Alibi in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page A

dimple flashed in his left cheek. He curled an index finger at me. "Come 'ere."
    I shook my head. "Uhn uh. Your turn."
    His grin faltered for a half a second before he conceded, sliding out of bed. "All right. But that towel better be history by the time I come out," he warned.
    I shot him my best come hither look as he brushed past me and into the bathroom.
    And as soon as he shut the door I sprang into action. I dropped the towel and threw on a denim skirt, pink baby T, and a deconstructed jacket to match my one black ballet flat. Thankfully, I still heard the water running as I grabbed my purse and crutches and bolted out the door.
    I know. Totally dirty trick to play on Ramirez. Especially when he was being all cute. But there was no way I was going to question Gisella's agent with Ramirez playing bodyguard. And, as much as I loved him, there was no way I was leaving this all to the police.
    The thing about Ramirez was that he wasn't a guy who did gray. Life was either black or white to him. Cops: good. Criminals: bad. Victims were victims and if you found yourself behind bars, there was probably a good reason for it. Which is why Ramirez and I spent 90% of our time together butting heads. Me - I was all about the gray stuff. Sometimes I wasn't entirely sure Ramirez could handle a girlfriend who, once in awhile, found herself sitting in a holding cell. Or who, on the rare occasion, had been known to do a little B&E for a good cause. I wasn't sure Ramirez could handle gray. And, on days like this, I wasn't sure how much longer he'd continue trying to for my sake.
    Especially when he found the hotel room empty.
    I tried to shrug that thought to the back of my mind as I grabbed a cab outside the hotel. As we pulled away from the curb, I glanced over my shoulder, afraid any second now Ramirez would come bolting out the front doors wearing nothing but his boxers. Luckily we were weaving our way into morning traffic before my cell rang, my own room number showing up on the caller ID.
    I bit my lip. Then hit the "ignore" button with a deep pang of Catholic guilt.
    Even if Moreau never formally charged me with Gisella's killing, I could tell the press had already convicted me. Unless I found out who had really done this, my career as a designer was in the toilet.
    So, really, I was sure Ramirez would understand. I was just doing my job.
    Fifteen minutes (and two more phone calls) later we pulled up to the Hotel de Crillon. Thankfully, it was relatively paparazzi free, every news hound in town still haunting the Le Croix tent and the Plaza Athenee. I stopped in the lobby only long enough to a) grab a cup of coffee and b) ask which room Donata Girardi was staying in. Of course the kid on duty, a short, chubby guy with bad acne, said it was against hotel policy to give out that information. Instead, he handed me a courtesy phone and dialed in Donata's number for me. Luckily, she was in. And, after I briefly explained who I was, agreed to see me.
    I downed my coffee and made for the elevators. With no small effort, I ignored the "William Tell Overture" ringing from my purse yet again as I knocked on Donata's door. I heard movement on the other side, then it was opened by a slim woman in her fifties, with thick black hair, thick black lashes, and I suspected without the help of Nair, a thick black mustache. She wore a pale blue tailored suit with a cream colored scarf knotted at her neck and pointy-toed leather heels on her feet. Her eyes held a slightly squinty appearance, as if she'd had an aggressive facelift in the recent past, and her lips puckered in an unnatural way beneath her coral colored lipstick. Despite the obvious work, I could tell by her high cheekbones and heart shaped chin that she was once a very naturally beautiful woman. She was slim though the hips, with long legs, and had the faintest hint of a small, heart shaped birthmark just above her left cheek at the hairline. I immediately got the sense that, like so many