“Why are you giving me these pictures?” I asked, staring down at the envelope in my hands.
Lola crossed her legs and smiled like it was nothing. “Because I don’t want you wasting time. If you’re here to find the thief, you’ll need to know this first.”
The photos were clear. Lola and the kitchen assistant—his arm around her, laughing, leaning close. A romantic relationship, no doubt about it. They looked like a couple who had been keeping things secret for a while.
I slid the pictures back into the envelope and placed it on the table. “So you and the assistant… you’ve been hiding this from the Sheikh?”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “We didn’t want to lose our jobs. The Sheikh doesn’t allow staff relationships. But I’m not a thief. Neither is he.”
“Then why give me these photos?” I asked again.
“Because I don’t want us dragged into this. If you find out later, you’ll think we’re hiding something. Better you hear it from me now.”
I leaned back in my chair. Her tone was sharp, controlled. She wasn’t begging me to believe her innocence. She was drawing a line.
Interesting.
After finishing with Lola, I stepped into the Sheikh’s office. He sat behind a massive desk, his fingers tapping impatiently against the wood.
“Well?” he asked.
“They’ve all been questioned,” I said. “Nothing concrete yet.” My hand brushed the envelope in my pocket. For a moment, I thought about showing him the photos. Normally, I don’t hold back from a client.
But the pictures only revealed a secret romance, not theft. If I handed them over now, the maid and the cook’s assistant could lose their jobs for nothing. I decided to keep it to myself—for now.
The Sheikh leaned forward. “What do you need next?”
“CCTV footage,” I answered.
His face tightened. “I knew you’d ask for that. The cameras inside the house are always switched off. My wife hates the idea of being watched, and we left them off during the holiday too. Only the front gate cameras remain active.”
“Then I’ll need the gate footage,” I said. “Maybe someone came in or out who shouldn’t have.”
He pressed a button on his desk phone. A few moments later, Ben Labna walked in.
“Bring the footage from the front gate for the detective,” the Sheikh ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Ben Labna said, bowing slightly before leaving the room.
I rubbed my forehead. This was going to be harder than I thought. No internal cameras meant the theft was perfectly timed.
By noon, I was back at my office. Paige was already there, typing away at her desk. She looked up as I entered.
“You look like you didn’t find much,” she said.
“Not much, no. But we’ve got a lead,” I replied, setting the envelope down. “The maid and the kitchen assistant are hiding a relationship. That could mean trust between them… or shared secrets.”
Paige raised an eyebrow. “Think they planned the theft together?”
“Too early to tell. But we’re running out of time. Lars Ekström is expecting me this afternoon.”
Paige stood up, holding a folder. “Before you go, you should think about bait.”
“Bait?” I asked.
She opened the folder. Inside were photos of some of the Sheikh’s other jewels—rings, bracelets, watches. “If Lars is really moving stolen goods, he won’t admit it to a stranger. But if you walk in with pieces like these, pretending you want to sell, he might open the backroom collection.”
I thought about it for a moment. She was right. “You’ve already asked the Sheikh?”
She nodded. “He agreed. You just need to pick up the items from his office before heading out.”
“Good work, Paige,” I said with a small smile. “You’re earning your raise.”
She smirked. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
I stopped by the Sheikh’s house again before meeting Lars. He handed me a small velvet pouch filled with three pieces: a diamond-studded bracelet, a gold watch, and a ruby ring. All real. All worth enough to tempt even the most careful jeweler.
“Do not lose them,” the Sheikh warned.
“I won’t,” I promised.
As I left the mansion, Ben Labna caught up with me. He handed me a USB stick. “The gate footage you requested, sir.”
“Thanks. I’ll check it later.”
At four o’clock sharp, I walked into Ekström’s boutique. The place was everything you’d expect: glass cases, velvet displays, soft music, and the faint smell of expensive cologne.
A tall man with silver hair and sharp blue eyes greeted me at the door. “Welcome. You must be Mr. Hartwell?”
That was the name Paige had booked the appointment under.
“Yes,” I said. “I have something I’d like you to take a look at.”
We sat at a private table in the back of the boutique. I placed the velvet pouch on the table and slid it toward him.
He opened it, and his eyes lit up for a fraction of a second before he composed himself. “Beautiful,” he said. “Where did you get these?”
