All the Devils Are Here

CHAPTER 17

It was just after three o’clock when Irena Fontaine and her second-in-command entered Daniel and Roslyn’s apartment.

They were met at the door by a man in his early thirties. Bearded, tall, substantial. That much was obvious. But Fontaine was skilled at seeing what others might miss.

His eyes, while serious, were thoughtful, warm even. Here was a man it would be easy to like, she thought. And trust.

Which meant she immediately distrusted this Daniel Gamache, despite the fact he was Chief Inspector Gamache’s son.

But then, Commander Fontaine was far from sure she trusted the father.

When she entered the living room, she saw the rest of the family, on their feet and turned to her. The large room felt even bigger thanks to the three floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the metal roofs, the garrets, the chimney pots.

It was a timeless Paris view.

Before starting the interview, her number two took down the particulars of everyone in the room.

Reine-Marie Gamache was a senior librarian and archivist. Retired.

Annie was an avocate. A trial lawyer who’d trained in Québec but qualified for the French bar and was on maternity leave.

Roslyn worked in marketing for a design label, and Daniel was a banker.

He looks, thought Fontaine, a lot like his father. If you removed the beard, the resemblance would be remarkable. And she wondered if that was why the son had grown the beard. So that he needn’t see his father in the mirror, examining him at the beginning and end of every day.

When they were asked for their addresses, Daniel shifted in his seat, and he and Roslyn exchanged glances.

“There’s something we need to tell you,” he said, then turned to the rest of them. “This won’t be our home much longer. We’re moving.”

“Moving?” asked Reine-Marie. “Home?”

There was no mistaking the hope in her voice and the gleam in her eyes.

“This is home, Mama,” he said. “No, we’re putting in an offer on a place in the Sixth Arrondissement.”

“Three bedrooms,” said Roslyn. “The girls will each have their own. And it’s close to their school in Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”

“But they go to school around the corner here,” said Annie.

“Not next semester,” said Roslyn. “They’ve been accepted into the Lycée Stanislas.”

Everyone’s eyes opened wider, including the investigators’.

The little boys and girls, in their dark blue and crisp white uniforms, were as much a part of Paris lore as Madeline and her adventures. The boys and girls could be seen solemnly holding hands as they crossed the boulevards of the Sixth Arrondissement, and played in the jardin du Luxembourg.

It was, without a doubt, the very best private school in Paris. Probably France. And one of the most expensive.

“How…?” Reine-Marie began, then stopped herself.

“Did we get them in?” asked Daniel, beaming.

“Yes.”

Though it was clear she’d actually meant to ask another question.

How were they going to pay for it? And a new apartment?

But some things were best not asked. Not in front of a homicide investigator.

“Congratulations,” said Armand. “It’s a great school. The girls will love it.”

But Annie was glaring at her brother. Not sharing her parents’ enthusiasm, however forced it might have been.

“Terrific, my ass,” said Annie, unable to hold it in. “We decided to live two streets over to be close to you, and now you leave?”

“We’re not going far,” said Daniel.

“Do you rent here?” asked Fontaine.

“Yes. Shouldn’t be a problem subletting,” said Daniel. He turned to his sister. “Maybe you could take it?”

“Maybe you could—” began Annie.

“Maybe we can talk about this later,” their mother interrupted.

But if she was hoping to change the subject, it was too late.

“You’re going from renting to buying?” said Commander Fontaine. “A larger apartment in a better neighborhood.”

“Yes,” said Daniel.

“And sending both of your daughters to the Lycée?”

If Daniel didn’t hear the subtle implication, his father did. He remained quiet, though watchful.

Daniel took Roslyn’s hand and smiled, his face open and without guile. “Oui. Sorry, Mom, I know you hoped we’d eventually move back to Montréal, but Paris is our home now.”

Armand put his own hand lightly over Reine-Marie’s.

It was true. They’d always hoped, expected even, that Daniel, Roslyn, and the children would one day return to Québec. But now it seemed that wouldn’t happen. Paris had taken their son and their grandchildren. And now Annie and her growing family had been beguiled.

It wasn’t the city’s fault. It couldn’t help being luminous.

But just at this moment, Reine-Marie hated the city. And Armand wasn’t so enamored either.

“Well, that sucks,” said Annie as Jean-Guy took her hand and squeezed.

Commander Fontaine watched. But try as she might, she couldn’t see this as a family riddled with hatred and resentments. If anything, their reaction to Daniel’s announcement was driven by affection.

They wanted to be closer, not farther apart.

After listening to their recollections of the events of the night before, Commander Fontaine once again turned to Daniel.

