by Louise Penny
His iPhone buzzed, and he looked at the text. It was from Gamache, asking if he could meet him over at Isabelle Lacoste’s place in an hour.
He sent back a quick reply. Absolutely.
Finally Madame Ogilvy put down the statements. Her face was bland. Almost blank. Though he saw her fingers tremble, just before she closed them into fists.
“You were right to be concerned, Chief Inspector.” Her voice now held none of the emotion of before. It was clipped. Controlled. “I’m glad you brought these to me.”
“Are you?” he asked, sitting back down.
Her smile was thin. Her eyes cold. This was not a young woman. This was the senior partner in a multibillion-dollar investment firm. Who didn’t get the job because she was the chairman’s daughter but because she could do just this.
Absorb information quickly. Break it down. See the implications and options. And not hide from reality, no matter how unpleasant. They were skills that would have served her well in any business. Including his.
“I am,” she said. “It would come out eventually, better we have a chance to manage the situation.”
At least she was being honest about that, thought Beauvoir. But he wasn’t fooled by her sangfroid. Agent Cloutier had made it clear that embezzlement on this scale, for what appeared to be a long time, would probably need the collusion of someone very senior.
They were far from sure Anthony Baumgartner had been in it alone.
In fact, Beauvoir had begun to formulate a theory.
That Baumgartner was corrupt, that much seemed obvious, but he was also a tool. He’d set up the shell, directed the play, to use Cloutier’s analogy. But someone else wrote the script.
Who better than the chairman’s daughter? Baumgartner’s former protégée?
Had the story she’d just told him been more bullshit? Beauvoir wondered. About disappointing Baumgartner? About him not knowing who she was? About his decency?
Had he in fact taught her things she didn’t learn in business school? Like how to steal from clients?
Who, after all, was in a better position to hide what was happening? And to protect him if caught. As he had been.
Instead of firing his ass, they’d fired the assistant.
And then there was the question of where the money went.
Anthony Baumgartner’s lifestyle showed none of the fruits of this labor. He lived in the same home he’d been in for years. Drove a nice, though midrange vehicle. Had not gone on any luxury vacations.
It was a rare person who was greedy enough to steal clients’ money and then disciplined enough not to spend it.
Unless the lion’s share was going somewhere else. To someone else.
“And how do you manage this situation?” he asked.
“Well, the first thing I do,” she said, reaching for the phone, “is call the regulatory commission and report this.”
“We’ve already done that.”
“I see. I’ll call as well, later.” She put down the phone, slightly miffed. “We will, of course, replace any money taken from clients.”
“Stolen.”
“Yes.”
“Bit awkward, isn’t it?” he said. “This isn’t the first time Anthony Baumgartner embezzled from clients.”
“You’re talking about what happened a few year ago,” she said. “That wasn’t him. Not directly. It was the assistant of one of the senior partners.”
“You?”
“No.”
“They were having an affair, I believe,” said Beauvoir.
“That’s true. The assistant apparently used Tony to get at his access codes and was siphoning money from various accounts. He was bound to be caught. Not very smart, really. But he did get away with quite a bit before it was discovered.”
“Who caught him?”
“Tony. He came to us immediately, and we acted.”
“By firing the assistant.”
“Yes.”
“And not Monsieur Baumgartner.”
“He’d been foolish, trusted someone he shouldn’t have. But his actions weren’t criminal.”
“And yet you suspended his license.”
“There had to be a consequence. Other brokers had to see that if you’re tainted in any way, there will be a punishment.”
“And his clients?”
“What about them?”
“Were they told?”
“No. We decided not to. The money was replaced, and it was decided Tony would work with another broker, who’d put in the tickets and do the actual transactions. But Tony would continue to manage the portfolios. Make the decisions. It wasn’t necessary for this to be spread on the street.”
“The street?”
“Our language. It means the financial community.”
The street.
Beauvoir was beginning to appreciate that the only thing that separated this “street” from rue Ste.-Catherine was a thin veneer of gentility. But once that was peeled away, what was revealed was just as brutal, just as dirty, just as dangerous.
“Baumgartner was fine with the new arrangement?”
“He understood. Look, he didn’t have to come to us. He probably could’ve figured out how to cover it up. But instead he sat right where you’re sitting and told me everything. About the affair. About finding out Bernard had stolen his access code for the accounts. He offered to quit.”
“But you didn’t take him up on it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“You know as well as I do that you could’ve fired him. And given what’s happened, perhaps even should have.” He looked at the statements. “I want the truth.”
She took a deep breath and continued to hold his eyes.
“He was the best financial adviser we had. Brilliant. I am, after all is said and done, my father’s daughter, Chief Inspector. I know talent, and I want to keep it. Tony Baumgartner was that. And so we chose a middle ground. Suspending his license to trade but allowing him to continue managing portfolios.”
“So if he could no longer trade, how did he manage to steal all that money?” Beauvoir pointed to the papers on her desk.
