Armand pushed his omelette away after one bite. It was moist, with aged Comté cheese and tarragon. Just as he remembered it. Just as he liked it.
But not today.
Adjusting his reading glasses, he leaned over the agenda once more.
Jean-Guy had wolfed down the juicy burger, with the young, runny Gorgonzola, Mont d’Or, and sautéed mushrooms, and was now also reading while absently dipping the herbed frites into mayonnaise.
“Stephen arrived on the eleventh of September,” said Jean-Guy. “Air Canada flight from Montréal. That was ten days ago, just like the manager at the George V told you. So, what’s he been doing?”
The rest of the agenda, from the eleventh to the day before he was hit, was empty. Until the entry about meeting Armand in the garden of the Musée Rodin. Then AFP, which they now knew stood for Alexander Francis Plessner.
Below that, Stephen had written in the dinner with the family. His family, Armand noticed. His family.
Armand brought out his own notebook.
“This’s ridiculous,” said Jean-Guy as he leaned back against the sofa. “Stephen came to Paris for a reason. Why didn’t he write anything down? The rest of the agenda is packed with meetings and notes.”
It was true. They’d been through it once, scanning, and would need to go over it a few more times, carefully. The ten days previous were empty.
But the days going forward were not.
On Monday Stephen was planning to attend an eight a.m. board meeting of GHS Engineering.
“He has a reservation on the Air Canada flight back to Montréal on Wednesday,” said Armand. “But there’s a note beside it.” He leaned closer to read the cramped writing, then smiled. Stephen had written, only if baby has arrived.
Armand sat back and took a deep breath.
Going more slowly through the agenda, they found notes on meetings with an AP, presumably Alexander Plessner, in the past year. And lunches with friends, including Daniel.
But nothing about what he was up to, if anything. And certainly no suggestion of concern on his part.
But then, Stephen was a careful man. He wouldn’t write anything like that in his agenda.
“Do you think the attacks have something to do with the board meeting?” Beauvoir asked.
“The timing is suggestive. We need to get our hands on that annual report, preferably Stephen’s copy. He might’ve made notes in the margin.”
“Dussault has the box. We can ask him.” When there was no answer, Beauvoir looked at his father-in-law. “Do you really suspect the Prefect just because of his cologne?”
Gamache opened his mouth, then shut it. Not sure what to say.
“It’s slightly more than that,” said Gamache. “He said he hadn’t been to the George V in years, but the manager said she’d seen him yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Beauvoir’s brows shot up. “She could be wrong.”
Gamache made a noncommittal guttural sound.
Still, it seemed absurd. Was he going to suspect a friend, a colleague, of murder based on such flimsy evidence? A whiff ? And a possible sighting in a crowded hotel?
Was loyalty so fragile?
What he did know about Claude Dussault, and had seen time and again over the years, was that he had both courage and integrity.
But people changed. Sometimes for the better. Often for the worse.
And there was something else.
“The intruder Reine-Marie and I surprised this morning. If he was responsible for the murder, and the attack on Stephen, then he should have killed us. I told Reine-Marie that he wouldn’t. It would cause too much of a mess, but that was a lie. The truth is, once he’d made one body, he wouldn’t hesitate to make two more. And he certainly should have killed me when I was chasing him. It would’ve been easy enough.”
“Yes,” said Beauvoir.
His father-in-law had hit on the one great argument against trusting Claude Dussault.
A stranger would not have hesitated to murder the Gamaches. But a friend … ?
“And when I was chasing him down the stairs, I heard a phone ring. It was muffled, but I’m pretty sure it came from the intruder.”
“Yes?” said Beauvoir, not sure how this linked up with the Prefect.
“Reine-Marie would’ve been calling Claude at about that time.”
There it was.
“Maybe we don’t tell the Prefect everything,” said Jean-Guy. “But we do need to get our hands on that annual report.”
“How did Stephen seem to you last night?”
“He was in good spirits. As good as it ever got with Stephen.”
“But not especially giddy,” said Gamache. “Not like a man about to expose some big swindle?”
“Not giddy, no. You’re thinking he found something out about GHS? That’s why he wanted to go to the board meeting?”
If Stephen was about to topple a tower of malfeasance he’d probably be quite bubbly. It was just about his favorite thing to do.
As it was, he was clearly pleased to see everyone and to be there, but there was no sense of triumph. Nor did he seem guarded or nervous.
“But he did check his phone a few times,” said Beauvoir. “That was strange.”
“Yes, you mentioned that before. I wonder if he was looking for a message from Monsieur Plessner. There was no phone found on the body or in the apartment?”
“Non, but they might find one eventually.”
“I doubt it,” said Armand, and so did Jean-Guy. The killer would have taken it.
And there was something else.
“Stephen helped me get the job at GHS,” said Jean-Guy. “Could there have been a reason? But if he had suspicions about the company, he’d have told me, right? Or at least hinted?”
Gamache shook his head. His godfather was a complicated man. He kept his own counsel, and always had. His early experiences in the war had taught him that the fewer people who knew what was going on, the safer everyone was.
It was a quality he and his godson shared. A quality others did not always appreciate.
