All the Devils Are Here(112)
“The police, the carabineros, didn’t seem to take it seriously,” said Allida.
“Her body was eventually found in a gorge,” said Judith, from her terminal behind them, where she’d also brought up the story. “If you go a week later you’ll find the report. The police ruled her death an accident. Said that she’d fallen, but AFP wasn’t satisfied. Their head of news says neither her phone nor her computer were found. But then …” There was a pause as Judith scrolled. “It goes quiet. The story dies.”
They looked at each other.
“Dies? The cops and the paper just dropped it?” said Allida. “Does that make sense?”
“Non,” said Jean-Guy, staring at the screen. “Someone was bought off.”
“You think she was murdered?” Reine-Marie asked.
“I think she found out something someone really wanted to hide,” he said, his fingers hitting the keys, chasing information. “But what?”
More tapping. Tapping. Tapp—
“Got it,” said Judith.
The Chief Librarian had let the others follow the Guardiola lead while she took a different tack.
It had struck them as strange that the dates were all in chronological order, except the final entry. The last thing he’d written was, in fact, the earliest date. They’d thought perhaps he’d transposed numbers, but now it seemed not.
It was the last thing he’d discovered. But the first thing that had happened.
“A month before Anik Guardiola disappeared, she wrote a story about the derailment of several train cars in Colombia,” said Judith, as the others crowded around. “It was a minor story, so wasn’t picked up by Agence France-Presse until a week later and sent out as a brief.”
“Colombia? Not Patagonia?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Non. See here? Colombia.”
“Was anyone killed?” asked Allida.
“Non,” said Judith, scanning. “No one died. It was a freight train.”
“Carrying ore from the neodymium mine?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Non. Grain.”
“So why was Anik Guardiola interested?” asked Judith.
“Why was Stephen?” asked Reine-Marie.
Jean-Guy picked up his phone. It was time to call Armand.
“Oui?”
“Patron? We’ve found something.”
Jean-Guy did not identify himself. While he suspected this precaution was meaningless, it made him feel slightly better about breaking their silence.
Gamache and Madame Arbour were in a taxi moving across Paris. The light turned red, and in the pause he watched patrons in a brasserie, spilling out onto the sidewalk, drinking and eating.
Carefree.
Though he knew very few people were ever really carefree. But there were moments of bliss. He thought of his last moment of bliss. Walking along after dinner Friday night. Before …
Like all those locked in a nightmare, he wished he could wind back the clock. Set down the cracked cup.
Then the light changed and the taxi moved on through the night. As he listened to Jean-Guy.
“It looks like Stephen did mean Agence France-Presse when he wrote AFP.”
He told Gamache about the derailment in Colombia. The disappearance of the reporter who’d written the story and that her body was eventually found in a gorge in Patagonia.
“Near the mine?”
“We’re trying to find out. The local police dismissed it as a hiking accident.”
“She was alone?”
“It seems so. AFP sent people to investigate. They discovered that neither her phone nor her laptop were found on her, or in her hotel room.”
“She was murdered.”
“Looks like it, though the local authorities never agreed and didn’t investigate. And eventually the story died.”
“Really?”
“The local cops must’ve been paid off.”
“She was on to something,” said Gamache. “But what? Might be the derailment, or might not. Have you figured out the other dates?”
“We’re working on it.” Jean-Guy paused, wondering if he should say more. Knowing their phones were probably being monitored. But it also felt like they’d passed the point of no return. “Do you know an Alain Pinot?”
“The media fellow. Yes. He’s on the GHS Engineering board. I saw him just now at the Lutetia. Why?”
“His company owns Agence France-Presse.”
There was a pause as Gamache absorbed that news and considered what it could mean.
“But do you know him personally?” Jean-Guy asked.
“Non. Should I?”
Jean-Guy told him about McGill, and the possible connection to Stephen. “Reine-Marie’s written to Mrs. McGillicuddy to see if Stephen did know him. This would’ve been thirty years ago or more. Stephen never mentioned him?”
“Not that I remember. If he was looking out for Monsieur Pinot back then, I’d have thought he’d introduce us. We’d be about the same age, non?”
“He’s a couple of years younger, but yes, that’s what I thought, too.”
Jean-Guy was obviously a little disappointed. There might not be a connection between Alain Pinot and Stephen Horowitz after all. If there was, Stephen would almost certainly have introduced the wild young man to his more stable godson.