Page 12 of French Escapade

Élodie

Iwould have loved to be mistaken. But the second Jimmy showed me the ring picture, I was certain.

Arkady Oushkin. The bastard is back.

He’s kept a low profile, lately. I had imagined he left for greener pastures. I wasn’t totally wrong—he took a trip to the U.S.

Originally, I had my doubts. I mean, what were the chances that the disappearance of Kenneth’s sister would have anything to do with Arkady? What were the chances that I would walk past the station’s front desk at the very moment when he was there with his friend?

If I believed in coincidences, I would think it was meant to be. But the thing is, I’ve always been suspicious, and rightfully so. But if I do not trust chance, there’s one thing I do believe in, and that’s my instinct.

I listened to the story the two Americans told, and I believe them. Why? I don’t know. Something about Kenneth is convincing. He’s like this tower of strength I want to rely on. It’s actually scary, now that I think about it. I’ve only known the man for a few minutes.

* * *

Kenneth and Jimmy follow me to the station. The least I can say is that I do not go unnoticed with the two giants following me to my office. I share it with three other officers; two are out in the field and the third one is on vacation. Good. We’ll have the place to ourselves.

While my computer attempts to wake up, Kenneth tells me what they’ve been doing since they landed in Nice Airport this morning. “In her message, she said she was in room 320 in some hotel. If the rooms are numbered as they are in most places in the world, this means it’s on the third floor, and there are at least nineteen other rooms on that floor. So it’s not a small place.”

“Then, on one of Madison’s Instagram pictures, we can see that she has a sea view. That’s why we visited the better hotels on La Croisette. But they wouldn’t give us the time of day.”

“Right, some were just about to call their security team,” Jimmy says.

“They look at each other. Not sure who would have regretted it most,” Kenneth grumbles.

That’s a good question. I haven’t seen them in action, but something tells me they could deal with hotel security agents, no weapons needed.

“You can’t be surprised they didn’t talk to you. When people pay that kind of money to stay in such high-end places, they expect privacy.”

I glance at my computer. It’s finally come back to life.

“Jimmy, can you please give me Miranda’s Instagram log-in information?”

He does, and I log into her account and access her feed and stories. There’s a lot of stuff here. I never understood why some people feel the need to share pictures of their meals or post movies showing them eating chips on their couches, but I have to admit, for law enforcement, the extensive documentation of lives is an endless source of information.

Unfortunately, Miranda didn’t follow Madison to France. The pictures showing her friend stopped a few days ago. But maybe …

Yes! Madison couldn’t help herself. She sent some new shots to her friend in a private message to show her what she was missing out on.

“One of the pictures is titled View from my balcony.” It’s better than the one she posted on her account. I can make out some details of the room, as well as the balcony’s railing. There’s only one hotel in Cannes with this sort of balconies.

“This picture was taken at the Richmond Palace,” I tell the two men.

“That’s one of the places we visited this morning. Any chance you could talk them into letting us know if my sister is still there?”

“Without a court order? Not a chance.”

Kenneth sighs.

“But there could be another way.”

He looks at me, wondering if I’m joking. I pull my cell phone from my bag and search through my contacts.

Olivia Allard Lanski, gouvernante générale, Richmond Palace.

We met a few years back when she first moved to the south. One of the clients of the hotel had been found dead in his room. I was a rookie at the time, but I had been part of the team investigating the case. A few years later, I ran into her again at Franck’s gym and we got to know each other better. Olivia gave up Muay Thai, but we’ve kept in touch. Every so often, we go out for a drink together. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend.

I press on her name. Olivia picks up after two rings.

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