Faux Friends
Faux Friends
A.J. McCarthy
© Copyright A.J. McCarthy 2021
Black Rose Writing | Texas
© 2021 by A.J. McCarthy
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-725-5
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
Print edition produced in the United States of America
Thank you so much for reading one of A.J. McCarthy’s novels.
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Sins of the Fathers by A.J. McCarthy
"McCarthy perfectly weaves together suspense, dangers, and an intriguing storyline that will compel readers from start to finish...an enthralling and energetic writing style that is sure to enrapture any reader."
–The Red-headed Book Lover
To my mother-in-law, Pauline Bigaouette McCarthy.
Because of her loving nature, generous spirit, and ability to make people smile,
she is our greatest treasure and inspiration.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Recommended Reading
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
About the Author
Note from the Author
BRW Info
Prologue
She saw the light. It wasn’t at the end of a tunnel, and it didn’t resemble a train.
It was more of a blinding flash. Flying car parts, a deafening blast, and various types of debris accompanied it. She had a limited view of the explosion. She lay facedown, grass filling her mouth, with a large male body on top of her. The aforementioned body took the brunt of the force, and she feared he was dead or injured.
He rolled to the side, and they exchanged a few shouted words. She flicked a glance over him to see if he lacked body parts. Satisfied his injuries were not life-threatening, she took in her surroundings. Black smoke billowed and flames spewed from the vehicle. An acrid stench clawed at her nostrils. Screams and shouts erupted from every direction.
Fate had stood on the sidelines and saved her life. She could have been closer to the vehicle. Worse, she could have been in it. The sequence of events leading up to that moment put her at a distance to survive unharmed.
One matter was certain. Things had changed. She hadn’t signed up for this. They had billed this as an easy, safe job, as far from danger as possible.
This moment marked the turning point. The job was officially dangerous and life-threatening.
At last, things were looking up.
Chapter 1
Nine days earlier
Chantal Pouliot took a slow sip of coffee from her thermal mug and flipped through the pages of the file. As usual, everything was in order. No important forms had disappeared, and signatures were in the proper place. She tossed the folder onto the ‘To Scan’ pile as her gaze strayed toward the window. A good time for a run, she thought. The air was cool, and the midday sun hadn’t yet heated the paved track.
With a sigh, she shifted her attention to her beat-up fake-wood desk. As a high-energy person, restraining that energy proved difficult, but Chantal harnessed it when necessary.
The police department had gone paperless. The new requirement was to scan and store documents in digital form on the encrypted network server. They would toss out old-fashioned filing cabinets and make room for more beat-up desks or meeting rooms. The department would save trees and brag of environmental awareness.
It was a noble cause, but at this moment, Chantal considered the sacrifice of a few trees a fair exchange for an interesting case. Poring over ancient file folders made her want to pull out her hair.
Chantal’s mind wandered to an idyllic scene in a restaurant with real linen tablecloths and servers in tuxedos, an expensive bottle of red breathing on the table. A handsome, unknown man sat across from her.
Jolted out of her reverie by a familiar voice, she straightened and pretended interest in a file.
“Chantal, mon bureau, s’il te plait.”
An invitation to her supervisor’s office wasn’t unusual. He reveled in doling out boring jobs, but she couldn’t imagine how it could get any worse. The end of her six-month ordeal was on the horizon. Chantal hurried to follow him, praying he would take her out of purgatory a few weeks early.
The door slid shut behind her as she settled into an uncomfortable plastic chair. Henri Godet was tall and thin to the point of being cadaverous. He leaned forward and folded long arms on the desk, a comb-over threatening to topple over his forehead.
“I have good news for you,” he said to her in French. “I have a case.”
Chantal smiled. This was excellent. She could get out of the office and on the streets; with any luck, working with Jeff. But she wouldn’t complain if they assigned her to someone else for the time being. Anything would be better than this.
“Great. What is it? When do I start?” She inched closer to the edge of the chair, her back straight.
Godet chuckled. “I knew you’d be happy. You’ll like this one. It’s a fraud case. You’ll work with… what’s wrong?”
