Page 27 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

Isabelle waited by the door for Marit. When Marit joined her, she, too, carried a little white piece of paper.

Marit’s gaze lowered to Isabelle’s hand. “You got a callback?” Marit asked.

Still in shock, Isabelle nodded.

Marit hugged her. “I knew you could do it!”

Together they walked out into the hall, where Nadia already waited with Esmee. Nadia also held a callback slip.

“Well?” Esmee asked.

Marit held up the evidence of her success. “So far, so good.”

Esmee’s gaze landed on Isabelle’s hand. “Excellent.” She nodded toward the exit. “Come on. We have another appointment in thirty minutes. I don’t want my three stars to be late.”

“You mean two stars,” Isabelle said. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“You’re one of Esmee’s girls now.” Esmee lifted her chin a little higher. “That means you’re one of the best.”

“I only got a callback,” Isabelle said.

Esmee cocked an eyebrow. “On your first audition at Paris Fashion Week.”

Marit draped her arm around Isabelle’s shoulders. “We’ll wait until after the next two casting calls before we tell you what a big deal that is.”

Isabelle swallowed hard. “Good idea.”

***

Cole reached the address Jasmine had texted him. A van with police markings was parked in front, likely a forensics unit. He’d rather hoped the local detective would still be on site, but that possibility had been a long shot at best. If the murder had hit the papers and the forensics team was processing the scene, the lead detective would have already gone through the procedures of logging his report and notifying the next of kin.

Cole bypassed the front desk and headed for the elevator as though he were a guest rather than a visitor. When he reached the correct floor, he stepped into the hall and located James’s room.

Even if Jasmine hadn’t given Cole the room number, it would have been hard to miss the yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed over the door.

Cole knocked and pulled his FBI credentials from his pocket. An officer opened the door, a fingerprint brush in his hand.

Cole held up his badge. “Cole Bridger, FBI.Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Oui. I am Lieutenant Tremblay.” The man in his forties narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to take a look at the crime scene. The victim was an American.”

The man leaned closer to inspect Cole’s badge. “Very well. We have almost finished.”

Cole stepped over the lower piece of crime-scene tape and ducked his head to avoid the piece strung across the top of the door. “How long will it take to process the fingerprints?”

“A few days. Maybe more.” Lieutenant Tremblay walked through the narrow entryway, past the bathroom to his left.

Before Cole reached the main part of the room, he caught sight of a dresser pushed against the wall. All the drawers hung open, and clothing lay strewn across the room. Cole continued forward to where another man stood with a camera in hand.

Lieutenant Tremblay said something in French. Cole caught the mention of the FBI and guessed that he was explaining Cole’s presence to his partner.

“Did the room look like this when you got here?”

“Oui.” Lieutenant Tremblay pointed at the suitcase lying on its side beside the luggage rack. “Someone was looking for something.”

“Do you think they found it?”

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