Kingdom of the Blind (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #14) Page 24

  Once an action has been entered, you cannot hesitate. Once committed, you cannot second-guess. Never look back.

  This action, Beauvoir realized as he put the cap on the pen, had been entered months ago. When he and Gamache had been suspended. And the investigation had begun. When their own people had questioned not just their actions but their integrity, their commitment.

  It had all led here. To this moment. In this room.

  He pushed the document back across the table.

  “Keep it,” said the woman, when Beauvoir went to hand the pen back. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us.”

  She was smiling, they were all smiling. She put out her hand, and after a brief hesitation he shook it.

  It was the schooner Hesperus, the deep voice came to him. That sailed the wintry sea.

  That’s as far as it ever went, and Jean-Guy always laughed at the running joke. But now, as he looked out the window at the falling snow and felt the pen heavy in his breast pocket, he remembered the title.

  And he wondered if, in his effort to get to safety, he wasn’t fleeing from a wreck but causing it.

  * * *

  Benedict proved a careful, though tense, driver.

  He gripped the wheel at the ten and two positions and sat bold upright, his eyes never wandering from the snowy road.

  Car after car passed them on the autoroute. But Armand was in no hurry and preferred safety to recklessness. He also knew that it was his presence that was making the boy extra cautious. Tense, even.

  He’ll relax soon enough, thought Gamache.

  They talked about mundane things, like homeownership and Benedict’s job as caretaker and what could go wrong with buildings. Large and small.

  Armand told him about renovations they were considering to their home.

  “I hope you don’t mind my picking your brain,” said Armand. “There’re quite a few bedrooms, but when our son, Daniel, and his wife and two daughters come, along with Annie and Jean-Guy and their family . . . well, there won’t be enough room.”

  “So you’d like an addition?”

  They discussed possibilities. Benedict suggested going up instead of out and renovating the attic. And how to do it without making the whole place fall down.

  “One collapsed house is more than enough,” said Armand, and Benedict agreed.

  Gamache tucked the information away. Not about renovations he had no plans to undertake but that Benedict did indeed know how to prevent a house from falling. And would therefore, presumably also know how to bring one down.

  Benedict dropped Armand off in downtown Montréal, at the quite splendid offices of Horowitz Investments, and promised to pick him up later.

  It was snowing lightly. Prettily. Covering the grime of the city. At least for a little while.

  Gamache watched Benedict drive around a corner, then hailed a cab and gave an address on rue Ste.-Catherine.

  “Are you sure?” the driver asked, looking Armand up and down.

  His fare was nicely dressed, in a good parka, with a white shirt and a tie just visible below the scarf.

  “I’m sure. Merci.”

  He leaned back in the seat, and as he did, his face settled into a grim expression.

  “Wait for me, please,” he said when they reached their destination.

  “I won’t wait long,” the driver warned. Though he hadn’t yet been paid, he was willing to leave rather than be carjacked, or beaten and robbed by junkies.

  This was, every cabbie knew, a no-go area. Or, if you had to go, it was a place you didn’t linger.

  He locked the doors and kept the car in gear.

  Still, he was curious and watched as his fare walked with more confidence than he should have had, then turned in to what the driver knew was an alley. Clogged with garbage cans and whores.

  He waited a minute. Two. Then crept up until he was idling at the mouth of the alley.

  The cabbie watched as his fare shook the hand of another tall person. But this one was emaciated. A prostitute. A transsexual.

  He passed her money in a thick envelope. Oddly, the woman appeared to try to give it back, but his fare insisted. Then he turned and, on seeing the taxi, nodded.

  The man walked back to the car with ease, with authority. And while the driver was tempted to leave him there, after whatever disgusting thing had just happened in the alley, he didn’t.

  Armand thanked the driver, then sat back in the seat and exhaled as he looked out the window. Scanning the icy streets for a little girl. A child. In a red hat.

  But he felt confident his new friend, Anita Facial, would find her. And call him. And he’d go and get her.

  He knew in coming here today he’d risked blowing the whole thing. Risked being seen. But there were lines, there were limits. And Armand Gamache was tired of crossing them. Of exceeding them. He was tired of the tyranny of the greater good.

  He’d found a line, in the fleeting image of a little girl, that he would not cross.

  “‘It was the schooner Hesperus,’” he whispered, his breath creating a small circle of vapor on the window, “‘That sailed the wintry sea.’”

  He realized everyone suspected he only knew the opening lines of the epic poem. That was part of the joke. But the truth was, he knew it all. Every word. Every line. Including, of course, how it ended.

  “‘Christ save us all from a death like this,’” he quoted under his breath as he looked out the window.

  * * *

  Beauvoir grabbed a quick sandwich in his office as he read over reports of the Baumgartner murder. Updates on interviews. Background checks. Preliminary scene-of-crime evidence. Photographs.

  He chaired the morning briefing with lead inspectors about other homicides they were investigating.

  He then called Agent Cloutier into his office to report on her findings.

  She balanced the papers on her knee, then knocked them off. Then her glasses fell off as she stooped to pick up the papers. Beauvoir went around the desk to help her.

