The Shoe

I was getting ready to leave when the call came in. My partner knocked, then stuck his head around the corner. “Boss? We got another one.”

Figures. Always right when you’re leaving. I sighed. “Another what?”

He swallowed, unable to meet my eyes. “A shoe.”

I grimaced. “Are you sure? I thought we had them sequestered in the closet!”

My partner kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He understood the pressure we were under. Despite all our best, efforts, too many shoes were being ripped apart. “It’s the Birkenstocks. You know how they are. They think they’re too good for the closet.”

Damn Birkenstocks, always thumbing their nose at us. It was because they were so popular, but popular didn’t mean squat when a predator was out there. “Alright. Show me.”

My partner led me down a darkened hallway then up a flight of stairs. Sure enough, there it was. A single shoe, lying on its side. I gagged. “What kind of monster would do something like that?”


“Take it easy, boss.” My partner leaned down and poke it with a pen. “I think it’s okay.”

I allowed myself a glimmer of hope. Seeing the remains of shoe after shoe… the Jimmy Choos, the Tory Burches, the Louboutins, for God’s sake… but if this one pulled through, maybe, just maybe, there was a God. I peered closer. “No teeth marks?”

“No teeth marks.” He carefully picked it up and handed it to me. “It looks okay, boss.”

I took a deep breath. He was right. There were no teeth marks. “We must have gotten here just in time. You know where its mate is?”

20180214_094637[1]My partner nodded. “Downstairs with the other Birkenstocks.  Hopefully, this will be what keeps them in the closet until we catch this whoever’s doing this – ”

“We know who’s doing this!” I exploded. “It’s the greyhound! Jay Pressincarla!”

My partner shot me a look. “She goes by Carla, boss.” He had a thing for that long legged speed queen. Not that I blamed him. She was a red fawn heart breaker. “I’m just saying. You know, there’s the westie, too.”


I snorted. “That westie’s so old and fat he can barely move. I’m telling you, it’s the greyhound. She may be retired, but she’s still fast. Fast like the wind.” I handed him the shoe. “I want eyes on her. And get that shoe back to its mate.”

“You’re making a mistake! That westie wants you to think he’s too old and fat – ”

I ignored my partner and stormed down the stairs. I didn’t care what he said. I knew it was the greyhound. That greyhound was fast, real fast, but it was only a matter of time. We’d catch her with a shoe one of these days. Nobody was that fast.

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