An Early Lunch to Discuss

Sinead couldn’t believe the restaurant Marc brought her to. If she’d thought George was fancy when they’d gone on their stakeout-date there, it was practically old and musty compared to Canoe. At first, she’d been confused because Marc had led her walking a block over and into another big finance building and towards an elevator, but when they’d emerged on the 54th floor she’d been shocked.

Just the view, looking out over the city and with a clear shot of the CN Tower, was a little breathtaking. The place was modern and fancy as hell and Sinead immediately felt like she was underdressed, but one of the staff met them and shook Marc’s hand warmly before escorting them through the empty restaurant dining area to a seat right next to the big windows. She had a brief moment of vertigo when she looked too far down as Marc pulled out her chair for her, but she quickly quelled that as she focused on the waiter.

There was a brief whirlwind of activity - no ****, since she was technically on duty, so the wine list was waved away. They were offered the menus, but Marc said they would have whatever the chef was prepared to serve - it was only 10:30, an hour before the place was supposed to open, and he didn’t want to be trouble for them. The waiter, or maître d', or whatever he was assured Marc that they would be happy to serve, and Sinead watched the dance between the two men as it was decided that lunch would be chosen by the chef and it might not be something on the menu at all. There was noise coming from the kitchen, more than Sinead would have expected, and without any music playing or other people or conversations going on she could hear the cooks in the back calling things to each other.

It was a little surreal.

“So,” Marc said once they were left alone, Marc with a San Pellegrino blood orange soda and Sinead with what turned out to be freshly squeezed orange juice. “Puzzle first, or conversation?”

Sinead hesitated but nodded to the file folder Marc had brought with them. “Let’s see what sticks out. I’m still digesting what you said earlier.”

Marc gave her a nod and a look that said he understood and then began slowly pulling out sheets from the folder. He was thorough in his explanations, and Sinead found herself able to follow more than half of what he was explaining - or at least recognizing words and concepts, if not connecting the dots - from her studies. Between what she’d done herself, and what she and Jules had gone over together, she was still floundering in the numbers but at least had a grasp on generalities.

And Marc was like a tornado ripping through the records and numbers. It was almost awe-inspiring, like watching a crack marksman on the shooting range. The way his mind worked was methodical and almost computer-like in his ability to recall numbers and connect numbered companies or accounts together.

They were served an appetizer of fresh blueberry scones that were fucking amazing, and hot out of the oven, accompanying fresh coffee that had Sinead blinking like she’d already drunk a cup just from the aroma. While they munched on that Marc identified the companies and accounts Victor Barisha had ‘off the books.’ The cash flow was high in volume for most of them, seemingly cycling in and out but never holding a large amount for an extended period. One, however, had almost two million in funds that had barely been touched and, in a handwritten note, was marked ‘needs offshoring.’ Most of those funds had come from a pair of numbered companies - one was connected to a string of car washes, while the other was harder to track down.

“This is his personal money,” Marc pointed out the holding account. “A nest egg, hidden away from his business interests, his wife and his girlfriend. This is one place to hit him and make it hurt.”

“I still need to find a legitimate reason to do that, though,” Sinead said. “I can’t get audits or search warrants without evidence.”

“But you can threaten them, no?” Marc asked. “You can lie to people legally. When you do have a reason to interrogate him, ce gros porc, threatening this will panic him.”

“Noted,” Sinead grimaced. There was a lot more hidden in the numbers though. Marc identified several more accounts that were hidden away with money moving through them, and he noted them to track where that money was going. There was going to be a lot of legwork to do once he had those destinations tied to physical locations.

The main course came, thick and fluffy Belgian waffles with sweet fried plantain served with a tart raspberry compote and crème fraîche. There was some sort of warm, cinnamony spice in the waffles that tied the entire meal together into a mind-bending, mouth-watering masterpiece. After the first bite, Sinead couldn’t think of work anymore and dug in, not even caring that she grunted and groaned almost lewdly as she let the flavours wash over her tongue.

Marc was smiling that fucking smile of his, and she didn’t even care.

Once they both had about half their plates eaten, Marc set down his utensils and took a long sip of his drink before drawing her attention by clearing his throat.

“I think, ma petite rebelle, we should have our talk before the restaurant begins its first seating and there are more ears around,” he said.

Sinead glanced behind her and saw that the restaurant was a lot busier than when they had first entered - several waiters were cleaning and setting tables and getting the place ready for the public. She looked back at Marc. “They can’t hear us?”

“They won’t,” Marc said. “And if they do, they are paid very well not to stick their noses in the business of others.”

Sinead swallowed, her mouth suddenly feeling a little dry, and she took a sip of her own drink. “So…?”

Marc took a breath and sighed it out with one of those smiles. “When I say BDSM, what do you think of? What is the first thing that comes to mind?”

The immediate flush of her cheeks took Sinead off guard as her mind immediately slipped back to being bent over on his bed, feeling her ass sting and ache with each slap of the paddle. Of the pain, and humiliation, and how warm it had felt. Physically. Emotionally.

“The other night,” she admitted.

“What else? Not between us,” Marc encouraged her. “More general.”

“I don’t know…” Sinead said. “Handcuffs. Whips. A gimp hood like from Pulp Fiction.”

“Bien, that’s a good place to start,” Marc nodded. “Handcuffs, and the hood. Those, Detective, represent the first letter in BDSM. Bondage.”

<U>Translations</U>
- ce gros porc = the fat pig/what a fat pig

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