Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 28

Jean-Guy looked around the waiting room of Taylor and Ogilvy.

He was on the forty-fifth floor, but you’d never know it. There was oak paneling, and oil paintings, and even a bookcase with leather volumes, as though to say if your investment adviser could read, he was sure not to screw you.

Jean-Guy expected, when he looked out the window, to see the magnificent garden of an estate, and not Montréal from the air.

Illusion.

What was it Agent Cloutier had said?

A play. A set. Something that looked like one thing but was actually another. This place was made up to look like a solid, conservative, trustworthy firm. But was it something else?

He peered at the paintings, then got up to look at one in particular.

A numbered print.

Not exactly a fake, but not the real thing either.

“Do you like it?” a woman’s voice behind him asked.

He turned around, expecting it was the receptionist who’d spoken, only to find a very elegant and surprisingly young woman standing at the open door.

“I do,” said Beauvoir. “I’m here to see Madame Ogilvy.”

“Bernice, please.” She extended her hand. “Have I heard correctly? Tony was murdered?”

“I’m afraid it looks that way.”

Her eyes narrowed in a wince, absorbing the words. “Jesus. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Merci.”

She turned, and he followed her down the hushed corridor. Taking in the offices on either side, where brokers, mostly men, sat speaking on telephones or tapping on laptops.

The hallway was paneled in wood and art.

“Nice paintings,” he said.

“Thank you. Most are prints, but we do have some originals,” she assured him. “Some awful things my grandfather bought, thinking they were good investments. They were not. We hide those in the offices of the partners, as a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Of what happens when we think we know about something when we do not.” She stopped then and smiled at him. “You must run into the same danger in your profession, Chief Inspector. Only your mistakes can cost lives.”

“As can yours.”

Her smile faded. “I’m aware of that.”

She turned and continued her chat about the art. It was, he could tell, rehearsed. A patter she repeated for everyone. To put them at their ease.

“We specialize in Canadian art. Québec, wherever possible.”

“But not always originals.”

“No. The originals are often not available, so we buy numbered prints. But only the low numbers.”

He laughed, then realized she was serious. “Why’s that?”

“Well, because they’re more valuable. Everything’s an investment, Chief Inspector.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. And I don’t just mean in business. As humans, we invest not just money. We spend time. We spend effort. There’s a reason it’s put like that. Life’s short, and time is precious and limited. We need to pick and choose where we put it.”

“For maximum return?”

“Exactly. I know it sounds calculating, but think about your own life. You don’t want to waste your time with people you don’t like or doing something you don’t find fulfilling.”

Beauvoir felt there should be some clever response, but all that came to mind was to say, That’s bullshit.

A few years ago, he might’ve. But then a few years ago he wasn’t the Chief Inspector.

“What’re you thinking?” she asked.

“I’m thinking that’s bullshit.”

Oh well, if life really is short, might as well be himself.

She stopped and looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

He looked around before his attention returned to her. “It’s the sort of thing someone who works here would say. I’m not saying you don’t believe it. I’m saying most people don’t have the luxury to pick and choose. They’re just trying to make it through the day. Taking whatever shitty job they can. Trying to hold the family together. Maybe in a shitty marriage with kids who’re out of control. You live in a world of choice, Madame Ogilvy. Most don’t have investments. They have lives. And they’re just trying to get by.”

“A zero-sum game?” she asked. “That’s bullshit. And patronizing. People might not be able to choose to work here, or live in a mansion, but they still have choices. And investments of time if not money.”

They stared at each other, the strain obvious. Beauvoir didn’t care. He preferred it like this. Pushing people. Seeing what they’re really like underneath.

He found it interesting that when he’d become crass, she’d changed. Used exactly the same language. The difference was, it was natural to him. Not to her.

Here was a chameleon. Who adapted to situations, and people.

It was a useful skill. Both a defense and an offense. It was designed to lower people’s guards. I’m just like you, she was saying. And you’re “one of us.”

It was a subtle and powerful message. One that put people at ease and let her into their confidence.

Elegant and refined when called for. Foulmouthed when called for.

Demure. Scrappy. Crass. Classy.

All things. And nothing. Except calculating.

