They each touched off two rounds. I’d expected the sound suppressors to still be on, but they weren’t, and the four loud shots shattered a mirror behind us and a large vase to our left.
Beautiful, rich, and powerful people started screaming and diving for the floor. Whitey and his buddy disappeared into the crystal bar. Louis yanked out his Glock and we started to run forward, jumping over patrons crawling for cover.
Before we could get even close to the bar, Randall Peaks and three other Saudi royal bodyguards blocked the way. They were set up in a defensive semicircle, backs to the terrified princesses. Their guns looked a heck of a lot bigger than Louis’s.
“Drop it or I will shoot,” Peaks roared in French, and then English.
“They were shooting at us!” I yelled. “We’re the good guys, Peaks!”
“Drop the gun now, or I will kill you.”
“Screw you,” Louis said. He turned and began running back the other way.
“Don’t shoot him!” I shouted. “We’re going to the street.”
When I spun around and headed after Louis, however, there was an unmistakable prickle at the back of my neck, a sensation that only happens when there’s a gun aimed my way. Ignoring it, I followed Louis through the lobby and out into the street.
I heard screams down the block. Whitey and the Nose jumped an iron fence that surrounded an outdoor seating area off the bar and were sprinting away from us.
We chased them down the Avenue Montaigne, up the Rue François 1er, and then north on the Rue de Marignan. But my hip was killing me, and they were far younger than Louis. By the time we hit the crowded sidewalks of the Champs-Élysées, we’d lost them.
We trudged back to the Plaza Athénée to find six police cars out front with their lights flashing, and a crowd growing on the sidewalk across from the hotel. At first the police tried to keep us out, but when Louis explained that we were not only witnesses to the shooting but the targets, we were allowed entry.
There were ten, maybe fifteen uniformed officers already inside, and four detectives from La Crim, including Investigateur Hoskins, who took one look at Louis and me and said, “Really? The second night in a row you’re involved in a shoot-out? Really?”
“Calm down, Sharen…investigateur,” Louis said. “They came after Jack. One of these men was the same pale guy who shot up Open Café.”
“That true?” Hoskins asked.
“He wore a pair of panty hose over his head, but I’d put money on it,” I said. “They were looking for the same woman they tried to kill last night.”
“Do we know why they’re after her?”
“Something to do with drugs,” I said.
“They didn’t say anything else to you?”
“Uh, no…wait. Yes. They asked if she was still smoking, and I said like a chimney, and then Louis started banging on the door.”
“Well, just so you know, you’ve both caused an international incident,” Hoskins said. “There were Saudi royals in there when the shooting started.”
“We noticed,” I said.
“If they and their bodyguards weren’t there, I might have caught them,” Louis said. “They blocked us. Threatened to shoot me.”
“What about royal family don’t you understand?” Hoskins asked.
“Last time I looked, France was a European country,” Louis snapped.
“And last time I looked, the Saudis were vital allies of France,” she retorted. “I guarantee I’m going to be hearing all sorts of flak over this.”
“My condolences,” Louis said. “What about Pincus?”
“Nothing more than you knew this morning,” she replied. “You’ll need to come into La Crim in the morning to make a statement. Both of you.”
“First thing,” I promised. “Can I go back to my room?”
“They were wearing gloves?” she asked.
“They were, and, like I said, panty hose over their heads. So I don’t think they left much evidence other than the hammer Whitey threw at me.”
“I’ll send an officer up to collect it,” she said, and then turned away.
It was almost eight when I left Louis. Despite all that had happened, I was going to make my date with Michele Herbert. When I reentered the suite, it felt unprotected, strange, and violated. I double-locked the balcony doors, took a shower, changed clothes, and went back out in less than fifteen minutes.
The police had begun letting witnesses leave, and the loggia was emptying out. The staff was clearly out of sorts, and several of them, including fair Elodie, the concierge, glared at me as I walked through the lobby. I guess word had gotten around that the bad guys had been trying to kill me, and somehow I’d become a villain for aiding in a breach of the Plaza’s legendary decorum.
When I got in the taxi and gave the driver the address and name of the restaurant Michele Herbert had suggested, I tried to compartmentalize and clear my mind, tried to look forward to the artist’s company and several glasses of wine.
But something came back to me, something Whitey had said when they had me semi-hog-tied on the bed. He hadn’t just asked about her smoking: he’d specifically mentioned the lighter on the chain around her neck.
What the hell was that all about?
Chapter 41
11th Arrondissement
10:30 p.m.
A LINE SNAKED down the sidewalk outside Le Chanticleer Rouge. Most of the patrons trying to get into the Red Rooster club were well dressed and attractive couples, plus a few single women.
“Unaccompanied males are not allowed in the club tonight,” called a bouncer who was walking along the line with a short, severe brunette carrying a clipboard and studying everyone they passed.
“You,” she said to a woman with a plunging bust. “You four behind her.”
The bouncer stood back to let the woman and two attractive and now happier couples go forward. He ignored the people complaining that they’d been in line longer. It didn’t matter. The Red Rooster was not a first come, first served kind of place. Like at Studio 54 in Manhattan back in the hero days of disco, you had to be selected to enter.
The bouncer and the “hostess” continued to move along the line, dismissing at least twenty people before stopping in front of a brunette with skin the color of fresh crème and a big black guy.
He wore sunglasses despite the hour and a sharp suit with an open-neck white shirt, and thin black driving gloves. When he smiled, a gold cap glowed on one of his top front teeth. He could have been anything from a rap mogul to a movie producer to a gangsta on holiday, and he certainly looked nothing like Captain Mfune of the French Army, currently assigned to École de Guerre.
The brunette’s attire only added to the couple’s mystery and allure. She wore green cat-eye contacts and carried a black snakeskin purse. Her sleek gray dress was sleeveless, and she wore black elbow-length gloves, black pumps, black hose, and a black pillbox hat with a modest lace veil.
“You two are in,” the hostess said, and the bouncer directed them forward.
“Told you I knew what it takes to get in here,” she said out of the corner of her mouth as they walked along the line, giving scant attention to the envy and resentment in the faces of those who’d been passed by.
“You called it, Amé,” the captain agreed.
A bouncer pulled open the door, and they were hit by a wave of electronic dance music. They entered an opulent lobby, bypassed a coat check, and went to a cashier’s counter, where Mfune paid the forty euro cover charge.
“You have been here before?” the cashier asked. “Or do you need a tour?”
“I’ve been,” Amé said. “I’ll show my friend the ropes.”
“You’ll find those in the dungeon,” the cashier reminded her, and then looked at the captain. “And please, no cell phones. Not even texting when you are inside. This is to protect your anonymity as well as that of the others who enjoy this refuge from the real world.”