Page 8 of French Escapade

Élodie

I’m done with my report. I save it in the database, stand, and move my head to relax my neck. While I’m at it, I stretch a bit. Only some lucky members of the brass score ergonomic furniture. After a few hours on that chair, which has been around the police station longer than I have, my back protests.

It’s time for a break and a coffee. Like most of my colleagues, I am addicted to the stuff. I glance at the brownish liquid produced by the old coffee machine in the corner. It tastes like crap. Since I have time, I may as well get agoodcaffeine shot. Grabbing my handbag, I go to the café across the street.

I rush down the steps, nodding at a few fellow officers on the way. In the main reception hall, some people are waiting for their turn, others are working on forms. Business as usual. But as I’m about to walk out, a man’s voice stops me in my tracks. Not his voice per se, but what he says. A name.

“The message she left yesterday was very clear—she said she was threatened by a man named Arkady!”

Arkady?

I know this is a common Russian first name, and there’s an extended Russian community in the area. Yet I can’t help but linger to discreetly eavesdrop. I slow down as if I am looking for something in my bag.

My colleague answers the man. “I’m sorry, sir. But your sister is over eighteen, and we cannot start searching for people left and right just because they say they got into a jam. For all you know, she could have been feeling depressed, or dealing with a hangover. It could also be a bad joke. You know how kids are at that age …”

The man answers in perfect French with just a hint of accent. “Madison would never do that to me. Can you at least take a minute to listen to her message?”

He seems exasperated, running his hand over his shortly cropped hair.

Without giving it much though, I decide to cut in. “I’ll listen to it.”

My colleague makes a mocking face and shouts, “Oh well, if the girl from crimes wants to look into it…”

I ignore him and turn to the man he was talking with. He’s tall, over six feet, and he’s wide. His arm muscles stretch the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He’s impressive.

The fighter in me knows that those muscles were built over time with regular training instead of using steroids. His green eyes scan me. I hope he’s not one of those macho idiots who think a woman has no business in a police station, because if he wants help, he’s going to have to deal with me. I very much doubt anyone else will volunteer.

“I’m Élodie Cossa, detective in the crime squad,” I say offering my hand.

“Kenneth Dylan,” he answers, shaking it. He looks tired. Stress, lack of sleep, I would say.

Another guy, blond and just as physically impressive, stands at his side. He introduces himself as well. “Jimmy Summers.”

He appears to be just as tired as his dark-haired friend. Looks like I’m not the only one in need of caffeine.

“Why don’t we cross over to the café, and you can tell me your story.”

They both nod. While we walk there, I ask, “Americans?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the blond answers.

That makes me want to smile. No one calls me ma’am around here.

“Military?”

“Is it so obvious?” protests the one called Kenneth.

“I shrug. Just an intuition.”

I don’t explain that I’ve met so many military men in my life that I can spot them in less than a second. There’s always something that gives them away—their posture, the way they talk, their self-confidence.

We enter the café, which is not the most glamorous place in Cannes, but is conveniently located two steps away from my police station. We pick a corner table, a bit isolated.

Watching those two guys settle in that narrow booth is sort of funny. But we’re not here for comfort. We order three espressos, and I get right to the point.

“So what brought you to the station?”

“When we returned home, two days ago, my sister Madison was not there,” Kenneth begins. He explains that he didn’t worry about it right away, but that, after a bit, he noticed she’d left messages announcing she’d gone to France.

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