Chapter 4
Isabelle sat on the chair beside 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.”
“I just tried. She isn’t answering.”
“And you don’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.
Cole returned the hug. “It’s okay.” He looked around the waiting area to ensure she didn’t have a police escort waiting to snatch her away. A smattering of people occupied the dingy chairs, but none of them were in uniform, and none were armed. But the man sitting in the corner, holding a camera, could be dangerous for different reasons. Probably some beat reporter looking for a story for tomorrow’s paper. Cole doubted that he or Marit would be of interest since neither of them had committed a crime. And at the moment, the man’s camera was in his lap, not pointed in their direction.
“Are you good to leave?” Cole asked.
“I’m just waiting for them to bring me my purse and phone.” She eased out of his embrace.
It was a good reminder. Cole should call Isabelle and give her an update, but that would have to wait until he had more answers and he and Marit didn’t have an audience. “How long have you been waiting?”
“I don’t know. Fifteen minutes. Maybe more.”
“Let’s see if we can speed them up a bit.” Cole turned to the reception officer again and mentally prepared to deal with their language barrier as a result of his own limited French. Marit stepped beside him, and he opted for a better solution. “Tell him we want to know how much longer it will be before your belongings are returned to you.”
Marit nodded and spoke to the man in French.
“ Je ne sais pas .”
Cole didn’t need a translation for the I-don’t-know response. “Ask him to check for us. Tell him I’m your attorney, and I’m here to take you home.”
Marit translated again.
The officer gave Cole an appraising look before he lifted the phone and dialed. Then, as though Cole had caused him the greatest inconvenience of all time, he spoke in rapid French to whoever was on the other end of his call. He paused, spoke again into the phone, and ended with “ Merci .” He gave Cole a pointed look before speaking to Marit. “ Vos possessions seront retourn é es dans un instant .”
“ Merci .” Marit took Cole’s arm and tugged him away from the counter.
“What did he say?” Cole asked.
“He said my belongings will be returned in a moment.”
Sure enough, less than two minutes passed before an officer approached the desk. “Marit Jansen?”
“Yes.” Marit lifted her hand and approached the counter, where the new arrival now stood.
He said something else in French and passed a clipboard and pen to her.
Marit signed her name and traded the clipboard for her purse and cell phone.
Cole motioned her toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get out of here, and you can fill me in on what happened.”
Cole approached the taxi he had left waiting for him and pulled open the back door. He waited until Marit slid in and he’d taken his place beside her before he asked, “Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Then, let’s take care of that before we go back to your flat.”
“Dinner would be wonderful, but I should probably call Lars first and let him know what’s going on.”
Cole gave the driver an address and put his hand on hers before she could dial. “I know you want to talk to Lars, but I need details if I’m going to help you, and the quickest way to lose your perspective is to talk to someone who will feed into your emotions.”
“He’ll be worried that he hasn’t heard from me yet.”
“Text him, then. Let him know you’ll call him later.” That would give Cole the chance to get the details firsthand without stressing Lars out about his girlfriend not calling back.
Marit debated for a moment before she let out a sigh and heeded his advice.
Cole followed her lead and sent a quick text of his own to Isabelle. I’m with Marit. I’ll call later.
Marit looked up from her phone. “Where are we going?”
“A little restaurant around the corner from where you’re staying. I didn’t want to have to grab another cab tonight, and I’d rather not take you on the Metro after what you’ve been through.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Now, tell me everything.”
Marit drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not sure exactly where to start.”
“How about telling me why the police took you in.”
“Apparently, there was a theft.” Marit glanced at their driver and lowered her voice to a whisper, leaning close. “It was at one of the designers’ offices where I went yesterday for a fitting.”
“Did they think you were a witness? Or were you a suspect?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How long did you have to wait before they questioned you?”
“I don’t know. They took my phone, so I didn’t have a way to keep track of the time, but it was quite a while, at least several hours.”
“You were a suspect, then.”
“Me?” She lifted her hand to her chest.
Cole looked up at their driver before straightening. “You can tell me the rest of the story when we get to the restaurant.”
Ten minutes later, their driver pulled up at their destination. Cole paid the man in cash—no need to leave an electronic trail of his presence here—and opened the car door. He did a quick check of the street before he motioned for Marit to join him on the sidewalk.
Placing his arm protectively around Marit’s shoulders, he escorted her inside, where more than half the tables were still occupied, despite the late hour. He spoke to the hostess, made his standard apology for not speaking French, and requested a corner table along with an English menu.
Once they were settled at their table and they’d given their orders, Marit finished her account.
“It sounds like the man you saw in Ralph’s office is the person the police should be looking for.”
“I think so too,” Marit said. “It was either him or the custodian.” She paused. “Or the other people who were on the floor who I didn’t see. I heard voices, but I couldn’t tell where they were coming from.”
“Let’s start with the man you saw.” Cole pondered how quickly he could get this situation resolved so Marit would no longer be of interest to the police. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”
“I have fittings starting at eight and a casting call in the afternoon.”
“We should call Ralph first thing in the morning to get his employee’s name,” Cole said. “I’ll track him down while you’re working.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“In the meantime, I’d rather you not be alone tonight. Do you have a couch I can sleep on?”
“I won’t be alone. I have a roommate.”
“Good. That will make it less awkward for me to stay at your place.”
“That won’t work,” Marit said. “Even if I wanted to, we aren’t allowed to have guests. Our building is for models only.”
“Then, I’ll pretend to be a model.”
Marit stifled a laugh. “Sorry, Cole. You might have the tall, blond, and handsome thing down, but you don’t walk or talk like a model.”
“How hard can it be?”
“First, you’d need to learn how to walk into a room without looking like you’re going to shoot someone.”
“I know how to do that. I go undercover all the time.”
She shook her head. “Even if you could pull it off, the male models aren’t allowed on the upper floors.”
“Why?”
“It’s the whole appearances thing. No designer wants any of their models caught in a negative light of any kind, especially during Fashion Week.”
“Your safety needs to be our priority.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Marit said. “After all, the police let me go, and my building has a security guard in the lobby twenty-four hours a day.”
“I’d still feel better if I were close by.”
“There are a few hotels on the same street as the building where I’m staying. Maybe you can get a room at one of those. There may still be some rooms available since Fashion Week hasn’t started yet.”
“Fine. I’ll get a room at one of the nearby hotels, but I’m getting a room there for you too.”
“Why? I have a place to stay, and like I said, I have a roommate.”
Cole lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Yes, but your roommate isn’t armed. I am.”
Marit didn’t speak for a moment. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. You win.”
Their server arrived with their food. After he set their dinner on the table and left them alone, Cole pulled out his phone. “Want to help me look for a hotel while we eat?”
“Considering you traveled to Paris because of my phone call, it’s the least I can do.”