Le Français Pt. 01

"Um, what?" Sinead asked incredulously. "Why do they get to swoop in and take a crack atour perp?"

"Orders from on high," the Captain shrugged. "Everything you put together for the raid raised flags up the chain. High-ups think this might even get bumped up to CSIS in time if the banking shit ends up being international."

"That's not even CSIS's job," Jules said.

"The Mounties then," the Captain said with a roll of his eyes. "Or someone Federal, at least. Either way, your names are on the arrests. Who cares what Forensic Finance gets out of the pencil pusher? You're the ones that broke the case wide open. You want more glory out of it, you're going to need to do more of what you were already doing."

"Yes, sir," both women grumbled, and the Captain stalked away towards his office.

"This is such fucking bullshit," Sinead said under her breath once the Captain was far enough away not to hear it.

"Yeah, says the woman who mysteriously put together enough evidence to cobble together a multi-site raid," Jules hissed. "What exactlywere we doing to get all of that info, Sinead?"

"Nothing, just following the money like I said at the start," Sinead shot back. "You bothered me for weeks about hounding it solo, and now you want to rag on me for you not following along?"

"That's not what I meant," Jules said. "It doesn't add up, Sinead. Earlier this week you were running on fumes and couldn't get your head out of your ass, and then in four days all of this comes together."

"Just take it for what it is," Sinead lied. "Hard, dogged work that should earn me back into your good graces."

"Yeah, well pull your weight on this paperwork and maybe I'll call us square," Jules sighed, then smirked. "It's only right considering all the paperwork I covered for you."

"Fine, you got me," Sinead said, holding her wrists out as if she was going to get cuffed by Jules. "I'm all yours, Detective."

"Damn straight, Detective," Jules said.

Sinead took in a breath and then grabbed the top sheets of the stack. What a way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

- - - - -

Marc checked his watch again, frowning deeply.

"A drink, sir?" the waitress asked him politely.

"Excusez-moi, I'll wait a moment longer," Marc said with an apologetic smile. The waitress left him to himself with a simple nod.

Marc was being stood up. He wasn't mad so much as... disappointed. The Detective would have made an enjoyable dinner companion for a night, and working on her little case had been fun. Most of his work these days wasn't actually with the numbers, he had people on his team for that. He worked on the people more than the raw data, so digging into it on her case had a nostalgic quality alongside the fun of knowing it was clandestine.

But now the Detective was MIA, and he was doubting she would show up. Not even a text or a call had come through.

He was being ghosted.

Marc sighed and took out his phone, shaking his head to himself as he hit the first number on his speed dial. It rang twice before she picked up.

"Bonjour, dear," Felicity's honey-warm voice came through.

"Your accent still needs work,ma petite fée," Marc said. "And it would bebonsoir at this time of day. Pardon, I didn't call to give you a language lesson, though. Have you eaten tonight? I've been stood up."

"She didn't," Felicity scoffed.

"She has," Marc said.

"Well, I'll be along as soon as I can, dear," Felicity said. "Blue tonight, I think?"

"The blue would be lovely," Marc said, thinking of the dress she was mentioning. He'd gotten it for her last year and it had a plunging neckline that she joked always made him smile after a long day.

"I'll see you soon, dear," Felicity said.

Marc hung up, shaking his head again. Why was it the only women in his life who were dependable were his secretary and his whore?

- - - - -

Sinead looked at the restaurant from the outside. The paperwork had taken most of the afternoon, but it wasn't the reason she was sitting out in her car instead of in the plush seating, eating fancy whatever-they-served across from Marc.

No, she was out there because she couldn't go in. It was absurd, really, what he was asking. It was sexual harassment. It was creepy. It was...

God, she felt like a stupid teenager with all the wrong ideas in her head. Or her gut. Or somewhere else. Meeting Marc was a bad idea. She knew that. So why the fuck had she even driven here? She hadn't dressed up at all; she was still in her pantsuit from work. She probably still had the smell of ink on her fingers from all the signatures and notes she'd had to record.

Sinead watched as a woman walked from just up the street. She was gorgeous, rocking an amazing dress that hugged her curves in all the right ways. The blonde woman had on earrings and a necklace that Sinead could spot as impressively real from across the street, and her tits... God, those were some great tits. The woman opened the door to the restaurant with a self-satisfied smile and entered.

"I don't belong in there," Sinead shook her head, talking to herself.

It was a bad idea all around. She needed to just walk away and write Marc Fornier out of her life. It wasn't like he could come looking for her at the station or anything. Plus, he didn't strike her as crazy. Or, well,that kind of crazy at least.

Sinead glanced at her phone again. Still just one text from him, a simple question mark. It had come in almost forty-five minutes ago. She put the phone down and reached for her keys, turning over the engine and letting the car thrum for a moment before she shifted into gear and pulled out onto the street.

Doing anything else was definitely a bad idea. Sinead didn't date suspects.

Chapter 7

"Mother fucker," Sinead swore, slamming her desk phone back into its cradle.

"Still nothing?" Jules asked, looking up from her computer.

Sinead rubbed both hands on her face and groaned. "Nothing. It's like Financial Forensics is a black hole."

"You're lucky the Captain even let you continue on the case," Jules said. Sinead's partner had been covering their day-to-day work again for about a week after Sinead had found out that nothing had progressed on the Le Français case since she'd orchestrated the raids. There had been a handful of petty charges and a bunch of fines, but nothing big. No leads that hooked the money laundering network to whoever had been organizing and using the whole thing. "What if there isn't anything else to find?"

"There has to be something else," Sinead said. "We know Le Français is still active on the street. There isn't a CI on this side of Brampton that doesn't have a rumour about him. Most of them are worthless because they're too old."

