Gemma Halliday: Killer in High Heels

“Where are we going?”

“The bathroom,” Maurice responded. “I’m going to shoot you in the bathtub. Easier to clean up.”

I felt the gun barrel at my back, poking and prodding me down a narrow hallway, into a small bathroom. The floor and tub were tiled in rosy ceramic squares, the walls a nauseating teal. The room smelled like someone had plugged in fifteen different air fresheners all at once. I gulped back the sickeningly sweet scent as Maurice spun me around.

“Hold your hands out in front of you,” he commanded, the gun barrel mere inches from my face.

What choice did I have? I held my hands out, palms up, wrists together. Maurice reached into a bathroom cabinet, all the while keeping the.38 pointed my direction, and pulled out a roll of duct tape. Using his teeth he pulled at the end, then wrapped the sticky gray stuff around my wrists until I was immobilized. That panic started to build again and I felt tears pricking my own eyes.

“Maurice, please, let’s talk about this,” I pleaded.

Maurice ripped off another piece of tape with his teeth, then gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Maddie. I truly am. But I have to do it.” Then he stuck the tape over my mouth, smoothing down the edges until any hope of making a sound more than a whimper was lost.

And I’m not ashamed to say, I did in fact take the opportunity to whimper. In fact I whimpered so piteously as Maurice nudged me into the bathtub that Queenie bounced down the hallway to see what was happening. She still held the strap of my purse in her teeth and cosmetics, credit cards, tampons, and change trailed behind her. She padded into the bathroom, her little nails clicking on the tile, and rubbed against Maurice’s leg. He reached down absently and gave her head a pat. So grateful was she for the attention, that Queenie dropped the purse strap and started yapping a thank you up at Maurice. As my favorite leather handbag hit the floor, a cell phone tumbled toward the edge of the tub. My eyes grew big and I was glad the duct tape stifled my gasp as I saw it wasn’t my cell phone. It was Dana’s special cell phone.

The stun gun.

“Now, Maddie, please make this easy on both of us,” Maurice directed, sniffling and biting his lip as he held the gun in a straight-arm pose, taking his aim. “Don’t move, just stay right where you are.”

Not on your life, pal.

I took a deep breath, gave myself a two count, then lunged for the cell. My bound hands clamped around it just as I heard the gun erupt. The bullet whizzed so close to my ear that I felt it ruffle my hair before it embedded itself in the shower tiles, sending chips of rosecolored ceramic spraying in the air.

“Look what you did!” Maurice shouted, aiming down at the floor where I was wriggling toward him like a snake, cell stunner shoved out in front of me, hoping to god I pushed the right button.

“It’s too late to call for help, Maddie,” he said, popping off another shot. This one bounced on the tile beside me, sending Queenie into a tizzy. She bounded up and down like a yo-yo, thankfully springing between me and Maurice’s gun as I edged closer. Just a few more inches…

“Move, you mutt,” Maurice yelled, squinting one eye shut as he tried to aim around the yapper.

One more inch…

I wriggled closer, reaching my arms out as far as they would go, then closed my eyes and hit the red button.

Maurice gave a strangled little cry, then crumpled to the ground, his head landing inches from mine as his tongue lolled to the side.

I sighed with relief and went limp myself, staring at the teal ceiling, taking deep breaths and basking in the glory of being alive.

I gave myself a couple more beats of basking, then traded my stunner for Maurice’s.38 and backed up against the far wall. Holding the gun in one hand, I grabbed a corner of the duct tape covering my mouth and ripped.

“Holy mother of god!” I cried. My eyes welled up with tears, my hands instinctively going to my throbbing upper lip. I think I ripped off a layer of skin. Or two. Well, on the up side, at least I didn’t have to worry about that mustache wax anymore.

Trying to ignore the fire smoldering on my upper lip, I quickly grabbed my real cell phone from my purse and dialed Ramirez’s number.

For once, he picked up. I tried to explain where I was and what was going on without giving him another heart attack, though I’m not sure I completely succeeded. He was quiet for a second, then let out a whole string of curses, some of which I had to give points for creativity. Once he ran out of curses, he said he’d be right there. I hung up just as Maurice began to twitch on the floor.

Shit. I grabbed the roll of duct tape and, with my own hands still stuck together, awkwardly wrapped it around Maurice’s ankles and wrists. Then, just for good measure, I smoothed a piece over his mouth too. Which, knowing how much that sucker was going to hurt to take off, was rather evil of me. But what could I say? Being duct taped put me in a vindictive mood.

Once I had him bound, I propped him against the tub, then scooted to the far wall and picked up the.38 again, pointing it straight at Maurice as his eyes flickered open in surprise.

He looked down at his bound hands, then up at the gun, his eyes going wide and weepy.

“Sorry, Maurice,” I said, keeping the gun aimed at his bald head. “I had to do it.”

As I may have mentioned before, there are two things in this world I hate more than getting shot at. Birkenstocks (which no matter what kind of pedicure you wear them with, always make a girl’s feet look like they should be drenched in patchouli at a Grateful Dead concert) and sit-ups (the cruelest form of punishment still currently legal). But, I realized as Ramirez tugged at my wrists, I had a third item to add to the list.

Duct tape.

“Owww!” I whined, watching the evil gray strips rip the peach fuzz off my arms.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Ramirez said, dropping another piece on the floor.

“But it hurts!”

“We’re almost done. Just one more piece.” He shot me one of his lopsided grins, then ripped the little sucker off.

“Owww!” I wailed.

Okay, I admit, I was playing up the baby thing just a little. But the way Ramirez had fawned over me ever since he burst through Maurice’s bathroom door, I’d be an idiot not to. The first thing he’d done was grab me in another rib-crushing hug that lasted so long I feared I’d pass out. Then he’d promised he was not letting me out of his sight again. Ever. Okay, so probably a little heat-of-the-moment and unrealistic, but it made my heart go all mushy inside anyway.

After the LVMPD had arrived and taken Maurice into custody (sobbing all the way to the squad car), Ramirez had held my hand while the paramedics checked me out, and Detective Sipowicz (who was looking a little peeved at seeing me yet again ) took my statement. Then Ramirez had packed me into his SUV and driven me back to the New York, New York, where he was currently removing the last remainders of my latest encounter with the homicidal Mr. Clean.

“There,” he said, pulling one more bit of sticky tape from my arm. “All done.”

I rubbed my wrists. “It still hurts,” I whined.

Ramirez got a wicked look in his eyes and his lopsided grin grew to Big Bad Wolf proportions. “Maybe I should kiss it and make it better.”

“Seriously? I just almost get killed- again -and you’re thinking about sex?”

He grinned. “I’m male. I’m always thinking about sex.”

“Oh brother.” I rolled my eyes.

“Come on. You. Me. A quiet hotel room.” He looked down at the double. “A big bed…”

Hmmm…I had to admit, he made a persuasive argument. Which became even more persuasive when he grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips, whispering a soft kiss along the inside of my wrist.