Chapter 1 • 1 •
The first hint that something was wrong came with a siren wailing down Park Avenue. After a long day of window-shopping with her cousin Céline, Bea barely noticed the sound as it passed by. It blended into the background among the honking horns, rumbling engines, and hissing manhole covers of Midtown Manhattan—just one more noise in a city full of them. But when she and Céline reached their hotel a couple of blocks later, Bea couldn’t ignore the flashing lights bathing the sidewalk in a red-and-blue glow.

“What’s going on?” Bea muttered to herself as she pushed past the crowd at the doorway. Inside, the usually tranquil lobby had turned into a place of chaos, packed with anxious guests demanding answers from police officers and harried hotel staff. All the while a pianist in the corner continued to play, his soothing melodies almost entirely drowned out by the hubbub.

Céline pointed across the room. “Look, there’s Eva!”

Stepping out of the elevator was the actress Eva Rousseau—the subject of their aunt’s magazine profile, and the reason why Céline and Aunt Juliette were in New York in the first place. In a gray sweatshirt and joggers, Eva could’ve almost passed for a college student on her way to class. But no, it was definitely her. The glamorous movie star they’d met the day before really was being escorted from the building in her workout clothes by two stern-faced officers.

“Is she being arrested?” Céline asked, incredulous.

“Uh-uh. She’s not wearing handcuffs,” Bea said. “Maybe they’re moving her to safety.”

“I hope Aunt Juliette’s okay.”

Bea tried calling their aunt, but her phone just rang and rang, then went to voicemail.

“Let’s ask him.” Céline pointed to a boy with light brown skin and curly black hair who had just come through an employee-only door and was crossing the lobby. He wore a crisp white shirt and dress pants, and looked around their age, maybe a little older.

They caught up with him.

“Excuse me, do you work here?” Bea asked.

“Uh, not really.”

Céline pointed a manicured finger at his chest. “Then why do you have a name tag?”

He glanced down at his shirt, where ZANE was spelled out in block letters. “Oh, yeah, my mom made me wear it—my family owns the hotel. I’m just helping out over spring break.”

“Well, Zane,” Céline said sweetly, “I’m Céline, and this is my cousin Bea. Can you tell us what’s going on? Why are the police here?”

“I’m not really allowed to say.”

“Please?”

He turned to leave. “I should go.”

Céline touched his arm and fluttered her eyelashes. “We’re really worried about our aunt. She’s not answering her phone.”

Zane paused for a moment. “You didn’t hear it from me, but”—he checked over his shoulder and lowered his voice—“a VIP’s jewelry was stolen. That’s why the police are here.”

Bea and Céline stared at each other. “Eva’s necklace!” they shouted in unison.

“Shh!” Zane said, holding a finger to his lips. “How did you…?”

They had seen it for themselves in Eva’s suite the previous day: the famous Tiffany Yellow Diamond. Eva was borrowing it to wear to the opening night of her Broadway play, which was—Bea checked the time—just hours away.

“Our aunt knows Eva,” Céline boasted. “She’s a jour—”

Bea nudged her. “A friend of hers.” There was no need for this boy to think a journalist was sniffing around for information.

“Yeah, they’re friends, and we know Eva too,” Céline said, catching on. “Is she okay?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“We promise,” Bea replied.

“Well,” Zane whispered, “she’s fine, but her security guards were drugged. Rumor has it the thief was someone she knew.”

“Huh.” Bea mentally scrolled through the various people they’d met in Eva’s suite the day before. Was he talking about Paul, Eva’s stylist? Or maybe Gus, her manager? Or her assistant, Nicole? None of them struck Bea as a likely suspect.

As she pondered the identity of the thief, a movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. The elevator opened, and this time it was Aunt Juliette entering the lobby, accompanied by two cops, with her hands behind her back.

The girls rushed over to her, dodging the other guests standing in their way.

“Are you okay?” Céline asked.

“Don’t worry, girls. The police just want to ask me a few questions.” Her calm words were betrayed by the troubled expression on her face.

“Can we come with you?” Bea pleaded.

“No, no, no. Go to your room and call your dad. Tell him to send Alain to the Midtown East police station.”

“Alain?” The only Alain that Bea could think of was her dad’s old friend from Paris, who had moved to New York for college and never left.

Before Aunt Juliette could say anything else, the officers marched her outside and into a police car. Bea and Céline chased after her and watched from the curb as the car screeched away.

They stood there in silence.

Eventually Céline asked, “Who’s Alain?”

“A lawyer,” Bea said glumly.