One of the many things he loved about Annie was that, while adaptable, she was always herself. Genuine.

This woman was not.

Still, this was going to be, if he was smart, a good investment of his time.

“Do you have any Clara Morrows?” he asked as they turned a corner.

“No. I tried to buy one of her Three Graces, but there were no prints left. Only the one of that old woman. Scared the merde out of me.”

“You should see the original,” said Beauvoir. “Better than an enema.”

She laughed and showed him into her office.

It was like walking from the past into the future or, at least, a very glossy present day. It was a corner office, of floor-to-ceiling glass. There, before him, spread Montréal. Magnificent. In one direction he could see the Jacques Cartier Bridge across the St. Lawrence River. In the other, Mount Royal, with its massive cross. And in between, office towers. Bold, gleaming, audacious. Montréal. Set for the future with roots deep in history. It never failed to thrill him. And the ice fog only made it more otherworldly.

Her desk was wood. But sleek and simple. An age-old material with a modern design. There was a sofa, some chairs, and the art, like everything else, was contemporary.

“No one you’d know,” she said as he scanned the walls. “Students mostly. We fund a scholarship for young artists to study at the Musée d’art contemporain. What I ask in return is one of their works.”

“In the hopes one day it’ll be worth something?” he asked.

“There’s always that, Chief Inspector. But mostly I hope they do what they love.”

“And do you?” he asked, sitting down.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Born to it, I suppose. Investing, finance, the market. Both my parents are in investing.”

“Your father’s the CEO and your mother’s the chair of the board.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

He felt himself getting prickly. It was such a condescending thing to say.

“Not difficult. A simple Google search. Is that how you got your job?”

Two can be insulting.

“Well, it’s not a coincidence my name is Ogilvy. But I earned this office. Believe me. Investing not only comes naturally, it fascinates me.”

“How so?”

“The chance to make a real difference in people’s lives. To secure their retirement. Their children’s educations. Their first home. What could be better?”

The truth, thought Beauvoir. That could be better. This was, like the patter down the hallway, a practiced speech. More oak paneling. More fake originals.

“And you?” she asked.

“Me?”

“Do you love what you do?”

“Of course.”

But the question surprised him. He’d never really thought about it.

Did he love it?

He certainly hadn’t stood over corpses, hunted killers all these years for the money or glamour. Then why had he? Was it possible he did love it?

Beauvoir brought the warrant from his satchel and placed it on the desk.

Madame Ogilvy didn’t bother to look at it. “I also did some research. In answer to your question yesterday, we don’t have any clients named Kinderoth. Now. But we did. Both have died. One five years ago and one last year. They were elderly and in ill health.”

“Did Anthony Baumgartner look after their finances?”

“No. They were with another adviser, and, frankly, it was such a small account that when it was divided among the heirs there was hardly anything left. Though I understand the will was a little strange.”

Beauvoir felt that frisson that came with an unexpected find.

“How so?” his voice betrayed none of his excitement.

“I can’t remember the exact details, but it seems they left far more than they actually had. We talked to the adviser, of course, about why they thought they had what amounted to a fortune, but he was as baffled as anyone. We did our own investigation, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with our accounts.”

“Do you know if there was an aristocratic title involved?” He asked this as though it were a perfectly natural question. And braced for ridicule.

But she wasn’t laughing. She was looking at him with genuine surprise.

“How did you know that? As a matter of fact, there was. We think they must’ve been suffering from dementia, or some sort of collective delusion. Monsieur Kinderoth was a taxi driver and Madame Kinderoth had raised the children. They had a very modest house in East End Montréal and a small retirement income. And yet in their will they left millions, and a title.”

“Baron?”

“And Baroness, yes. Apparently that’s what they called themselves.”

Beauvoir could feel his heart speeding up and his senses sharpening, as they always did when he was closing in on something. Or, really, had fallen face-first into it.

But his voice remained neutral. His own oak paneling. His veneer in place.

“Do you have the address of their children?”

“I thought you might ask. They had two daughters, both living in Toronto. Both married. What does this have to do with Tony Baumgartner’s death? As I said, they weren’t his clients.”

