To die for . . .
Ramirez excused herself and went outside. Just a
cigarette break or was she up to something like knocking on doors
to interview my neighbors, asking things like, “Does Ms. Jewel
practice martial arts in the patio behind her house?” “Does she
hang out with lowlifes?” “Does she throw loud parties while wearing
stolen shoes?” “Would she kill for a pair of Louboutin shoes?
Manolo Blahniks? Roger Viviers?”
Now I was alone with sexy detective Jack Wall.
The room seemed smaller. The atmosphere heavy with unspoken
questions. Mine and his. Finally he spoke. “Regarding the shoes Ms.
Jensen was wearing. Any idea what happened to them?” he asked. “Do
you know anyone who would murder someone to get a pair of
shoes?”
“Most women love shoes. I’m no exception,” I
confessed. “But murder? I can’t imagine going that far. Although
they were silver.”
“Were they worth stealing?” Jack asked.
I shrugged. What was the right answer? I had no
idea. “Depends.”
“Worth killing for?”
I blinked. What could I say?