It seemed obvious that someone knew what Stephen Horowitz was about to do. And needed to stop him.
It was their turn now to connect the dots. But first they had to collect the dots.
“If he put you in GHS because he had suspicions, he might’ve wanted you to figure it out on your own,” said Gamache. “And not prejudice your thoughts.”
“Yeah, well, he obviously overestimated my ‘thoughts.’ I have none. At least, no suspicions. Though—”
“Oui?”
“Well, it’s just that my number two—”
“Madame Arbour.”
“Oui. She was pushing some file on me yesterday afternoon. A project we have in Luxembourg.”
“Luxembourg?”
“Yes. Small by comparison to others. When I changed the subject to Patagonia, she seemed miffed. I put it down to a very tiring power struggle we still seem to be having. I thought she might be testing, to see if I was up on even the smaller projects. What is it?”
“I’m remembering my conversation with Stephen in the Rodin. A mistake he made.”
“He made a mistake?” Jean-Guy had never heard of the financier making, or certainly admitting to, an error.
“More like a memory lapse. He said that he’d convinced me to propose to Reine-Marie in the jardin du Luxembourg. But that was wrong. He’d actually suggested a small garden in the Marais, just off rue des Rosiers.”
“And that’s where you did propose?”
“Yes. I put the mistake down to his age and lingering jet lag. But clearly he wasn’t suffering from jet lag since he’d arrived days earlier.”
“So, what was it? If it wasn’t a mistake, you think he might’ve said it on purpose?”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far. He might’ve had Luxembourg on his mind. What’s the project there?”
“A funicular.”
“An outdoor elevator?”
�
�Yes, up the side of a cliff. But this’s a newer, safer design. We’re incorporating it into elevators all over the world, not just funiculars. Jesus, could Stephen be worried about the design? Could something be wrong?”
“Stephen isn’t an engineer. He can read a financial statement in moments, but I doubt he could make heads or tails of an engineering report.”
They were now wandering in the dark, and in danger of believing they weren’t totally lost. It was at about this point, as Gamache warned his people, that many investigations went over a cliff.
“You say that when you changed the subject, Madame Arbour got upset?”
“A bit, yes,” said Beauvoir.
“Did you tell Stephen this?”
Beauvoir thought. “No. You think there’s something in it?”
“I think it would be helpful to get a copy of the engineering report on that funicular.”
“But Stephen didn’t have the report with him. If he was going to expose something, don’t you think he’d take it to the GHS meeting?”
“Maybe he hid it. Maybe that’s what the intruder was trying to find. Not just the report, but the proof something was wrong.”
“True. I’ll see what I can do. Might slip into work later today. But it would mean missing the autopsy.”
“A shame.”
“Oui.”
“But even if I find it, I’m not sure the engineering report will be helpful,” said Jean-Guy. “I still can’t understand them.”
“Then we’ll find someone who can.”
Beauvoir sat up straighter. His brows drawing together in concentration.
“I told Stephen last night that I was struggling to understand the engineering. He said he did, too.”
“Which means he tried,” said Gamache. “Maybe even the funicular report.”
“Yes. He also said that he found it helpful to read the emails between the engineers and home base.”
“Home base being Paris. Your head office. Can you get those?” Gamache was leaning forward now.
“I can try.” Jean-Guy’s eyes were narrowed, his quick mind going through the options. And the conclusions. “But if there is something wrong with the design of the funicular, and Séverine Arbour saw it, wouldn’t she tell me? Why bring the Luxembourg report to my attention but then not say anything?”
“Maybe she was going to, but you changed the subject. Maybe that’s why she was annoyed.”
“God, that might be true,” said Beauvoir. “But still, if it was a serious flaw, you’d think she’d set aside her feelings and insist on telling me.”
Gamache sat back and took his glasses off as he, too, tried to see the answer. “Madame Arbour’s an engineer, right?”
“Yes. Carole Gossette, the head of operations, says she’s a very good one.”
“Interesting, then, that she should be put in a department meant to police the others.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Beauvoir.
“So, she’s either there to help find problems,” said Gamache. “Or to cover them up.”
“Jesus. She brought me the Luxembourg report not to tell me about the flaw,” said Beauvoir, his eyes widening. “She wanted to test me, to make sure I hadn’t seen it.”
“I think it’s possible. With the board meeting so close, and your connection to Stephen known, they might’ve wanted to see how much you knew.”
“To add my name to the hit list?” Jean-Guy asked. “Fuck me. How many people were they willing to kill?”
“How many people have already died?” asked Gamache. “A flaw in an engineering design, in an elevator for example, could kill hundreds before it’s stopped.”
“How sick do you need to be to cover up something that could kill hundreds, maybe thousands?”
Gamache looked at him.
It happened more often than he cared to admit. But couldn’t deny.
Airlines. Car manufacturers. Pharmaceuticals. Chemical companies. The entire tobacco industry.
Companies knew. Governments knew. Even so-called watchdogs knew. And remained silent. And got rich.
While hundreds, thousands, millions died. Were killed.
The Great Murders.
