It was, she knew, a highly egocentric state. One most children grew out of.
Clara was watching him closely. Openly.
She was there at Myrna’s request. Her friend wanted a witness. Not because she was afraid of this reedy little man but because, after reading his father’s papers, Myrna realized the son could not be trusted. That he could say one thing to her, then change his story later.
“But you have to pay attention,” Myrna had warned Clara in the car driving over. “Promise me you will.”
“What did you say?”
“Come on, I’m serious. I know you. You look like you’re following a conversation, nodding and smiling, but in fact you’re trying to work out some issue with your latest painting.”
Myrna was, of course, right. As they drove over to the notary’s office, Clara had been letting her mind wander. Freeing it up. To see what her subconscious might do with Benedict. He of the silly haircut and goofy grin. And happy eyes.
She wondered if she might paint him as a sort of cartoon character. All bright colors and pastel outlines in bold strokes.
But now that she was in this office, all thought of the shiny young man was banished as she sat in the shadows of the boxes and watched Lucien.
And considered how she might paint him.
“I didn’t lie,” said Lucien. “I just hadn’t remembered. I meet a lot of people.”
“Why did you go there with your father? Why did he take you there?”
“He was a cautious man. He always wanted a witness when meeting with elderly clients. A second opinion.”
“About what?”
“If the person was competent.”
“And was the Baroness?”
“Of course. Otherwise he’d never have allowed her to do that will.”
Charcoal, thought Clara. That’s what she’d use.
Bright crayons for Benedict and the charred remains of something once living for this man.
“Why can’t I find David?” asked Amelia.
Marc shrugged.
He’d given it absolutely no thought. What was left of his mind was taken up with only one thing, the search for more dope. He was like a Neanderthal, completely driven by survival.
Though he recognized that while he was focused on one hit, the next hit, Amelia was looking at the mother lode. At having more shit than they knew what to do with, except use and sell. To get high and get rich.
But still, he couldn’t get past worrying. About the next hit.
Amelia was standing in his kitchenette, making peanut-butter sandwiches with the loaf they’d stolen from the convenience store. It was stale and beginning to mold. The fresh loaves had been lifted by others, earlier in the day.
She’d have to remember that.
“Here.”
She handed one to Marc, who looked at it with disgust. It was all he’d eaten for months. Peanut fucking butter. The very smell turned his stomach.
Taking a bite, he grimaced. It tasted like despair.
“He’s out there somewhere,” she said, walking to the window. “But if he has the new shit, why isn’t he selling it? What’s he waiting for?”
Marc joined her at the window. The sandwich hanging loose in his thin hand.
For just a moment, he allowed himself the aroma of pancakes and bacon on a Saturday morning.
Then he locked it away again. In the private room he was saving. He’d crawl into it, and curl into a tiny ball, and close his eyes. And sit at his mother’s table. Eating pancakes, and bacon, and maple syrup. Forever.
He stared down at the junkies and trannies and whores gathered out there. Waiting for Amelia. To do what?
They only wanted one thing. He only wanted one thing. For the pain to stop.
“This David doesn’t want to be found,” said Amelia.
And for good reason, she knew. If they were looking for the carfentanil, others would be too. And he wouldn’t have it in his pocket. He’d have to have a whole operation.
“Like a factory,” she said out loud, though she knew she was still just talking to herself. “Right? ’Cause he’d have to cut it. Package it. Prepare it for the streets. Thousands and thousands of hits. He’d need space. And time. He’d know that once it hit the streets, all hell was going to break loose. Between the cops, the mob, the bikers. Every piece of shit within thousands of miles will come to Montréal, looking for it. Looking for him. Right?”
Marc’s sandwich hit the floor with a soft thud. But he remained standing. Swaying slightly. Like a cow asleep on its feet. Not aware it was in the abattoir.
“So he’d have to sell as much as he could, as fast as he could, then get the hell gone,” said Amelia. “That’s why it’s not out yet. David doesn’t want to sell it until he can sell it all. It must be in some basement. Some drug factory.”
This David had marked her. To warn her off. Thinking she was just some newcomer junkie, making inquiries.
She might not know who David was, but he clearly had no idea who she was. And what she was capable of.
CHAPTER 30
Chief Superintendent Gamache was already there when Jean-Guy arrived at Isabelle Lacoste’s home.
He joined them at the kitchen table.
They looked at each other, and then, in unison, all three said, “Tell me what you know.”
“You first, Jean-Guy,” said Gamache, smiling at his son-in-law and naturally taking charge.
Beauvoir told them quickly, succinctly, about his meeting with Bernice Ogilvy. And his thoughts as he drove over to meet them.
“Do you think it’s … possible Baumgartner knew nothing about it?” asked Lacoste. “That someone else was stealing the client’s … money and using his name?”
“And Baumgartner was killed because he found out?” said Beauvoir. “Follow the money. One of the first rules of homicide.”
He looked at the Chief Superintendent. They’d spent much of their apprenticeship as agents watching Gamache break not the law but the so-called rules of homicide investigation. Which was why, as Beauvoir and Lacoste knew, his department had a near-perfect record of finding killers.
“Murderers haven’t read the rule book,” he’d told them. “And while money’s important, there are other forms of currency. And poverty. A moral and emotional bankruptcy. Just as a rape isn’t about sex, a murder is rarely about money, even when money’s involved. It’s about power. And fear. It’s about revenge. And rage. It’s about feelings, not a bank balance. Follow the money, certainly. But I can guarantee when you find it, it’ll stink of some emotion gone putrid.”
“Go on,” Gamache now said to Beauvoir.
“It would sure be a good reason to kill Baumgartner,” said Beauvoir. “Whoever was stealing from the clients was facing not just ruin but prison if Baumgartner exposed him.”
“In killing Baumgartner he kept his wealth and freedom,” said Lacoste. “Pretty good motive, I agree.”
“And now,” said Gamache, “pick it apart. What’s wrong with that theory?”
Far from being annoyed at this challenge, Beauvoir found it one of his favorite things to do. He was very good at finding fault, even with his own theories. And this was far from a theory he owned or, as Madame Ogilvy would say, was invested in. It simply interested him.
“Okay,” said Beauvoir. “If he wasn’t stealing from his clients, then what were the statements doing in Baumgartner’s study?”
“He’d just discovered what was happening,” said Lacoste, taking on the devil’s-advocate role, to Beauvoir’s delight. “He was shocked and angry and needed to study them to make absolutely sure before accusing anyone.”
“But how would he know, just from those papers, who was doing it? They only have his name on them.”
“He’s a smart man,” said Lacoste. “He knows Taylor and Ogilvy and who was likely to be able to do it.”
It was a weak argument, they recognized. One the devil would probably lose in court. But possible.