The Detectives

“Shit,” Sinead grunted as she dropped into the seat that the uptight Frenchman had been occupying. “He was our best fucking lead, Jules.”

“He was the result of a Hail Mary play,” Julia said, sitting in the seat across from her partner. “You just felt like luck was on your side this time.”

“Yeah, well, it still might be him,” Sinead said. “He fits the profile. French, wealthy, exact same car.”

“Except that everything else says he’s totally legit,” Julia countered. “His immigration papers are in order, and he’s never been associated with any sort of crime beyond a fifteen-year-old speeding ticket. His boss and his client both sing his praises. He’s even got a couple of industry awards under his belt.”

“They give out awards in corporate finance?” Sinead asked.

“Don’t all rich people give themselves awards?” Julia countered.

“Fair point,” Sinead sighed. “OK, so Marc Fornier is probably off the list.”

“He was the list,” Julia pointed out.

“So we start from scratch,” Sinead said. “Back to basics. We’ve got a mysterious mob boss who goes by the name ‘Le Français.’ What comes first in finding out who he is?”

“The money,” Julia said. “Always follow the money.”

“Then you have our answer,” Sinead said as she stood up and headed for the door. “We follow the money.”

“Shit,” Julia sighed, watching her partner walk out of the interrogation room. Sinead was on a tear for this case, which was usually a good thing, but the stone wall of Le Français was starting to get to her.

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