Better than Miami, New York and even Vegas.

I snuck through the crowded parking lot imagining all the ways my long black scarf could be used to strangle me. Someone could be hiding under that rusty, old van waiting to tackle me to my death.

If they think I won't fight back, they're sadly mistaken.

Today my mom and I visited the Oakland County Circuit Court so she could be sworn in as a notary public. A policewoman stopped us at the metal detectors and instructed us to return our phones to the car; no cameras were allowed. This is when I set out on my mission.

I grabbed my mom's cell phone, looked her in the eyes and said determinedly, "Give me the keys. I'll take care of this."

I walked through the exit, eyes wide open, careful not to let any future clues slip my sight. The authenticity of CSI: Miami was confirmed when I eyed a large bus with tinted windows, clearly used to transport criminals.

I walked with conviction along the sidewalk, examining each car I passed for anything unusual. My mind fell victim to fantasy (and perhaps too much TV.)

...

A camera pans across the parking lot, weaving through a neat line of cars belonging to the dozens of people leaving the circuit court. The camera finishes with the lot and focuses in on me, CSI Maria.

I am wearing sunglasses. Sporadic, but obviously natural, gusts of wind move my hair so that it bounces catching the light in just the right places. The gun strapped to my hip warns people not to fuck with me.

All of a sudden, a gun shot rattles the winter silence. People scream and duck by cars and bare trees, anxiously using purses and limbs to shield small children and geriatrics. I stealthily remove my gun from the holster and point it into the air while screaming, "Get down!" I call for back-up on my walkie talkie as I walk in a half squat.

I spot something. My peripheral vision is better than the straight-on vision of a pilot in the Air Force.

Oh no he didn't.

The shooter is trying to make a getaway. He's on foot.

"Stop where you are!" I warn him. But like most criminals, he doesn't listen. He has no idea who he's messing with.

The shooter takes off into the woods. I break out in a sprint faster than my dad racing my brothers for the last piece of mom's carrot cake. Gun in hand, I leap over branches and abnormally large stones while chasing after the shooter. He's slowing down. I fire some shots for effect.

I'm gaining on him.

I tear a large branch from a tree I'm passing and throw it at the perpetrator's back. It's enough to send him flying. When I reach him, I step on his back smearing his face in a large pile of wolf droppings. If I wasn't so excited about torturing him in the interrogation room, I'd leave him for the wolves.

Instead, I alert my extremely attractive (but inferior in speed) male partner that, once again, I've caught the bad guy. I kneel on his spine and pull the shooter's arms behind his back.

"You run slower than my 85 year old yia yia, who's legs resemble chopped off 300 year old tree stumps," I whisper in his ear as I cuff him.

...

Back in the real world, I locate mom's car and put our phones in the glove compartment. A convict stares me down as I re-enter the court. I go to finger my gun just to realize there's nothing there. I pick up the pace so the elderly police woman can protect me if anything should happen.

Some expert advice: If you're ever attacked, fight back and leave DNA so there will be a trail when the detectives come looking.

Anyway... It didn't take long for mom to be sworn in. We left court and started driving out of the complex. My skin tingled as we passed the medical examiner's office. I let my mind drift to the ME's slab and the murder victim who's death I was about to solve.

Enough with the cities. I should sell the rights to (and star in) a new series called CSI Maria.

Jerry Bruckheimer... Call me!