Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 26

“So, numbnuts, where’s your boss?”

“He’s at home, babysitting Ray-Ray,” said Jean-Guy, passing the salad bowl to Olivier, who was sitting next to him at Clara’s long kitchen table.

The fact he’d actually begun answering to “numbnuts” was a little worrisome to Beauvoir, though he’d been called worse. By murderers. Psychopaths. Ruth.

“Babysitting? Just the job for a fourteen-year-old girl,” said Ruth. “He’s reached his level of competence, I see.”

When Clara’s invitation for dinner came, Beauvoir at first thought to beg off. He was tired, and it was dark and cold.

He’d assigned an inspector to find this Katie Burke, then settled down to read the reports that were coming in. He’d head back to Montréal and the office first thing in the morning. But for now all he wanted was to put his feet up and nod off by the fire.

But then Annie had whispered the magic words.

Coq au vin.

There was a wild rumor, racing through the Gamache home, that Olivier had made his famous casserole and was taking it to Clara’s.

“Don’t toy with me, madame.”

“And for dessert? Salted,” she whispered again, her breath fresh and warm, “caramel—”

“Nooo,” he moaned.

“—and burnt-fig ice cream.”

“Okay, I’m in,” he said, getting up. “You coming?” he called into the study as he made his way to the front door.

When there was no answer, he backed up.

“Patron?”

Armand was peering at the computer, a book open beside it on the desk.

“What’re you doing?”

“Trying to translate something, isn’t that right, mein Liebling?”

He held Honoré on his knee as he read, consulted, blinked to clear his bleary eyes, and wrote longhand in a notebook.

“Coq au vin,” said Reine-Marie, joining Jean-Guy at the door.

“Ahh, so the rumor is true,” said Armand. “But we already have dinner plans, don’t we?” He looked at his grandson. “Sweet potatoes. Yum. Maybe some avocado. Yum-yum. Some gray stuff that they say is meat.” He looked up then. “You all head off, we’ll be fine. Eh, meyn tayer.”

“There you are,” said Annie. Her coat already on, she came over and kissed her son. “Don’t let him get into any mischief, now.”

“You’re talking to Honoré, aren’t you?” said her father.

“I am.”

“You sure you don’t want to bring him to Clara’s?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Non, merci,” said Armand. “We have a full evening planned. Dinner. A bath. A movie. A book. Some all-star wrestling—”

“Were you planning on putting him to bed at any stage?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Eventually. Maybe.”

“Dad,” said Annie.

“Okay, but we will read a book, right?” he asked the boy. “And I’ll recite ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’: ‘It was the schooner Hesperus, / That sailed the wintry sea—’”

“Dear God,” said Jean-Guy. “Flee. Sauve qui peut.”

“What about Honoré?” asked Annie in mock terror.

“We can make more. Run, woman, run.”

Armand rolled his eyes as Reine-Marie laughed and wondered what would happen if anyone ever called Armand’s bluff and realized that all he knew of the dreadful poem were the opening lines.

“Work?” She nodded toward the computer.

“A bit.”

“Want me to stay?” Jean-Guy asked.

“And miss coq au vin?”

“Ruth will be there. Sorta evens out.”

“Myrna’s made her whipped potatoes,” said Reine-Marie.

“You’re on your own,” Jean-Guy said to Armand just as a rush of cold air hit them.

Annie, Reine-Marie, and Jean-Guy turned and shouted, “Close the door.”

It was a chorus more familiar than the national anthem.

“Man, it’s cold out there,” they heard, along with foot stomping. “And this one,” Armand could hear Benedict saying, “takes her sweet time doing her business.”

Armand smiled. Benedict couldn’t bring himself to say “poop” or even “pee.” He knew the young man was referring to Gracie, and he sympathized. He’d spent many a cold night begging the little creature to do something, other than chase Henri.

Benedict had taken it upon himself, in exchange for room and board while he waited for his truck to return, to walk the dogs.

Armand felt this left them owing Benedict.

“I’ll bring you back something,” said Reine-Marie, kissing the top of Honoré’s head before putting her hands on the side of Armand’s face and kissing him on the lips and whispering, “Meyn tayer.”

He smiled.

“Is that German?” she asked, glancing at the screen.

“It is. Taking me a while to read it.”

