Vanishing Leads

Sinead pinched her cellphone between her shoulder and her ear as it kept ringing and she kept her eyes trained on the restaurant entrance through her little binoculars.

“Yeah?” Jules asked as she picked up the other end of the call.

“Hey, you wanna come do a stakeout with me?” Sinead asked.

“...like, for fun?” Jules asked. “Did you meet a guy or something and need help vetting him?”

“No, nothing like that,” Sinead said, maybe a little too quickly. She’d had another moment of weakness the night before when she was alone with her vibrator. “It’s for the case.”

“You’re on a stakeout alone?” Jules asked.

“Technically it’s just surveillance,” Sinead said.

“Still. Alone?”

“Yeah, it’s no big deal. It’s boring stuff, mostly.”

“Am I going to get overtime if I come out there and freeze my ass off in the car?” Jules asked.

“Ummm…” Sinead hummed.

“Babe, are you getting overtime for this?” Jules asked pointedly.

“No,” Sinead said. “But I’m getting paid. I kind of make my own hours now.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Jules asked.

“No one cares when I’m in the office or not, so I’m working when it makes sense,” Sinead said. “So I’m on the clock.”

“Are you safe?” Jules asked.

“Yeah,” Sinead said.

“... Really?”

“Yes, Jules. I’m just bored doing this by myself.”

“Sinead, I love you like a sister, but I am not doing a stakeout on a Thursday night just for fun,” Jules said.

“Alright,” Sinead sighed.

Jules still talked with her for another ten minutes before hanging up. It took another hour for Victor Berisha to walk out the doors of George restaurant with his guests, shake their hands and then stroll down the street towards his Porsche. Sinead snapped pictures of the guests, then checked her notes and wrote down the time. Almost exactly 9:30pm, just like the last two weeks she’d been tailing Berisha.

The thread she’d been pulling on led to Berisha, but she would have bet her entire pension that he was just a link in the chain that would lead her to Le Francais. Berisha was a flashy middleman who enjoyed spending his money. He had four cars to his name, a big apartment downtown, a house out in Mississauga for his wife and two kids, and another one out in Scarborough for his mistress. The sheer amount of money this guy spent just in property taxes had to be worth almost Sinead’s entire yearly salary.

There was only one thing in his schedule that had repeated, and that was his Thursday night dinner at George. He’d had different guests each time, but the first week it had been a couple of members of the Italian mob from down in Hamilton, and last week it had been a trio of Asian men that she hadn’t been able to identify, but definitely had the sleek looks of criminal upper management. This week he’d had another two guests, and she’d gotten clear photos of both men.

Sinead needed to know what was happening during those dinners. Was Berisha just schmoozing his contacts, or was he doing business at the Michelin-rated restaurant?

The problem was that even though she could tie Berisha to the accountant, none of it was illegal. There was no way she could get a warrant to bug the place, let alone his car or something. And getting more manpower on this would raise expectations and she couldn’t guarantee it would be useful. She needed to get in there next Thursday night herself, undercover. Anything she got would be inadmissible in court, but it would give her somewhere to start.

But getting in was a whole other problem. George was expensive and exclusive. And without a warrant, flashing her badge wasn’t going to get her a table and might even get her reported for soliciting bribes or kickbacks by trying to get a table.

Sinead felt her pussy clench a little.

She knew someone who could get a table at George. He’d done it before on short notice. And she’d sat in her car outside, telling herself she couldn’t go in.

Victor Berisha’s Porsche peeled off, headed back to his apartment. Sinead didn’t need to follow him to know what his routine would be for the night. He’d go change, then head to his preferred bar a block from his building, drink and flirt and flash his cash around, and then potentially pick up some woman who probably thought he was single and might be a catch.

Sinead pulled out her phone and thought about calling, but decided to text. I could use some help on a case. Need a table at George next Thurs, 7pm.

She got a reply when she was halfway back to her place.

Fornier: It’s a date. Be at my apartment at 3pm on Thurs. It’s good to hear from you, petite rebelle. I’ll be looking forward to our next adventure.

Sinead swallowed and wanted to ask him why she would need to be at his place four hours early, but instead, she just sent him a thumbs-up emoji. She’d be there, despite her better judgement.

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