“Then what’s his interest?” asked Daniel.
Gamache looked at Fontaine to answer. It seemed Claude Dussault had, quite rightly, briefed her on their discussion, and their suspicions. He was very interested to see how much Commander Fontaine would say.
But even as he looked to her, she was studying him.
The man confused her.
She didn’t like that.
She didn’t like Gamache’s ease and natural authority. She didn’t like his accent. She sure didn’t like that he seemed oblivious to the fact that he was not their equal, socially, culturally, intellectually, professionally. Couldn’t be. Not coming from Canada. Not coming from Québec.
She didn’t like his relationship, his close friendship, with the Prefect.
She didn’t like that when something bad had happened in the past twenty-four hours, Armand Gamache wasn’t far behind.
And she sure didn’t like that she actually liked the man. That her instinct was to trust him. The Prefect had warned her about that.
“We have no idea why he wanted to go to the board meeting,” admitted Fontaine. “But you know Monsieur Horowitz. Was it more likely he planned to go to congratulate them on their success? Or to expose some wrongdoing? What’s more in character?”
It was clear by their expressions that they knew the answer to that.
“That’s what we thought. But he can’t go now. One question we ask in a homicide is, who benefits? Isn’t that right?”
She’d turned to Gamache, who nodded.
“Who benefits if Monsieur Horowitz is killed?” she went on. “It seems clear that GHS Engineering does.”
“But what could he have on them?” Annie asked.
“We don’t know, and right now the specifics don’t matter. What matters is motive. And it seems GHS had a big one. Silence a whistle-blower.”
“You’re guessing,” said Beauvoir. “Look, you could be right, GHS might be behind it. But there’re all sorts of people who might want Stephen Horowitz dead. He’s made a lot of enemies.”
“That’s true,” admitted Fontaine. “But there’s only one company he was planning to visit just before the attempt on his life. You know, of course, that a dead man was found in Monsieur Horowitz’s home this morning. His name is Alexander Francis Plessner.”
She was speaking directly, and exclusively, to Annie and Daniel. Watching them closely.
“Does the name mean anything to you?”
The siblings looked at each other, then back to the investigator, shaking their heads.
“No,” said Annie. “Should it?”
Armand’s brows lowered as he watched the investigator examine his children.
Fontaine turned her focus on Annie. “Are you sure?”
Annie’s face opened in surprise. “Alexander Plessner? I’ve never heard of him.”
Fontaine continued to stare at her.
“What’s this about?” Gamache asked of Fontaine. “Do you know something?”
She turned to him.
This was clearly the Chief Inspector’s Achilles’ heel. His family. She knew it. And he knew it.
“I know that your daughter’s firm handles his business in Paris. Did he help you get your position there?”
“I’ve never heard of the man,” Annie repeated. “Not personally, not professionally. But I can help you get whatever information it’s legal to give out.”
Good for you, Armand thought.
“That won’t be necessary. Merci.” Fontaine turned to Daniel. “And you, sir? Do you know him?”
Daniel frowned in concentration, then shook his head. “Sorry. No. Was he a friend of Stephen’s?”
“Alexander Plessner was an investor. Venture capital mostly.”
It took a force of will for Armand not to look in Daniel’s direction.
“Ahh, then he might’ve had investments with some GHS subsidiary,” said Daniel. “Maybe he invested in one of their riskier ventures.”
And now his father did look over at Daniel.
He’d just had time, before the investigators had arrived, to warn them not to volunteer information, no matter how banal it might seem. Answer the Commander’s questions honestly, but not more than was asked.
Everything can be misinterpreted.
“This’s very helpful,” said Fontaine. “Do you happen to know what those subsidiaries are?”
“Well, it’s not listed on the Bourse,” said Daniel, ignoring the sound of his father clearing his throat, “so it’s hard to get accurate information. The great advantage of being a private company is just that. Privacy.”
“Perhaps you mean secrecy,” said Fontaine, smiling at him in a conspiratorial way.
Daniel smiled back. Clearly enjoying showing off his expertise.
It was, Gamache knew, a technique in investigations. Appeal to the ego of a suspect. And watch them spill.
“That’s probably more accurate,” conceded Daniel. He opened his mouth to go on, but his father interrupted.
“Regulators would know what the company’s into, wouldn’t they, Commander?” he asked, making it clear who should answer the question.
“You’d be surprised,” said Fontaine.
“By what?” asked Reine-Marie.
“By how little they actually regulate,” said Daniel, leaping in again. “By how little they really know about corporations.”
“Tell me more,” said Fontaine, leaning toward him.
“Well, the French government checks compliance,” Daniel said. “But if a large corporation like GHS is slow to respond, the bureaucrats just move on to another company. Something smaller. Something simpler. So they can at least show progress.”
“So you’re saying, sir, that these corporations, in your experience, aren’t deliberately hiding anything?”
“From competitors, yes. But from the regulators, no. In my experience they try to be as transparent as possible. The problem is that there are too many companies, and too few watchdogs.”
Fontaine looked over at Gamache, who was listening, stone-faced. Showing absolutely no reaction to what his son just said.
