Kingdom of the Blind

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 shoulder 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 ask 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 have, 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?”

“This 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.”

“People who wouldn’t see,” said Beauvoir.

“People who wouldn’t question, Chief Inspector. And there are a lot of those.”

Lamontagne looked at the statement on the table. A few slender sheets of paper, but, like Madame Ogilvy that afternoon, the broker could see what they meant.

Ruin.

This scandal would kill Taylor and Ogilvy. And throw them all out of work. And maybe Anthony Baumgartner would, in death, have his revenge.

Beauvoir thanked Monsieur Lamontagne and made his way back along the corridor to the interview room where Bernard Shaeffer waited.

Delusion and madness, he thought as he reentered the room. There was a lot of both in this case.

It was close. Amelia could feel it.

Even those around her, the junkies, the whores, the trannies who’d been drawn to her, could feel it. They couldn’t feel their fingers and toes. Their faces were numb and ravaged.

They’d lost all compassion. All good sense. Even their anger and despair were gone. They’d lost their families, and they’d lost their minds.

But this they could feel.

Something big was coming.

It didn’t yet even have a street name. Whoever controlled it would get naming rights. For now it was just “it.” Or “the new shit.” And that seemed to only add to the excitement, the mystique.

Amelia knew what “it” was.

Carfentanil.

She also knew that whoever had it, whoever controlled the carfentanil, would win. And Amelia was determined to win.

But time was short. Once it hit the street, it was out of her hands.

Amelia stood at the window, but the view was obscured by thick frost and grime, so that all she saw were blurry streetlights.

Though she couldn’t see them, she knew they were out there. Waiting for her.

The junkies and whores and trannies. Who’d turned to her for protection. Because she had muscle on her bones and a brain not completely fried. And she could see around corners. What was hiding. What was waiting. What was coming.

They slept in the corridor outside Marc’s room, armed with guns and knives, and some had clubs, and waited for her to come out. And lead them.

Their eyes glowed in ways their mothers would never recognize.

They had nothing to lose and one thing to find. It.

Out there somewhere, in the hollowed-out core of Montréal, there was a factory cutting and recutting the drug. And this David knew where it was.

If she wanted to find it, she’d have to first find him.

“So, Sweet Pea,” said Marc as they prepared to leave. “What’re you going to call it?”

“What?”

They’d stepped out of his room, and Amelia saw, up and down the dingy hallway, skeletons struggling to stand on pin legs. On feet clad in boots stolen from corpses of friends who’d OD’d.

Bodies. Pale. Frozen. Picked up by dark vans and taken to lie on autopsy tables, then in drawers. Unnamed. Unclaimed. By mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, who’d spend the rest of their lives wondering whatever became of their bright-eyed child.

“It. The shit,” said Marc. “Ha. It rhymes. It the shit.”

Amelia had to smile. She thought her favorite poet, Ruth Zardo, would like that little morsel. It the shit.

“When you find it, you’ll have naming rights,” said Marc. His eyes were unfocused and his words indistinct. Mumbled. His lips and tongue no longer able to work properly. He shuffled and muttered like an old man after a stroke. He put his arm around her shoulders. “Dragon. Wicked. Suicide. Something terrifying. Kids like that.”

She felt, even through his winter coat, his bones.

There was hardly anything to him anymore. He was being eaten alive. Consumed from the inside out. They all were.

Except Amelia. At least not so that it was visible. But still she wondered if her mother would recognize her anymore. Or claim her as her own.

Beauvoir took his seat across from Bernard Shaeffer and smiled.

“Tell me.”

“What?”

“No more games,” said Beauvoir, his tone cold but calm. “Baumgartner set you up at the Caisse Populaire, a bank, for a reason. Now I want that reason.”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me.”

“There’s—”

“Tell me,” Beauvoir snapped. “Where do you think I was just now?”

Shaeffer looked from Beauvoir to Agent Cloutier, his eyes wide. He clearly hadn’t given it any thought. Now he did.

“I don’t know—”

“I was next door, in another interview room.” Beauvoir glared at him. “Asking questions and getting answers. Now I’m giving you a chance. Answer the question. What did Baumgartner want from you?”

There was silence.

“Now,” shouted Beauvoir, bringing his open hand down on the table with such force that Shaeffer nearly jumped out of his skin. As did Agent Cloutier, who dropped her pen on the floor and had to quickly bend to scoop it up.

