Final Option

Ferragamo pumps I’d worn to Hexter’s on Sunday morning were taken as evidence. Inexplicably, they chose to confiscate every single pair of running shoes I owned as well as an old Shetland sweater, last worn horseback riding more than a year before, which was stored in the basement. Also a pair of mud-splattered driving gloves that they found shoved in the back of my front hall closet.
    Claudia’s shoes, like those of all surgeons, were splattered with blood and posed a special problem for the police. Claudia indignantly explained that even though she wore paper covers over her running shoes in the operating room, some blood always got through. I pointed out that Claudia wore a size six and I wore a size ten, but Ruskowski remained unmoved. In the end he took them all into evidence while Claudia steamed.
    “What am I supposed to wear to work tomorrow morning?” demanded my roommate while I signed the evidence receipts.
    “And what am I supposed to wear to go running?” I asked, handing the slips back to him.
    “Buy yourself a new pair,” replied Ruskowski. “But I wouldn't spend too much money on them if I were you. They won’t let you take them to the Women’s Correctional Facility.”
    “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” I replied as I closed the door after him.
     
    “I don’t know about you,” announced Claudia, “but I need a drink. Do we have anything?”
    “I think there’s still a bottle of wine left from that case that Stephen brought over. It’s in the fridge.”
    “Is there any food?” inquired Claudia as I fetched the bottle and struggled with the cork. “Being violated by the police always gives me an appetite.”
    “You heard the man. The cupboard is bare.”
    “I could always whip up some roast arm,” quipped my roommate.
    “I think I’d rather order a pizza.”
    “Okay. Then maybe you can explain to me what just happened here tonight.”
    I did as I was bidden, poured myself a glass of wine, and joined my roommate at the kitchen table.
    “I told you I was a suspect,” I said. “The police have subpoenaed my files and my bank records, and now they’ve searched my apartment.”
    “But why? What possible reason could you have had for killing this guy Hexter?”
    “This morning Detective Ruskowski paid me a little call at the office and accused me of having had an affair with Hexter. It seems as though I have a twin who’s been shacking up with him at an apartment downtown. The cops showed my photo to the doorman of the building and he identified me.”
    “Great,” replied Claudia, “a twin who’s a slut. So what are you going to do about it?”
    “Nothing. What is there to do?”
    “Have you thought about hiring a lawyer?”
    “That’s what Cheryl wants me to do.”
    “Sounds like good advice.”
    “Not yet,” I replied. “I don’t want to overreact. If I hire a criminal lawyer it’ll signal Ruskowski that I’m taking his suspicions seriously.”
    “They sound pretty serious,” answered Claudia, who usually thought that anything not involving the massive loss of blood wasn’t much to worry about. “Aren’t you worried that the police will be desperate to make an arrest, even if it’s the wrong person?”
    “Of course I’m worried. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m hoping that if they have half a brain among them they’ll think it’s more important for them to bring in a case that’ll stand up in court.”
    “Sounds to me like you’re playing with fire.”
    “Shit yes.”
    “I almost died when I got home and found the cops here. I have half a bag of dope in the freezer, hidden in an old margarine container.”
    “They never even looked,” I said. “They only got as far as the arm.”
    “Saved by the dead,” said Claudia. We both laughed. “I’ll tell you what really had me worried. From the wording of the subpoena, the cops could have searched both of us. I was terrified they’d ask to look in my purse.”
    “Why? What do you have in there?”
    I picked up my big Dooney & Burke satchel, big enough to qualify as a small suitcase, in which I carried the daily essentials of my life. I unzipped it and turned it over onto the kitchen table. Pens, coins, paper clips, sunglasses, bobby pins, and tubes of lipstick clattered out amid a flurry of dog-eared message slips, rumpled tissues, and candy wrappers. Finally, after a second shake, a Sig Sauer .380-caliber revolver fell on top of the whole mess with a