Chapter 23
Early morning light filtered through the curtains, the flat quiet except for the water running in the bathroom. Judging by the number of times the shower had turned on and off, everyone had now taken a turn. Of course, Cole had taken his turn at five in the morning. Once the police lock-down had lifted, he’d made a quick trip to his hotel room to retrieve his and Lars’s belongings.
Cole stretched his legs out on the couch, where he’d slept a couple short hours, and balanced his laptop on his thighs. Even though the second bedroom had two twin beds, he hadn’t been willing to leave the living area empty, not with someone so determined to get to the flash drive.
With a clear suspect in mind, Cole searched through the updated police reports for anything that could lead back to Henri LaRue or someone associated with him. Unfortunately, not only did the files contain nothing helpful, but nothing new had been added in days beyond a mention that the four incidents were likely related.
He straightened when he noticed an additional incident that had been attached as well. He clicked on the link, grateful that his current access allowed him to do so without having to hack his way in. He skimmed over the initial report, leaning forward as he did so. Another murder. The victim appeared to be a small-time criminal, in and out of jail over the past decade, but the ballistics matched the weapon used to kill James.
The shower turned off, the pipes rattling when it did so. Then footsteps retreated into one of the bedrooms.
Lars emerged a few minutes later, his hair damp. “I assume our intruder didn’t try to come back again last night.”
“No.” Cole closed the police reports and opened a secure portal into the CIA’s database. “There is a new development in the police reports though.”
“What’s that?” Lars opened the refrigerator.
“Another man was killed by the same gun that killed Brinton James.”
Lars slowly closed the fridge, and his gaze met Cole’s. “You mean by the same person who killed Brinton James.”
“Most likely.”
“Who was the victim?”
“His name is Pascal Bernard. Based on his photo and his rap sheet, it could be the guy who tried to steal Marit’s purse on Friday. If that’s the case, LaRue could be trying to tie up loose ends by eliminating potential witnesses against him.” Cole turned his attention back to his screen.
“Any chance you can prove Henri LaRue is behind all this?” Lars asked.
“I’m still looking.” Cole located the email address for Henri LaRue and opened a new tab on his secure internet browser. He accessed the email server LaRue used, which was conveniently tied to his website. Hacking through the encryptions took only a few minutes. “Here we go.”
“What?” Lars asked.
“Henri LaRue’s calendar is tied to his email account.”
“Any chance there’s something in there about breaking in last night?”
“I suspect he’s using hired hands for that sort of thing,” Cole said. “The people he hired are only important if they can point a finger at who hired them, assuming they live long enough to share that information.”
“I don’t suppose his calendar shows any meetings between him and his hired thugs,” Lars said hopefully.
“No, but I do know where he’s going to be at nine thirty this morning.” Cole looked up at Lars and wiggled his eyebrows. “And you’re going to like it.”
“Where?”
“He’s meeting his business manager for breakfast,” Cole said. “I say we go out to eat after we drop the girls off at rehearsal.”
“I could go for some real food.”
Isabelle and Marit emerged from the short hallway. Both of them wore breezy silk blouses and blazers over dress pants. Their makeup was understated but still enhanced their features. Cole rather liked Isabelle with those dark lashes framing her incredible green eyes.
Isabelle crossed the room and sat beside him on the couch. “What are you two plotting?”
“Breakfast.”
“Do not tempt me with pastries this morning,” Isabelle warned. “I have no willpower after eating like a model for the past few days.”
“Don’t worry. We aren’t going out until after we drop you two off at your rehearsal.” Cole pointed at the calendar displayed on his screen. “Lars and I have a breakfast date.”
Marit stepped beside Lars and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Would you two mind dropping by Ralph’s offices today to see if Isabelle can borrow a handbag?”
“We’ll take care of it,” Cole said, “but only if you promise not to go out on your own.”
“We’ll be at rehearsals all day,” Marit said. “They’re even bringing in lunch for us.”
Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure I want to know what they think constitutes a meal.”
“Good luck with that.” Cole leaned over and kissed her cheek.
Marit pulled two yogurts from the refrigerator and handed one to Isabelle along with a spoon. “You should eat something. We need to leave in ten minutes.”
Isabelle took the offering and peeled off the foil wrapper on top. “If Cole and Lars can prove LaRue is behind the theft and the murder, does that mean I can quit the modeling thing before Fashion Week starts?”
“It’s too late for that,” Marit said. “Esmee would never forgive either of us if you backed out now that we’ve gone through all the rehearsals.”
Isabelle’s face paled. “How did I get myself into this?”
“You were the only one who could pass for a model and also stay with Marit,” Cole said. “Remember?”
