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Lars flashed his press ID at the security guard standing at the entrance of the rented warehouse. With a nod, the guard waved him through, and Lars walked inside. A temporary catwalk had been set up in the center of the large space. On one end of the runway, large curtains cordoned off the portion of the room being used by the models; on the other end, a cluster of photographers was gathered behind a row of tripods and cameras.

Sliding the strap of his camera case more securely onto his shoulder, Lars moved toward the group of photographers standing behind their tripods, waiting for Camille Allard’s rehearsal to begin. When he spotted Tony, he smiled. The English photographer had been more than eager to engage in conversation at Ralph’s rehearsal. If Lars were lucky, a few well-placed questions this morning might lead to some useful information.

“Hey, Tony,” Lars greeted the older man.

“Lars! Nice of you to join us.” Tony shifted to his left to make room for Lars. “I heard Molenaar helped Allard out last year, but I didn’t know he went as far as sharing the Coster jewelry with her.”

Lars blinked, scarcely believing his luck. Tony had tossed out that valuable nugget of information before he’d even formulated a leading question. Tamping down his impatience to know more, he shook his head. “No shared jewelry. I just know that on the day of Molenaar’s show, I won’t get many chances for the right shot. The more practice I have with the models on the runway, the more confident I’ll feel in the moment.”

“Makes sense,” Tony said. “If we told people how many photos we take before we get the winning shot, they wouldn’t believe us.”

“Right?” Lars unscrewed the legs on his tripod and set it next to Tony’s. “So, what can you tell me about Allard’s show?”

Tony shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, it’s classic Allard pieces. The lady’s French, but she’s less dramatic than most of her colleagues—with her clothing line and her temperament. I don’t suppose we’ll hear much shouting at this one.”

Lars desperately hoped Tony’s assessment proved right. After what Marit and Isabelle had gone through the night before, they could use a drama-free rehearsal.

“What did you mean when you said Molenaar and Allard have worked together in the past?” he asked.

“Well, it was a bit hush-hush,” Tony admitted. “But word on the street was that Allard was forced to close her manufacturing plant for three months because of a fire.”

“Whoa. That can’t be a good thing for a big-name designer.”

“Nope,” Tony said. “And it happened a couple of months before the London shows.”

“What did she do?”

“Swallowed her pride and asked for help.” Tony adjusted the shutter speed on his camera. “Bianchi turned her down. No big surprise there. Some say LaRue did too. Must be that the rivalry between the two of them is stronger than their shared nationality.”

“So, she approached Molenaar?”

“Or the other way round.”

“Molenaar offered his help without being asked?” Lars said.

Tony shrugged. “I can’t verify that, but in the industry, Molenaar’s known as one of the better fellows. According to the unreliable old grapevine, Molenaar cleared his manufacturing plant of his clothes for three weeks to let Allard’s team go in and produce theirs in time for the London show.”

Lars released a low whistle. “I don’t suppose that happens often.”

“I think never ’s the word you’re looking for,” Tony said. “I get that Molenaar cleared the facility of his stuff first, but in a business where most designers are looking over their shoulders to see if anyone’s trying to steal their ideas, it was a generous move.”

“How often do you think that actually happens?” Lars asked. “The stealing of ideas, I mean.”

“Who knows. If you listen for them, there are always rumors about that kind of thing buzzing around, but it seems like nothing’s ever proven.” He took a seat behind his camera. “Take Peter Wade, for example. A couple of years ago, Bianchi came out swinging, claiming Wade had stolen his color palette for that year’s spring line. He denied it, of course, and since Bianchi never offered any proof, his accusation eventually fizzled and died. Nobody talks about it anymore.”

But that would not be the case if Bianchi had backed up his claim. Peter Wade’s career in the fashion industry would have been over. Lars’s thoughts flew to Ralph. No wonder the guy was desperate. If the person who’d stolen his patterns and designs produced them after accusing him of stealing, the charge would appear evidence-based. The black mark wouldn’t disappear the way the one pinned on Peter Wade had.

“It’s a cutthroat industry,” Lars said.

“You’ve got that right.” The stage manager appeared at the runway entrance, and Tony moved closer to his camera. “And I’m glad I’m on this end of it.”

Tony was right. He and the other photographers didn’t have much to lose if one of the designers went rogue, but the woman Lars loved did. Marit wouldn’t be safe until they’d figured out who was behind the theft at Ralph’s office and James’s death. If Lars could pass on this new information about Allard to Marit while she was backstage, there was a possibility that she and Isabelle could discover the truth behind the rumors from her crew. Knowing whether Allard felt gratitude or resentment for Ralph’s intervention would go a long way in determining her status on the suspect list.