“Your eyes still sore?” she asked, looking into them and seeing the bloodshot.

“My German is a little rusty,” he said.

“Rusty. Is that German for ‘nonexistent’?”

He laughed. “Just about.”

She looked at the screen again. “It’s long. Who’s it from?”

“A police officer in Vienna.”

She tied the scarf at her neck. “See you soon.”

“Have fun.”

He returned to his computer, leaning over Ray-Ray and smelling his fragrance as he read about a family ripping itself apart.

Jean-Guy looked at the tender pieces of chicken along with mushrooms and rich, fragrant gravy, next to the mountain of potatoes.

Whipped, Myrna insisted. Not just mashed.

He was so hungry he thought he might weep.

“So it’s true, then,” said Ruth. “The Baroness’s son was murdered.”

Jean-Guy had told Clara and Myrna as soon as they’d arrived for dinner, taking them aside quietly. And word had spread, of course, as others arrived at Clara’s home.

“I thought you were lying,” said Ruth to Myrna.

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Why do you say your library is a bookstore?” asked Ruth. “Lying is just natural to you.”

“It is a bookstore,” said Myrna, exasperated. “Don’t think I don’t see you taking books out under your coat.”

“Oh, there’s a lot you don’t see,” said Ruth.

“Like what?”

“Like Billy Williams.”

“I see him. He shovels my walk and brushes off my car.”

“Doesn’t brush off my car,” mumbled Clara, and catching Olivier’s eye, they both grinned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Myrna. “He’s a nice man, that’s all.”

“Then why isn’t he here?” asked Ruth.

“Here?” said Myrna, looking around. “Why would he be here? Does something need fixing?” she asked Clara.

“I’d have to say yes,” said Ruth, and Rosa beside her nodded.

“Let’s change the subject,” said Reine-Marie.

“Well, if murder’s out,” said Ruth, “and the librarian here being prejudiced is something we’re not allowed to talk about—”

“Prejudiced? I’m not—”

“I saw one of your paintings today,” Jean-Guy leaped in, spouting the first thing that came into his head.

“You are prejudiced, you know,” said Ruth. “You only see the surface and then pass judgment. Billy Williams is just a handyman.”

“One of my paintings? Really?” asked Clara. “Where?”

“A print, actually,” said Jean-Guy. “One of the numbered prints.”

“And who’s calling the kettle black?” demanded Myrna. “Did you see the Baroness as anything other than a cleaning woman? Did you even know her name?”

“Isn’t it about time you proposed to Gabri?” Annie asked Olivier, jumping onto the conversational pile. “We’re all waiting.”

“You’re waiting?” said Gabri. “If he waits much longer, I won’t be able to fit into my going-away outfit.”

“And there’s your answer,” said Olivier.

“You don’t have to know someone’s name to care about them,” said Ruth.

“And you cared?” said Myrna. “Did you even know she’d died?”

“I saw your painting at Anthony Baumgartner’s place,” said Jean-Guy, raising his voice.

“The dead man?” asked Clara.

“Hey, I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about murder,” said Ruth. “That’s not fair.”

“We’re not talking about murder,” said Jean-Guy. “I’m talking about art.”

“You?” Annie, Gabri, Olivier, Clara, Myrna, Ruth, and even Reine-Marie said. As one.

Rosa looked startled. But then ducks often did. And often for good reason.

“What?” said Jean-Guy. “I’m cultured.”

“With a capital K,” said Annie, patting his hand.

“That’s right,” he said. “Merci.”

They laughed, then Myrna turned to Ruth.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you about the Baroness. But that’s a terrible thing to say about someone. That they’re prejudiced.”

“Not ‘they,’” said Ruth. “You. Just because you’re a pot, that doesn’t mean you can’t—”

“I’m a what?”

“Which painting did he have?” asked Reine-Marie.

“The one of—” Jean-Guy jerked his head toward Ruth. “Not the original, of course.”

“No, we have the good fortune of having the original here,” said Reine-Marie.

“I meant not the original painting,” said Jean-Guy.

“Did you?” said Reine-Marie, and she smiled.

“Oh that’s right,” said Clara. “I gave that print to the Baroness. I’d forgotten.”

“Annie’s not wrong, you know,” said Gabri to Olivier. “You’d better pop the question soon if you want a dewy husband. I’m not going to be thirty-seven forever.”

