I sat at my desk, a bold "Private Detective" sign resting on its surface. With a quiet sigh, I picked up my cup of tea and swiveled my chair to face the massive window behind me.
The city of Dubai stretched out below, gleaming under the afternoon sun. The door opened, and my secretary stepped in.
"Your appointment is here."
"You can send them in, Paige. Thanks," I replied.
A few seconds later, a skinny man with glasses stepped into my office. His posture was stiff, his hands fidgeting slightly.
"My name is Ahmed Ben Labna. I am the personal butler of Sheikh Zayed Maktoum," he said, his voice carefully measured. "I'm here because of a very urgent matter. And I need your absolute discretion."
"Welcome, Mr. Ben Labna," I said, gesturing for him to take a seat. "You have my word. How can I help you?"
He hesitated, then spoke. "My master, Sheikh Zayed Maktoum, has… lost something of great value. And we need you to find it."
I leaned forward slightly. "What exactly has gone missing?"
"A very precious necklace, named The Princess’s Necklace."
"I see," I said, nodding. "And its value?"
Ben Labna cleared his throat. "The necklace was crafted specifically for a special occasion. In five days, the Sheikh will be celebrating his 30th wedding anniversary. A grand event is being organized, and he promised his wife a unique gift—one he planned to present to her in front of all the guests. That gift was the necklace."
He paused for a moment before adding, "It’s worth $116,000… and that’s without considering the sentimental value."
"So, losing it would be… quite embarrassing for the Sheikh, I assume?"
"Precisely," he said gravely. "Which is why your discretion is crucial."
I nodded. "How did it go missing?"
"We're not entirely sure," he admitted, shifting in his chair. "The necklace was kept in a jewelry safe inside the house. The Sheik and his family had been away on holiday.
When they returned yesterday, the safe appeared untouched—but when we checked inside, the necklace was gone. Someone had unlocked it, taken only the necklace, and left everything else behind."
"And who was in the house while they were away?"
"There were five of us," he said. "I stayed to prepare for their return, along with the cook, the kitchen assistant, and two maids. The Sheikh will, of course, grant you full access to question us if needed."
I leaned back, thinking for a moment before giving a small nod.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Ben Labna. I'll be there tomorrow, at the Sheikh’s house, to meet the staff—and the Sheikh himself."
As soon as Mr. Ben Labna left, I got to work. If someone had stolen such a distinctive necklace, they would need a way to sell it—and in the black market, that kind of sale wouldn’t go unnoticed.
I made a few calls to people I knew in the luxury and jewelry business, asking if they’d heard of anyone looking to move a rare, high-end piece. Eventually, I got a name: Lars Ekström. A Swedish jeweler who had been in Dubai for the past ten years.
Officially, he ran a high-end boutique in town, but rumors suggested he kept a separate, more exclusive collection hidden in the back—pieces that didn’t come with receipts.
I asked Paige to book an appointment under a false name. I wanted to visit his shop and see if I could get a glimpse of those hidden treasures.
With that set in motion, I turned to the less exciting part of the job—background checks. I needed to know everything about the five people who had been in the Sheikh’s house during the break-in: Mr. Ben Labna, the cook, the kitchen assistant, and the two maids.
Ben Labna had already given me their names and references. I ran online searches, contacted former employers, and even created fake social media profiles to connect with them. But nothing raised any red flags.
The cook was a highly respected chef who had worked in top restaurants worldwide. Stealing didn’t seem like his style. The kitchen assistant was young and ambitious, with a promising career ahead—risking everything for a necklace didn’t make sense.
The two maids had spotless records. Everyone I spoke to described them as hardworking, discreet, and trustworthy. As for Mr. Ben Labna, he had served the Sheikh faithfully for 15 years. None of them had a clear motive.
And yet, the theft had to be an inside job. Only five people were present at the house, but they would have known they’d be the first suspects. An outsider breaking in was unlikely—the security on Palm Jumeirah was too tight.
I leaned back in my chair, stretching, my mind turning over the puzzle. Then, a notification popped up on my phone.
Lola Kashani, one of the maids, had accepted my following request on her private Instagram account.
I scrolled through her profile. Nothing unusual—just the typical feed of a 28-year-old woman in Dubai. There were plenty of photos of her on a yacht (the Sheikh’s yacht), in a lavish mansion (the Sheikh’s house), and posing next to luxury cars (parked in the Sheikh’s garage).
Like many, she enjoyed curating an illusion for her followers, letting them believe the wealth around her was hers rather than her employer’s.
