Stakeout

Sinead ducked a little so she could get a better look out the rearview mirror at the warehouse. She and Jules were camped out in an unmarked car about a block north of the city Port, and things had been quiet for the past couple of hours.

“This is starting to feel like bullshit,” Jules murmured from the passenger seat.

“Well, bullshit or not, it’s the shadiest of the locations,” Sinead said. “We can’t touch the car washes without trying to **** an audit or getting a warrant even if we’re sure they are laundering cash through them. This warehouse is our best lead.”

“That doesn’t mean we just sit out here for days waiting for something to happen,” Jules said. “Even if we do see a truck come in, we can’t exactly go up and ask them what they are transporting, or for whom. It’s a plain warehouse owned by a numbered company. This isn’t a television show - we aren’t going to get lucky and hear a woman scream, or a gunshot that gives us exigent circumstances to enter.”

“How are you bored already?” Sinead asked. “We’ve only been here two hours.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what we’re looking for. When you said you needed to do a stakeout I thought you were waiting for Barisha to show up or something.”

“We are waiting for Barisha to show up. Or something.”

Jules scoffed and shifted in her seat, pulling a can of Pringles out of her bag in the back and popping it open. “So what’s your working theory, then?” she asked.

“Smuggling,” Sinead said. “I don’t know what yet.”

“Himself, or for one of the gangs he’s in contact with?”

“It’s got to be for himself,” Sinead said. “The account tied to the company doesn’t filter cash through like the others do, and it holds onto a lot more before transferring it into that ‘to offshore’ account Marc noted. I think this is his backup cash flow or side gig.”

Jules blew out a long breath. “The amount of cash, and the size of the warehouse, don’t match up with ****. That’s something at least; we don’t need to loop in Vice.”

“I don’t think it’s human trafficking either,” Sinead said. “The Triads and the Cartels dominate that space for the most part and Barisha works with both of them. He wouldn’t want to step on their toes even if he’s scummy enough to do that himself.”

“So he’s smuggling product of some sort,” Jules concluded. “Commercial goods? Just getting around tariffs?”

“I don’t know,” Sinead sighed. “Fuck me, I hope it’s not exotic animals. You remember that bust up in York?”

“Ugh,” Jules gagged, only half-joking. “The smell still hits me sometimes in my sleep and I wake up nauseated.”

“Let’s assume it’s not animals,” Sinead said. “What’s next highest on the ‘oh shit’ scale?”

“Knocking out ****, people and animals?” Jules pondered. “I mean, it would have to be guns.”

“Are there any reports of an uptick in guns on the street?” Sinead asked.

“No, but we don’t know how long he’s been working, or if he took over from someone else. Just because it would be new to us doesn’t mean it’s not old in general.”

“True,” Sinead sighed. “Alright. So right now our worst-case scenario is guns, but it’s probably something more commercial.”

“To be fair, he could also just be a stopping point,” Jules said. “Shit gets brought down the Saint Lawrence to Lake Ontario, then he holds it and transfers it to whoever makes the next leg of the journey. Maybe it ends up in fucking Calgary by truck or train. Hell, it could be destined for Mexico for all we know.”

“But why stop it here and not in Hamilton?” Sinead pointed out. “There are way more ports and docks there and it would probably be easier to smuggle something through.”

“Yeah, but then you could ask why not just boat it all the way to Buffalo, or Detroit, or Chicago,” Jules said.

“Whatever, we’re just spitballing at this point,” Sinead sighed. “We aren’t going to know until we get in there and crack a few crates open or something.”

“Sinead, I am not doing a goddamn B and E for this case,” Jules said.

“That’s not what I meant,” Sinead said.

“Good, because you’ve been like a dog with a bone on this case.”

Sinead frowned, looking over at her friend. “You really think I’d break in?”

“Usually, no. But right now I feel like you’d go to **** lengths and I don’t know what has you so caught up in this case in particular. Something is biting your ass to keep running full tilt like you have and it’s not the department.”

Sinead turned away, looking out the window. It was late February and still cold, but not bitter cold like earlier in the year. There had been a light dusting of snow earlier that made even the dim, industrial street look a little clean and pretty. Why was she so focused on the case in particular?

She really wasn’t sure what it was about the whole Le Français thing that got her so focused and bothered her so much. Maybe it was the pure mystery and the fact that no one else was close to cracking it. Then she was in it, and everything with Marc made it feel more personal… And things with him kept getting more complicated. Everything they’d talked about on Monday had been a lot, and she was still feeling like she was a crazy person for saying Yes to him and not taking any more time to think about it. But the way she felt about it, about the things he said, and even the way he talked about it…

And then there was the way he treated her like a fucking princess or something, at least when he wasn’t treating her like a whore. And both of those wildly different sides of him were attractive because he did it so well. The flowers when she’d come home from work had been… Ugh. Almost too perfect.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning back to Jules. “If I’m being too much.”

“It’s fine, babe,” Jules sighed, leaning back her seat a bit and pulling a couple of Pringle chips out of her tube and munching on them before offering Sinead the can. “Just remember that you need to have a life outside of all of this. I miss Fun Sinead.”

“Fun Sinead is still around,” the redhead said. “She’s just… occupied.”

Jules snorted. “We need to get you laid.”

Sinead bit the inside of her cheek, looking back out at the street again and watching the warehouse in the side mirror. “Maybe,” she said.

She had a date with Marc on the weekend. Hopefully, that would lead somewhere.

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