“You and Lars are staying here now.”
“Yeah, but Marit didn’t turn us into models.” Cole stood and held up his laptop. “I did want you to look at something before we go.” He pulled up the image of the latest murder victim on his laptop screen. “Have you ever seen this guy?”
“That’s the mugger.” Isabelle leaned closer, her surprise evident. “He’s dead?”
“What?” Marit hurried across the room and looked over Isabelle’s shoulder. “What happened?”
“Best guess is that whoever hired him to steal your purse decided to make sure he couldn’t talk.”
“That’s terrible,” Marit said.
“And scary,” Isabelle added.
“I’m sure the police will let us know when they have any new leads,” Cole said, hoping to alleviate everyone’s concerns. Of course, if the police were really interested in keeping them informed, they would have told Cole about the new murder case instead of just giving him access to the reports. He might not have even noticed had he not kept checking for updates.
Pushing that irritation aside, he headed for the door. “Come on. We need to get you and Marit dropped off so we can get to the restaurant early.”
“Walking around in high heels or sitting at a restaurant eating real food.” Isabelle scowled. “I’m definitely getting the short end of this stick.”
***
The restaurant was small, the signage elegant and upscale. Urns filled with greenery stood on either side of the smoked-glass front doors, and the outdoor seating was enclosed by a stylish railing.
Lars glanced at the menu posted at the entrance and gave Cole an uncertain look. “You sure about this? Have you seen these prices?”
“I can guess,” Cole said. “But if an exorbitant breakfast helps us pin the theft at Ralph’s office and James’s death on LaRue, it’s worth it.”
There was no arguing with that, especially since Marit’s safety was directly connected to taking into custody the mastermind behind the crimes.
“Besides,” Cole continued. “Worse comes to worst, you could order one croissant. That probably wouldn’t break the bank.”
Given the prices he’d seen, Lars wasn’t so sure. “Are you telling me that you have the self-control to eat only one croissant for breakfast?”
“I didn’t say that was my plan. But you can make it yours if you want.” Cole grinned. “You’ll just have to eat it really slowly because we need to stay long enough to overhear what LaRue and his business manager have to say.”
Lars glanced at the restaurant doors. “How’s that going to work exactly?”
“We’re resorting to old-fashioned eavesdropping. Or you are anyway. They’ll probably be speaking in French, so I’m going to need you to translate for me.”
“And how do you plan to get us close enough to hear what they’re saying? Places like this don’t have open seating. We’re going to be taken to a table.”
“Yeah, I know,” Cole said. “But I bet they take requests.”
“You’re going to request to sit next to LaRue?” Lars asked.
“Not in so many words.” Cole pulled open the door and lowered his voice. “As soon as we’re inside, scour the room. You know what LaRue looks like. Once you’ve spotted him, we’ll ask for the table beside him. I’ll walk in front of you so he doesn’t get a good look at you. Take the chair that puts your back to him.”
“ Bonjour !” A young woman approached them with a smile.
“ Bonjour ,” Cole said. “Do you speak English?”
It would have been just as easy for Lars to talk to the hostess in French, but Cole was obviously buying him time to scan the occupants of the restaurant.
“Of course.” She smiled politely. “Welcome to Caf é Eugenie. May I show you to a table?”
The restaurant was busy, but there was no sign of LaRue anywhere in the room. Lars and Cole had purposely arrived five minutes after the designer’s appointment to ensure that he’d already be seated.
“That would be great,” Cole said. “Do you have a preference for where we sit, Lars?”
Lars skimmed the room again, and this time, he spotted a narrow wooden staircase in the corner that appeared to lead up to another floor. Perhaps this restaurant wasn’t quite as small as it had appeared from the outside.
“Do you have more seating upstairs?” he asked. “Something a little more private maybe?”
The hostess smiled. “The upper room is a favorite with our regular customers, but I believe there are still a few tables available.” She picked up a couple of menus. “If you’d follow me, please.”
They followed her across the polished wood floor and up the narrow staircase. She waited for them at the top.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “There’s a vacant table beside the window.”
For a restaurant with such an exclusive ambiance, it undoubtedly was lucky. And under normal circumstances, Lars would have been happy to sit there. But this wasn’t a normal day, and LaRue was sitting at a small table in the far corner, talking animatedly to an older man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Actually,” Lars said, “would you mind if we took the table over there in the corner?” The fact that the table next to the one LaRue was using was also vacant was taking their luck to the next level. Lars could only hope it would remain in their favor.
The hostess offered him a polite, albeit surprised look. “Certainly.”
“He’s heard so much about the food here, he doesn’t want anything—including a view—to distract him,” Cole said.
