Going Undercover

“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” Sinead asked.

Marc sighed, trying to project serene confidence to the Detective, but didn’t have a chance to say anything.

“He’s already been in there before,” Jules said. “You said Victor looked tired and sounded worried about his internal business, right?”

“I did,” Marc nodded. “He referenced a previous conversation where he was concerned about theft. I presume he’s worried about employees skimming from his operation more than would be expected.”

“Considering he’s funding his lifestyle doing the same thing, that’s a little rich,” Jules murmured and shook her head. Then she focused on Sinead. “He’ll be fine.”

“I will be fine, Detective,” Marc added.

“Jesus Christ, you two,” Sinead scoffed. “I meant, is he ready to put on the act alone instead of with me beside him. Going undercover without a partner is harder than with.”

Marc got the distinct impression that the look Detective Xu gave Detective Connors was communicating mild, sarcastic disbelief.

“Yes, Detective,” Marc assured Sinead again. “I am ready to go. I will not really even be ‘undercover’ - I’m simply being myself. In an odd circumstance, certainly, but still myself.”

“I’d still feel better if you were wearing a wire,” Jules said.

“Except that the wire, besides being dangerous, would require me to testify if anyone found out about it,” Marc reinforced his previous argument over wearing a mic, or even a button camera. “And, for our goals today, it is entirely unnecessary. Where the crates are moving, when they are moving, and how if possible, oui?”

“What and why would also be helpful,” Sinead said.

“All the questions,” Marc smirked a little. “Bon. Then it’s time.”

Sinead looked like she wanted to say something else but she quashed it, simply nodding instead.

“Be careful,” Jules cautioned him. “We’re only going to know you need help if there are gunshots or you let out a bloodcurdling scream in the yard.”

Marc chuckled and shook his head. “If either of those things happens, I assume your help would be too late anyways.” He turned and got into his car, getting himself settled as the Detectives got into their unmarked cruiser. There was a part of Marc that had wanted to reassure Sinead more - it was the role of a Dom to make sure that, unless a little bit of fear was intentionally part of the game and in measured amounts, the submissive should feel safe and trust in their Dom.

No matter what he or Detective Xu said, there was no making this meeting perfectly safe. Something could go wrong. Hell, Victor could be setting him up for an ambush if he had figured out that Marc was playing him, or that Sinead was a police officer. Or it could be even more simple than that and the Italians, despite the assurances of the men in charge that nothing would follow Marc, had decided that he needed to be taught a lesson. Marc had run through the particular scenarios several times and had come to the conclusion that none of them were likely, but many were mildly possible.

But oftentimes, the most likely scenario was the most correct. Victor wanted to use Marc’s particular set of skills, and that was all this was.

They had met about ten blocks away from the warehouse in a Tim Horton’s parking lot, so Marc pulled onto the street and headed towards the lake. It was a clear evening, a little warmer than the last few weeks, and the snow on the streets was starting to melt away. That made the city damp, unfortunately, and grimy with the dirt mixed into all the melting slush. It was his least-favourite time of year.

Marc took a weaving route, knowing that the Detectives were following him at a distance but wanting to come at the warehouse from the direction of Downtown and the financial district - it was the little things that mattered, after all. He pulled onto the correct street, and about halfway down he glanced into his rearview mirror and saw the Detectives pull into a parking spot on the side of the road.

The gate to the warehouse yard was open, so he pulled in and backed his car up to the building about ten feet from the door that had been used for entry during the Poker Night. There wasn’t anyone around, working or lingering, so Marc locked his car and went to the door, giving it a pounding knock with his fist.

When he didn’t get an answer in the first two minutes, he gave another knock with an even heavier hand, the sound of it booming from the metal door.

Still nothing.

Marc sighed and took out his phone, dialing Victor’s number. It rang through to an answering machine with no message other than a beep, so he hung up.

By all rights, he probably should have left at that point. But Jillian’s annoyance and the Detective’s worry about leads slipping through her fingers made Marc reconsider needing to meet with Victor again.

Shaking his head at himself, he tried the door and it opened easily. Unlocked. Perhaps Victor is not so paranoid as I thought, Marc grimaced. That, or he is the kind of man who walks into his friends' houses without knocking and being invited in.

Stepping into the dark warehouse, the only light was coming from up in the loft area where the poker tournament was held, the golden glow coming through the covered windows that used to overlook the warehouse floor. Music was also playing up there, some sort of electronic dance music echoing out and down the stairs.

Marc sighed and looked to his right and left, finding a bank of light switches, and he flipped several of them. A moment later, the overhead lights of the main warehouse blinked on as they warmed up.

“Merde,” Marc muttered.

The crates were gone. The warehouse was completely empty.

The question was how long ago they had been moved - was that why Victor had been so tired? Was he managing a late-night exchange?

If that were the case, the Detectives would have some catching up to do.

With another sigh, Marc went to the stairs and headed up to the lavish parlor above. The door to the lifted space was standing open, the hallway lit with the same golden light as the main parlor, but there was no slinkily dressed blonde to take his coat with a smile or offer him a drink. He headed through, noting cautiously that the doors beyond the main parlor doors were standing open - the coat room, the security room where they had stored the buy-in money during the games, and presumably some sort of office.

