There was now a shockingly generous account, in Annie’s and Daniel’s names, with Horowitz Investments. One Gamache himself didn’t even know about.
Horowitz had left instructions in his will, and only then would the Gamaches find out.
“I hear you’re still suspended,” said Stephen, allowing a liveried waiter to flap open the linen napkin before laying it on his lap. “Merci.”
“I am,” he said in response to Stephen’s question.
Sparkling water with lime was on the table waiting for them, along with two scotches and two plates of oysters.
“Merci,” said Armand as the napkin was laid on his lap.
“Stupid of them.” The elderly man shook his head. “Would you like me to make a call?”
“To whom?” asked Armand. “Or do I want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“You’ve already made one call, I know. Thank you for that.”
“You’re my godson,” said Stephen. “I do what I can.”
Armand watched him prepare his oysters. With precision. Knowing exactly how he liked them.
Stephen Horowitz was as close as Armand came to having a father. The investment dealer had been disappointed when the young man had chosen the law over finance, though Stephen had his own three children to leave the business to.
Armand’s relationship with Stephen was divorced, as far as Armand knew, from money. It was about other forms of support.
“See that man over there?” Stephen was now engaged in his favorite thing. Passing judgment. “Runs a steel company. A complete dickhead. My people have just discovered that he’s planning on giving himself a hundred-million-dollar bonus this fiscal year. Excuse me.”
To Armand’s alarm, though no real surprise, Stephen got up and walked over to the man, said something that made the man turn purple, then returned to the table, grinning all the way.
“What did you say to him?” Armand asked.
“I told him that I was dumping all the shares Horowitz Investments holds in his company. I gave the order just before we left. Look.”
And as Armand watched, the man pulled out his iPhone, punched some numbers, and stared. Pale now. As he saw his shares tumble.
“When the stock reaches a low, I’ve told my people to buy it. All,” said Stephen.
“You’ve bought the company?” asked Armand.
“Controlling interest. He’ll see that in a few minutes too.”
“You’ll be his boss.”
“Not for long.”
Stephen raised his hand, and the maître d’ hurried over, bent down, nodded, then left. Armand raised his brows and waited for an explanation.
“I told Pierre that I’d pay for that table. The man won’t be able to afford it after this, and I don’t want the restaurant stuck with a bad debt.”
“You’re very thoughtful,” said Armand, and he watched as Stephen smiled broadly. “Did you know he’d be here when you booked?”
“It’s Wednesday. He’s always here Wednesday.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“Yes.”
Wheels within wheels, thought Armand as their lunch arrived. And most of the wheels were running over some poor sod who got in Stephen’s way. Or did something he didn’t approve of.
“Have you ever heard of Ruth Zardo?” Armand asked, cutting into his sea bass on a bed of pureed cauliflower with braised lentils and garnished with grilled asparagus and grapefruit wedges.
“The poet? Yes, of course.” He lowered his knife and fork and looked into the distance, recalling the words: “‘Who hurt you once so far beyond repair / That you would greet each overture with curling lip.’”
“That’s the one.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just thought you two might get along.”
Stephen went back to his food. “Are you hurt, Armand?” He spoke into his Dover sole.
“Not beyond repair, no.”
Stephen looked up then. His eyes clear and searching. “I don’t mean physically. Those wounds heal. I mean by the Sûreté investigation. By this suspension that seems to be going on a long time.”
“There’re things you don’t know, Stephen.”
“True. But I know you. It would be a terrible shame to lose you as head of the Sûreté.”
“Merci.”
“Are you sure I can’t put in a call?”
“Don’t you dare,” said Armand, pointing his knife at the elderly man in mock threat.
Stephen laughed and nodded. “Fine. Now, why did you want to see me?”
“It’s delicate.”
“Let me guess. It’s about Hugo Baumgartner.”
“Well, so much for delicate.”
“His brother was just killed, so it wasn’t hard to guess. Murdered, according to the news. But you can’t be involved in the investigation. You are, as we’ve established—”
“Suspended. Oui. But I’m a liquidator on his mother’s will and came at it in a roundabout way.”
He explained about the will, and Horowitz listened carefully before thinking it over and finally saying, “That’s some weird shit.”
Armand laughed. “Your considered opinion. Well, you’re not wrong. But I want to ask you about Hugo Baumgartner. He’s one of your senior vice presidents.”
“He is. Ugly as original sin. Vile to look at. Really quite disgusting. But, like many ugly people, who look like villains, he has to make up for it by being obviously decent. If I didn’t have three children capable of taking over the company, I’d consider him.”
“He’s that good?”
“He is. He’s as good as his dead brother was bad.”
“So you know about that.”
“I do. Hugo didn’t tell me. He’s protective of his brother. But word on the street—”
“Does everyone know?”
“If they don’t, they’re dumber than I thought. Why else would a senior VP at Taylor and Ogilvy have his license suspended? That’s a serious move. Not done lightly.”
“Hugo says his brother was railroaded, made an example of. That it was the assistant who actually stole the money.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Stephen, gesturing with his knife and fork. “Blah, blah. What else’s he going to say?” The elderly man leaned toward Armand. “Who’s more likely to know how to steal money from a client’s account and be able to cover it up for months? The VP or the assistant? Who’s more likely to have access? And who’s more likely to be fired? I’ll give you a hint—the answer to the last question is different from the first two.”
Armand nodded. He’d gotten that far himself. “What can you tell me about Taylor and Ogilvy?”
“They’re a relatively new firm. Been around for about thirty years, though they like to give the impression they were created by royal charter in the 1800s.”
“Victoria banked with them?” asked Armand.
“Something like that. Magnificent offices, clearly meant to impress.”
“And yet?”
“I’m always suspicious of anyone who feels they need to impress with surroundings rather than track record.”
“You’re suspicious of everyone,” Armand pointed out. “Hardly telling.”
“True,” admitted Horowitz with a smile.
“You think they’re hiding something?” Armand asked. “Are they legitimate?”
“Oh yes. Just sail a little close to the edge.”
“You do know that the earth is round.”
“The earth might be, but human nature isn’t. It has caverns and abysses and all sorts of traps.”
“Taylor and Ogilvy exists on the edge of one such trap?”
“If they employ humans, then yes.”
“You employ humans,” Armand pointed out.
“But I watch over them,” said Stephen. “And I’m immortal.”
“And infallible.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“Hugo Baumgartner,” said Armand. “He’s about as human as they come. Can he be trusted?”
“As far as I know. But you’re not asking me to transfer your account to him, are you?” He watched his godson. “No. You’re not sure about him, are you, Armand?”