by Louise Penny
He gave Hugo a card.
Just then Gamache saw Benedict draw up in his Volvo. It was rush hour and dark, and it didn’t take long for other cars to start honking at Benedict, who was gesturing at Gamache to hurry.
“There’s one more thing,” said Gamache. “Who’s Katie Burke?”
“Who?”
“It’s cold, and my ride is about to be murdered by other drivers, so just tell me. You know I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“To see just how truthful you decide to be. So far you’re not doing well.”
“I’ve told you the truth about my brother.”
“Did you?”
There was a pause, and all they could hear were more horns joining in, a veritable shriek of rage from rue Sherbrooke. Directed at Benedict.
“Who is Katie Burke, Monsieur Baumgartner?”
“She used to visit the Baroness in the nursing home.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But Mom liked her, and it sort of relieved us of some responsibility, I’m ashamed to say.”
“She was at the top of your mother’s contact list.”
“Was she?”
“You didn’t know?”
By now Benedict had lowered the window of the Volvo and was pleading with Armand to get in.
Hugo shook his head. “Does it matter?”
“Would I ask if it didn’t?” Armand gestured toward the card in Hugo’s gloved hand. “Your mother’s will, Monsieur Baumgartner. Give me a call when you decide to tell the whole story. Don’t wait too long.”
He walked to the car and waved at the line of cars behind Benedict. More than one driver raised a finger in return.
“Thank God,” said Benedict, exhaling and pulling in to traffic. “Who was that? Looked like you were speaking with something from Lord of the Rings.”
“Hugo Baumgartner.”
“Oh right. I didn’t recognize him.”
Armand buckled up, and as they headed over the Champlain Bridge, he found himself humming under his breath.
“‘Edelweiss, edelweiss . . .’”
CHAPTER 31
Bernard Shaeffer sat in the spartan interview room at Sûreté headquarters. Looking around. Crossing and recrossing his legs. Trying to get comfortable on a metal chair that would never allow it.
Chief Inspector Beauvoir looked through the two-way mirror.
“Did he say anything on the ride over?”
“Non, patron,” said Cloutier. “Only asked if this was anything to do with the death of Anthony Baumgartner.”
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing. Here’s his iPhone.”
She handed Beauvoir the device. It was now the first thing they did with suspects. Relieve them of their devices, so they couldn’t contact anyone or delete anything.
Monsieur Shaeffer was not what Beauvoir expected. He’d been prepared for a young buck. Someone sharp. Attractive.
Not this average-looking, nervous young guy wearing a good but not exceptional suit.
Though Beauvoir dropped his eyes and noticed Shaeffer’s shoes. Pointy and on point. Completely of the moment.
Fashionable and expensive.
Jean-Guy knew. He too tried to be fashionable but could not afford this level of expense.
While suggestive, it was far from definitive. Some people bought expensive cars. Some spent their money on vacations. And some single young men spent their money on clothes.
It did not mean Shaeffer was living beyond his means. Or was a thief.
“Right,” said Beauvoir. “Come with me.”
Cloutier followed him into the interview room, where Beauvoir introduced himself.
“My name’s Jean-Guy Beauvoir. I’m the acting head of homicide. You’ve met Agent Cloutier.”
This was said for both Shaeffer and the recording.
They took seats, Beauvoir across from the young man.
“Thank you for coming in. We just have a few questions for you.”
“About Tony?”
“Mostly, yes.” Beauvoir’s tone was friendly. “Tell us about your relationship with him.”
“We worked in the same office. Taylor and Ogilvy. This was a few years ago. I was an assistant, and Monsieur Baumgartner was a senior vice president.”
Shaeffer was watching Beauvoir closely and seemed to come to a decision.
“We had an affair. And then I was fired.”
“Why?”
He’d made it sound as though it was because of the affair.
“You might as well tell us, Bernard.” Beauvoir smiled encouragingly. “You must know we’ve already visited Taylor and Ogilvy.”
“I was accused of stealing from clients’ accounts. But I didn’t do it.”
“Then why would they fire you?”
“They had to blame someone, didn’t they?”
“If you weren’t doing it, who was?”
Shaeffer hesitated.
“Come on, Bernard. The truth. It’s all right. Just tell us.”
“Monsieur Baumgartner.”
“Anthony Baumgartner?”
“Yes.”
“But if he was stealing, why would he go to Madame Ogilvy and tell her about it?”
“He thought they were going to find out, so he went and blamed me.”
“His lover.”
Shaeffer nodded.
“What did you do?”
“What could I do?”
“I don’t know. Tell the truth?”
Shaeffer laughed. “Right. Me against a senior vice president. Let’s guess who they’d believe.”
“So you just left?” asked Beauvoir, and when Shaeffer nodded, Jean-Guy stared at him for a long moment. “Then why did you put Anthony Baumgartner down as a reference at the Caisse Pop?”
Shaeffer reddened. Clearly they knew far more than he realized.
“Tony told me if I kept quiet, he’d find me a job at the Caisse and vouch for me.”