Marc knocked loudly on the doorway to the main parlour, since that was where the music was coming from, as he looked in. All the lights were on, no one was behind the bar, and two of the poker tables must have been packed up and put away because there was only one standing in the open space, and it had been joined by a billiards table. Where they had stored that during the poker tournament, Marc couldn’t guess.

Victor was sitting on a stool at the bar, hunched over something he was working on.

“Victor,” Marc called, but the music was too loud. He could barely hear himself.

Marc moved into the room, approaching Victor and looking around. The place was empty of anyone else. He stopped about halfway across the parlour.

Victor was pale. Deathly pale. Curled up over the bar, his face pressed to it firmly, a white powder smeared across the smooth, polished bar top, his cheek and lips, and under his nose.

“Huh,” Marc grunted, a little startled.

Victor was dead.

“Cela complique les choses,” Marc murmured to himself.

It wasn’t the first time Marc had found a dead body - not that it was a regular occurance, and it had been several years since the last time, but he was not as shocked as that first time as a teenager finding his friend’s older brother OD’d on the bathroom floor during a house party back in Paris. Or even the last time, diving off the coast of Malta, when a body carried by the waves smacked right into the side of the tour boat.

No, this time felt different.

Marc backed away from Victor’s body, his mind quickly racing through what the appropriate response would be. If he were here for normal reasons, the proper response would be to call emergency services and begin performing CPR, hoping to get Victor’s brain enough oxygen to remain viable for Narcan to take effect when it arrived.

This was not a normal circumstance, however, and the pale, lifeless body very much looked like he may have been down for longer than a few minutes already.

Looking around again, Marc did some quick re-calculations.

The doors were all open and unlocked. The front gate was also unlocked. No one else was in the building.

Had someone been in the building?

Had someone, perhaps, already discovered Victor and taken advantage of the opportunity to make off with whatever valuables they could snatch up?

Marc backed out of the parlour entirely and went to the doors further down the hallway outside. The coat room was empty except for the coat Victor had been wearing earlier, a pair of heels that Marc thought might have been worn by the blonde hostess during the Poker party, and a small umbrella stand with several umbrellas, billiards cues and a hockey stick propped up in the corner.

The security room was another matter. The three main features of the room were a safe, a desk, and a bank of boxy monitors that were all currently blank. A space on the desk where dust had accumulated and then gotten swiped spoke volumes to the lack of a computer - someone didn’t want to chance the recordings being examined. The safe was hanging open, and Mark took out his driving gloves and put them on before using a finger to open it further. Empty.

He walked around the messy desk, tutting to himself lightly as he tried not to think about the body in the other room. Taking out his phone, he started taking pictures of anything that looked halfway important.

Victor thought someone was stealing from him, and now he was dead, and someone had certainly stolen from him. Whatever assets that the man had been hoarding here were long gone, and it was hard to know who might have taken advantage of the situation - the hostess? One of the security guards? Or one of his many criminal contacts?

Who would take over his business operations? Victor had been surprisingly adept at weaving together his network and even pulling that network together into social settings. Would his **** have an impact on the criminal element of the city?

And what about his wife? His mistresses?

His assets were scattered across multiple accounts, hidden away so that no one person understood the amount he had on hand.

No one but Marc, who had so recently combed through Victor’s entire list of assets.

That, for some reason, made him feel uncomfortable now.

Carefully putting everything back where he had found it, Marc quickly checked the desk drawers and took some more photos, then decided that now was the time to be thorough and checked under the desk.

There was a handgun taped under the desktop and a small USB even further back.

Deciding it was worth the risk, Marc pulled the USB from its place, wrapped the ends of the tape around it, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

With nothing else to note in the security office, Marc stood and brushed off the knees of his suit trousers and headed back out to the parlour.

Victor was still perched where Marc had left him, face-down in his own ****. Marc whistled to himself, shaking his head, and approached the bar, but instead of going to Victor, he went around to the serving side and pulled down a bottle of the very nice Château Angelus bordeaux he’d spied the last time he had been sitting on the other side of the bar. Holding the bottle, Marc turned back to look at Victor. “Savais-tu seulement ce que tu avais ici, mon ami?” he asked the corpse. The Hommage à Elisabeth Bouchet vintage was not one of the most expensive of the Bordeaux wines, his favourite region to buy from, but it was up there and was only produced in particularly good years.

Marc set the bottle on the bar top and considered uncorking it then and there, since it was Victor’s, but decided against it. Finally working himself up to the task, Marc peeled the glove off his right hand and reached across the bar, pressing the back of two fingers to Victor’s neck to check for a pulse.

He was cold, and there was no pulse.

Marc grunted and withdrew his hand, putting his glove back on and turning away from the corpse as he pursed his lips. Spying a nice bottle of whiskey half-finished, Marc shrugged, unstoppered the bottle and brought it to his lips, taking a sip and feeling the pleasant burning of the **** wash over his tongue and down his throat. He set the bottle down on the bar top, bracing his other hand wide as he leaned on it and stared at the top of the dead man’s head.

And that’s how the Italians found him as they sauntered into the room.

<U>Translations</U>
“Cela complique les choses,” = “This complicates things.”
“Savais-tu seulement ce que tu avais ici, mon ami?” = “Did you even know what you had, my friend?”

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