“Well, you have been thirty-seven for quite a while now,” said Olivier.

“I guess she gave it to her son,” said Clara. “It’s just tragic. Do you have any idea who killed him? Oh, sorry, not dinner-table conversation.”

Though it wouldn’t be the first time a murder had been discussed around that table, by those people, in the flickering candlelight.

“Well, Ray-Ray,” Armand murmured as he took his reading glasses off and wiped his hand over his weary eyes. “What do you make of that?”

They’d had dinner and a bath, and now they were on the sofa in the living room in front of the fireplace. Armand reading his rough translation of the Kontrollinspektor’s email. Honoré, in his favorite bear pajamas, was lying in the crook of his grandfather’s arm, with Henri on the sofa on one side and Gracie on the other.

Honoré knew exactly what to make of that. While not understanding the words that were spoken, he understood the deep, warm resonance coming from his grandfather’s body. Each word radiating into him.

So that they were in tune.

And it was a nice tune.

He gripped the large hand holding him securely and felt a soft pat. And a kiss planted on his head.

And he smelled the familiar scent. Of Papa.

While Papa read about a reason for murder.

And then Armand put down his notebook and carried Honoré upstairs to bed, where he picked up Winnie-the-Pooh. And Honoré fell asleep listening to the adventures of Tigger and Roo and Piglet and Pooh. And Christopher Robin. In the Hundred Acre Wood.

“It still gives me goose bumps,” said Reine-Marie, looking at the original oil painting in Clara’s studio.

“Almost gave me a heart attack,” said Jean-Guy. “When I saw Ruth in Baumgartner’s home. Hovering above his fireplace.”

“There must be a lot of these out there,” said Reine-Marie. “It was your big success. Your breakout work.”

“Nah, the gallery hardly sold any,” said Clara, contemplating her masterwork. “Though they did print lots. People love looking at it. And then they like leaving. Really, who wants that”—she jerked her spoon, with ice cream on it, toward the easel—“in their home?”

“Apparently Anthony Baumgartner,” said Jean-Guy.

All three looked at the rancid old woman in the painting, then leaned back and looked out the doorway of Clara’s studio, into the kitchen, at the rancid old woman at the table.

Ruth was still arguing with Myrna. This time, it seemed, about how choux pastry should be made.

“And that’s why they call them loafers,” they heard the old woman say.

“Like a loaf of bread? Really?” said Benedict.

“No, not really,” said Myrna. “It’s c-h-o-u-x. Not shoe. Or loafer.”

“Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”

They returned to the painting leaning against the wall of the studio.

“I wonder what it says about the dead man,” said Reine-Marie. “That he was drawn to this particular painting.”

“Besides that he had great taste in art?” asked Clara.

“But he wasn’t drawn to it,” said Jean-Guy. “His mother was. You said that she’s the one who wanted it. Then she gave it to him.”

“But he hung it,” said Reine-Marie. “He didn’t just put it away in the basement.”

“True.” Jean-Guy continued to stare at Ruth on canvas. “Do you think the Baroness understood what the painting’s about? Not bitterness but hope.”

They looked at him in undisguised—and fairly insulting, he felt—surprise. Annie came over and put her arm around his slightly thickening waist.

“We’ll make an art aficionado of you yet,” she said.

“Aficionado,” he said. “That’s a type of Italian ice cream, isn’t it? I think what you meant to say is an art gelato.”

“And I think you’re in the wrong conversation,” said Annie. “I believe the one you want is over there.”

She pointed to the trio of Myrna, Ruth, and Benedict. Who were now discussing the difference between semaphore and petit four.

“No thank you,” said Jean-Guy. “Besides, I already know all I need to about art. Chiaroscuro.” He said the word triumphantly, as though opening the Olympic Games or launching a ship. “That’s it. My one word of artspeak, but it impresses the pants off people.”

“What was that word again?” asked Gabri from the freezer, where he was getting more ice cream.

“Please don’t tell him,” said Olivier.

“Are there any leftovers? I’d like to take some home to Armand,” asked Reine-Marie, walking over to the kitchen.

Olivier pointed to a container on the island, filled with coq au vin and whipped potatoes. “All ready for you.”

“Merci, mon beau.”

