I own nothing in this story but it's plot. That's it.

Danny turned from the readouton the glowing computer screen, looking over at Lindsay. "The stuff on the shirt is bloodm all right. Mac called it."

Lindsay nodded slowly. "So the vic was stabbed, then hit on the head, then left inside a burning truck." The printer spit out the readout, the paper dropping into the tray. Picking it up, Danny slid it inside the case file.

"C'mon, let's get this back up to Mac." The two left the lab, heading toward a short flight of stairs behin two lab technicians.

"Somebody really went to a lot of trouble to kill this guy," Danny said. "Yet there's nothing to suggest he had enemies."

"We still have to search Quinata's place," Lindsay reminded him. "Hopefully that's turn up something." She paused, watching, as Danny stopped in the middle of the hall, at the foot of the stairs. His eyes were fixed on the feet of the lab technicians as they walked up the steps.

"Danny? You okay?"

He nodded. "Montana, do me a favour. Take a couple steps up the stairs, just normally."

Mystified, Lindsay turned, walked up three stairs, stopped, and looked back at Danny. He was smiling. "What?"

Danny turned. "Come on. We need to take another look at that shoerint we found," he said, starting for the impound garage.

Lindsay jumped off the stiars, hurrying to catch up with him. "And why do we need to do that?"

"You'll see."

¤

Crouching by the right-side running board, Danny examined the shoeprint, smiling slightly. "Whoever made this print did something wrong," he said, casting a sideways glance at Lindsay. "Look at that, and tell me what you see."

Lindsay looked at the print for a couple seconds. "I see a print from a size six stiletto heel," she said. "A dot from the heel, and the rest from the toe."

Danny nodded. "And that's what's wrong. When you climb stairs or a ladder, most people only use the ball of their foot and their toes." His eyes glittered. "No heel."

Lindsay was beginning to catch on. "And the the print was made after the fire." She looked at Danny, catching his smile. "This print was planted."

"And so the search narrows." Both looked down as Danny's phone beeped. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. "It's Stella," he said. "There's a new suspect up in Interrogation Room 2. She says we might want to sit in."

¤

Stella sat across the table from Tyler Colston, facing the mirror glass behind which Danny and Lindsay stood, watching.

Sliding a photo of Cory Quinata's burnt face across the table, Stela watched for a reaction. "Recognize this guy?"

Tyler's eyes shifted to the photo, then back up to Stella. "He's got no face. How could I recognize him?"

"His name's Cory Quinata," Stella said. That got a reaction. Tyler's eyes widened, blinking. "You know him."

"No," Tyler stated, jaw tightening.

"What' about his wife, Torie?" Tyler's mouth opened, ready to form the word 'no.' Stella cut him off. "The truth, Tyler," she warned, voice rising slightly.

"All right!" he half-shouted. Calming himself, he spoke again. "Yeah, I knew Torie," he muttered. "She and I hung out in the college days. Her daddy didn't approve of my kind, so we kept it quiet. Eventually, it got messy, and she broke it off. Few years later, she dropped me a note, saying she'd married some high-end money-boy. And I never heard from her since."

"What do you drive?" Stella asked, foldingher hands on the tabletop.

" Black Ford F-150."

Behind the mirror glass, Lindsay and Danny smirked, exchanging glances.

¤

Torie opened the door to her apartment, to see Danny and Lindsay waiting outside. "Detectives," she said, surprised. "What brings you here?"

"We need to take a look around your apartment," Danny said, holding up a folded search warrant. "We'd appreciate it if you would cooperate."

Torie swallowed. "Of course," she said, looking from one to the other.

Lindsay and Danny entered. There was a small entryway, from which a tiny kitchen branched to the right, leading to a small, open dining room. A sitting room was at one end of a hallway, the bathroom and master bedroom at the other. A door led to a sloet laundry room, and a small den branched off the hallway. Lindsay headed for the bedroom, Danny for the sitting room.

A sweep under the bed revealed nothing but a couple suticases, empty, and several large dustbunnied. Ditto for the bedside table and dresser.

Standing up from the white shag carpeted floor, Lindsay moved over to the mirrored closet door. Sliding it ope, she crouched, playing her flashlight beam over the rows of high-heeled sandals inside.

"How many shoes does this woman have?" she muttered. With a sigh, she leaned forward, taking the first shoe in line. Turning it over, she scanned the sole. Nothing. Replacing it, she reached for the next one.

-

Danny was lying flat on his stomach, looking under the couch. "Nothin' but dustbunnies," he muttered.

Rising up onto his knees, he shone the flashlight on the couch's endtable. A full ashtray caught his attention. Several of the cigarrette butts inside were ringed with lipstick. Others were not. Danny put one of each in evidence envelopes.

Standing, he moved down the hall to the bedroom, carrying the evidence he's just collected. Entering, he checked on Lindsay.

"You find anything?"

Lindsay replaced the shoe she was studying in the closet. "Just that she has thirty-eight pairs of high-heeled sandals in here," she said, reaching for the next one. "So far, anyway. You?"

Danny tapped the ecidence enveloped lightly against his hand. "DNA traces, and maybe another suspect. You checked the bed yet?"

"Just underit," Lindsay told him, picking up her seventy-eighth shoe, rounding out the number of pairs at thirty-nine.

Danny pulled back the coverlet, exposing a lightweight brown, gold, and white quilt. Beneath that were blue sheets, patterned with white flowers. Going over the sheets with luminol screen and flashlight, Danny found nothing.

Neither did Lidnsay. With a sigh of frustration, she sat back on the carpet. "Forty-five pairs of sandals," she said. "The woman must've bought out every shoe store in New York City."

Danny looked at the top shelf of the closet. Several banker's boxes marked 'Shoes' were lined up, lids on firmly.

"Hey, Montana. Check it out." Walking over, he lifted the first box down from the shelf, setting it on the floor. Pulling the lid off, he revealed another four pairs of shoes. Together they began working through them.

The pile of banker's boxes grew, as did frustration. Until the last one. The first hint was the skewed box lid. Lindsay took it, dusting the edges, inside and out, for fingerprints, while Danny check the shoes inside.

"Got something," Lindsay said, studying the left inside edge of the lif. Preparing a piece of lifting tape, she place it over the print, carefully peeling it off.

"Same here," Danny grinned. "And it only took us sixty-seven pairs of sandals.

There was a quiet thud, then, a moment later, a click. Mystified, the two detectives moved out into the hallway.

"Torie?" Lindsay called. There was no answer. Moving slowly, Danny and Lindsay walked toward the sitting room.

There, lying sprawled on the cream-coloured carpet, was Torie. She was on her back, head lolled to the right. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the couch. A dark red stain spread across the carpet, growing slowly.

"I'll call Mac," Danny said seriously.