“We have the cell signal,” said the assault-team commander. “We’re ready to move as soon as we get the word.”
“You’ll need masks.”
“Got them. You’re there now?”
“Close.”
“God, let’s hope this’s it.”
The commander hung up, and Gamache drove toward the rotten core of the city he loved.
Agent Cloutier was still at her desk past midnight when Beauvoir arrived at Sûreté headquarters.
Ruth, leaning against the wall and clutching the thin, torn blue material at her throat, glared at him as he walked into the homicide department.
“Sorry,” he said to Ruth, and turned her around.
“I have it here,” said Cloutier, of the number he saw written there. “But waited for you to come before putting it in.”
“Thanks for waiting,” said Beauvoir as he pulled up a chair and nodded to her.
“Where is he?” asked Amelia, looking around.
This was an alley off an alley off a back lane. Impossible to find, except by those who were lost. She was pretty sure it wouldn’t be on any map.
But once found it was never forgotten. And probably never left.
All her senses were alert, her eyes sharp, her hearing acute.
“Who?”
The voice was deep. Calm. Amused.
Not the kid anymore but someone else, speaking from a doorway.
Amelia turned and saw a figure. Arms crossed. Legs apart. Watching her.
He was young, she could tell. There was about him something that was missing from everyone else in the alley.
Except her.
Meat on his bones. And life in his voice. This man was fully alive. And, like her, fully alert.
“David,” she said.
“Yes, I’d heard you were looking for him.”
“Are you David?”
He laughed and stepped from the doorway. But the alley was dark, and she couldn’t see him clearly. He tossed a small packet at the kid, who grabbed it and melted away.
“No,” he said. “I’m not David. You already know him. Quite well.”
Amelia’s mind was racing. What had she missed?
“Show her,” he said, and the junkies and dealers, who’d been leaning against the wall of urine frozen to the bricks, pushed up their sleeves.
All had “David” written on their forearms.
Then the man shoved up his sleeve. Even from a number of feet away, Amelia could see the tattoos. But not the name.
What did it mean? Her mind flickered this way and that, looking for the answer. It meant something.
Everyone else had “David” written on their arms. Including herself. Everyone except him.
He must have lied. He must be David. He wouldn’t need to write his own name on his own forearm. Would he?
But she knew, quickly, instinctively, that he hadn’t lied. He didn’t need to. He was in control.
If he said she’d met this David before, then she had. But who? When? When he’d written his name on her arm, of course. But she couldn’t remember anything about that. It was a complete blank. She’d passed out, far too stoned to remember anything.
She’d woken up hours later with the indelible ink on her arm.
David. Then the numbers 1 4. But actually it was 1/4.
Why was this man going around writing his name on junkies?
“Oh Christ,” she whispered.
David wasn’t a man. David wasn’t even human.
David was the drug.
CHAPTER 36
“Damn,” said Beauvoir.
He sat back in the chair and stared at the screen.
It hadn’t worked. The number on the back of Clara’s painting wasn’t the code.
He’d been so sure of it. Had had Agent Cloutier reenter it. Two more times.
Nothing.
“Sorry, patron. It was a good idea,” she said, and Beauvoir couldn’t help but think that things were pretty desperate when Cloutier was patronizing him.
“We’ll get it eventually,” she said, not making him feel better. “But I do have some news. Bernard Shaeffer’s handed over the information and access to the offshore money. It’s a numbered account in Lebanon. Let me show you.”
She brought it up, and there, very clearly, was the name Anthony Baumgartner and the amount. Just over seven million.
Beauvoir raised his brows. “A lot, but not actually as much as I expected.”
“Me too,” she said. “The numbers don’t tally. According to the statements, the clients, all told, gave Baumgartner several hundred million. So where’s the rest?”
“In another account,” said Beauvoir, thinking. “With another person.”
“Shaeffer?” asked Agent Cloutier.
Chief Inspector Beauvoir was nodding. Thinking.
Another reason for murder. Suppose Baumgartner realized his former lover wasn’t quite as stupid, not quite as intimidated as he thought? Suppose he found out Shaeffer was stealing from him?
He’d confront Shaeffer. And Shaeffer would have killed him. Would have to, if he wanted to be free of Baumgartner and keep the fortune.
Beauvoir looked at the painting, then turned it back around so that Ruth was again scowling at him.
“A code can be symbols as well as numbers and letters, right?”
“Yes. It’s even better, more secure, if some symbols are used. Why?”
“There’s a symbol for you. And numbers.”
He pointed to the lower right corner.
Gamache drove slowly down rue Ste.-Catherine, scanning the street.
Then, finding a parking spot, he pulled in and got out. His cell phone was connected to the agents tracking Amelia as she closed in on the back-street factory.
But right now Gamache had someone else he had to find.
“A little girl,” he said to a prostitute. “She’s five or six. Red Canadiens hat.”
“You don’t want a little girl,” she said. “You want a big girl.”
She grabbed her breasts.
“I don’t mean for that,” he said, his voice so stern the woman lowered her hands and stopped the act.
“You her father?” asked the prostitute. “Grandfather?”
“I’m a friend. Have you seen her?”
“Yeah, with Anita this afternoon.”
“Anita’s dead.”
“Oh, not Anita too.” She looked up and down the street. “I can’t help you. I’m just trying to stay alive.”
“You want to stay alive?” he said, handing her a fifty. “Get off the streets.”
“And go where, honey? Your place? You and your nice wife gonna help me? Get out of the way and let me do my job.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “There’s a new drug that’s killing people. It killed Anita. Stay away from it.”
“You look like a nice man. Let me give you some advice. Stay away from here.”
But, of course, he couldn’t leave. As the prostitute watched, he walked up one side of the street, then down the other.
His face grew numb in the bitter cold. He had to turn his back now and then against the wind, to catch his breath. But he kept on.
Talking to near-frozen junkies and trannies and whores.
But while most knew who he was talking about, none knew where the little girl was.
And then he saw. A bit of red. Down an alley. Disappearing into a doorway.
He followed, quickly. Once at the door, he yanked it open and saw a man holding the girl by the hand. Leading her down the corridor and into a room.
Gamache shouted, and the man, looking back and seeing him, shoved the girl into the room and slammed the door.
Breaking into a run, Gamache got to the door. It was locked. He pounded on it.
“Open up.”
When there was no response, he threw himself against it. Again. And again.
Finally he broke through and stumbled into the room.
A man stood there. Middle-aged, or at least aged. Disheveled. Eyes sunken and red.
He held the girl in front of him, his large hand around her small throat.
“Give her to me,” said Gamache, advancing into the room.