“So,” Ruth was saying to Benedict, “if anyone offers you a semaphore, don’t eat it.”

“But a petit four?”

“You give that to me.”

Benedict was nodding, and both Myrna and Rosa were staring, glassy-eyed, at them.

Jean-Guy tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “Come and help me do the dishes.”

While Jean-Guy washed, Benedict dried.

“Why did you lie?” Beauvoir asked quietly.

“About what?” asked Benedict, taking a warm, wet glass.

“About your girlfriend.”

“Oh. That.”

“Tell me the truth,” said Jean-Guy.

“Does it matter?” asked Benedict.

“This is a murder investigation. Everything matters. Especially lies.”

“But the man who died has nothing to do with me.”

“Do you really believe that?” asked Beauvoir. “You’re a liquidator on a will in which he was a major heir. It was read just hours before he was murdered. His body was found in an abandoned home where you were also found. You were there when he was there.”

He let those words sink in.

“But I didn’t know that,” said Benedict.

“And how do I know you’re not lying now? Again?” He watched the young man’s face. “And now you see why lies matter. The actual fib might not matter, but what it shows us is that what you say can’t always be trusted. You can’t always be trusted.”

“But I can,” he said, his cheeks a fluorescent red now. “I don’t lie. Not normally. But I … I hate saying it out loud.”

“What?”

“That she left me. That we broke up. It’s too soon.”

“It’s been a couple of months.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m the acting head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec,” said Jean-Guy, handing a soapy plate to Benedict. “Do you really think we wouldn’t ask questions about you?”

“Then you’ve gotta know my relationship has nothing to do with what happened.”

“Doesn’t it? You lied again to Monsieur Gamache when he asked why you went to the farmhouse last night. You said you missed your girlfriend and wanted to go home. But that wasn’t true, was it?”

Benedict concentrated on the glass he was drying.

“It is true, sorta. You wouldn’t know what it’s like, to have your heart broken and then to be around people who’re happy.”

He looked at Jean-Guy.

“You. Your wife. Ray-Ray. Monsieur and Madame Gamache. You have what I want, what I wanted. And lost. I couldn’t take it anymore. It hurt too much. I had to leave.”

Benedict’s eyes were wide. Pleading.

For what? Jean-Guy wondered. Understanding? Forgiveness?

No, he thought. He wants what I wanted, when I was heartbroken. He wants me to stop poking the wound.

“I understand,” he said. “No more lies, right?”

“I promise.”

Beauvoir turned to face the young man and stared him squarely in the eyes.

“Why do you think Madame Baumgartner put you on as a liquidator of her will?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must’ve thought about it. Come on, Benedict. Why would she do that? You must’ve known her.”

“I didn’t. I swear. I never met the woman. The Baroness. You can give me a lie detector. Do they still do lie detectors? I should ask Ruth.”

Beauvoir sighed. “She’s a lie manufacturer. She knows nothing about detecting them.”

“But if you make something, wouldn’t you normally recognize them?” asked Benedict.

It was, Jean-Guy had to admit, insightful. And true. Ruth was an expert in lies. It was the truth that sometimes eluded her. And, perhaps, eluded this pleasant young man.

Across the room, Clara was watching the conversation between Jean-Guy and Benedict.

“What’re you thinking?” Reine-Marie asked her.

“That I’d like to paint that young man.”

“Why?”

“There’s something about him. He’s both transparent and … what’s the word?”

“Dense?” ventured Reine-Marie.

Clara laughed. “Well, yes. And yet…”

And yet, thought Reine-Marie, watching her houseguest. And yet not.

As they left, Ruth handed Jean-Guy a gift.

“A poetry book,” she said. “One you might appreciate. But don’t read it to my godson.”

“Why not?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“You’ll see.”

“One of yours?” Annie asked, looking at the gift, wrapped in old newspaper.

“No.”

“One of mine?” asked Myrna.

“None of your business,” said Ruth.

“I bet it is my business,” muttered Myrna as she put her boots on.

At the door the two women embraced and Myrna offered to walk Ruth home.

“We’ll see her home,” said Olivier.

Out of the darkness, just as she closed the door against the biting cold, Clara heard Gabri say, “Oh look. An ice floe. Come on, Ruth. It has your name on it.”