“No, no, these are all fake. There were never any trades. That’s the whole thing. He made it look like there were, but it’s all gobbledygook. If a client actually bothered to read this”—she put her splayed hand on the paper—“what they’d see are numbers that are both impressive and mind-numbingly boring. No one, other than another financial wonk, would bother to study these.”
“So where did the money go?”
She shook her head and took a deep breath. “I don’t know. But it looks like millions. Tens of millions.”
“More,” said Beauvoir, and, after a small hesitation, she also nodded.
“Depending on how long this’s been going on, yes. It’ll take us a while to work it all out.”
“But wouldn’t people, his clients, realize? When there was no actual money in the account?”
“How?”
“When they asked for it.”
“But people don’t,” she said. “They give it to their investment dealer, and at best they cash in the dividends or take the profits. But the capital remains in the account. Weren’t you ever told by your parents never to touch the capital?”
“No. I was told not to touch my brother’s bike.”
She smiled. “Point taken. But a truism in investing is that people take the profits, the dividends, but leave the capital.”
“Is this a Ponzi scheme, then?” he asked.
“Not quite, but similar. This’s even harder to find, since he’s made it look like these clients were investing through Taylor and Ogilvy, but they weren’t. He’s used our letterhead, our statement format. Our address. Everything. Except our accounts. The money just went into Tony’s personal account.”
“Where?”
“I have no idea.”
“So you wouldn’t know it was hap
pening?”
“Not at all. Our auditors would never catch it, because it’s not there to catch.”
Beauvoir was beginning to see the genius of this. The simplicity.
“So he had two sets of clients? There were the ones whose accounts he was legitimately working on, and then there were those he kept at home. The ones he was stealing from.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“We’ll need to know if any of these clients also have legitimate accounts with Taylor and Ogilvy.”
“Of course. May I keep these?” She looked down at the offending statements.
“Yes.”
“You’ll be questioning them?”
“Yes,” he said again.
She nodded. Like mad Ruth in Clara’s painting, Bernice Ogilvy could see just the hint of something on the horizon. Far off, but approaching. And gathering speed. Something that had been there a very long time. Waiting. Inevitable.
But where Ruth saw the end of despair, Madame Ogilvy saw the beginning of it.
Once this got out, and it would, no one would trust Taylor and Ogilvy again. It might be unfair, but such was life, when everything depended on something as fragile as trust. And human nature. And a thin oak veneer.
“Is this why Tony was killed?” Madame Ogilvy asked.
“Possibly. We’ll need to interview everyone. Are you really so surprised that Monsieur Baumgartner was stealing?”
“I don’t know anymore.” She’d been so sure of herself, so in control of the room and her emotions. But now a crack appeared.
“Is it possible he was behind the original embezzlement, and not the assistant?”
She nodded, slowly. Thinking. “It’s possible.”
“It might’ve been a test run,” said Beauvoir. “And he learned from it.”
Now she was shaking her head. “I can’t believe it.”
“That he did it?”
“That, yes. But also that I didn’t see it. When I looked at Tony all I saw was a good, decent man.”
“That’s why it’s called a ‘confidence game,’” said Beauvoir. “It depends on confidence.”
“Suppose it isn’t true?” she asked.
“It’s true.”
“But just suppose, for a moment, that it isn’t. That Tony was telling the truth about the assistant and that he didn’t do this.” She laid her hand on the statements.
Beauvoir was silent. Not wanting to feed this delusion.
It was one of the many tragedies of a murder. That there was an inquiry, into the life of the dead person. And it often revealed things people wished they’d never known. Often things unrelated to the murder. But exposed nonetheless.
And when this happened, friends and family refused to believe it. The affair. The theft. The unsavory acquaintances. The pornography on the computer. The questionable emails.
It got messy. Emotional. Sometimes even violent, as they defended the honor of the dead. And their own delusions.
“Thank you for your time,” he said, getting up and walking to the door. “An Agent Cloutier will be in touch, probably later today.”
She colored. Not used to having her statements ignored. “You asked for Bernard’s name and address? My assistant will give it to you as you leave.”
“Merci. You’ll cooperate?”
“Of course, Chief Inspector.”
She might as well cooperate, he thought. The damage was done. The deed was done. No amount of hiding, of wishful thinking, of lying, would stop, or even slow down, what was hurtling over the horizon.
Driving through Montréal, on his way to Lacoste’s home, he thought about Madame Ogilvy’s final question.
Suppose Anthony Baumgartner wasn’t stealing clients’ money.
That would mean someone else was.
Anthony Baumgartner’s name was on the statements. His signature was on the cover letters.
Beauvoir edged forward, through the snow-clogged, car-clogged streets.
It would have to be someone close to Baumgartner. Who knew the system. Who knew his clients. Who had access to his files and the letterhead. Who knew the man well.
Someone in Taylor and Ogilvy.
Now Beauvoir was seriously considering the question.