Chantal had known Henri long enough she didn’t have to conceal her true feelings. “White-collar?”
Her boss settled his palms flat on the desk. His expression held sympathy. “Yes. For now. You need more time.”
“I don’t. I’m ready.” Her eyes pleaded with him.
“Captain Bouchard and the psychologist don’t agree.”
“You do. You know I am.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s their decision.” Normally affable, Godet’s voice took on a hard edge. Chantal got the message. He had his orders, whether or not he agreed with them. His expression softened. “Besides, you’ll enjoy it. You’ll work with the RCMP. They have an email fraud task force, and they’d like to incorporate one of ours into a smaller team they’ve put together.”
Chantal had been an officer with the Quebec City branch of the Sûreté du Québec police force for almost ten years. She knew of cases where the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the national policing body, joined forces with provincial or local law enforcement, yet such a case had never involved her.
Chantal dragged a deep breath into her lungs. She reminded herself a white-collar case was an improvement over her present duties. If she proved herself with this one, she could return to her old job as a homicide detective.
“Okay. Fill me in.”
Relief swept over her supervisor’s face. He had expected a bigger confrontation.
Perhaps they were right, she mused. She might need more time before she returned to her old self.
. . .
When Chantal entered the conference room, stacks of files welcomed her, and her shoulders slumped. Here we go again, she thought. It would be more of the same, except in a different room. Why did people think she enjoyed pushing papers?
/> Chantal pasted a brave smile on her face when Henri lifted his head and spotted her. “Ah, there you are. Everything’s ready for you. You’ll have time to look over things before your new partners arrive.”
“Mm.” Chantal imagined the hours of boring reading. Henri had given her an overview of the case. It was white-collar through and through, classic email fraud that diverted funds from a Canadian company meant for a supplier in Hong Kong.
A common crime in the cyberworld, but the fact it affected three companies in the same city within a month made it noteworthy.
Thus, the invitation issued to the provincial police from the RCMP cyber-crime task force. With digital technology and the intelligence of the criminals behind it, the common link could be hard to find, but combining efforts might provide an advantage.
With an inward groan, she crossed to the table. Chantal would spend most of her time here, her rear-end almost permanently attached to a chair. It was a huge shift from six months earlier when she had worked undercover, dealing with violent crime.
Of course, her previous work was the reason she spent most of her time these days behind a desk, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t miss the excitement. It was what she had trained to do.
“Chantal? Did you hear me?”
She blinked twice and focused on her boss. “Sorry. This fascinated me,” she said, straight-faced, gesturing toward the mounds of paperwork.
Godet’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “I’m glad you’re enthusiastic. You’ll get through it faster. Your colleagues will arrive after lunch. We expect you to work well with these people.” A stern tone accompanied his last sentence.
“I will.” Chantal resisted the urge to make a face at his back as he left the room.
Chantal learned her RCMP partners were from a Toronto branch, and the job might involve travel, which could make it interesting. She might see the inside of someone else’s conference room, she thought wryly.
Chantal realized a reason they chose her for this assignment was because of her relative fluency in English. Mastering the second language had become easier in the past several months with the help of her new best friend.
Tori, an import from Florida and newly married to Chantal’s ex-partner, Jeff, was involved in a previous case in Quebec City. Although a traumatic episode for Tori, she found love and made her home in a city she now appreciated.
Chantal and Tori had withstood a rocky relationship during the case but came out on the far side as fast friends. Now, they spent a lot of time together as Tori tried to learn French, while Chantal worked the kinks out of her English.
Chantal’s lips curved as she pictured the computer geeks making their way to SQ headquarters. She imagined they spent their time with their noses stuck in dusty filing cabinets or pressed to computer screens in an enormous downtown Toronto office building. Quebec City would be a welcome experience for them.
It was a beautiful, historic city and a popular tourist destination. Founded in 1608, it was one of the oldest cities in North America and the only one on the continent with fortress walls surrounding the historic core. The stone buildings and narrow streets of the Old City held a European flavor. With a population of five hundred thousand, it was small compared to Toronto, but Chantal suspected it would be an interesting diversion for the visitors.
