The other women in the shoe department fit into two categories: the Ladies Who Lunch, with their important jewelry and salon blow outs, and the ProHos with their non-tourages—girlfriends and personal trainers.

I slid the pink Louboutin heels on for the second time. The ribbons crisscrossed my ankles and the three-inch wedge heels made my legs look impossibly long in my dark jeans. My eyes scanned the department from one end to the other. My salesperson was in a far-off corner, helping someone who wasn’t me.

I leaned down and picked up my purse, turned on the three-inch Louboutin wedge heels, and walked out of the department toward my car parked curbside. I let the door close behind me and exhaled a sigh of relief. After all, Saks right next door was where that sticky-fingered Winona Ryder had gotten busted.

My Louboutin wedges pressed the gas pedal and I pulled out of the metered space. I wondered if my distracted salesman would even notice my three-year-old Charles David shoes in the Louboutin box.

Easing my car onto Wilshire, I started to head back to Hollywood for home. I calculated that I could make it in about twenty minutes. I prided myself on my inner navigation system that was better than any computerized system for figuring out traffic routes. My own little voice in my head. Braking, I decided to change my route. Instead of taking Wilshire all the way east, I was going to cut across traffic. I was going to take Doheny all the way.

Monday morning, I rushed in the door twenty minutes late. This was uncharacteristic of me, but I’d slept all the rest of the weekend and had slept through my alarm. I was speed-walking through the maze of cubicles toward my door on the far side of the office with my shades on and my head lowered. I was determined to get to my office and put my things down before someone saw me and realized that I was, for once, late.

I hadn’t even made my way halfway through the cubicles before I heard Steve call my name sharply.

“Dani, in here, now!”

I had heard him use this tone before, just never in my direction. I detoured to his office and took a seat.

Steve looked pale. He usually spent his weekends surfing (a holdover from his jiggle-fest show), so something was definitely wrong.

“Shut the door.”

I complied and gave him a questioning look. “Steve, are you okay? You look like shit.”

He took a deep breath and raked his hands through his hair. “Chloe Johnson was found dead yesterday.”

“What? Our Chloe Johnson?” I was shocked.

“Yes, our Chloe Johnson,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Do you know what happened?” I asked. “You said she was found dead. Was she in some sort of an accident?”