Chapter 3

“Fuck, shit, mother, fuck, shit, balls,” Sinead grumbled as she clicked the mouse of her computer repeatedly, imagining she was stabbing it instead.

“That sounds dubious,” Julie said as she raised her head from writing some of her paperwork.

“I’m hitting a fucking wall here,” Sinead said.

“Break it down for me,” Julie said, sitting up from her paperwork and stretching.

Sinead sighed and turned her screen to show her partner. “I followed the money. At least, I think I did, and it keeps coming back to these four accounts. But I can’t confirm that because to do that I need Financial Forensics to do their fucking jobs, and the last time I sent in a request it sat for months and then died on the vine.”

“And you’re sure this is a mob front?” Julie asked. “We can’t be wrong again.”

“We were wrong one time,” Sinead grunted. “And I still think we weren’t actually wrong, they just moved before we got there. Pure luck.”

Julie crossed her arms over her chest, looking at her partner and shaking her head. “Look, you’ve been heads down on Le Français for almost a month now, Sinead. We have other cases racked up and I can’t just carry everything else myself.”

“But we’re so close,” Sinead said. “And if we crack Le Français, it’s a career-maker.”

“Well, you’re going to need to figure out how to crack it by Friday,” Julie said. “Any longer than that and I’m putting my foot down. I’m literally drowning in paperwork here, and after that Marc Fornier debacle we don’t have any more leeway with the Captain.”

Marc Fornier, Sinead thought to herself derisively. That man had been a cocky son of a bitch and bringing him in had caused even more problems than she’d expected.

The detective turned her screen back around and debased herself low enough to google ‘How To Financial Forensics.’ She needed to track the histories and patterns of those accounts or else she’d be in the wind.

Then ... it clicked. Not the case, but the connection. Sinead couldn’t get any work squeezed out of the Financial Forensics department of the Toronto Police Service, but she did know a financial forensic specialist.

It was going to sting. He was a cocky fucking Frenchman. But maybe, if she played her cards right, Marc Fornier really was the answer to her Le Français problem after all.