Her hand rested on a slim manila folder.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

He saw a flash of annoyance, quickly there and rapidly hidden. Here was someone not used to hearing no. And someone who clearly thrived on information. No surprise there. You didn’t land in this office by being ignorant.

And you weren’t the acting head of homicide for the Sûreté by handing out information.

He extended his hand, and she gave him the folder.

“Merci. No relatives living in Québec?”

“Not that I know of.”

He nodded. They’d done searches from the government databases for Baumgartners and Kinderoths. Both, fortunately, unusual names.

While there were a few Baumgartners scattered around, perhaps distant cousins or not related at all—agents were checking—there were no more Kinderoths in Québec.

Jean-Guy’s mind was working quickly, to absorb this news of another strange will. One, he suspected, that left exactly what the Baroness Baumgartner had left. He’d have agents check. The Kinderoth will would be in the public domain by now.

“Thank you.” He held up the file before tucking it into his satchel. “Now, the main reason I came here is to ask you about Anthony Baumgartner.”

“Exactly,” she said, and leaned forward in her chair. “How can I help?”

“What was he like?”

“He was a brilliant analyst. He understood—”

“We’ll get to that in a moment. I’d like to hear what he was like as a person.”

Beauvoir’s technique was very different from Gamache’s. The Chief wanted to remain quiet. To listen. To put people at their ease. Draw them out and have them almost forget this was an interrogation. He used silence. And calm. Reassuring smiles.

While Beauvoir could see the benefits and the results of that, his own approach was to get in their faces. Keep them off balance so that they’d erupt.

He asked a lot of questions. Interrupted answers. Let them know who was in charge. And kept turning up the pressure.

“As a person?” Bernice Ogilvy asked.

“You know. A human being. Not an investment.”

He saw her color. “I understand. He was nice—”

“You can do better than that. Did you like him?”

“Like him?”

“It’s a feeling,” he said. “How did you feel about Anthony Baumgartner?”

“He was nice—”

“Puppies are nice. What was he? How did you feel about him?”

“I liked him,” she snapped. “A lot.”

“A lot?”

“Not like that.”

“Then how?”

“He was nice—”

“Come on. What was he to you?”

“An employee.”

“More than that?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you know he was gay?”

“Only when he told me.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes. It didn’t matter. He was—”

“Nice?”

“More. He was like a father.”

It came out almost as a shout. Defiantly. Challenging Beauvoir to challenge her.

He did not. He had what he wanted.

“To you?”

“To everyone. All of us. Even the older men, they looked up to him.”

She regarded him, expecting another interruption. But Beauvoir had learned from Gamache when to keep his mouth shut. And listen.

“He never forgot a birthday or an important anniversary,” she said. “And not just of the partners but everyone. Assistants, cleaners. He was that sort of man.”

A good man, thought Beauvoir. Or just good at appearances.

“When I came into the firm, I used my mother’s maiden name. I didn’t want anyone to know who I was. I started as Tony’s assistant. He was patient and kind. Taught me more about the market in six months than I’d learned in four years at university. How to read trends. What to look for. To not just study the annual reports but to get to know the leadership of companies. He was brilliant.”

“And what happened when he found out who you really were?”

She raised her brows and compressed her lips.

“He wasn’t happy. He took me out for drinks, and I thought he’d be pleased. He’d mentored someone who’d one day have—” She raised her hands to indicate the corner office.

“But he wasn’t,” she said. “He told me that this was a business built on relationships and trust. Not on tricks. Not on games. He wished I’d been honest with him. And that it didn’t speak highly of him, or of me, that I felt I needed to pretend. That I didn’t trust him. He didn’t say it, but I could see I’d disappointed him. It was awful.”

And I bet you’ve spent the last few years trying to make it up to him, thought Beauvoir. Was Baumgartner that clever? To play her like that. To talk about trust when he himself was violating it?

Beauvoir reached into his satchel and placed the statements on her desk.

“I’ve had an agent working on these. I suspect you’ll come to the same conclusion.”

Madame Ogilvy put on glasses and picked up the statements, without comment. A minute. Two. Five went by. Jean-Guy got up and wandered the office, examining the walls and the art. Glancing at her every now and then.

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 CEO’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 CEO’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 years 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 codes 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 happening?”

“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.