Suppose Anthony Baumgartner hadn’t done anything wrong. Hadn’t been stealing. Suppose those statements were in his study, overseen by mad Ruth, because he’d found out that someone else was. And he was poring over them, to figure out who at the company was stealing millions of dollars from clients.
Suppose, Jean-Guy thought as he turned in to Lacoste’s narrow street and looked for a parking spot amid the piles of snow still waiting to be cleared, suppose Anthony Baumgartner was exactly what Madame Ogilvy had described.
A good, decent man. An honorable man. Who’d offered to resign when someone else had done wrong. Who understood the value, and fragility, of trust.
What would a man like that do if he discovered corruption on that scale, or any?
He’d confront the person. Demand an explanation. Threaten exposure.
And what would that person do?
“Kill Anthony Baumgartner,” mumbled Beauvoir, backing carefully into a spot.
CHAPTER 29
“And what do you want from me?” asked Lucien as he looked at the two women in his office.
“I’d like to know why you said you’d never met the Baroness,” said Myrna, “when you had.”
She laid his father’s agenda on the desk.
Beside her, Clara tried not to fidget. All around them were towers of boxes. Each the same height. Six feet. Placed, it seemed, consciously, strategically, around the office. Like an obstacle course, she thought.
Though there was something else vaguely familiar about them. Were they meant to resemble those ancient rock formations? Like Stonehenge. Or the mysterious heads on Easter Island.
The boxes—files, she saw—were stacked one on top of the other and seemed far from secure. Why not just pile them along a wall, like any sensible person would?
But she could tell that Lucien Mercier was far from sensible. Rational, yes. In the extreme. But “sensible” demanded the person also be sensitive. In order to make good, sensible decisions.
This man was not.
Clara was all for creativity. But the precarious files looming around them were not works of art. They were, she felt, projections of something innate to Lucien. Something intimate, private. Unhappy.
It sounded almost silly to put it that way. Too simplistic. But how razor-sharp was that simple word? Unhappy.
“In fact,” Myrna went on, “you’d been at her house, with your father. You were there when the will was discussed. It’s in his notes.”
Lucien remained unmoving, except for his eyes. Which moved freely, from woman to woman. They flickered to a stack of boxes behind them. Then back.
He was like, Clara thought, a child who thinks that if his body is immobile, no one will notice his eyes moving. Or if he closes his eyes and sees no one, then he himself becomes invisible.
It was, she knew, a highly egocentric state. One most children grew out of.
Clara was watching him closely. Openly.
She was there at Myrna’s request. Her friend wanted a witness. Not because she was afraid of this reedy little man but because, after reading his father’s papers, Myrna realized the son could not be trusted. That he could say one thing to her, then change his story later.
“But you have to pay attention,” Myrna had warned Clara in the car driving over. “Promise me you will.”
“What did you say?”
“Come on, I’m serious. I know you. You look like you’re following a conversation, nodding and smiling, but in fact you’re trying to work out some issue with your latest painting.”
Myrna was, of course, right. As they drove over to the notary’s office, Clara had been letting her mind wander. Freeing it up. To see what her subconscious might do with Benedict. He of the silly haircut and goofy gri
n. And happy eyes.
She wondered if she might paint him as a sort of cartoon character. All bright colors and pastel outlines in bold strokes.
But now that she was in this office, all thought of the shiny young man was banished as she sat in the shadows of the boxes and watched Lucien.
And considered how she might paint him.
“I didn’t lie,” said Lucien. “I just hadn’t remembered. I meet a lot of people.”
“Why did you go there with your father? Why did he take you there?”
“He was a cautious man. He always wanted a witness when meeting with elderly clients. A second opinion.”
“About what?”
“If the person was competent.”
“And was the Baroness?”
“Of course. Otherwise he’d never have allowed her to do that will.”
Charcoal, thought Clara. That’s what she’d use.
Bright crayons for Benedict and the charred remains of something once living for this man.
* * *
“Why can’t I find David?” asked Amelia.
Marc shrugged.
He’d given it absolutely no thought. What was left of his mind was taken up with only one thing, the search for more dope. He was like a Neanderthal, completely driven by survival.
Though he recognized that while he was focused on one hit, the next hit, Amelia was looking at the mother lode. At having more shit than they knew what to do with, except use and sell. To get high and get rich.
But still, he couldn’t get past worrying. About the next hit.
Amelia was standing in his kitchenette, making peanut-butter sandwiches with the loaf they’d stolen from the convenience store. It was stale and beginning to mold. The fresh loaves had been lifted by others, earlier in the day.
She’d have to remember that.
“Here.”
She handed one to Marc, who looked at it with disgust. It was all he’d eaten for months. Peanut fucking butter. The very smell turned his stomach.
Taking a bite, he grimaced. It tasted like despair.
“He’s out there somewhere,” she said, walking to the window. “But if he has the new shit, why isn’t he selling it? What’s he waiting for?”
Marc joined her at the window. The sandwich hanging loose in his thin hand.