting the press brand me as the Couture Killer to the entire free world, you owe me. Who was it?"

He did a little sigh, his mustache blowing north. "Detective Ramirez."

I felt my breath catch in my throat. "Ramirez?"

He nodded. "We got a call from the airport this morning. Apparently he was going back to the U.S., but apparently he missed his flight. He had to wait until this morning. Then he said he saw a news program and heard about your evidence and the interview scheduled for after the Le Croix show. He called, saying he smelled a… how did he put it… 'harebrained scheme?'"

For once I wasn't even peeved at the term. All I cared about was that he'd called! Okay, so he hadn't exactly called me, but he'd called someone about me. That was close, right?

I realized Moreau was still talking.

"…so, he changed his mind. He said he called his captain to tell him someone in Paris needed him more."

I blinked, unsure I had heard him right. Ramirez had blown of his captain for me ? I felt my heart swell and those tears welled behind my eyes again as I dared to hope.

"Is… is he here?" I craned my neck toward the door.