But what must he be thinking?
Probably exactly what she was thinking. Daniel Gamache’s answer was naïve at best. Deliberately misleading at worst.
And while his father might want to think the best, Commander Irena Fontaine absolutely thought the worst.
“Let’s move on—” began Fontaine.
“Wait a minute,” said Gamache. “I have a small question for Daniel.”
He was breaking, shattering, his own advice to his family, but he had no choice.
“Oui?”
“Here in France there are a number of agencies that oversee corporate governance, right?”
“Yes. There’s the AMF, for instance.”
“But that’s mostly financial institutions, like banks,” said his father. “It wouldn’t oversee a private multinational company like GHS.”
“That’s true. But there are government bodies that enforce French commercial codes.”
Daniel was beginning to color. Not comfortable, it seemed, being essentially cross-examined by his father
But Commander Fontaine knew exactly what Gamache was doing.
This wasn’t a cross-examination. This was a rescue mission.
He’d seen the danger his son was in. He was giving Daniel another chance to explain. To not appear to be covering up for unethical companies.
To admit there was often complicity and collusion, bribery and intimidation. That sometimes watchdogs looked the other way while corporations got away with murder.
“You’ve been here for a while, Daniel. What do you think?” asked his father. “Could a private corporation intentionally hide its activities from regulators?”
He’s leading him right to it, thought Fontaine. And she found, despite herself, that she was rooting for Daniel to come through.
“Yes.”
Daniel was glaring at his father. Not un
derstanding that the man had just saved him.
But Gamache wasn’t finished yet.
“How?” he asked.
“With billions of euros at stake, there can be bribery, blackmail,” said Daniel, his tone brusque. “Payoffs. Politicians can be in the pocket of private industry. Or it can be something as simple as a bureaucrat turning a blind eye to some problem, in hopes of being rewarded by the corporation.”
“A flaw in the system,” said his father, nodding. “Paying the enforcers so much less than the criminals make. Opens people up to temptation.”
“But most are honest,” said Daniel. “In my experience anyway. Unlike you, I don’t always want to see the worst in people.”
The shot was unmistakable. And had hit its mark.
Armand, despite years of practice, had never developed a defense against his son’s barbs.
And Irena Fontaine made a mental note. This might be a tight family circle, but she’d just found the weak link. The crack through which spite passed.
She wondered what the father could have done to the son to create such animosity.
“Bon, let’s shift back to Monsieur Horowitz. Madame McGillicuddy gave me a lot of information about his, what? Empire?”
The family, as one, smiled.
Stephen would have liked that. It made him an emperor.
“But,” continued Fontaine, “she refused to give me the codes to his computer and phone. The Prefect says you’ll get them for us. Have you done that, sir?”
“Not yet. I haven’t had the chance to call her back.”
“I see.”
Clearly, she was thinking, if she had found the time to speak to Mrs. McGillicuddy, he could, too. And Fontaine was right.
What she hadn’t known was that he’d spent that time with Stephen. But now, Armand realized he needed to focus on the investigation.
He couldn’t help his godfather. Stephen was in other hands. Good hands. But he could help find out who’d done this to him, and to Alexander Plessner.
“She did give me the name and number of Monsieur Horowitz’s personal lawyer in Montréal,” said Fontaine. “I’ll be calling soon, but you can save me some time.”
“How?” asked Roslyn, leaning forward.
“Who benefits?” said Fontaine, looking around the room.
“Didn’t we just talk about that?” said Roslyn. “That company benefits, if he had something on it.”
“She means the will, don’t you?” said Annie. “If Stephen dies, who gets his money.”
“Yes. He’s a billionaire with investments, property, impressive collections of art, rare first editions. And no one to leave it all to. Except you. Oh, come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t thought about that. You’re his family. Who else is he going to leave his fortune to? Chief Inspector?”
“Stephen never spoke about it,” said Armand. “And I never asked.”
“Neither did I,” said Daniel. “If I thought about it—”
Be quiet, be quiet, his father thought. For God’s sake, be quiet. But it was too late.
“—it was that he’d use his wealth to set up a foundation,” said Daniel. “He wouldn’t leave it to us. We don’t need it.”
“It sounds as though you have thought about it,” said Fontaine.
And there it was, thought Gamache with dismay.
“And you don’t need the money?” she continued. “Not even to buy an apartment that must cost several million euros? And put your children into private school?”
“I’ve had a promotion at work,” said Daniel, red spreading up his neck and across his cheeks.
“You can’t possibly think—” began Reine-Marie, then stopped, unable to say the words out loud.
But Beauvoir could. “You think one of us tried to kill Stephen? For money?”
“You don’t need to look so shocked,” said Fontaine. “You’d ask the same question if this was your case. Wouldn’t be the first time greed was a motive for murder. And as magnificent as you might think you all are, you’re still human.”
But it was Gamache’s reaction that interested her the most.
Instead of exploding, as she’d expected when she’d deliberately and clearly accused his family, attacked his family, he’d grown even calmer.