  “Let’s sit over there,” he said, taking a pile of papers to the table by the window. One he’d sat at hundreds of times, going over cases with Gamache.

  “Tell me what you know,” he said to her.

  And she did.

  “These”—she laid her hand on the statements found in Anthony Baumgartner’s study—“are not legitimate. The numbers don’t add up. The transactions look good until you cross-check and realize the buy and sell figures are off.”

  “So what are they?”

  “A play.”

  “A what?”

  “They’re like a theater production. An illusion. Something made to look real, but isn’t. Monsieur Baumgartner must’ve known that these clients wouldn’t look too closely. Most don’t. And the fact is, you’d have to be an expert to figure it out, and even then it takes time.”

  “Was he stealing from them?”

  The clarity, the simplicity of the question seemed to surprise her.

  She thought about it, then nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “Have you found the funds?”

  “That’ll take longer, sir. And a court order.”

  Beauvoir went to his desk and brought over a paper. It was the court order, allowing them full access to Baumgartner’s finances. Another one granted access to the Taylor and Ogilvy client list.

  He’d put that in his satchel, along with the copy of the statements Cloutier had given him.

  “It would also help if we could get into his computer,” he said.

  “I’m working on it, patron.”

  * * *

  The taxi let Armand off where it had picked him up. Outside the offices of Horowitz Investments. They were just down rue Sherbrooke from the Musée des Beaux-Arts and Holt Renfrew. On Montréal’s Golden Mile, where glass towers were fronted by old Greystone mansions.

  A cab ride, and a lifetime, away from where he’d just been. What separated them, Gamache knew, wasn’t hard work but good fortune and bli
nd luck. That picked some and not others. That introduced some to opioids and not others. Five years ago, two years, even a year ago, the futures of the ghastly figures on the street looked very different. And then someone introduced them to a painkiller. An opioid. And all the promise, all the good fortune of birth and affluence—of a loving family, of education—were no match for what came next.

  Loved. Beaten. Cared for. Neglected. University graduate or dropout. All ended up in the gutter. Thanks to the great leveler that was fentanyl.

  What was on the streets now was not, Gamache knew, his doing. They were opioids. Killers. Hollowing out a generation. And so far the carfentanil he’d let through hadn’t yet gone into circulation.

  But it would, he knew. Soon. And if it was bad now, it was about to get incalculably worse.

  He’d read a report recently that said an American state with the death penalty was considering using the drug to execute prisoners. It was swift and lethal and guaranteed to do the job.

  He’d stared at that report, feeling the blood drain from his face. It wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. But it did put a word to what he’d done. What he was.

  The executioner.

  “Armand.”

  Stephen Horowitz came out of his office, hand extended. His voice still lightly accented from his European upbringing.

  All of ninety-three now, he was as vibrant as ever. And as rich as Croesus.

  “You’re looking well,” said Armand, taking the firm hand and shaking it.

  “As are you.”

  The sharp eyes traveled over Gamache before coming to rest on his face.

  “Have you been crying?”

  Armand laughed. “Seeing you always makes me emotional. You know that. But non. Just some irritation.”

  “That sounds more likely. Most people find me irritating.”

  Armand did not disagree.

  “I’ve made reservations at the Ritz. Too pretentious, but I like seeing which of my clients are there and think they can afford it.”

  They walked the two blocks to the Ritz, with Horowitz taking Armand’s arm every now and then, far beyond being bashful about any frailty.

  He’d been Armand’s parents’ financial adviser. In fact, Armand’s father had helped set Horowitz up in business when he’d been a young refugee after the war. One of the displaced people who never forgot how that felt. Nor, seventy years later, had Stephen Horowitz forgotten that act of kindness.

  There was now a shockingly generous account, in Annie’s and Daniel’s names, with Horowitz Investments. One Gamache himself didn’t even know about.

  Horowitz had left instructions in his will, and only then would the Gamaches find out.

  “I hear you’re still suspended,” said Stephen, allowing a liveried waiter to flap open the linen napkin before laying it on his lap. “Merci.”

  “I am,” he said in response to Stephen’s question.

  Sparkling water with lime was on the table waiting for them, along with two scotches and two plates of oysters.

  “Merci,” said Armand as the napkin was laid on his lap.

  “Stupid of them.” The elderly man shook his head. “Would you like me to make a call?”

  “To whom?” asked Armand. “Or do I want to know?”

  “Probably not.”

  “You’ve already made one call, I know. Thank you for that.”

  “You’re my godson,” said Stephen. “I do what I can.”

  Armand watched him prepare his oysters. With precision. Knowing exactly how he liked them.

  Stephen Horowitz was as close as Armand came to having a father. The investment dealer had been disappointed when the young man had chosen the law over finance, though Stephen had his own three children to leave the business to.

  Armand’s relationship with Stephen was divorced, as far as Armand knew, from money. It was about other forms of support.

  “See that man over there?” Stephen was now engaged in his favorite thing. Passing judgment. “Runs a steel company. A complete dickhead. My people have just discovered that he’s planning on giving himself a hundred-million-dollar bonus this fiscal year. Excuse me.”