“Fag.”

“Hag.”

And a sleepy, soft “Fuck, fuck, fuck” as the door closed.

Armand greeted them at the door.

“Have fun?”

“Ruth was there,” said Jean-Guy.

Armand smiled. Understanding.

“You’ve probably already eaten,” said Reine-Marie. “But in case you’re still hungry.”

She offered him the container.

“Oh you savior. I’m starving.” Armand kissed his wife and took the container into the kitchen.

“Did you manage to translate the email?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Yes, I think so. At least the gist of it.”

“Which was?”

Armand was about to tell him but could see that Annie was waiting for her husband to join her.

“I’ll tell you in the morning. Do you mind if I drive into Montréal with you?”

It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but, to his surprise, Jean-Guy hesitated.

“I don’t have to,” said Armand. “I’m sure someone else—”

“Non, non, of course I’ll drive you. It’s just that I’m not coming back out, and I have an early meeting. We’ll have to leave here early.”

“I can drive you in, sir,” said Benedict. He’d had his head in the fridge and now came out with pie. “If you don’t mind my using your car. I really need fresh clothes and should check on the apartment building. Then I can drive you back out. My truck might be ready by then.”

“That would be perfect,” said Armand. “Merci.”

“Why’re you going in?” asked Reine-Marie.

“I’m having lunch with Stephen Horowitz.” He turned to Jean-Guy. “Horowitz Investments.”

Jean-Guy nodded. Hugo Baumgartner’s firm.

Annie and Jean-Guy said their good-nights, and Benedict took a huge slice of pie and a glass of milk to his room.

“Anthony Baumgartner must’ve been an interesting man,” said Reine-Marie as the leftover coq au vin warmed up.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, because Jean-Guy told us that he had Clara’s painting in his study.”

“Yes. Quite unexpected.”

Armand thought about the email he’d spent the evening translating.

Like the painting, it was infused with bitterness. But there was also hope. Though a different kind from the one in Clara’s painting.

This was hope of revenge. Of retribution. It reeked of greed. And delusion. And profound optimism that something horrible would happen to someone else.

And it had.

Hope itself wasn’t necessarily kind. Or a good thing.

Armand wondered what Baumgartner saw when he stood in front of the painting and looked into the eyes of the Virgin.

Did he see redemption or permission to be bitter?

Maybe, in that face, he saw his own mother. Glaring down at him.

In all her madness and delusion, disappointment and entitlement.

Maybe he saw what happens when false hope is spread over generations.

Maybe that’s why he liked it.

Maybe he saw himself.

“You go to bed,” he said to Reine-Marie. “I’ll be along soon. Still have a little work to do.”

“So late?”

“Well, Honoré wanted to watch the second Terminator movie, and then we visited the casino, so there wasn’t much time to work.”

“You’re a silly, silly man,” she said, kissing him. Her thumb traced the deep furrow of scar at his temple. “Don’t be late.”

She took her tea with her but left behind the delicate scent of chamomile and old garden roses, mingled with the rich, earthy aroma of coq au vin. Armand stood in the kitchen and closed his eyes. Then, opening them again, he headed to his study.

Henri and Gracie followed and curled up under the desk. Armand put in his password and saw that the photos and video he’d opened had finally downloaded.

Amelia and Marc had parted ways early.

It was dark now. The time when hungry people slipped out of tenements and rooming houses. On the hunt.

She’d gone from alley to back street, to parking lot, to abandoned building. Saying the same thing. Over and over.

“I’m looking for David.”

A few times she thought she saw a flicker of interest, of recognition, but when pressed—“Where is he? How can I find him?”—the person turned away.

She’d attracted, though, a group of mostly young women. Some prostitutes. Some transsexuals. Most hard-core junkies. Who’d steal, suck, tug anything for a hit.

They came to her because she didn’t ask anything of them. And she could fight. Had fought. And won.

They didn’t know it was possible. To fight back.

But now they did.

Armand looked at the photos of Amelia taken just a few hours earlier.

They were shot from a distance.

He could see that in one of them she was making a gesture. Grabbing her forearm in what he assumed was a fairly common curse. He could imagine what was also coming out of her mouth.

He looked closer.

She was grubby. Hair unwashed. Clothes dirty. The lower part of her jeans was soaked in slush.

