Page 18 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“I’m going to do everything I can to find those designs and get them back to you,” Cole said. “In the meantime, I need you to take me through everything that happened last night, and I’ll need your authorization to release any security feed from the time in question.”

A faint glimmer of hope sparked in Ralph’s expression. “I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“Good. That’s what I was hoping you would say.”

Chapter 7

Gare du Nord was busy.Pushing the case full of his photographic equipment in one hand and hauling his duffle bag in the other, Lars wove his way across the crowded railway platform. It would be nice to think that once he made it out of the station, he’d clear the congestion, but he had a sinking feeling that most of these people were headed to the taxi line too.

He walked outside. The skies were overcast, and there was a nip in the air. Pulling his knit hat out of his pocket, he put it on. As expected, the queue for taxis was long. He was going to be here a while.

He thought about texting Marit to tell her he’d arrived, but she probably wouldn’t have her phone until her fitting was over, and he’d be seeing her soon after that. Instead, he used his time in the queue to pull up the local news on his phone. Marit had said she’d been questioned about a theft at one of the fashion houses. Would the networks have picked up the story yet?

A protest outside a car manufacturer’s plant. Teachers threatening to go on strike. A new baby giraffe at the Paris Zoological Park. He kept scrolling. There had to be some mention of Fashion Week this close to opening day. A couple of photos popped up. The caption under the first one read, “Lila Peters arrives in Paris for Fashion Week.” Lars glanced at the candid picture. The Academy-Award-winning actress was walking through Charles de Gaulle airport flanked by bodyguards.

The second caption read: “Popular model Marit Jansen takes time off work to visit the Champs-Élysées with her boyfriend, Lars Hendriks.” This photo had been taken at night with the iconic Arc de Triomphe barely visible over the shoulder of the man whose hand was lying protectively on the woman’s back. Lars raised a quizzical eyebrow. Even if he and Cole looked enough alike to pass for each other in the dark, that was no excuse for shoddy reporting. Though his cousin wouldn’t have appreciated having his name show up in the newspapers, not when he worked so hard to stay off everyone’s radar to protect his ability to function in his work with the CIA.

A red banner flashed up on Lars’s phone screen, covering the paparazzi photos with the wordsBreaking News. Lars continued to read the headline.Member of Dutch fashion designer Ralph Molenaar’s team found dead in Paris. Lars’s breath caught. Marit said she’d been taken in for questioning over a theft at one of the fashion houses. He knew she regularly worked for Ralph. Had the theft happened at his office? Could the crimes be related?

The young woman standing at the curb, directing the taxi traffic, shouted at him. Lars looked up. The six people in line ahead of him had all climbed into the same vehicle. He was up next. Moving forward, he waited for the ensuing car to stop, and then he opened the door and shoved his case onto the seat. Running around to the other side, he signaled the taxi driver to remain behind the wheel. Lars didn’t have time to wait for him to open the boot. He needed to find Marit.

The restaurant had a small front. About a dozen chairs were positioned around four small round tables on the pavement outside. So far, only one hardy Parisian had claimed a seat there. Guessing that Marit would prefer the warmth of an indoor table, Lars pushed open the door and hauled his baggage inside.

A server dressed in a white shirt and black trousers met him. Politely ignoring Lars’s cumbersome luggage, she smiled a welcome. “Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour,” Lars responded in French. “I’m meeting my girlfriend here, but I’m not sure if she’s arrived yet.”

“Ah, yes. Is it Marit?”

Relief mingled with excitement. She was here. “Yes.”

The server nodded. “Follow me, please.”

Navigating his camera case and duffle bag through the tight spaces between the restaurant’s chairs, Lars followed the young woman to the back of the room. Marit was sitting alone at a table set for four. As soon as she spotted him, she rose to her feet. Lars dropped his duffle bag on the nearest chair at their table, ignoring the server and the menu she set on the table, and pulled Marit into his arms.

She held him tight, raising her lips to meet his as he pulled her close. “I’ve missed you so much,” she murmured.

“The last twelve hours have been torture,” he whispered, reluctantly releasing his hold on her. “And if we weren’t standing in the middle of a restaurant right now, that kiss would have lasted significantly longer.”

She smiled impishly. “Next time, we’ll make sure there’s no one else around.”

“Deal.” He slid his case behind the chair and then waited for her to reclaim her seat before sitting beside her. “You’re really okay?”

“Yes.” The light in her eyes dimmed slightly. “But I have more to tell you.”

He reached for her hand. “What is it?”

The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of more guests. Lars ignored it, but Marit looked up.

“I’ll tell you as soon as Cole and Isabelle join us,” she said.

“ColeandIsabelle?” Lars turned to see his cousin and his cousin’s girlfriend following the server toward their table. “When did Isabelle get here?”

“She flew in this morning,” Marit said.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Lars rose to greet Cole as Marit moved around the table to give Isabelle a hug.

“How close to Paris were you when Marit called?” Lars asked Cole.

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