“So you accepted?”
“What choice did I have? If I refused, I’d be thrown out on my ass anyway. I was pretty well screwed.”
An agent walked into the interview room and whispered in Beauvoir’s ear, then left.
“So,” said Beauvoir, “you’re saying Anthony Baumgartner was stealing and you were completely innocent?”
Shaeffer straightened up. “Well, okay, I knew what he was doing. But I wasn’t involved.”
“He told you?”
“He’d had too much to drink. He was relaxed, and he talked too much. He knew I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because I cared for him. A lot.”
“And?” said Beauvoir.
There was silence again as Shaeffer fidgeted. “And he said if I told anyone, he’d say it was me, not him.”
“Which he did anyway.”
“Yes.”
Beauvoir studied the unremarkable young man.
“Were you ever in his home?”
“Once. He wanted help putting up a picture his mother had given him. I think it might’ve been of her. She looked kinda crazy. Anyway, we hung it above the fireplace in his study and then had a few drinks. He asked for help setting up his new laptop, so we had a few more drinks, then fiddled with the computer for a while and got sorta giddy—”
“Did you get the laptop working?” said Beauvoir.
“Yes.”
“And did he put in a security code?”
“Yes. I remember because it took him a while to come up with one. He said he was running out of ideas for new codes.”
“And do you remember the code?”
The question was asked casually, but the room crackled with the tension between the Sûreté officers.
“No idea. He didn’t tell me.”
“Did he hint? Say anything?” prodded Beauvoir.
Shaeffer thought. “If he did, I can’t remember.”
“Did you sneak a peek? Look over his shou
lder when he entered it?”
“Of course not.”
“‘Of course’? Come on, Bernard. We all do it. Just out of curiosity. Did you watch while he put it in?”
“No.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Huh?”
“In the study, while Monsieur Baumgartner put in his password, what did you do?”
“I stared at the picture. I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would have that thing in their home.”
Beauvoir considered. It could be true. That painting of Ruth was as riveting as it was revolting. As Clara herself said, it was hard to look away.
But this was a sharp young man, and given a choice between finding out the password to a laptop and looking at the picture of a mad old woman, Beauvoir was pretty sure he knew which one Bernard Shaeffer would choose.
“What happened next?” Beauvoir asked.
“We got drunk and had sex.”
“For the first time?”
“Yes. We’d been sorta feeling each other out, but I wasn’t sure he was gay. But he kept sending these signals, and then—”
“What was he like?” asked Beauvoir.
“As a lover?”
“As a man.”
Shaeffer considered the question. “Kind. Smart. Decent. I thought.”
“Until he blamed you for stealing and got you fired.”
“Yes.”
“When he got you the job at the bank, did he ask for any favors?”
“Like what?”
Beauvoir stared at him for a moment, then stood up.
“I’ll let you think about that. Excuse me.”
Beauvoir nodded to Agent Cloutier, and they went out, leaving Shaeffer to stare at the slowly closing door. Then at the blank wall across from him.
* * *
The ice fog that looked pretty when stuck like crystals to branches was a lot less attractive when it settled onto the roads. And then was covered by the soft snow falling.
Benedict and Gamache made small talk, as Benedict drove carefully back to Three Pines, watching for black ice on the highway.
They talked about their day. About the weather.
Benedict asked about Gamache’s eyes.
“Better, thank you. I’m seeing much more clearly.”
They’d lapsed into what appeared to be companionable silence.
But appearances deceived.
* * *
Once again Chief Inspector Beauvoir introduced himself and Agent Cloutier, then sat down in the interview room.
“You are Louis Lamontagne?”
“I am.”
“And you work for Taylor and Ogilvy as a broker?”
“I do.”
He was forty-five, maybe slightly older, thought Beauvoir. Plump but not heavy. Just a little soft. “Comfortable” was the word that came to mind. His hair was trimmed and graying.
He looked upright. Intelligent. Conservative in every way. If “trustworthy” had a poster child, it would be the man across the table, thought Beauvoir.
And he wondered if he was looking at another numbered print. Close, but not the real thing.
“You did Anthony Baumgartner’s trades for him, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“How does that work?”
“Well, Tony was a wealth manager, so he created portfolios for his clients. Given their age, their needs, their tolerance for risk, he’d decide which vehicles to put them into. Then he’d asked me to do the actual buying and selling.”
“And that was fine with you?”
“Absolutely. More than fine. He was a brilliant investment adviser. To be honest, if he bought a stock, I’d often put my own clients into it. He had a knack for seeing how apparently unconnected elements came together and could affect the market. It’s a terrible loss. A really sad thing to happen to a fine man. Do you have any ideas who did it?”
“We’re hoping you can help.”
“Anything.”
Beauvoir slid the statements across the table and watched as Monsieur Lamontagne picked them up.
After a minute or so, Beauvoir saw his brows rise, then draw together in concentration and consternation. His blue eyes blinked behind his glasses, and his head leaned to one side. Just a little. Perplexed.
