Page 17 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“I need to see Ralph Molenaar.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but it’s quite important.” Cole slid his badge across the counter as though it were just any other ID. No need to draw attention to himself or his reason for coming.

The security guard nodded. “His office is on the sixth floor. I’ll let him know you’re on your way up.”

“Thank you.”

Cole crossed to the elevator. When he stepped out on the correct floor, a man stood waiting.

“I’m Ralph Molenaar.” Hope shone in the man’s eyes. “Do you have news?”

“Not yet,” Cole said. “Is there somewhere we can meet privately?”

“My office is this way.” Ralph led him down the hall and into his office.

Cole surveyed the room, right down to the cipher lock on the closet door. “Is this where the theft took place?”

“Yes.” Ralph motioned for Cole to sit before circling behind his desk. “I don’t know how anyone could have gotten the combination.”

An electronic code breaker, a magnetic lock pick, or the old-fashioned look-over-someone’s-shoulder method. Any of those could have worked.

“Marit Jansen was questioned by the police last night,” Cole began. “She mentioned seeing a man in your office when she came back to retrieve a lost glove. Brown hair in need of a trim, young, early twenties.”

“That sounds like Brinton James.” Ralph’s expression clouded. “He didn’t report for work this morning.”

“Then, it’s possible he’s your thief.”

“I never thought Marit could have been guilty,” Ralph said. “She’s a sweet girl.”

“I agree.” Cole waved in the direction of the safe. “What exactly was taken?”

Now Ralph’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”

“The police report was incomplete when it crossed my desk last night.”

Suspicion crept into Ralph’s expression. “Are you really working with the police?”

“The local authorities are never happy when outside law enforcement gets involved.” Cole drew out a business card that aligned with his cover with Interpol. “Here’s my card. If you search the internet, you’ll see that the phone number there is one that belongs to the local Interpol office.”

Ralph pulled out his phone, first conducting an online search and then making a call to confirm Cole’s identity. Once he was satisfied, Ralph said, “Sorry. You can’t be too careful these days.”

“I agree,” Cole said before repeating his question. “What was stolen last night?”

Ralph drew a deep breath, as though trying to gather his courage. “It was the designs for this year’s entire line.”

“What format were these designs in?” Cole asked.

“Muslin patterns, and the computer designs on a jump drive.” Ralph’s expression darkened. “Whoever it was also wiped out my hard drive. I have no way to prove the designs were mine.”

“Any idea who would benefit from this theft?”

“It has to be another designer.” Ralph raked his fingers through his hair. “My show is on the second-to-last day of Fashion Week. Any designer who goes before me could feature my designs, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. I’d be ruined.”

Cole didn’t understand much about fashion, but corporate espionage was devastating regardless of the industry. “Wouldn’t your models be able to say that they’ve already been wearing your designs if someone else tried to showcase them?”

“They could try.” Ralph shook his head. “But with nothing left to prove I created them, to the world, I would appear to be the thief.”

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