Free Killer Heels by Sheryl J. Anderson

tank. A childhood passion I haven’t outgrown.”
    “Fascinating.”
    “Actually, it’s pretty geeky, but I enjoy it.”
    I was trying to figure out how to invite myself to a fish viewing when Detective Lipscomb stepped back into the doorway. I felt like my father had flipped on the porch light while I was kissing Randy Gochenauer good night in ninth grade. Embarrassment doesn’t get easier with age.
    “You booked on a later elevator, Edwards?” Detective Lipscomb growled.
    Detective Edwards took a step toward his non-smiling partner. “You have my card. Call us in the morning and we’ll arrange to meet you at the morgue. Ten or eleven, maybe.”
    “I will. Thank you, Detective Lipscomb.” I stuck my hand out instinctively. Detective Lipscomb shook it without comment. “Detective Edwards.” I moved my hand to him and he shook it with a gentle pressure that made me want to leave my hand in his.
    “Good night.” Detective Lipscomb walked out of the doorway again, giving Detective Edwards his exit cue.
    Detective Edwards released my hand slowly and started out after Detective Lipscomb. “Call me if you think of anything.”
    There was an invitation I could do something with. “Count on it.” He was almost out of the doorway and I blurted one more time. “Too bad your partner’s already buying you breakfast.”
    He vanished into the hallway and I wondered if maybe he hadn’t heard me or worse, if he had heard me and decided that such a stupid line wasn’t worthy of response, but a second later, he was leaning back into the doorway. “Lipscomb can wait.”
    “Carnegie Deli about eight?” I suggested. “Yvonne can stay with Helen. I think I could have some ideas for you by then, people you should talk to, that sort of thing. Official business.”
    Detective Edwards smiled. “Doesn’t have to be official. But I’ll be there.” And he vanished from the doorway again. I closed the door behind him and waited there until I could wipe the stupid grin off my face. That was the last thing Helen needed now.

4
    “What you need,” Tricia advised, “is something businesslike, with a hint of provocative softness.”
    Cassady grimaced. “Thank you, Melissa Rivers.”
    It was seven o’clock in the morning and I should have been standing there counting my blessings that I had two such good friends who were willing to be up, dressed, and in my apartment taking control of my life at that wretched hour. But I was not in the most altruistic of moods at that moment, so what I was doing was standing there, wrapping myself up in my bathrobe and hating the contents of my closet. Hating my waistline and thighs was next on the list, but that’s such a natural progression it hardly needs mentioning.
    My apartment’s not bad by New York standards, but the bedroom was feeling a little small this morning with all three of us in there and my being cranky. I actually love my apartment. I’m in the West 40’s, I get a little morning light, and the bathtub’s not in the kitchen. I’ve been here three years, but I still haven’t progressed past the framed movie posters and bookcases-wherever-possible level of decorating. I need to paint, but I keep changing my mind about how dramatic to be, so I keep putting it off. The apartment’s in transition and so am I.
    “It’s breakfast,” Cassady said.
    “So, a moderately plunging neckline,” Tricia suggested.
    “I don’t want him looking at my breasts,” I muttered.
    “Yeah, I can see that,” Cassady nodded.
    “Excuse me?” My less-than-perfect mood had the slam-sensors working overtime.
    Cassady grimaced at me now. “I’m agreeing that it would be distracting. What did you think I meant?”
    With a good night’s sleep, I might not have thought she meant anything, but this comment combined with her question while we were strolling through the lingerie department at Saks a week ago—had I ever thought about a Wonderbra?—put a different spin on it. Clearly, she was