In the few minutes she’d been there, she’d come to realize that while he looked like his father, he was not actually like him.

They both, père et fils, seemed kind. Not at all threatening. But where in Gamache the elder it took the form of confidence and authority, in the younger it came across as charm. Which, while pleasant, could be superficial. Often was. A sort of genial wrapping paper hiding, what? Neediness? Insecurity?

“Monsieur Horowitz had been in Paris for ten days before being hit. Did you get together with him in that time?”

“No,” said Daniel, surprised. “Not until last night. I thought he’d just arrived.”

“Had any of you heard from him?” asked Fontaine.

They shook their heads.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir had gotten up and wandered over to a window.

“Am I boring you, Monsieur Beauvoir?” Fontaine asked.

“Non, désolé. I just wanted to make sure I could see the children and their sitter in the park.”

He returned to his seat beside Annie, and reaching into his pocket, he began playing with the nickels that were stuck together. He’d meant to show them to Honoré but had forgotten he had them.

“Monsieur Horowitz had planned to go to a board meeting this coming week,” said Fontaine. “We’re wondering if there could be a connection between that and the attacks.”

“Which board meeting?” asked Daniel.

“GHS Engineering.” She turned to Beauvoir. “Monsieur Horowitz got you your job at GHS, I believe.”

“That’s true,” said Beauvoir.

“He did?” said Daniel. He seemed surprised, and surprisingly pleased.

“Did you ask him to?” Fontaine asked Beauvoir.

“It was a favor for me,” said Gamache. “I asked him to find a position in private industry for Jean-Guy.”

“In private industry, or in GHS?” asked Fontaine.

“No, not specifically that company.”

“So as far as you know, Monsieur Horowitz didn’t plant you there”—she turned back to Beauvoir—“to get information for him? Insider information even.”

“To spy?” asked Jean-Guy. “No. He never asked. And I’d never pass along insider information. And if I thought something was wrong, I’d have gone to my immediate superior.”

“And who’s that?”

“Carole Gossette.”

“But you saw nothing suspicious?”

“No.”

“Not even the Luxembourg project?”

“How do you know about that?” Beauvoir asked.

“Monsieur Gamache here told the Prefect about your questions.”

Beauvoir shot Gamache a quick look before turning back to Fontaine. “That was odd,” he admitted. “But from what I could see, there’s nothing wrong there.”

“Would you necessarily know?” Fontaine asked.

It was a good question. “No.”

“And you have no idea why Monsieur Horowitz was planning to go to the board meeting on Monday?”

“Can I interrupt?” said Daniel. “Do we know if Stephen is on the board?”

“He is not,” said Fontaine.

“Then he might’ve had it in his agenda, but he’d never get in. It’s a private company. Only board members are allowed in board meetings. Confidential things are discussed. No outsider would be allowed anywhere near it.”

“Monsieur Horowitz would know that?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Was he an investor in the company?” Annie asked.

“No,” said Armand. “I asked Mrs. McGillicuddy. Stephen didn’t hold any shares in GHS. In fact, as Daniel says, they’re a private company, and not listed on the stock exchanges.”

“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 understanding 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 husband 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.”

That sat in the room. A bald statement so certain of itself that Commander Fontaine could not think of an argument.

“What have you found out about him, the dead man?” Beauvoir asked, hoping to draw some of her fire.

Fontaine disengaged from Gamache and turned to Beauvoir.

“We’ve tracked down one of Monsieur Plessner’s colleagues in Toronto. She was, of course, shocked. The news of his murder isn’t public yet, and I have local investigators searching his office and home. As we know, Monsieur Plessner was trained as a mechanical engineer and seems to have used his training to invest in venture capital, mainly in small, apparently insignificant inventions or innovations that others dismissed, but ended up making him a fortune.”

“There can’t be many that come to anything,” said Roslyn.

“No, but if even one hits,” said Daniel, “a fortune is made.”

Reine-Marie heard Armand sigh, a long exhale of exasperation with a son who just could not shut up.

“That’s right, I’d forgotten, you’re in venture capital, too,” said Fontaine, who clearly had not forgotten.

If there was a trap to step into, Daniel would find it. If there was no trap, Daniel would create one. Then step into it.

“And yet, you don’t know Monsieur Plessner?” asked Fontaine, pleasantly.

“Never heard of him. If he’s based in Toronto, I wouldn’t. There’re a lot of people who think they can find the next Apple or Facebook. And some do. That’s where lives are changed.”

And sometimes, thought Gamache, staring at his son, lives lost.