Claude Dussault, had he been there, would have recognized the warning signs.
But Irena Fontaine did not.
“It’s a legitimate question,” he said. “But let me make this clear. No one in this family would ever hurt someone, not for personal gain.”
The tone might be polite, but the force of his personality was almost overwhelming. The outrage so much more powerful for being contained. It was, Fontaine thought, like watching a centurion control a team of snorting and stamping warhorses. Prepared for battle, but holding back. Choosing, with infinite patience, his own time to take to the field.
“Not personal gain, you say. But there are other reasons they might kill?” Fontaine continued to provoke.
It seemed everyone else had faded into the furniture. And they were alone. Locked in a duel. This senior cop from Québec, with the strange accent. And her. The second-in-command of the cops in all fucking Paris.
She would outrank him, had they been in the same force. She tried to find comfort, and confidence, in that. Even as she felt herself wavering. Wondering if it had been such a good idea to cross that line.
But she had to know. Had to push him. The Prefect had instructed her to do all she could to find out what this man knew. And the best way was to hit him where it hurt.
“No,” said Gamache. “Nothing could make anyone here try to kill Stephen. At least”—his stare was unrelenting—“not any member of this family.”
Had he really just insinuated that she could be involved? she wondered. And that, by extension, the Préfecture could be involved?
Maybe even the Prefect himself?
He’d hit back, and hard.
She could now see why Monsieur Dussault had warned her about this man.
“Do you know the contents of his will?” she asked, trying to modulate her tone to match his.
“I’m one of the executors. Mrs. McGillicuddy and his personal lawyer are the others. But I haven’t seen the will.”
“He never mentioned any bequests to you or your family?”
“No.”
“Though it wouldn’t be unreasonable”—with great effort, she held his stare—“to expect something. Maybe even something substantial.”
“It’s certainly possible that Stephen’s left his billions to us. And it would be only human to imagine what that would be like.” He smiled. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Would you?”
“Me?” His smile faded until he looked almost wistful, and shook his head. “No. I never wanted anything from Stephen except his company.”
A snort of derision escaped her. But he continued to look at her, unapologetic. Almost, she saw now, in a kindly way.
Inviting her, it seemed, to understand. What it meant to love so completely that all you wanted from that person was companionship.
She remembered what he’d said while in Horowitz’s apartment.
Dead parents. Godfather. Nine-year-old boy.
And for a moment she understood what the crotchety financier must’ve meant to the boy. To the man.
She found that she believed him. But that didn’t mean his lawyer daughter and his banker son with the expensive new apartment hadn’t dreamed of riches beyond belief. And maybe even done more than dream.
Now Gamache leaned forward. “No one in this family had anything to do with the attacks. Think about it. Even if, even if ”—he stressed the “if ”—“we had a motive to kill Stephen, why murder Monsieur Plessner?”
“Mistaken identity,” she said, not yet willing to give up her theory. “None of you knew Monsieur Horowitz was staying at the George V and not at his apartment.”
“For God’s sake—” Reine-Marie began, then stopped when she heard her hu
sband laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting back in the sofa. “But are you really suggesting that one of us went to the apartment, mistook Monsieur Plessner for a man we’d known all our lives, then shot him in the spine and head?”
He’d been specific for a reason. Hadn’t said “back.” Had said “spine.” And he could see that his logic had landed. Except.
Now Commander Fontaine turned slightly. Until she was looking at Jean-Guy Beauvoir.
“Oh, come on,” said Beauvoir, clearly following her thinking. “Me? You think I did it? This’s bullshit.”
“It was, as you pointed out, a commando-style hit,” she said, turning back to Gamache. “I understand, sir, you were a member of the Canadian special ops unit, Joint Task Force Two.”
“Do I look like a commando?” Gamache said, opening his arms.
Fontaine had to admit he looked more like her history prof at the Sorbonne. If you didn’t look into his eyes.
Elite forces were led by people like this. Who thought as well as acted. Who thought before they acted. And who could be ruthless if need be.
“Now?” she said. “Maybe not. But a hundred years ago …”
Gamache laughed and shook his head.
“You deny it?” she said. “But then, aren’t commandos sworn to secrecy, even after they’ve left? To say, if pressed, that they washed out, or were simply an instructor?”
“Really? If I admit it, then I’m a member. If I deny it, I’m still a member? You’d have done well in the Inquisition, Commander.” His smile had disappeared. “Now, this’s a little awkward, but I was actually an instructor for JTF2. Not a member.”
“Really? That’s your official statement?”
“That’s the truth.”
“I see. That means you probably also train your own people in commando tactics. Why wouldn’t you? As the Sûreté, your people are often first in.”
“Then you must know, Commander,” said Gamache, “that anyone schooled in those tactics is also trained to make sure the person they’re killing is the actual target. Not an innocent bystander.”
“Mistakes happen.”
“Yes, when a situation gets out of control. But this would not. It was contained. One unarmed elderly man in a private apartment. There would be no mistake. Whoever killed Alexander Plessner almost certainly meant to kill Alexander Plessner.”
All the Devils Are Here Page 16
