Chapter 2 - The Missing Ledger
Camille left the Delacroix estate without changing clothes.
Bernard tried to persuade her to wait for security to inspect the hotel first.
She refused.
The missing document was too important.
More importantly, almost no one knew it existed.
That narrowed the list of suspects.
Or it should have.
Camille sat in the rear of the first sedan with Bernard beside her.
Across from them sat Julian Cross, the American forensic accountant who had spent six months tracing money through Delacroix subsidiaries.
Julian held a tablet.
“The suite door opened at 9:14.”
Camille checked the time.
Victoire had pushed her into the pool at approximately 9:11.
“Three minutes later.”
“Yes.”
“Coincidence?”
Julian looked at her.
“You don’t believe in coincidence.”
“No.”
Neither did he.
Bernard leaned forward.
“Hotel cameras?”
“Interrupted.”
“For how long?”
“Eight minutes.”
Camille laughed once without humor.
“Professional.”
Julian nodded.
“The electronic safe also recorded a master override.”
Bernard’s expression darkened.
“Hotel staff?”
“Or someone with a cloned service credential.”
Camille looked through the window.
The Delacroix estate disappeared behind them.
The entire evening replayed in her head.
The spilled wine.
Victoire’s public humiliation.
The shove.
The phones.
The laughter.
Had it really been spontaneous?
Victoire had always been arrogant.
Camille knew that from the background investigation.
But arrogance alone did not explain why Camille’s hotel room had been entered at precisely the moment every eye on the terrace was fixed on her.
“What if Victoire was distracting me?” Camille asked.
Bernard immediately rejected it.
“She didn’t know who you were.”
“She may not have needed to.”
Julian looked up.
Camille continued.
“Someone could have encouraged her.”
“To push you into a pool?”
“To create a scene.”
Julian considered it.
“Make sure everyone’s attention is on the terrace.”
“And make sure I’m too occupied to notice an alert from my hotel security.”
Bernard sighed.
“That suggests planning.”
“Yes.”
“And someone with knowledge of the investigation.”
Camille stared at the city lights appearing ahead.
“That’s what worries me.”
They reached the Hôtel Beaumont twenty-six minutes later.
Two private security officers were already stationed in the hallway.
Camille entered Suite 814.
Nothing looked disturbed.
That was worse.
Her suitcase remained closed.
Her coat was still over the chair.
The lamp beside the bed remained exactly where she had left it.
She walked to the wall safe.
Open.
Empty.
Julian stood behind her.
“What was taken?”
Camille answered immediately.
“The original transfer authorization.”
Bernard closed the door.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
The safe had contained cash.
A passport.
Two encrypted drives.
A Cartier bracelet from Camille’s grandmother.
All remained untouched.
Only one sheet of paper was missing.
The sheet carried three signatures.
Étienne Delacroix.
A Banque Mercier executive.
And a third signature Camille had been unable to identify.
Twelve million euros had moved from the Azure Crown development reserve into a Luxembourg holding company called Northstar Meridian.
From there, it disappeared.
Julian had discovered a digital copy.
But Camille insisted on obtaining the original.
Digital records could be challenged.
Original ink was harder to explain.
Bernard walked to the window.
“How many people knew you had it?”
Camille counted.
“Me.”
“Julian.”
“You.”
“Amelia.”
Julian looked at her.
“And Étienne.”
Camille shook her head.
“Étienne knew I was looking for financial irregularities.”
“He might have known what you found.”
“He looked surprised tonight.”
Bernard turned.
“He is an excellent businessman.”
“He is also a terrible actor.”
Julian almost smiled.
Camille walked toward the minibar.
She removed a bottle of water.
Her wet clothes were becoming uncomfortable, but she ignored it.
“Who is Amelia?”
Julian asked.
Bernard answered.
“Camille’s legal counsel in Paris.”
Julian frowned.
“She knew about the document?”
Camille nodded.
“She arranged secure storage.”
Bernard suddenly turned toward her.
“Then why was it in your hotel safe?”
Camille froze.
That was a good question.
The original had been scheduled for transfer to a secure vault that afternoon.
Amelia had personally confirmed the courier.
But the courier never arrived.
Camille had assumed there was a scheduling error.
Now that assumption felt foolish.
She reached for her phone.
Amelia did not answer.
Camille tried again.
Nothing.
Julian watched her.
“When did you last speak?”
“Six twenty.”
“What did she say?”
“That the courier was delayed.”
Bernard’s expression tightened.
“Camille.”
She knew what he was thinking.
“No.”
“You said yourself only four people knew.”
“Amelia has represented my family for eleven years.”
Bernard said nothing.
That silence irritated her.
Camille stepped into the bedroom.
She finally changed into dry clothes.
Black trousers.
A white sweater.
No jewelry.
When she returned, Julian had connected his tablet to the hotel network logs.
“There’s something else.”
Camille sat beside him.
He enlarged a time stamp.
The intruder had entered Suite 814 at 9:14.
The hotel surveillance interruption began at 9:12.
But at 9:09, someone had called the hotel’s internal security desk from a private number.
“Can you trace it?”
“Already did.”
He tapped the screen.
The number belonged to a prepaid device.
Activated two days earlier.
Purchased in Monaco.
Camille leaned back.
“No help.”
Julian swiped to the next screen.
“Maybe.”
A map appeared.
“One call was made before the phone went dark.”
“To whom?”
Julian looked at her.
“Victoire Delacroix.”
Camille stared at the screen.
Bernard muttered something in French.
Camille remained silent.
The phone had contacted Victoire seventeen minutes before Camille arrived at the Delacroix party.
That meant someone had spoken with her.
Possibly instructed her.
Possibly manipulated her.
Possibly paid her.
Julian zoomed in.
“The call lasted forty-three seconds.”
“Can we recover the audio?”
“Not directly.”
Camille stood.
“Then we ask her.”
Bernard blocked the doorway.
“No.”
Camille stared at him.
“She may be involved.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not afraid of Victoire.”
“I’m not worried about Victoire.”
That stopped her.
Bernard’s expression had changed.
“What are you worried about?”
He took his phone from his pocket.
He opened a photograph.
It showed the Delacroix terrace shortly after Camille emerged from the pool.
Hundreds of people.
Waiters.
Guests.
Security officers.
Camille.
Victoire.
Étienne.
Bernard enlarged the image.
At the far edge of the terrace stood a man in a navy suit.
He was not laughing.
He was not recording.
He was watching Camille.
Camille leaned closer.
“Who is he?”
Bernard’s face had gone pale.
“Luc Morel.”
Julian looked between them.
“Who?”
Bernard hesitated.
Then answered.
“He used to work for Camille’s father.”
Camille felt a cold pressure in her chest.
“My father fired him fifteen years ago.”
“Yes.”
“For embezzlement.”
Bernard nodded.
Camille looked at the photograph again.
Luc Morel had disappeared after the scandal.
No trial.
No public charges.
Camille’s father had refused to explain why.
Three years later, her father died in what police ruled a boating accident.
Camille had not seen Luc Morel since she was sixteen.
Until tonight.
Julian looked at the image.
“He attended the Delacroix party?”
“He wasn’t on the guest list,” Bernard said.
Camille took the phone.
Morel stood twenty yards from the pool.
Looking directly at her.
Then Camille noticed the object in his hand.
May you like
A hotel keycard.
Her hotel’s logo was printed across the bottom.