He tried but couldn’t see her eyes. Her pupils.

Then he clicked on the video.

“You know, don’t you, you shithead,” she snarled. “Where’s David?”

“Why do you want him?”

“None of your fucking business. Tell me or I’ll break your arm.”

The dealer turned away.

A semicircle of young women stood behind Amelia. They were barely more than girls.

“Don’t you turn your goddamned back on me.”

Amelia moved swiftly. Much quicker than the stoned dealer could react. She pushed him into the wall. Then, grabbing his arm, she twisted it behind his back. Jerking it up in a quick, practiced movement.

He let out a shriek that scattered those around. The onlookers scampering away.

The man, barely more than a boy, slid to the ground, weeping. His arm hung at a terrible angle. Useless.

“Next it’s your leg. Then your neck,” said Amelia.

She squatted beside him and slid the sleeve of her jacket up, exposing her forearm.

“David. Where’s David?”

Armand moved this way and that, as though changing his vantage point would let him see better.

But her body was blocking it, and despite the fact there was sound in the recording, her back was to him and he couldn’t hear very well.

He did see her get up, and with her foot she pushed the man over.

He heard him cry out. Then Amelia, and her gang, left the picture. The young men who’d stood with the dealer now turned away. And followed Amelia.

Armand narrowed his eyes and scowled. Then went back to the beginning of the video and watched again and again. Until something caught his attention.

He froze the frame. Then enlarged it. As he did, the image grew less and less defined. But still he zoomed in. Closer and closer.

And brought his face closer and closer to his screen, until his nose was almost touching it.

She wasn’t just making a gesture with her forearm. That arm, he saw on closer inspection, was uncovered.

In minus twenty degrees, Amelia had shoved her jacket and sweater up so that her skin was exposed.

There were two reasons he could think of that someone might do that.

To shoot heroin, though she hadn’t.

Or to show someone something.

And there was something there. Her tattoos. He’d seen them licking out from the cuffs of her uniform but had never seen the actual images. Now he could.

The needle work seemed fine, refined. No pictures. Just words, intertwined. All up and down her arm. Though he couldn’t read what was written, he could see that some words, phrases, were in Latin. Some in Greek. In French and English.

Her body, it seemed, was a Rosetta stone. A way to unlock, decode, Amelia.

He wished he could read what was actually written there.

But one thing did stand out. Something scrawled boldly on her skin. More like graffiti than the fine etchings of the other words.

He looked closer. Then sat back hoping that, as with paintings, distance would give him perspective. It didn’t.

He zoomed closer. Cursing his bleary vision.

D he could make out. At both ends. And then, with his finger, he traced the lines. Slowly. Having to back up when he realized he’d taken a wrong turn and was now deep into Latin or Greek.

V.

A.

DAVD.

“David,” he whispered.

And beside the name some numbers. “One. Four,” he mumbled.

He unfroze the image, and the now-familiar video rolled on. He watched as she once again used the move they’d taught her at the Sûreté Academy and dislocated the dealer’s shoulder.

Then Amelia and her followers left the frame. Along with his friends. Her entourage was getting larger and larger and now included young men.

Her influence was growing.

It hadn’t taken long. And he probably should have seen this coming, and maybe he had and just didn’t want to admit it.

He’d not only released a deadly narcotic onto the streets of Québec. He’d released Amelia.

And she was doing what Amelia always did. She was taking over.

“What are you up to?” he whispered. “And who’s David?”

The video continued to roll, but all that was left was the heap on the ground, like garbage.

And the whimpering.

Armand was about to turn it off when he noticed movement. A little girl in a bright red tuque. She walked out of the darkness and paused on the sidewalk. Alone. All alone. Then the girl turned and walked out of the frame. After Amelia.

He stared, his face pale. His mouth slightly open. Sickened to see a child alone on the streets.

He was so absorbed by what had just left the frame that he almost missed seeing what remained.

There was someone else, he now noticed. A man. On the very edge of the screen. He was leaning, almost casually, against the wall of the alley. His arms folded, he stared after Amelia. And appeared to be thinking. Then he made up his mind. Pushing off from the wall, he moved. But he didn’t follow the others. Instead he stepped over the writhing dealer and walked in the opposite direction.

Armand wondered if he’d just met David.