"Sinead, you're spiralling," Jules said with a deadpan expression.

"I'm not fucking spiralling," Sinead grunted. "I'm just getting fucking cockblocked here."

Jules leaned forward over her desk, lowering her voice. "What are you saying? You think Financial Forensics is covering something up?"

"To say that I'd have to know if they are doing anything at all," Sinead said. "I mean, seriously. I don't even get e-mails back, and there's an admin who takes my messages but I never get a call back."

"Could just be they are actually understaffed," Jules said.

"Maybe," Sinead said, chewing the inside of her lip. "Either way, it's dumping this case in the fucking toilet."

"Well, what did you do last time?" Jules asked. "Just do more of that if you really can't make Financial Forensics put out work product."

Sinead took in a deep breath and blew it out. Jules still didn't know what Sinead had done to get the last break in the case. It had been three weeks since the raids, and the night that she'd ghosted Marc Fornier. There was no way that she could go back to him for more help.

"I'll try," Sinead growled more to herself than Jules. It was just numbers, right? How hard could it be to figure out a few tips and tricks?

- - - - -

"Well, I got one answer at least," Sinead said as she flopped onto the couch and picked up the beer, taking a big swig of it.

"Please, come in," Jules said, still standing at the door of her little two-room apartment. "Help yourself to a beer."

"Sorry," Sinead said.

"What's the problem?" Jules asked, shutting the door and heading into her little kitchenette to grab another beer from her fridge. "What did you find out?"

"Financial Forensics isn't just understaffed. They have two guys covering everything across the entire Greater Toronto Area. I guess it was some sort of budget cut issue, along with low wages compared to the private sector. No one with the know-how wants to stick around for a Cop's pay."

"Bastards," Jules sighed. It wasn't clear if she meant the people who quit because of the pay, the higher-ups who decided where budget cuts went, or the politicians who fucked with the Police budgets to begin with. It was usually a mix of all three when the issue came up. "At least that means there probably isn't a mole or something."

"Or it means that one of the guys sticking aroundis a mole and is supplementing his shitty pay to make it worth sticking around," Jules said.

"You know you can't investigate that," Jules warned her. "That's an OIPRD issue."

"I know, I know," Sinead said. "It's not like I have anything but suspicions to report to the Independent Review pricks anyways."

"So what now, then?" Jules asked. "Maybe you should take a break. You know, go out and have some fun or something. You've been head-down on this for almost three months now in total."

"The money is going to disappear," Sinead said. "If I don't break this soon, Le Français is going to be a fucking ghost all over again."

"What about the thing you did last time?" Jules asked. "It's not working?"

"Teaching myself forensic accounting isn't exactly an easy task, Jules," Sinead grunted. It was, in fact, mind-meltingly boring and totally complicated. She had a stack of books from the public library on her coffee table at home, along with about three dozen youtube tabs open on her home laptop, and both the videos and the words were like she was learning Greek.

"Well, you'll get it," Jules sighed. "Just don't burn yourself out completely. I do need you back eventually."

"Yeah," Sinead grumbled, thinking about what she would have to do. "Yeah."

- - - - -

"Detective," Marc said as he opened his apartment door. It was almost eleven at night and this time he was still fully dressed. He'd just gotten home from an evening session of his PADI re-certification course. "This is a surprise."

"Marc," Sinead said by way of a greeting.

"Well, please come in," Marc invited, shifting out of the way for her to enter his apartment. There were only two reasons for the Detective to have come back, and he doubted it was to deliver an apology for standing him up and ghosting him.

Sinead entered, looking somewhat mollified compared to the last several times they had met. She was in a similar outfit as before, though she was showing less cleavage and had left the pushup bra at home. Marc followed her into the kitchen, but she didn't sit on one of the stools and instead stood with her hands braced on the kitchen island.

"I need your help," she said.

"Really?" Marc asked. He wasn't going to make this easy for her.

"Yes, really," Sinead said, a spark of that fiery personality rising back up. "It's-"

"Important," Marc said, waving a hand dismissively. "Rien n'est important tant que ce n'est pas important. If it was so important for you to have my help, you certainly have an interesting way of repaying favours."

"I was busy," Sinead made her weak excuse.

Marc tutted and shook his head, making it clear that wasn't a good enough excuse. "You broke your word, Detective. And not only that, but you wererude about it. Why would I trust you at all with any further deals we made?"

"Because thisis important," she said sternly.

"I'm going to want payment up front this time, Sinead," Marc said, swapping to her first name. It was a simple tactic, shifting the footing of the conversation. She had started to get comfortable, that edge in her voice coming back.

"Fine," Sinead said. "Whatever. I'll do a quick dinner with you. Tomorrow. Then you look at the files and-"

Marc tutted again. "No, Sinead. Dinner was a favour between friends. And, considering it all, it wasn't much of a favour at all. If you think dinner is all it will take to make up for your lies and your rudeness, you need to rethink your position."

"I can't afford your consulting fee," Sinead said.

"I don't want your money, Sinead," Marc said. "If this thing is going to happen between us, I'm going to want something more intimate than dinner, and certainly more personal than money."

Sinead dropped her jaw at his brash intimation. "How dare you?" she demanded.

"You're a beautiful woman," Marc shrugged. "And if I'm going to debase myself, I think it only fair if we feel even."

Sinead turned on her heel and stormed out. Marc didn't bother following her, and only blinked when she slammed the front door closed behind her. He'd taken a chance and planted the seed. He couldn't tend to it or water it, and maybe it would die without sprouting.

The Detective knew what the price would be now.

Marc considered calling up Felicity to see if she was free, but it was late and a weeknight. Starting something with her now would take hours, and he needed his sleep.

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