Page 7 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

Marit took a deep breath. “Late fifties, gray, thinning hair, and black-rimmed glasses. He was about one point seven seven meters tall and weighed about ninety kilograms. He wore a pale-blue jumpsuit with a red-and-whitePierre’s Cleanerslogo on the upper left pocket and had his ID hanging on a lanyard around his neck.”

“I’m impressed, mademoiselle. Few people remember such details so well. It’s a shame you didn’t also notice the name on the tag.”

“Tomas Moulin,” she said.

His eyes widened slightly, and he inclined his head. “I’m doubly impressed.”

“To be honest, Capitaine Dupont, I’d rather have you allow me to leave than have you be impressed by my ability to recall details. You still haven’t told me why I’m here.”

He leaned back in his chair and eyed her thoughtfully. “We are investigating a theft,” he said.

This time it was Marit’s eyes that widened. “At Ralph’s offices?”

He offered her a half smile. “Yes. But that is all I am willing to share at this point in the investigation. And I must ask for your discretion in not discussing this with anyone else.” He rose. “If you will follow me, Brigadier Blanchet will take down your contact information, and then you are free to go.”

Marit stood, relief causing her voice to catch. “I can leave?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.” He turned toward the door. “This way.”

Chapter 4

Isabelle sat on the chairbeside the living room window, an afghan draped over her legs to ward off the chill in the room, a book open on her lap, and her cell phone lying idly on the armrest. She ignored the book and stared at the dark screen on her cell. Why hadn’t Cole texted?

He’d messaged her three hours ago, after he’d boarded the train for Paris. That trip took only an hour and twenty-two minutes. She’d checked. Whether Cole opted for a cab or public transit, he should have arrived at the police station over an hour ago.

The pressure of not knowing built up in her lungs and escaped in a sigh. She hated being in the dark.

Tossing the book and the afghan aside, Isabelle rose to her feet and crossed to the window. Her CIA training kicked in, and she did a quick analysis of the street below. Pedestrians heading toward the train, a man scraping ice off his windshield. When she determined nothing was amiss, she returned to her chair.

On the surface, her life was exactly what her former classmates at Columbia would expect—a prestigious position with Bankhaus Steiner, which hid her true affiliation with the CIA, a great apartment in Vienna, a great guy in her life who she was head over heels for. Not that Cole knew she was in love with him. He was the type who would probably get scared away if she declared those three little words. An ache swelled in her heart, a yearning for something just out of reach.

Impatient with herself and Cole’s current silence, she snatched up her phone. If Cole hadn’t called or texted, that likely meant he didn’t have anything new to share, but someone had to know what was going on.

She pulled up her contacts and debated her options. Choosing the most direct route first, she dialed Marit’s number. No answer. Assuming Cole would call when he could, that left only one other person who would likely have news before her. Lars.

She pulled up his number and pressed the Call button.

He answered on the fourth ring with a breathless hello.

“Lars, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you’d heard something from Marit.”

“I talked to her a few hours ago.” He paused, and the distinct click of a door closing carried over the line, followed by the chime of a bicycle bell. “Why do you ask? Is she not answering your call?”

“I haven’t talked to her at all since the police picked her up.”

“The police?” Alarm sounded in his voice. “What police?”

Isabelle gripped the phone tighter. “I’m sorry. I assumed you knew.”

“You assumed I knew what?” Lars pressed. “Is Marit okay?”

“As far as I know. She left a message for Cole that the police had taken her in for questioning.”

Lars paused again. “I don’t see any missed calls or messages from her.” Another stretch of silence. “Why would she call Cole and not me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she figured Cole would be able to get some answers about why they were taking her in.”

“Sorry, Isabelle, but I’ve got to go.” A sense of urgency carried in his voice. “I need to call Marit.”

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