“An account,” said Shaeffer. “Okay? He wanted me to set up an offshore account. And put the money he sent into it.”

“For both of you?”

“No. Just under the name Anthony Baumgartner.”

“He used his own name?”

The question seemed to surprise Shaeffer. “Of course. Why not?”

“Easy to trace.”

“He didn’t expect to be caught.”

“How much is in it?”

“I’d have to check, but I think it’s somewhere around eight million,” said Shaeffer.

“And how much did you take for yourself?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said Beauvoir. “How stupid are you? You know we’ll find out.” He turned to Agent Cloutier. “She’s in charge of forensic accounting for the entire Sûreté. Nothing gets past her. She’s brought down business leaders, politicians, mob heads. She’ll bring you down too. Before breakfast. So save us the trouble.”

Shaeffer looked at Cloutier, who now wished she hadn’t stuck the pen in her mouth and chewed it.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe a little. But don’t tell him.”

“That I can promise,” said Beauvoir.

Shaeffer shook his head. “Sorry. I forgot he’s dead.”

Beauvoir hadn’t missed the tone of Shaeffer’s voice when he’d, just for a moment, forgotten that Baumgartner was dead.

He was afraid of him, thought Beauvoir. Genuinely afraid. In fact, Jean-Guy thought as he got to his feet, that might’ve been the most genuine moment in this whole interview.

“Give Agent Cloutier the information on the account, please.”

“I can go?”

“We’ll see.”

They were getting closer, thought Beauvoir as he walked toward his office. Closer to embezzlement, if not murder. But he knew Gamache was right. When they found the money, it would be infused with delusion. With madness. With the stink of emotions rotten enough to lead to murder.

Amelia could hear the footsteps of the junkies and whores and trannies following them as she and Marc walked down the concrete stairs. Marc gripping Amelia’s hand for support.

The air got colder and colder the closer they got to the front door.

Amelia braced for the frigid blast as soon as the door opened, but still it took her breath away and made her eyes water.

“Oh, fuck,” she heard Marc say, coughing and choking on the air.

Through watery eyes Amelia saw a little girl in a red hat with the Montréal Canadiens logo. She stood alone, at the mouth of an alley.

Amelia could just see, poking out of the darkness, a pair of legs. On the ground. In ripped fishnets. The rest of the body was in darkness. But Amelia had no doubt. It was a body.

She caught the eyes of the girl, who looked to be five or six years old.

Amelia took a step toward the girl but was stopped by a single word.

“David.”

A skinny black kid had come up to her. No more than fifteen, she thought. He was staring at her with eyes far too big for his head.

“What about him?” she said, and felt, more than saw, the junkies and whores and trannies form a semicircle behind her.

“I’d heard you want him. I know where he is. For a tab I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah, right. Get outta my way, shithead,” she said, and shoved past him, heading across the street. To the girl, who was still standing there. Staring.

“David,” he repeated, and pushed the sleeve of his thin coat up. To expose his forearm. “Look.”

And there, written in Magic Marker, was the same word she’d found on her own arm. The word that was still there. Indelible.

David.

Like a calling card.

And beside the name there was a number: 13. No. It was 1/3.

She pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and took a closer look at her forearm. “David,” it said. And the number. Not 14 but 1/4.

Amelia stared at it and felt her heart beating in her throat. “Where is he?”

“I have to show you. Now. Before he leaves.” He put out his hand.

“Give him one,” said Amelia, and Marc handed over a single pill. “You’ll get another when we get to meet David.”

The kid pocketed the currency and without another word turned and walked down the dark street.

Amelia looked behind her. To the mouth of the alley. But the little girl was gone.

“Almost there,” Marc whispered as they followed. “Come up with a name yet?”

“Sweet Pea,” she said. “You started calling me that when I was five years old.”

“That’s what you’re going to name the shit? Sweet Pea?”

“No. I’m going to call it Gamache.”

“After the head of the Sûreté? The guy who got you into the academy?”

“The guy who got me kicked out. The genius who gave us the shit. He deserves to have it named after him. To know that the last thing tens of thousands of kids will say will be his name. It’ll become synonymous with death. Gamache.”

“You hate him that much?”

“He ruined me,” said Amelia. “Now it’s his turn.”