Their hostess laughed lightly. “That I can understand. We French take our food very seriously. And I’m confident our chef will not disappoint.”
Cole stepped in front of Lars as they walked across the room, blocking him from the view of the other men. Cole took the chair facing LaRue, leaving Lars to take the one that backed up against the designer’s business manager. The space was tight, but Lars slid onto the seat without giving the older gentleman reason to adjust his chair or glance his way.
Their hostess handed them the menus. “ Jean will be your server today,” she said. “And he’ll be with you momentarily.”
“ Merci ,” Cole said.
Lars managed a nod and a smile. He was already focused on the intense conversation going on behind him.
“Fournier has given us his ultimatum, Henri.” The business manager was speaking. “If he does not see anything that excites him in this year’s show, he’ll offer your retail space to a different designer.”
“He can’t do that,” LaRue said. “We have a contract.”
“It ends in August,” his business manager reminded him. “Which would be just right for someone else’s fall line to make an appearance.”
“It won’t happen.”
Lars wasn’t sure whether to categorize LaRue’s tone as belligerent or alarmed. Perhaps both.
“Fournier may think he knows what’s coming, but he’s in for a surprise.”
Lars tensed, cocking his head slightly so as not to miss a word. All he needed now was for LaRue to let his business manager in on what that surprise was—a fresh new line that closely resembled Molenaar’s style—and they’d have the proof they needed.
“ Bonjour !” A man dressed in a white shirt, a black tie, and black trousers stepped up to the table.
Lars glanced at the menu. He hadn’t even opened it yet.
Cole took one look at him and spoke to the server in English. “I’d like this omelet.” Cole pointed to something on the menu. “Along with a glass of orange juice and a croissant.”
“Very good.” The man—Jean, presumably—turned to Lars.
LaRue was saying something, and Lars couldn’t concentrate on both conversations. “Whatever he’s having would be great,” he said.
Jean inclined his head politely. “Of course.”
“Better make it a basket of croissants,” Cole said, amending his order.
“ Oui, monsieur .” Jean gathered the menus, and Lars returned his attention to the conversation behind him. To Lars’s frustration, LaRue was speaking again. Whatever clarification he’d offered his business manager regarding the surprise at his show had been lost during the breakfast order. Lars frowned, and Cole raised an expectant eyebrow.
“What’s going on?” Cole asked softly.
Lars shook his head. Any explanation would have to wait until after he’d listened to the demands LaRue was now issuing.
“It’s less than a week before the show, so make sure Fournier has a front-row seat. If he’s after clothing that will suit any shape or size, he’ll be both pleased and impressed. It won’t matter whether he’s trying to appeal to the wealthy customers at his boutique on the Champs- é lys é es or to those who buy off the rack in Lyon; he should see what he wants to see.”
“I certainly hope so.” LaRue’s business manager sounded grim. “You can’t afford to lose that account, Henri. Without it, the bank will offer you no more concessions—or money.”
Jean approached, a hot pot of coffee in his hand. He stopped at LaRue’s table, and for a moment, the only sound was the trickle of liquid being poured into a cup.
“May I get anything else for you, gentlemen?” Jean asked.
“No, thank you,” LaRue replied.
Jean walked away, and the light clink of a spoon hitting against the sides of a china cup filled the silence. Lars waited. Cole studied him, his curiosity simmering. Finally, LaRue spoke again.
“The show will generate the excitement we need,” he said. “You will see. And now, on to other things. Tell me what news you have from Delhi. Can they provide the cotton we need?”
As LaRue’s business manager launched into the details of an agreement with a cotton manufacturer in India, Lars leaned over the table.
“It doesn’t sound like things are looking good for our friend,” he muttered. “An awful lot is riding on the upcoming show.”
Speculation shone in Cole’s eyes, but before he could ask anything, Jean appeared at the table, carrying a large tray.
“Your juice and croissants,” he said, placing a glass of orange juice in front of each of them before setting a basket of fragrant croissants in the center of the small table. “And your omelets.”
Lars leaned back, and Jean set a plate in front of him. The fluffy omelet was enormous. Cheese oozed from its center, and flecks of orange, red, and green ran along its outer edge.
“This looks great,” Cole said. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Jean gave a pleased smile. “May I get you anything else?”
“Not right now, thanks,” Cole said.
Jean nodded and walked away.
Lars looked up from his study of the omelet. “What kind of omelet did you order?”
“Vegetable and brie.” Cole reached for a croissant and set it on his plate beside the egg.
“It has spinach in it,” Lars accused.
“Yep.” Cole shrugged. “Isabelle’s rubbing off on me.”
“You know how I feel about spinach.”
