Gemma Halliday - Killer in High Heels

I smiled. “It’s the least I could do.” I didn’t add, especially since we’d zapped his dog.

“So has he confessed?” Maurice asked. “Monaldo, I mean. Has he admitted to killing Hank?”

I shifted in my seat. “Well, no, not exactly. But I’m sure he will. He’s confessed to being a part of an organized crime ring and from what the police say, he’ll be going away for a very, very long time.”

Maurice nodded, sniffling and dabbing with the tissue again. He shrugged. “I guess it’s possible he really didn’t kill Hank. You know, Hank was a very sensitive soul. Maybe it was all too much for him. Maybe he really did kill himself. There was a note, after all.”

I nodded. “Maybe.”

I watched as Maurice twisted his Kleenex into oblivion, Queenie yapping at his heels for attention, the scent of Clorox heavy in the air. Silence stretched between us as his last comment replayed in my head. Something wasn’t right. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as realization crept over me.

“Wait, what did you say?” I asked.

Maurice blinked at me. “That Hank was a sensitive soul.”

“No, not that,” I said, feeling my lips move in slow motion as puzzle pieces rapidly dropped into place. “About the suicide note?”

Maurice slowly looked up. Our eyes locked.

Ramirez had told me no one knew about the suicide note. They weren’t releasing that information to the public. There was only one other person who could have known that the police found a note.

Hank’s killer.

I swallowed, my mouth going drier than the Santa Annas as I stared at the man across from me. Suddenly his red-rimmed eyes held more malice than grief.

“I said Hank left a note,” Maurice said slowly, his face searching mine for hidden meaning.

“You’re right,” I said quickly. “He did. So it was probably a suicide after all.”

I had to get out of there! I had to call Ramirez. I had to leave. Now!

“Anyway, I’m sorry for your loss and I have somewhere to be so I guess I should be going.” I grabbed my purse and stood up, making quick strides toward the door. Which would have been a whole lot quicker if Queenie hadn’t been dancing between my legs, begging with a little yap, yap, yap for a pat on the head. If it weren’t for her, I might have made it to the door before I heard an unmistakable click behind me.

I froze. I was beginning to know that sound all too well. The clinch of a bullet sliding into the chamber. For the second time in as many days I spun around to find myself face to face with the barrel of a gun. Maurice took a wide stance, both hands wrapped around Hank’s.38 special. Tears trickled down his cheeks and his hands were shaking, the gun barrel bobbing between my forehead and my chest.

“I’m sorry, Maddie,” he said, sniffling again. “I liked you. I really did.”

His use of the past tense was not reassuring. “Maurice,” I said slowly, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “Let’s talk about this.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Maddie, there’s nothing to talk about. It’s over. It’s finally all over. They’re both gone now. Don’t you understand? It’s all over.”

I gulped. I didn’t understand. He wasn’t making a whole lot of sense and his tears were bordering on hysterical territory. The one thing I did understand was the gun pointed at my barely B chest, which at the moment I wanted to keep just the way it was, thank you very much.

“Maurice, just put down the gun and we’ll talk.” My eyes searched wildly around the apartment for anything within reach that could be used as a weapon. But thanks to Maurice’s compulsive cleaning tendencies, the surfaces were not only free of clutter, but free of anything sharp, heavy, or useful as a projectile. Damn!

He shook his head at me. “I’m sorry, Maddie, I can’t do that.” He stared crying even harder, big racking sobs. But, surprisingly, his grip on the gun seemed to be growing steadier. Not a good sign.

“You wrote the suicide note?” I asked, stalling for time. Not that I was sure what good that would do. No one knew where I was or even that I’d left the hotel, for that matter. But the longer I could delay getting shot, the better, in my book.

Maurice nodded. “I had to. I didn’t want anyone else to go to jail for killing him. I didn’t want anyone else to suffer.”

“Just Hank?”

More tears flowed and his nose starting running, only this time Maurice’s face contorted with anger. “He deserved to suffer! He cheated on me! Me! That jerk thought he could treat me that way. He was going to break up with me, move that big hairy ape of his into the home that I’d created for him. Sleep on my sheets, eat off my china, sit at the dining table I polished every week. I couldn’t let him do that. I couldn’t let him bring that Neanderthal into my home.”

“What Neanderthal? Monaldo?” I asked, confused. Maurice had mentioned he’d seen Hank coming out of Monaldo’s office. Maybe it had been more than a business relationship after all.

Maurice shook his head. “No. That goon of his. The one in need of a waxing.”

Unibrow! “Unibrow was gay?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

Maurice narrowed his watering eyes at me. “Yes, he was gay. We’re not all delicate little flowers, you know.”

I mentally rolled my eyes. The man with the gun was lecturing me on political correctness.

“So you pushed Hank off the roof?”

Maurice nodded. “Don’t you see? I had to. He was going to ruin everything with that big hairy monster of his.”

“Why naked?” I asked, remembering the little detail that had been bothering me from the start.

Maurice gave me a “well duh” look. “He was wearing an off-the-shoulder vintage Dior evening gown. It would have gotten blood all over it. There’s no way you could get those kinds of stains out.”

Good point.

“Where is the dress now?” I asked. Though, honestly, I couldn’t care less. I was fishing for anything to buy time, to distract him. I slowly eased one hand into my purse, dangling at my side. If I could just get my fingers around my cell phone…

“What are you doing?” The gun popped up from my chest to catch me smack between my eyes.

A wave of pure panic surged up from my belly, every muscle in my body going tense as he took a step forward.

“Nothing,” I squeaked out in a voice almost as shrill as Queenie’s nonstop yapping.

“Drop your purse. Throw it on the floor.”

I did as I was told, slowly slipping the thin strap off my shoulder and letting my one hope at rescue drop to my feet.

“Now kick it toward me,” he commanded.

I did, the contents spilling out the top as it bounced across the olive green shag. Queenie immediately pounced on the new toy and I cringed as her pointy little teeth dug into the Italian leather.

“Now what?” I asked, half dreading the answer.

“Now walk down the hallway,” Maurice said, gesturing with the tip of the gun. “Slowly.”

“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.