“Pink is fleeing the building. I’ll go west,” she said to Dane, who nodded. “There’s a parking garage below ground.”
“I’ll take the lift down,” he called, heading along the hallway. “Try to cut her off.”
Taking off at full speed, Becca grinned, thinking about what Dane had said about her spike heels. She’d been wearing high heels since she was a teenager. It was all in where you placed the weight of your body, preferably on the balls of your feet. So long as she didn’t try to run a marathon, she would do just fine, thank you.
LaCroix couture swished around the corner at the base of the stairs. Pink wore more sensible shoes, the heels appearing less than an inch high. She had obviously planned to do a bit of running this evening.
“Pink. I’ve found her right now and am running a sequence.”
Running a sequence. It was a statement Becca often heard from Alan, but she never really knew what the techno-babble term meant. A sequence of what? Whatever, it had better go quickly.
Heels clicking down the tight, twisting stairway to the parking garage, Becca entered chilling darkness. There were no lights. Someone must have killed them. Pink?
Stretching out both arms, Becca swept her palms across the walls. No switches.
In the distance she could see the shimmer of streetlights through what must be the exit ramp to the Place des Pyramides. She heard the repeated swish of cars driving by, and the flash of their headlights jittered intermittently across the concrete walls.
Stepping forward slowly, she paused and listened, her breath frozen in her throat. Chill February air touched bare skin revealed by her slinky gown, and goose bumps formed upon goose bumps. As a tried and true New Yorker, she should be acclimated to the cold, but the slide of silk against her skin jacked up the chill to a shiver.
Moving on her toes made her steps shorter. Using her left hand, she touched the trunks of parked cars to guide her in the darkness. Exhaust fumes mixed with the sweet scent of winter rain.
Something was not right. With a shake of her head, she realized the diamond earring with the microphone had slipped from her ear. If Zeek found info on Pink, Becca wouldn’t have access to it.
Where was Dane? In the dimness she couldn’t get a handle on the elevator location.
Deciding to seek out an unlocked car to turn on the headlights, Becca spun suddenly. There, across the expanse of the parking garage, near the ramp, she saw a small beam of light. A female figure, her face highlighted by the brightness, stood next to a column. And then it blinked out.
Becca ran across the concrete as Pink’s dark shadow moved toward the exit ramp.
The ding of the elevator announced its arrival. Dane stepped out, scanning the darkness.
“This way!” Becca hissed as she dashed toward the exit. “She’s headed up the ramp to the street!”
Topside, a gilded statue of Jeanne d’Arc dominated the courtyard, lit from below by four spotlights.
Dane jogged up beside Becca, his huffs of breath visible in the icy air.
“Getaway car waiting,” Becca reported. “A midnight-blue Audi, plate 702 CHL 38. Damn! She’s getting away!”
Dane waved an arm, but the two cabs parked down the street didn’t budge.
Becca whistled and one of them pulled up promptly. “Get in! We can’t lose them.” She gave directions to the cabbie as Dane slid onto the seat beside her.
He shrugged off his jacket. “It’s colder than Iceland out there. Put this on.”
Grateful for the gesture, Becca tugged it about her shoulders and tapped on the plastic screen between them and the driver. “Ne les perdez pas!”
The cabbie nodded and stepped on the gas.
“Call in the license number,” she directed Dane.
“Doing so right now, mum.” He clicked on his cell phone and reported the car to his sources. Becca had to rely on his cooperation because she’d lost the link to Zeek. “They’ll locate the car via satellite should we lose them. Buck up, love, this isn’t a cock-up yet.”
“If he would only drive a little faster…Allez-vous en!”
Dane reported the plate number, then turned to her and said, “Pretty impressive, love.”
“What?”
“Your speed in those killer heels. And on slippery concrete?”
“Told you I could take care of myself.”
“I’ve new respect for Mr. Blahnik.”
“Good on you. I like a man who appreciates a pretty shoe—”
Dane put up a finger as a musical jingle echoed from his phone. “Hold that thought.”
After a brief exchange he hung up. “The plates trace to a rental service on the Île de la Cité. The place was robbed earlier this evening. Trying to make a global fix right now, but it’s more difficult at night.”
Becca nodded. She had been so close to grabbing Pink. But she wouldn’t give up hope. The Audi was still in sight.
Five minutes later the vehicle stopped in a dark neighborhood somewhere in the Ninth Arrondisement, not far from the Moulin Rouge, and let out Pink.
Becca told the cab driver to slow down a few blocks up and let them out. She surveyed the dark, quiet street. Cobbled and wide, it was a newer one, having been built sometime this century. Four-story buildings lined the street; most appeared residential. The one their suspect walked into looked to be abandoned, judging by the broken window next to the entrance. But Becca knew better. Real estate in Paris was prime; nothing was left vacant.
“What do you think?” Dane asked. He peered over her shoulder, breathing on her neck. “A private exchange?”
Another car pulled up behind the departing Audi and let off a quartet of women dressed in party wear.
“Might be an underground club,” Becca suggested.
Invitations were unnecessary in such clubs, because of the elite and secretive sights. Which meant if you could find the place you had been previously invited. Becca knew of a few such spots in New York; they moved often, but clubs of the sort offered a venue where someone who did not want to be seen or recognized could go.
Tugging off the wig and giving a shake to her hair, she smiled wickedly. “Let’s check it out.”