“None of these people are on Tony’s client list. I didn’t do any of these trades.” He looked at Beauvoir over the papers. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.”
Lamontagne went back to the statements, going from one to another and rereading the cover letter.
“I can guess,” he said, finally putting them back down on the table. “But I can’t explain.”
“Try.”
Louis Lamontagne held Beauvoir’s eyes, in a look that was smart, assessing.
“I think you already know,” the broker said.
Beauvoir held the gaze but said nothing and saw Lamontagne’s eyes open in surprise.
“You think I had something to do with this.”
“What is ‘this,’ monsieur?” asked Beauvoir.
Watching closely, Agent Cloutier took mental notes. On what the Chief Inspector was saying and not saying. How to imply. How intimating became intimidating. It was subtle, and all the more powerful for it.
In her previous assignment, in the accounting department, she never ended up in interview rooms.
This she found fascinating.
It took nerves, she saw. And intense concentration, while appearing to be completely relaxed. Her instinct was to come out with things. To show how much she knew. Now she could see the value of saying very little. And letting the other person come to their own conclusions about how much was known. Let their fears take hold and take control.
“‘This,’” said the broker, “is a scam. Someone set up a shell and made it appear to be Taylor and Ogilvy business.”
“Someone?”
“I know you want me to say it was Tony, but it could’ve been anyone.”
“Including yourself?” It was said casually, with a touch of humor.
Lamontagne smiled, but his color betrayed him. “I supposed I could, but I didn’t.”
Beauvoir waited.
“All right, I admit, it looks like it was Tony. His name’s on the statement and the cover letter.”
“With Taylor and Ogilvy letterhead,” said Beauvoir. “The clients would think their money was being managed through the company, but in fact he was stealing it and paying out generous dividends to keep them from asking questions.”
Lamontagne nodded, staring at Beauvoir. “Yes. Exactly.” He picked up the paper again. “Tony must’ve chosen people he knew weren’t plugged into the market. Who almost certainly never read the business pages or the statements.”
“Does this surprise you?” asked Beauvoir.
Lamontagne shifted in his chair.
“I’d have to say it does.”
“But you’ve heard the rumors about Monsieur Baumgartner.”
“I know his license to trade was pulled. That’s why I was asked to do his trading for him. That’s a serious penalty. I’d heard it’s because he was involved in something with clients’ money. But not directly. Apparently it was an assistant who did it, and Tony was the one who blew the whistle. And took some of the blame. The street loves a rumor, and a scandal, and especially loves a fall from a great height, even if it’s unfair. Especially if it’s unfair.”
“You make the street sound like it’s a machine,” said Beauvoir. “And not brokers like yourself.”
“I wasn’t involved in those rumors.”
“But did you do anything to stop them?”
“I didn’t feed them.”
It wasn’t the same as stopping them. As defending Tony Baumgartner.
“Did you think there was truth to the rumors?” asked Beauvoir.
“I saw no reason to believe them,” said Lamontagne.
“Did you see any reason not to believe them?”
“T
his business is made up of more than its fair share of wide boys.” When Beauvoir looked puzzled, he explained. “Mostly young men desperate to make a killing. Make a mark. They throw money around, they talk loud. They have all sorts of theories about investing that sound good but are bullshit. They genuinely think they’re brilliant. And their confidence convinces clients to invest with them. They’re snake-oil salesmen, and most don’t even realize they have no idea what they’re doing.”
“And Anthony Baumgartner was one of them?”
“No, that’s what I’m saying. He wasn’t. And from what I saw, he didn’t tolerate it. That’s why he turned that young fellow in. He must’ve known there’d be blowback and some of the shit would land on him. And it did. More than he probably realized.”
“So how do you explain this?”
Beauvoir placed his index finger on the statement.
Lamontagne stared at it and sighed. “He was in his mid-fifties. He’d been screwed over by the company. A company he’d helped build. By a woman he’d mentored. He’d been made an example of. Humiliated. It’s possible he saw a bleak future and decided to hell with it. If that’s what came of decency, maybe it was time to be indecent.”
Beauvoir saw another set of documents, pushed toward him. Across a sleek boardroom table. And he saw himself signing. Was he so very different from Anthony Baumgartner? Disillusioned. And now indecent.
“But if that was the case,” Lamontagne went on, “I never saw it. In all the trades I did for him, he was smart and fair. Often brilliant and prescient. He made his clients a lot of money.”
“You’re of course talking about the clients he wasn’t stealing from,” said Beauvoir.
The broker hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. I honestly thought he was one of the good guys.” He smiled. It was more wistful than amused. “There’s a book we’re all told to read when we first get into the business. Tony gave me his copy as a thank-you gift when I agreed to use my license to do his trades. It’s called Extraordinary Popular Delusions and The Madness of Crowds. I guess we’re all deluded at times.”
“Could Monsieur Baumgartner have set that up”—Beauvoir pointed to the statements—“by himself, or would he need help?”
“No, he could do it himself. It would take organization, but I suspect he started small, then grew it. All he’d need is a hidden account and to choose his targets wisely.”