Cole grinned and took a bite of his croissant. “Next time, you might want to ask what I’ve ordered before getting the same thing.”
Lars glared at him. “I was slightly preoccupied. Besides, I thought you had my back.”
“I do.” He pointed to the basket. “See? I ordered way more than one croissant.”
***
Marit stood beside Lars, holding his hand as they waited for Cole to open the door to the flat and for him and Isabelle to enter ahead of them.
“Okay,” Cole called a few seconds later. “Come on in.”
“One day, I’ll be able to enter my flat without worrying whether someone else has gone in before me, right?” Marit asked. After a full day of rehearsals, it was a challenge to keep the weariness out of her voice.
“Yes,” Lars said firmly. “And if Cole and I have anything to do with it, that ‘one day’ will be very soon.”
She waited until he’d closed the door behind them. “Did you learn anything at the restaurant?”
“Enough to know that LaRue is in a pretty tight spot financially, and his new line needs to be really well-received if he’s going to make it out intact.”
“Did he say anything about Ralph’s designs?” Isabelle asked, setting her purse on the floor and entering the conversation as she dropped onto the sofa.
“Not directly,” Lars said. “But he talked about surprising people with his designs at the show.”
Cole sat next to Isabelle and put his arm across her shoulders. “I wish he’d given away more, but he said enough to keep him at the top of our suspect list.”
“I wish that meant I could skip working all the other shows but his.” Isabelle took off her shoes and grimaced. “I’m not sure what I’m most worried about: messing up in front of an army of photographers or destroying my feet forever.”
“I’m afraid blisters come with the job,” Marit said, rooting through her purse for her container of plasters. “Here.” She handed them to Isabelle. “I’ve been modeling so long my feet have become calloused. I don’t get nearly as many blisters as I used to, but I still keep these on hand.”
“What are they?” Cole asked.
Isabelle showed him the small box. “Stretchy Band-Aids.”
He gave her a sympathetic look. “How about you put those on and then I give you a foot rub? I can avoid any areas that are covered.”
Isabelle leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. “You’re the best,” she whispered.
Lars drew Marit into his arms. “What are the chances that I would get a kiss if I offered to rub your feet?”
Laughing softly, Marit slid her arms around his neck. “High. So, so high.” She looked up at him, her heartbeat quickening at the look in his eyes. “Although, you might get one just for walking me home from rehearsal this evening.”
“I was kind of hoping you’d say that,” he said.
“You were, huh?”
“Absolutely.” Without another word, he lowered his lips to hers, and for several seconds, she lost herself in the wonder of loving this man—of being loved by him.
Then Cole’s voice reached her from the sofa.
“Seriously, guys?”
Reluctantly, she drew back. Lars continued to hold her, the moment they’d shared lingering even though they could not call back the kiss.
“And here I thought his tricking me into eating spinach this morning was bad,” Lars muttered.
Marit smiled. “You ate spinach?”
“Half a leaf, at most,” Cole said. “He left the rest on the side of the plate.”
Isabelle looked from Cole to Lars. “Was this at the fancy restaurant you went to for brunch?”
“Yeah,” Lars said. “And the spinach tasted the same as it always does. It was just more expensive.”
Isabelle laughed. “What else did you learn while you were there?”
“Not much more than we’ve already told you,” Cole said. “LaRue and his business manager left soon after we got our food. I called the police once they were gone to check on the James and Bernard investigations.” He frowned. “No new leads.”
“So, what do we do now?” Marit asked.
“Well, since Fashion Week officially starts tomorrow morning, Lars and I will walk you and Isabelle to the Carrousel du Louvre for Camille Allard’s show,” Cole said. “While you’re working, we’ll see if we can find anything of interest backstage.”
“Is there anything we should be working on tonight?” she asked.
Cole looked at Isabelle and raised an eyebrow. “What do you think? Some last-minute modeling lessons for you, or another self-defense session for Marit?”
“If Marit’s feeling half as wiped out as me, we both need to spend at least half an hour doing nothing more than scrolling mindlessly through YouTube videos on our phones.”
Marit laughed. “That sounds amazing.”
“Right?” Isabelle gave Cole a deceptively innocent look. “Although I’m pretty sure holding a mug of hot chocolate in the other hand would make it even better.”
Cole chuckled. “Am I going out for this hot chocolate, or is there some in the kitchenette?”
“Try the cupboard to the right of the sink,” Marit said.
Cole crossed to the cupboard, opened it, and pulled out a box. “Do you want some, too, Lars?”
“Sure.”
“Great.” Cole opened another cupboard. “Four mugs of hot chocolate, a half-hour break, and a lesson on how to disarm a gunman coming up.”