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.”