  To Armand’s alarm, though no real surprise, Stephen got up and walked over to the man, said something that made the man turn purple, then returned to the table, grinning all the way.

  “What did you say to him?” Armand asked.

  “I told him that I was dumping all the shares Horowitz Investments holds in his company. I gave the order just before we left. Look.”

  And as Armand watched, the man pulled out his iPhone, punched some numbers, and stared. Pale now. As he saw his shares tumble.

  “When the stock reaches a low, I’ve told my people to buy it. All,” said Stephen.

  “You’ve bought the company?” asked Armand.

  “Controlling interest. He’ll see that in a few minutes too.”

  “You’ll be his boss.”

  “Not for long.”

  Stephen raised his hand, and the maître d’ hurried over, bent down, nodded, then left. Armand raised his brows and waited for an explanation.

  “I told Pierre that I’d pay for that table. The man won’t be able to afford it after this, and I don’t want the restaurant stuck with a bad debt.”

  “You’re very thoughtful,” said Armand, and he watched as Stephen smiled broadly. “Did you know he’d be here when you booked?”

  “It’s Wednesday. He’s always here Wednesday.”

  “So that’s a yes.”

  “Yes.”

  Wheels within wheels, thought Armand as their lunch arrived. And most of the wheels were running over some poor sod who got in Stephen’s way. Or did something he didn’t approve of.

  “Have you ever heard of Ruth Zardo?” Armand asked, cutting into his sea bass on a bed of pureed cauliflower with braised lentils and garnished with grilled asparagus and grapefruit wedges.

  “The poet? Yes, of course.” He lowered his knife and fork and looked into the distance, recalling the words: “‘Who hurt you once so far beyond repair / That you would greet each overture with curling lip.’”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I just thought you two might get along.”

  Stephen went back to his food. “Are you hurt, Armand?” He spoke into his Dover sole.

  “Not beyond repair, no.”

  Stephen looked up then. His eyes clear and searching. “I don’t mean physically. Those wounds heal. I mean by the Sûreté investigation. By this suspension that seems to be going on a long time.”

  “There’re things you don’t know, Stephen.”

  “True. But I know you. It would be a terrible shame to lose you as head of the Sûreté.”

  “Merci.”

  “Are you sure I can’t put in a call?”

  “Don’t you dare,” said Armand, pointing his knife at the elderly man in mock threat.

  Stephen laughed and nodded. “Fine. Now, why did you want to see me?”

  “It’s delicate.”

  “Let me guess. It’s about Hugo Baumgartner.”

  “Well, so much for delicate.”

  “His brother was just killed, so it wasn’t hard to guess. Murdered, according to the news. But you can’t be involved in the investigation. You are, as we’ve established—”

  “Suspended. Oui. But I’m a liquidator on his mother’s will and come at it in a roundabout way.”

  He explained about the will, and Horowitz listened carefully before thinking it over and finally saying, “That’s some weird shit.”

  Armand laughed. “Your considered opinion. Well, you’re not wrong. But I want to ask you about Hugo Baumgartner. He’s one of your senior vice presidents.”

  “He is. Ugly as original sin. Vile to look at. Really quite disgusting. But, like many ugly people, who look like villains, he has to make up for it by being obviously decent. If I didn’t have three children capable of taking over
the company, I’d consider him.”

  “He’s that good?”

  “He is. He’s as good as his dead brother was bad.”

  “So you know about that.”

  “I do. Hugo didn’t tell me. He’s protective of his brother. But word on the street—”

  “Does everyone know?”

  “If they don’t, they’re dumber than I thought. Why else would a senior VP at Taylor and Ogilvy have his license suspended? That’s a serious move. Not done lightly.”

  “Hugo says his brother was railroaded, made an example of. That it was the assistant who actually stole the money.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Stephen, gesturing with his knife and fork. “Blah, blah. What else’s he going to say?” The elderly man leaned toward Armand. “Who’s more likely to know how to steal money from a client’s account and be able to cover it up for months? The VP or the assistant? Who’s more likely to have access? And who’s more likely to be fired? I’ll give you a hint—the answer to the last question is different from the first two.”

  Armand nodded. He’d gotten that far himself. “What can you tell me about Taylor and Ogilvy?”

  “They’re a relatively new firm. Been around for about thirty years, though they like to give the impression they were created by royal charter in the 1800s.”

  “Victoria banked with them?” asked Armand.

  “Something like that. Magnificent offices, clearly meant to impress.”

  “And yet?”

  “I’m always suspicious of anyone who feels they need to impress with surroundings rather than track record.”

  “You’re suspicious of everyone,” Armand pointed out. “Hardly telling.”

  “True,” admitted Horowitz with a smile.

  “You think they’re hiding something?” Armand asked. “Are they legitimate?”

  “Oh yes. Just sail a little close to the edge.”

  “You do know that the earth is round.”

  “The earth might be, but human nature isn’t. It has caverns and abysses and all sorts of traps.”

  “Taylor and Ogilvy exists on the edge of one such trap?”

  “If they employ humans, then yes.”

  “You employ humans,” Armand pointed out.