“A family collection,” I replied smoothly. “But I’m interested in selling quietly. No paperwork. No taxes.”
Ekström studied me carefully, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. “That’s a very particular request. We don’t do business this way.”
“I was told you sometimes make exceptions,” I said, lowering my voice. “For the right kind of item.”
He chuckled. “People talk too much in this city.” But he didn’t say no. Instead, he picked up the bracelet, turning it under the light.
“A very beautiful piece,” he said. “I could find buyers for it, no question. But…” He paused, studying me. “You don’t look like someone who wants receipts. You want discretion. And that, I don’t do.”
I almost laughed. I knew his reputation. Lars Ekström was no saint. He had moved pieces far riskier than what I had laid in front of him. The problem wasn’t the jewelry—it was me. A stranger walking in with mid-range stones wasn’t worth the risk.
I leaned forward slightly. “What if I told you I could get something rare? Something that was never meant to be sold at all?”
His eyes narrowed. He leaned back, folding his arms. “Are you testing me, Mr. Hartwell?”
I gave a faint smile. “Let’s just say I know people. And I know your reputation. So I’m curious—would you take on something unique… something that should never appear on the market?”
I slid a few photographs from the inside pocket of my suit and placed them on the table. He studied them carefully.
“That,” I said, my voice low, “is a necklace crafted by Sheikh Zayed Maktoum for his wife. A one-of-a-kind piece.”
He didn’t look up. Just whispered: “Priceless.”
Silence stretched. Finally, he set the bracelet back into the pouch.
“Bring me this necklace,” he said quietly. “Then we’ll see.”
Not exactly the confession I wanted. The good news—I had gained his interest. The bad news—if he already had the necklace, his reaction would have been very different.
That night, I met Sam, the bartender, at a small café near Jumeirah.
He showed up in jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt, his hair messy, eyes tired.
“You’re the detective?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from me.
“That’s right. You wrote a comment on Lola Kashani’s post. Called her a thief.”
He rolled his eyes. “She’s a liar. And a thief.”
“Thief?” I asked. “What exactly did she steal from you?”
“One day I was her perfect boyfriend. The next, she was gone. She can’t be trusted.”
I watched him carefully. He looked more like a bitter ex than a man with real information. Still, I pushed a little. “You were dating her?”
“Yes,” he said. “Four months. At first everything was fine. Then she started staying out late, coming home at strange hours. When I asked, she said it was work.”
I nodded, though my patience was wearing thin.
“And then one day,” he continued, “she left. Along with my PlayStation, half my clothes, and some cash I’d hidden. She’s a thief. And I’m sure she was seeing someone else.”
I almost laughed. Here I was chasing a necklace worth a hundred and sixteen thousand dollars, and this man was whining about video games and T-shirts.
I stood up, ready to leave.
He grabbed my arm before I could walk away. “Be careful. I don’t know why you’re investigating her, but she can’t be trusted. She loves expensive things. Always wants people to think she’s rich.”
I pulled free, gave him a polite nod. “Thanks for your time.”
And then I left, I’d just wasted an evening.I left with nothing but a clearer picture of Lola’s messy love life.
Back in my office, I plugged in the USB stick Ben Labna had given me. Paige leaned over my shoulder as the footage played on the screen.
The footage from the front gate played out on my screen. For most of the ten days, nothing happened. No suspicious cars, no unexpected visitors—just the usual quiet.
Then, on the seventh night, something broke the pattern.
At two in the morning, a black car rolled up to the gate. The headlights cut through the darkness.
A figure stepped out. Hood pulled tight, face hidden. He moved quickly, like he knew exactly what he was doing. The gate swung open, and he slipped inside.
“Who is that?” Paige whispered.
I froze the frame. The license plate was blurry, foreign. The hooded man’s face never showed.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice low.
Twenty minutes later, the same figure walked back out, climbed into the car, and drove off.
The rest of the footage was quiet again.
Paige crossed her arms. “So someone entered the house while the family was gone. And none of the staff said a word about it.”
“Exactly,” I muttered. My eyes stayed on the screen. “Which means at least one of them is lying.”
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen. Four days left. A missing necklace. A household full of secrets. And now, a mystery stranger slipping through the gates in the middle of the night.
I was about to turn in for the night when my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
Just one line.
“Stop looking for the necklace. You’re not built for this.”