Lars pulled his phone from his pocket. He flexed his fingers, attempting to work out some tension as they hovered over the keypad. The second model was already on the runway. It was possible that Marit wouldn’t see his text until it was too late to act on it, but he had to at least try. Angling his phone so Tony couldn’t see the screen, he typed a short message to Marit. As soon as he’d sent it, he copied it, added the tidbit about Peter Wade, and sent it to Cole. The more his cousin knew before talking to Ralph again, the better.

Releasing a tight breath, he looked up to see Marit standing at the runway entrance. At a signal from the man at the curtain, she started toward him. Lars adjusted the focus on his camera and took a few photos of her approach. When she reached the end of the runway, she stopped and smiled at the photographers. Lars lifted his phone. Marit gave no indication that she’d noticed, but Lars knew that didn’t mean anything. He’d yet to meet anyone as observant as Marit. And if she’d guessed he needed her to check her phone, somehow, she’d find a way to do it.

***

Cole approached the security desk, the flash drive gripped firmly in his hand, the backup copy still safely on his laptop. Having the information in Cole’s possession wouldn’t hurt Ralph, but it would ensure that proof existed to show that Ralph had created the images if another theft occurred.

“I’m here to see Ralph Molenaar. He’s expecting me.” Cole picked up the pen by the sign-in log and wrote down his name.

The guard picked up the phone and glanced at Cole’s name before relaying the message that Cole had arrived. As soon as he hung up, the guard said, “Do you know where his office is?”

“ Oui ,” Cole said, utilizing the little bit of French he knew. “ Merci ,” he added as he headed for the elevator.

When he stepped off on the correct floor, the buzz of voices carried from a nearby doorway. Several people stood by another office down the hall. A young woman emerged from Ralph’s office, a garment bag draped over her arm.

Cole moved past her and knocked on Ralph’s open door.

Ralph stood behind his desk, a pen in hand as he made a note on the paper in front of him. “Just a moment.” He held up a finger briefly before he stopped writing and straightened. “Sorry. Everything is a bit chaotic today. Our show is just over a week away, and we’re still making adjustments.”

Cole closed the office door before he held out the flash drive. “I believe this is yours.”

Ralph’s eyes widened. “Where did you find it?”

“It was in Marit Jansen’s purse.” Before Ralph could jump to the wrong conclusion, he added, “We believe Brinton James planted it there after Marit caught him in your office.”

“But the police never found it.”

“They questioned Marit, but they never went as far as obtaining a search warrant,” Cole said. “After reading the lead detective’s report, I believe they eliminated her as a suspect after she provided so many specific details about the night of the theft.”

Ralph lowered into his chair and held up the flash drive. With a shake of his head, he said, “And this has been in her purse ever since it was stolen?”

“Yes. We went through her bag last night after an attempted mugging.” Cole sat across from Ralph and explained the sequence of events along with the unsuccessful purse snatching.

“Thank goodness Marit is okay.” Ralph set the flash drive on his desk. “And having this back will help me defend myself when whoever stole my designs tries to call me a thief.” He sighed. “I can only hope my adaptations will be significant enough to prevent that from happening.”

“Marit said the missing patterns could still pose a significant problem.”

“Very much so,” Ralph said. “Only four years ago, Dominic Vitale went out of business within six months of showing the same outfit as Peter Wade at New York Fashion Week.”

Suspicion hummed through Cole. “That’s twice I’ve heard Peter Wade’s name come up with regard to a potential intellectual-property theft.”

“Ah, yes. The color palette from Bianchi three years ago.” Ralph nodded. “That did cause quite a stir.”

“Do you think Peter was guilty?”

“I don’t know. He launched a line of rather revealing miniskirts that year. It’s possible Bianchi was simply casting blame as a warning for him to steer clear of what Giuseppe considers his territory.”

His territory. Meaning sleazy. Cole kept that thought to himself.

“Of the designers going before you, which would benefit the most from stealing your designs?” Cole motioned toward the door behind him. “Or from putting you in the position of trying to reinvent your designs so close to your show?”

“I hate to say it, but if I were forced out of business, they all would benefit.”

Cole pulled out his phone and retrieved his notes app. “I know you’re busy, but this is important. I need to know everything about these other designers, right down to who you think is capable of theft.” Cole paused. “And murder.”