Chapter 9
Isabelle couldn’t believe she was doing this. Dozens of models waited in the large room, each of them taking turns walking down a center path, then taking a turn to the right, and heading back to the left before exiting through a door a short distance behind her.
The croissant she’d eaten an hour ago had turned into an uncomfortable mass in her stomach. She doubted the yogurt Marit had eaten had settled much better.
Marit put her hand on Isabelle’s back and nudged her forward. “You’re going to do great.”
Isabelle lowered her voice. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“The first look is always the hardest. Consider this a practice run.”
Isabelle drew a deep breath in an effort to settle her nerves and the nausea churning inside her. It didn’t work. She needed a distraction, like figuring out who was behind the theft so she wouldn’t have to step on a runway in front of an audience.
“Is the show for this designer before or after the one for Ralph?”
“Before.”
“What about the other shows you’re already scheduled for?”
“Dior and Chanel are on the last day,” Marit said. “I only have two others already booked. One is on opening day. The other is the next day.”
“Which ones are those?” Isabelle asked.
“Camille Allard and Peter Wade.” Marit kept her voice low. “They’re both still casting. Esmee should be able to get you auditions. I told her to only put you up for auditions that happen before Ralph’s show.”
“When did you talk to her about that?”
“When you were getting your bag from Cole’s hotel room,” Marit said. “We have this one and two more later this afternoon.”
“I don’t know if I’ll survive one of these, much less three.”
“Just pretend we’re back in the flat,” Marit said. “Shoulders back, chin up, and pretend everyone in the room is Cole right after he woke up.”
“You want me to pretend all these people are my boyfriend with unruly hair?”
Marit nodded. “The whole picturing people in their underwear is just too weird.”
Isabelle laughed. She couldn’t help it.
“You’re next. Are you ready?”
“No.”
“You can do it,” Marit encouraged. “It’s all about attitude. Go out there like you belong, and you will.”
A woman stood at the front and took Isabelle’s name before snapping a photo. She then motioned her forward.
Isabelle moved to what, in essence, was the top of the runway. Attitude. It was all about attitude.
She lifted her chin, straightened her back, and started forward, lengthening her stride the way Marit had taught her. A pivot turn halfway down the runway, followed by a second so she would once again be facing the right direction. A T-stop when she reached the end, before turning to the right. One more turn and a handful of steps to the left. Then it was over.
Isabelle swallowed the sigh of relief that fought to escape. It wouldn’t do for the others in the room to witness how grateful she was to have that over with.
A man in his early twenties held up his hand to stop her from going beyond him. He looked over her shoulder, then nodded at someone behind her.
“Name?”
“Isabelle Rogers.”
The man handed Isabelle a small slip of paper. “Your callback is tomorrow at ten.”
Isabelle’s jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly. “Thank you.”
She continued toward the exit, turning around in time to watch Marit walk the runway, a little smirk on her face, her hips swaying just enough to showcase the silk pantsuit she currently wore. Confidence and poise. Marit had both in spades.
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?”
Lieutenant Tremblay shook his head. “Doubtful. Whoever it was tore through every bit of clothing and every drawer.”
Which meant the lieutenant was probably right. If the culprit had found what he was looking for, the search would have stopped when he’d found his prize, leaving part of the room untouched.
“Is this where James was killed?” Cole asked.
Lieutenant Tremblay waved at a spot on the floor beside the window. “Right here.”
Cole continued forward until he spotted the blood on the carpet. Judging from the single blood stain that spanned at least a foot in diameter, Cole guessed the victim had been killed by either a knife or a bullet that had hit an artery. “Cause of death?”
“Gunshot wound to the chest.” Lieutenant Tremblay shook his head slowly. “No doubt that someone wanted him dead.”
“Any witnesses?”
“I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Capitaine Dupont about that.”
“Do you have his number?” Cole asked. If Jasmine didn’t gain access to the police report by tonight, he might need to hurry it along himself.
Lieutenant Tremblay pulled a business card from his pocket. “You can call the main number there. They can patch you through.”
“Thanks.” Cole scanned the room again. First Marit’s apartment was searched. Now James’s hotel room. What was the intruder looking for, and why would he or she think James or Marit had it?
Cole’s gaze landed on the suitcase, and he instinctively looked for the messenger bag James had been carrying when leaving Ralph’s office last night. When he didn’t see it, Cole pulled a pair of crime-scene gloves from the small pocket beside where his gun was holstered. He tugged them on and opened the closet door. Clothes covered the floor, and the safe door was open, but there was no bag.
“Did you see a blue messenger bag, about this big?” Cole held up his hands eighteen inches apart.
“I haven’t seen it.” The lieutenant translated the question to his partner, who shook his head and spoke in rapid French.
When he finished, Lieutenant Tremblay said, “We’ve inventoried everything. It’s not here.”
“Any chance it was already logged into evidence?”
“I don’t think so, but if it was, it will be in Capitaine Dupont and Brigadier Blanchet’s report.”
“Thanks. I’ll check with them.” Cole pulled an FBI business card from behind his ID badge and handed it to the lieutenant. “Can you please send me your crime-scene photos when you finish?”
“As long as the detective approves, I’ll send them.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Cole took a couple quick photos of the room before shaking Lieutenant Tremblay’s hand. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
Cole stepped toward the door, surveying the mess still in front of him. He didn’t know if James was guilty of theft or had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but whoever was searching rooms was missing something. Whether it was Ralph’s designs or something else, Cole didn’t know, but one thing was apparent: Brinton James had been killed in cold blood, and it was up to Cole and Isabelle to make sure Marit wasn’t next.