It had been, and still was, Gamache’s job to find those responsible, and stop them. Jean-Guy, as Gamache’s second-in-command, had followed him into that cesspool.
And while Jean-Guy Beauvoir had left, he hadn’t actually escaped. The sludge had followed him. Found him. In Paris. He was in it again, this time up to his neck, it seemed.
Beauvoir considered. Was Séverine Arbour that ambitious? That sick?
The former homicide investigator knew that the desire for power and money could infect. Could fester. Could hollow out a person.
How many bright young executives, fresh off an MBA, or a P.Eng., dreamed of mass murder? None. No, that sort of sickness took time and a certain environment.
Was GHS just such an environment?
Is that why Stephen had placed him there? He knew Jean-Guy Beauvoir could not read an engineering schematic, but he could read people.
Was GHS corrupt?
He’d have to admit, he didn’t think so. But he also knew his energies had been put into getting up to speed with the job. And in thinking about the imminent arrival of their daughter.
And, yes, maybe he’d been dazzled by the private jets, the luxury hotels, the exotic locations. Blinded to what was really going on.
“You say the new design is going into elevators around the world,” Gamache broke into his thoughts. “Office buildings, apartments?”
“Everything, yes.”
“When?”
“Next week.” Beauvoir blanched. “Oh, God, it is possible, isn’t it? It could be GHS’s finances, but it could also be the design. Oh, merde.”
They looked at each other.
Elevators. They were where both men’s fears intersected.
Heights for Gamache. Tight spaces for Beauvoir.
The thought of being stuck in a malfunctioning elevator, many stories up, made them both light-headed. The thought of it, of hundreds, thousands, plummeting, made them sick.
Gamache took a long, slow, deep breath. “We need those plans.”
“I’ll get them. You think maybe what Stephen found wasn’t a financial swindle, but some engineering flaw?”
“Maybe. But if he did, I doubt he’d bring it up at the board.”
“Why not?”
“If he somehow came across a serious flaw in a design, he’d go straight to the head of the company. He’d want to tell someone who could stop the projects and have the flaw fixed. Who’s the head of GHS?”
“Eugénie Roquebrune. Should I try to get a meeting?”
“Non, not yet. We need more information. If she’s behind the cover-up, she’ll deny it, and without hard evidence we’re just exposing ourselves.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what Stephen did,” said Jean-Guy. “And maybe that’s what triggered the attacks.”
“Do you know if GHS is owned by anyone else? Whether it’s a subsidiary of another corporation?”
“Not that I know of. GHS is massive. That would make the parent company the equivalent of ”—he hesitated—“something really big.”
“You were going to say the Death Star, weren’t you.”
“Well, yes. If you can quote poetry, I can reference Star Wars. But it’s not a bad analogy.”
No, thought Gamache. It wasn’t.
He stared out of the Joséphine, onto the crowded sidewalk, and warned himself that they were manufacturing motives. Almost certainly with serious flaws.
“We’ve been through Stephen’s agenda,” said Jean-Guy, flipping the pages. “There’s no meeting with Roquebrune noted. Nothing at all about GHS until the board meeting.”
“True. But the one undeniable fact is that someone tried to kill Stephen, and someone succeeded in killing Alexander Plessner. Three days before the board meeting. The timing must be more than a coincidence.”
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br /> Whoever had killed Plessner had ripped Stephen’s apartment apart, searching for something. Whoever ordered the hits had the advantage of knowing what that was.
They did not. But Gamache knew he had perhaps an even greater advantage. He knew Stephen.
It was now a race.
“We need to figure out what Stephen’s been doing for ten days,” he said.
One person who might be able to help was Agnes McGillicuddy. Armand checked his phone, but there was still no message from her.
The other thing Armand really wanted to know, with increasing importance, was what Stephen had done for those four missing hours, between leaving the Lutetia and meeting them for dinner.
A rogue thought appeared. Was it possible he went up to his apartment? Was it possible Stephen killed Plessner? Is that what the AFP notation was about?
But no.
But …
Who knew what Stephen Horowitz was really capable of? What he’d done in his youth, with the Resistance. When there was so much at stake.
What he’d do in his extreme old age? When there was very little left to lose.
But what could possibly drive Stephen to murder?
He looked over at Beauvoir, to see if he was thinking along the same lines. Connecting phantom dots to form a monster.
Jean-Guy was watching him closely, but didn’t say anything.
Gamache shifted under the gaze. Then, putting his reading glasses back on, he flipped to the back of the agenda, where people often made random notes. They’d already looked, and there was nothing there.
He tipped the page up to the sunlight, to see if there was the imprint of something written there and torn out.
Nothing.
But …
Something had slipped out from under the back flap of the booklet. The corner of a tiny scrap of paper. Shoved there. Hidden there?
He pulled it out.
“What’s that?” asked Jean-Guy as he leaned closer.
There were numbers and letters on the paper. Not JSPS this time.
In his cramped, clear hand, Stephen Horowitz had written AFP.
“Alexander Francis Plessner,” said Jean-Guy. “And the numbers must be the dates they met.”
Just then Jean-Guy’s phone rang. It was Lacoste, from the Sûreté in Montréal.
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