Page 6 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said, taking a seat on the orange chair.

Marit seriously doubted he was the slightest bit sorry, but she thought it best to refrain from sharing the thought. The length of time they planned to keep her in this awful room was very likely correlated to her agreeability.

“I’m still waiting to be told why I’m here,” she said.

“When did you arrive in Paris?” he asked, completely ignoring her comment.

“Three days ago,” she said. “I came in by train from Amsterdam with my agent, Esmee Scheffer, and a few others from her modeling agency. We’re here for Fashion Week.”

“What did you do yesterday?”

Yesterday. Marit mentally sifted through her day’s schedule. “I ate breakfast at the flat and then took the Metro for casting at Dior. After I received my callback time for today, I went for my initial fitting with Ralph Molenaar’s team. I was there until the end of the workday. Then I returned to the flat and didn’t leave again all evening.”

“Was anyone with you?” he asked.

“Yes. My agent, Esmee, and my colleague Nadia.”

“All day?” he pressed.

“Yes. Nadia and I are sharing the flat, and we had the same appointments.”

He eyed her sternly. “Then why do we have an eyewitness who claims you were alone in the vicinity of Ralph Molenaar’s office in the early evening?”

Memory flooded back. “Esmee, Nadia, and I were in Ralph’s office together. Right after we left, Ralph was called into another office. It was only after Esmee, Nadia, and I took the lift to the lobby that I discovered I left one of my gloves in Ralph’s office. I went back up by myself to find it.”

“And did you find it?” The look in his eyes suggested that he didn’t believe she owned a pair of gloves, let alone had lost one of them.

“I did.”

“Where?”

“In Ralph’s office.”

“According to Monsieur Molenaar, he did not return to his office after his visit with you and your colleagues. How did you get in?”

“A man—one of Ralph’s employees—was already in the room. He waited for me to retrieve it before leaving.”

The capitaine set his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Describe this man.”

“Twenty-two to twenty-three years old,” Marit said. “Between one point eight two and one point eight five meters tall, and about eighty kilograms. Curly brown hair grown out of his original haircut, brown eyes, pitted complexion. He was wearing Ralph Molenaar jeans and a cheap black T-shirt with a picture of a hamburger and fries on it. He spoke Dutch but had a slight accent. I doubt that it’s his first language.”

Capitaine Dupont stared at her. “You seem very sure of these details.”

“I’m a professional model, Capitaine. I notice such things as clothing and brands.”

“And height and weight?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “Those things too.”

He took a moment to consider his next question. “Tell me about your interaction with this man.”

“I heard him before I saw him,” Marit said, and then she proceeded to recount her interaction with Ralph’s employee from the time he opened the door to Ralph’s office to the time he disappeared from sight.

The capitaine listened intently, and when she finished, he appeared thoughtful. “And did you see or hear anyone else while you were there?”

“I thought I heard voices farther down the hall, but I didn’t see anyone there. Other than those using the lift, the only other person I saw was the custodian, who arrived as I was leaving.”

“Can you describe the custodian?” he asked.

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