At noon, Chantal hurried out of the building, looking forward to fresh air, a change of scenery, and a chickpea salad at a nearby bistro. Judging by the line-up at the door, she wasn’t the only person to crave health food.
Forty-five minutes later, her stomach replete but her anxiety level high, Chantal jogged back to the office. Her heels, although low, were not intended for running, and several times she risked falling on her face. Inside the building, she ran up the stairs two at a time, not bothering with the elevator, her skirt hiked halfway up her thighs.
Chantal stopped outside the conference room, aware she was fifteen minutes late and a little disheveled. Maybe more than a little. A strand of blond hair fell across her cheek, escaping the bun she had pinned with precision that morning. She felt telltale patches of wet under her arms and knew her face was likely flushed from heat and exertion.
Chantal tugged on the hem of the skirt that had traveled up her left leg. She tucked in her off-white blouse on the right-hand side. Someone could get the impression she rushed from a meeting with a lover, perhaps in a broom closet, she thought.
Chantal yanked open the door.
Two men had their backs to her. They turned as she clattered over the threshold. Chantal questioned whether she was in the right room. Had they changed the venue while she was at lunch?
She heard the low rumble of suppressed laughter, but she wasn’t able to figure out which cop she amused.
One was a couple of inches taller than the other. Dressed in dark suits, both were handsome, with dark hair and eyes. Any similarity between them ended there. The shorter of the two, in his late twenties, had short, cropped hair, eyeglasses, and an appealing smile.
The taller man sported a shaggier look, his hair lying over his collar in the back. His smile was impossible to assess; it was nonexistent. He didn’t scowl, but no expression graced his face as his gaze swept over her.
Having been through worse, Chantal straightened her spine and stepped forward. She didn’t extend her hand. Instead, she held both hands by her side, an unspoken signal handshaking was no longer usual for her. Since the coronavirus pandemic first rocked the world two years earlier, fewer people shook hands. French Canadians were habitual huggers and cheek-kissers. Many threw the practice to the wayside, perhaps for several years.
She addressed the friendly one first, hoping to boost her confidence level.
“Hello. I’m Chantal. It seems we’ll work together.”
The man’s smile grew even more disarming. “Mark Pratt. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He respected her wishes not to shake hands, but she was certain she missed out on an enthusiastic grip.
Buoyed by his reception, Chantal turned to the taller man, offering him the same grin. His smile remained missing-in-action. “Owen Lockwood,” he said with a slight bow of his head.
“Sorry for being late. I was tied up at lunch.” Chantal gave her skirt another little tug south.
Mark seemed to stifle a laugh before he spoke. “No worries. We arrived a few minutes ago.”
Owen’s right eyebrow made a sharp move northward. He either didn’t accept her apology or he didn’t tolerate tardiness, Chantal mused.
Feeling uncomfortable under Owen’s disapproving scrutiny, Chantal tucked in her hair with her right hand as she waved her left toward the files covering the conference table. “Why don’t we look at these?”
“Why don’t you fill us in on what you have so far?” Owen countered.
Chantal circled to the opposite side of the table and took a seat, feeling more at ease with a large object between them. “Don’t we have the same information?”
“Probably. But I’d like your take on it.”
Chantal glanced at Pratt to gauge his reaction to his arrogant partner. An expectant smile brightened his face.
Although tempted to let Lockwood understand she was his equal and not his subordinate, she remembered Godet’s warning to play nice with her new friends. Chantal cleared her throat, feeling like a teacher called upon her to do a class presentation on her first day of school.
“We have three cases of fraud so far, all similar,” she said. “The suspect hacked into an email conversation between a Hong Kong supplier of electronic parts and a Quebec purchaser. In each case, the supplier and purchaser have a relationship and, because of the time zone difference, communicate by email. He intercepted their conversations and asked for a change in the bank account. To another bank in the same city. From there, the money disappears.”