Chapter 93

Astrid entered Marc’s apartment in a flurry - he might have called it a ‘storm’ if she were showing any signs of anger or frustration, but she was smiling. Maybe a bit too much, once he thought about it, but smiling nonetheless. Her dyed green hair was up in a messy bun on top of her head and she was dressed like she’d just come from a punk rock concert - full makeup with dark colours to accent her pale skin, an asymmetrically cropped, mustard yellow knit sweater that showed off a slash of her trim waist and had so many holes that it was hard not to see she was wearing a black lingerie bra under it, and fitted leather pants with a high waist.

The only way those pants could be put on was because of the zippers running down either leg, and the fact that it was fitted said that Astrid had either put her trust fund or shadily-gotten gains to use. One did not simply buy fitted leather pants.

She kicked off her shoes at the door, a pair of old Vans, as she brushed by Marc with a smile, a wink and a trail of fingers across his chest.

“What can I do for you, Marc?” she asked as she sauntered down the short hallway and into the living area of his loft. “It’s been a good day, but fucking busy.”

“Bonne soirée, mon ami,” Marc said, following her. She was carrying a heavy laptop bag over one shoulder, knowing that he’d asked her here for a work favour and not just a social visit. She set it down on the kitchen island and turned back to him, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows in expectation. Marc smirked slightly. “Wine?” he offered, heading deeper into the kitchen.

“Red,” she sighed, giving in quickly. There wasn’t any point in not accepting a good glass of wine, after all.

“Busy with work, or busy with play?” Marc asked conversationally as he selected a delightful little Bordeaux he’d found at the LCBO. It was expensive for the province-owned shop, but in the scheme of wine, it was moderately priced at best.

“Work,” Astrid said, and he could hear her smile as he focused on uncorking the bottle. “Not that I made any money from it, but sometimes it’s the principle of the thing, you know?”

“Ah, la vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid?” Marc asked

“Froid comme de la glace,” she answered, smirking as he turned and offered her the bottle. She accepted it, raising it to her nose and taking a long sniff and giving a little pout of positive expression and looked at the label before handing it back. He began to pour. “The revenge wasn’t for me, though,” Astrid continued. “Friend of a friend situation; their daughter was being blackmailed with deepfake nudes, and it turned out several of her friends were as well. I tracked it down to a scammer company in India - the same kinda places that run the phone scams on old people and stuff. They were farming social media for photos to train their deep fake AI and then blackmailing the girls for money and real nudes. It took a while, but I got into their system, got all of their identities, leaked what they were doing to their friends and family, and wiped their system of everything.” She accepted the glass I passed to her and took a sip, interrupting her story for a moment. “There wasn’t a shot I could get local law enforcement to do anything, so wiping everything was the best shot at those fakes, and some of the real ones a couple of girls ‘paid’ with, from getting out. Now I’m wondering how hard it would be to hire a hitman in India, though? Fuck, that’s actually pretty good, Marc.”

“I was pleasantly surprised,” he smiled, taking a sip from his own glass.

“Got any contacts in Bangalore who might know a contract killer?”

Marc cleared his throat, smiling but knowing she was only half joking. And he didn’t necessarily disagree with the sentiment. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said. “But I’m sure you’ll figure out what you want to do without any meddling from me.”

“So what am I here for then, Marc?” she asked, finally relaxing as she leaned against the kitchen island and took another sip of wine.

Marc smiled and pushed through his hesitation, knowing he was risking a strain on their friendship with this. “I’ve been presented with a ... request to handle a cleanup element for my friend in the police department,” Marc said. “On a related item to what you helped with before. This one won’t be a favour, it will be paid. I’m just worried I’m asking too much from you related to these cases, and I don’t want to ... damage what we’ve built.”

Astrid had one eyebrow raised imperiously and took her own time in answering, sipping from her glass again. “You really were a lot less complicated of a friend before you got mixed up with the cops, Marc,” she finally said.

“C’est vrai,” he sighed. “Mes excuses.”

Astrid grunted softly, looking around the ground floor of his loft for a long moment. “They aren’t here, right? Or listening in?”

“Of course not,” Marc assured her, almost scoffing at the implication.

“And Felicity isn’t around,” she noted.

“Felicity doesn’t live here,” Marc said. “She has her own life. You know that.”

“Mm,” Astrid hummed. “That’s not what your closet says, but sure.” She focused back on Marc again. “What’s the context, and what’s the pay?”

Marc pulled the USB drive from out of his pocket and set it on the island between them, stabbing down at it with one finger. “This is a cold wallet, but we don’t know what program it needs to read it, we don’t know how much is on it, and we don’t know any passwords to access it. It is not evidence in a case, but it is almost certainly funds gained through illegal means. The Detectives and I agree that the family of the man who had it are relatively innocent - he was also recently murdered, and the police are dismantling his criminal enterprise. We’d like to distribute some of these funds back to the family to keep them ... to give them time to adjust. You can keep one-quarter of whatever is on there, and if that is less than your usual rate, I’ll just pay you that instead.”