Kasey Michaels: High Heels and Holidays

"That and the fact that we've seen Jonathan West's manuscript," Alex inserted helpfully, just as Maggie was on a roll. "That did assist us somewhat in our conclusions, didn't it? But you're right, my dear, he did wish to puff himself up. Did I mention that I spoke with Miss Holly Spivak earlier and she was kind enough to tell me that, yes, she knew Bruce McCrae personally. Not that the woman would ever betray a source, but I believe we now know how the media became informed of the details of the case."

Maggie pointed a finger at Alex. "And that's another thing. The manuscript. Bruce has a Mac, like me. Bernie checked for me, and Bruce sent his version of the manuscript in on a Mac formatted disk, using AppleWorks. The disk we have is PC, with Microsoft Word. Jonathan's disk. I'm not sure what that means, but I'm pretty sure it means something a computer nerd could prove. You know—dates created, dates modified. Oh, yeah, he's screwed. Really screwed."

"Okay, we're done here. Looks like the serial killer's going to strike again. Three times in one night."

Maggie turned to look back at Bruce, to see that he'd grabbed J.P.'s Glock out of her purse. "Right, just my luck," she said, shrinking back against the cushions. "But it isn't going to work, Bruce. Steve! He's got a gun."

"Steve?" Bruce shook his head. "You try to pull an old stunt like that, and talk about me being heavy-handed? Like, sure, I believe the lieutenant is going to pop out now from behind a potted plant. Give me a break."

"I think you'll be getting more like thirty-five to life," Steve said from the hallway, and Maggie turned to see him in a two-handed stance and looking—well, she wouldn't want to cross him at the moment.

Bruce McCrae, however, didn't seem to hold the same opinion. Then again, Maggie wasn't facing thirty-five to life, was she? As Maggie watched, she heard the explosion of the Glock, saw the flash, and turned just in time to see Alex hit the floor hard after the force of his body had, hopefully, redirected Bruce's aim away from Steve.

"Alex!" Maggie yelled, already on her feet before she realized what she'd done. Stupid, stupid move! That was all she could think as Bruce grabbed her and pulled her in front of his body as a human shield.

"Halt! Hold it right there, McCrae, and let her go," Steve commanded, still with his weapon aimed at Bruce ... okay, it really was sort of aimed at her, Maggie thought, trying hard to swallow as Bruce's forearm threatened to cut off her breathing, as he dug the muzzle of the Glock into her waist. God, how she hated being Penelope Tied to the Railroad Tracks. It was getting so old.

"I don't believe the gentleman is willing to do that, left –tenant," Alex said, getting to his feet, picking up his cane and using it for leverage. "And, although it may mean little to the point, the gentleman is also in extraordinary physical condition. Perhaps we can come to a solution satisfactory to all of us?"

Steve kept his weapon trained on Bruce. "Blakely, not now. Why in hell do I ever listen to either of you? You know the paperwork this is going to cost me—if I don't end up walking a beat on Coney Island."

Bruce tightened his grip, probably so that Maggie would make a sound and redirect everyone's attention to them. It worked. "Aaargh! Hey, guys, I have an idea. How about we just let him go? He's not going to kill a cop—nobody's that stupid. Right, Bruce? How about you just leave, hmmm? You know, we'll walk to the elevator and you can use me as a shield until the doors open, then toss me straight into their arms, ruining Steve's aim until the doors close again with you inside. Come on, Bruce, you've seen it work a hundred times in the movies. It's a good scenario. Isn't it, Alex?"

"Good idea, sunshine," J.P. said, holding a couch pillow in front of her as if it might protect her from a bullet. "And the sooner the better. There's a full clip in that thing. Enough for everybody."

"The idea does sound workable," Alex said with maddening calm. It must be nice to know you can't die. Maggie only hoped he'd remember that she could. "What say you, left –tenant? Are you thoroughly opposed to McCrae here taking his exit?"

"She goes with me, all the way to the street."

"Oh, I don't think so," Alex drawled, the cane now in both hands. "There are limits to my magnanimity, even if you, for the moment, have the upper hand."

Maggie knew he was planning something, something heroic. She just wasn't sure if her heart was up to those heroics. "No, no, it's okay, I don't mind," she said quickly. "Come on, Bruce, let's go. Just back up to the door and I'll reach behind you and open it. Really. Anything I can do to help."

"Maggie—"

"Please, Steve," she said, cutting him off. "I'm almost more afraid of your gun than I am his, because I can see yours. We'll be fine. Won't we, Bruce? You don't want to shoot me, or anybody. You just want to get away. Hop a bus, hail a cab. Get yourself lost in the city until you can think of some nifty way to disappear. You're smart, you can do this. So—let's get you started, okay?"

Maggie closed her eyes in relief as Bruce's grip tightened slightly as he began moving backward, toward the door.

One step. Two. Seven?

Maggie reached back a hand and located the doorknob on the second try.

She pulled it open.

"Oh, thank you, I wondered how I'd do that with a cat in each hand," Sterling said behind her ... just before Napoleon, who was just the sort of animal to carry a grudge after being banished in favor of a dog, leapt free of Sterling's grasp to land, all claws out, on Bruce's back.

This time when Alex grabbed her and pushed her away there was no snow-covered evergreen to break her fall, and she landed with a thud on the hard floor, all the air knocked from her lungs, pretty little silver stars dancing in front of her as she tried to both breathe and admire Alex and Steve subduing Bruce, slapping on the cuffs.

Sterling, still holding Wellington, could only stand there, a puzzled look on his face, poor thing. Once again he'd been the hero, after assuring everyone weeks ago, after the first time, that he would rather not do anything even vaguely heroic ever again.

"Be—beautiful," Maggie managed as J.P. pulled her unceremoniously to her feet. "Not ... not exactly as we'd planned ... but any landing you can walk away from, right?"

"I'm so sorry, sunshine," J.P. said as she led Maggie to one of the couches. "I should have realized he'd go for my gun."

"We all should have realized that," Alex said as he closed the door, Steve and Bruce already headed downstairs. "Truthfully, I didn't think we could make him confess, at least not tonight. I should know that all murderers are, at the heart of it, cowards. You were splendid, Maggie, by the way. All things considered, another rather grand adventure. J.P., did you happen to notice where that shot impacted? I'm afraid I was too busy coming to grips with the notion that I'd attempted to tackle a brick wall."

"No, I didn't. You saved Steve's life, you know. Cops don't fire unless fired upon—not the good ones, like Steve. Maybe in the ceiling?"

Maggie got up and began looking for a bullet hole. Not that she really cared, but it beat a bout of hysterics any day.

"Nope, not the ceiling," she said, wandering closer to the place where Steve had been standing. "Not the wall, not the—oh, cripes," she said, burying her head against Alex's shoulder as he slipped a comforting arm around her. "He killed my treadmill ..."

Dear Fred,

Okay, Fred, here's the scoop—I can't write to you anymore. It was a good idea at the time, it really was, but now things are getting just a little personal between Alex and me, you know? Well, of course you don't know, because I didn't tell you, did I? Trust me—we got personal. Three times so far.