But then I noticed something in the comments. Beneath one of her photos, a user named Mas_Ringthon had written:
"You don’t deserve all that. You’re just a thief. How could you steal from me?!"
That got my attention.
I clicked on the profile. His name was Sam, and he worked as a bartender in Dubai. I sent him a direct message.
"I’m a private detective investigating a case related to Lola Kashani. I’d like to talk."
I had a feeling this was about to get interesting.
Today was shaping up to be an interesting day. In the morning, I would meet the Sheikh’s staff. In the afternoon, I had an appointment with Lars Ekström, the jeweler.
And in the evening, I would meet Sam, the bartender. With only 4 days left before the Sheikh’s grand event, I had no time to lose.
When I arrived at the Sheikh’s property, I was surprised to be greeted by the man himself. He led me through a towering entrance into the mansion. Everything inside was designed to impress.
A massive Dragon tree in the entrance, followed by a seven-meter-long sofa dominated the living room, the dining area could easily seat sixteen guests, and the kitchen was draped in marble.
The back of the house featured floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened onto an outdoor lounge, a secondary kitchen, and beyond that, an infinity pool that seemed to stretch endlessly into the horizon.
The Sheikh guided me to an office in one of the spare rooms, where we sat down to talk.
“In four days, we’ll be hosting a grand celebration, as you know,” he began. “And I have no backup plan. Everyone is expecting to see the necklace.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “The Princess’ Necklace was created for this occasion. I need it.”
“I understand completely,” I assured him. “You have my word—I’ll do everything I can to get it back in time.”
“Do you have any leads?”
It was too early to say anything for certain, but I didn’t want him to worry. “It’s too soon to disclose anything,” I said, keeping my tone confident, “but yes, I do have some promising leads.”
That was a lie, of course. But sometimes, keeping a client calm was just as important as finding the truth.
We went over the plan for questioning the staff. I would speak to each of them individually, asking as many questions as necessary. The Sheikh had already given orders for them to cooperate.
But here was the twist—the staff had no idea what had been stolen. Only the Sheikh and Mr. Ben Labna, his butler, knew the truth. To prevent rumors from spreading, the rest of the household was simply told that something had gone missing.
Only the thief would know exactly what. My strategy was straightforward. Since the Sheikh and his family had been away for ten days, there was no point in checking alibis.
None of the five staff members could have an airtight alibi for an entire week and a half. They had all been alone at some point, with the opportunity to steal the necklace.
So instead of focusing on who could have taken it, I needed to understand why someone would steal it. Was it for money? Revenge?
The first person I spoke to was the cook—an Asian man in his forties who looked a decade younger. He had nothing but good things to say about the Sheikh, though he didn’t go overboard with praise either.
He didn’t seem like he was hiding anything. He was generally a somber man, still grieving the loss of his brother three months ago. I couldn’t picture him as a thief.
Next was the chef’s assistant—a tall, energetic blond guy, eager to help. A little too eager. He kept repeating one particular point: whatever was missing had to have been stolen by one of the five people in the house. He mentioned this over and over again, almost as if he wanted to drill it into my head.
If he was the thief, it was a clumsy move. But even if he was innocent, why was he so insistent? Was he trying to cover for someone? Or was there someone else in the house that he wasn’t mentioning?
I ran out of questions and let him go, but I made a mental note to keep an eye on him.
Then, I met with Mr. Ben Labna. We had already spoken, so there wasn’t much left to ask. He was, in some ways, the most obvious suspect. He had been with the Sheikh for over fifteen years, knew the family inside and out, and had their trust.
If anyone could pull off a theft under their noses, it was him. But what was his motive?
The man had plenty of privileges, was close to the Sheikh’s children, and had even received financial support from the Sheik to help his younger brother start a crypto business in Dubai. Stealing from the man who had done so much for him didn’t seem to make sense.
Then came the first maid. She had been working for the Sheik for two decades and looked every bit as grumpy as you’d expect from someone forced into an interrogation. She made it clear she was not happy about being questioned.
She felt insulted, outraged that after twenty years of loyalty, she was being treated like a suspect. Her reaction seemed genuine. If she was hiding something, she was doing a hell of a job. For now, she was at the bottom of my suspect list.
And finally, I was about to meet the person I was most curious about, Lola Kashani. She entered the room, sat down and smiled.
Before I started to ask my first question, she handed me an envelope. Nothing was written on it. I opened it, and there were a few pictures inside.