Page 8 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“I just tried. She isn’t answering.”

“Andyoudon’t have any idea why the police took her in?”

“No. Cole is looking into it.” Isabelle glanced at the large clock on the wall. Eight o’clock. “In fact, he should have answers for us anytime now.”

“I’ll call Cole, then.”

“I’m sure they’ll both call as soon as they can.”

“I’m heading home from work right now. As soon as I’ve packed a bag, I’ll head for the train station. There’s got to be a train leaving for Paris tonight.”

“Lars, I’m sure Cole will handle whatever problem Marit is dealing with. You should get some sleep. Take the train in the morning.”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep until I know Marit’s okay.”

Isabelle could relate to that. “I bet we’ll hear something soon,” she assured him. “But do me a favor. Call me if you hear anything.”

“I will. Same goes for you,” Lars insisted. “Call me the minute you hear from Cole.”

“I will. I promise.” Isabelle ended the call and lowered the phone in her hand to her side. Poor Lars. That hadn’t gone the way she’d planned.

***

The moment Lars hung up with Isabelle, he called Marit. He waited, his chest tightening as the ringing continued unanswered until it connected to her voice mail.

“Hey, Marit. It’s Lars.” Mentally scrambling for the right words, he opted for simplicity. “Call me. I’m worried about you.”

Disconnecting the call, he gazed down the darkened street. He’d exited Coster Diamonds through the rear door. Headlights—bright on the passing cars and twinkling like stars on the bicycles—swathed the shadows, illuminating the empty spot where the armored vehicle had been parked only fifteen minutes before.

He took a steadying breath. The jewelry was inventoried, loaded, and on its way to Paris. There was nothing at work that was pressing enough to prevent him from leaving too. And if Isabelle was right and Marit was in trouble, that was exactly what he was going to do.

His bicycle was chained to the bike rack a couple of meters away. Fifteen minutes to ride back to his flat, half an hour to change his clothes and pack his bags, twenty minutes for a taxi to take him to Centraal Station. If there was a train running this late at night, he could be on his way to Paris within an hour.

Filled with new urgency, Lars pulled up the train schedule on his phone. He scanned through the departures, and his heart sank. The last train for Paris today had left at nineteen fifteen, and the next one wasn’t until eight fifteen tomorrow. That was far too long to wait for news.

He pulled up Cole’s contact information and pressed Call. Not surprisingly, the call rolled directly into Cole’s voice mail. His cousin was either on the phone or had it on Do Not Disturb. Knowing Cole, it was the latter. Not bothering to leave another message, Lars ended the call and slid his phone into his pocket.

Battling a fresh wave of frustration and concern, he crossed the short distance to his bike, unlocked the chain around the front wheel, and grimly pulled his bike free. He’d use the extra time tonight to double check that he had all the photography equipment he needed, take out the rubbish, and email Coster’s secretary to inform her of his change of plans. Going to bed didn’t even make the list. If Marit didn’t return his call to tell him she was okay—and why she’d called Cole instead of him—he’d be doing a whole lot more pacing than sleeping tonight.

***

Cole rushed into the second police station, irritated on principle with his experience at the last one. Had the officer at the reception desk been forthcoming sooner, Cole would have known he was at the wrong location and that the local authorities weren’t willing to help him find Marit. He should have called in a favor and pinged her phone when he’d first found out that the police had taken her in.

With a quick glance at the waiting area, Cole took in the dismal scene before him. The room’s hard plastic chairs were either dingy gray, or they were white and desperately needed a cleaning. He wasn’t sure which, nor did he care. He wasn’t going to sit around waiting this time.

He approached the reception desk, prepared to do battle if that was what it took to get some answers. Of course, he’d need to find someone fluent in English to wage a war of words.

“Excusez-moi.Parlez-vous anglais?” he asked in his best French accent.

“Oui.” He said something else, but it took Cole a minute to decipher the words through the thick accent. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Marit Jansen,” Cole said. “She was brought in for questioning around four thirty this afternoon.”

Before the man could respond, movement sounded behind him, and Marit’s voice carried to him. “Cole?”

Cole whirled around, relieved that Marit was visibly unharmed. “What happened?”

Marit’s only response was to close the distance between them. She wrapped her arms around him, and her body trembled.

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