All the Devils Are Here(20)

Dussault sighed. “Okay. Do you know what brought him to Paris?”

“He said he was here mostly for the birth of Annie’s baby, but he mentioned he had some business early in the week. In fact, he was meeting someone for drinks before dinner.”

“But you don’t know who?”

“No, he didn’t say. Do you know if his phone was found?”

“I haven’t seen mention of it. It’s probably at the hospital with his personal effects.”

“I’ll look for it when we get there.”

“I’ll put a guard on Monsieur Horowitz’s room,” said the Prefect. “When you finish at the hospital, come by the 36. I’ll be here all day.”

“The 36” was the nickname for 36, quai des Orfèvres. Where the Préfecture de Police traditionally had its headquarters.

Most of the services had been moved to a new building, but some units and some people stayed behind. Claude Dussault, the head of all the forces, maintained an office there. Mostly because he preferred the storied old building on ?le de la Cité to the modern one.

And also because he could.

“Taxi?” Armand asked as they left their apartment.

“I’d prefer to walk, if it’s all right with you.”

It was less than ten minutes to the hospital, along streets he’d explored with his grandmother after she bought the apartment with the restitution money.

“Those askhouls thought they could get rid of me,” she’d said, triumphantly, as she’d slapped down the money for the apartment. “Well, I’m back.”

Young Armand did not need a translation.

As they’d walked the quartier, Zora told him about her life in the Marais, when she was his age. She’d point out the synagogues, the parks, the old shops that used to be owned by friends of the family.

All said in her cheerful voice, which somehow made it better. And worse.

Now he and Reine-Marie left Le Marais, crossing the Pont d’Arcole and pausing to look at the restoration work being done on Notre-Dame.

How long it takes to build something, he thought, and how quickly it can all be destroyed.

A look. A harsh word. A moment of distraction. A spark.

At the h?pital H?tel-Dieu they took the elevator to the critical care unit.

Armand identified himself, showing his ID, and said, “We’re here to see Stephen Horowitz.”

“The doctor has asked if she can speak with you first,” said the nurse.

“Of course.”

They were guided to a private meeting room. Within minutes a doctor appeared.

“Monsieur et Madame Gamache?”

She motioned them to sit.

“You’re Monsieur Horowitz’s next of kin?”

“I’m his godson. We were with him when it happened.”

“You’re named as next of kin on his Québec hospital card.”

“Which means you can tell us how he is.”

“Yes. And you can make medical decisions. There’s significant trauma. Honestly, a man his age should not have survived. He must be very strong.”

“Strong-willed, for sure,” said Reine-Marie, and the doctor smiled.

“He is that,” she agreed. “Unfortunately, if will to live was all it took, most of us would never die.” She looked at them for a moment. “We have him in a medically induced coma. He’s in no pain that we know of. We’re monitoring him closely. Since he’s survived the night, there is a chance he’ll go on.”

Armand noticed she didn’t say “recover.” She confirmed his suspicions a moment later.

“You must prepare yourself for a difficult decision.”

She looked into those thoughtful eyes. They were deep brown, and she could tell this was a man who’d had to make many difficult and painful decisions. Who’d known pain himself. That much was etched into his face, and not just by the deep scar at his temple.

She’d seen wounds like that before, when working emergency, and she knew what must have made it. She looked at him with more interest.

Yes, there was pain in that face. But now she saw other lines. This man also knew happiness.

And by the way he and his wife held hands, lightly, they knew love.

She was glad. They’d need it.

“Can we see him, please?”

“Yes, but only one of you, and briefly. We have some papers for you to sign, and there are his personal effects. Best to take them with you, for safekeeping.”

“I’ll get those,” said Reine-Marie as they stood up. “While you see Stephen.”

“There’s a gendarme outside Monsieur Horowitz’s door,” said the doctor. “I understand there’s some concern that this was no accident.”

“Yes.”

They left Reine-Marie to sort Stephen’s things, which arrived in a sealed cardboard box, while Armand was taken down the quiet hall, to a private room.

The gendarme, at a word from the doctor, let him pass.

Opening the box, Reine-Marie shoved aside the bloodstained clothing, cut off by the emergency room medics, then opened the sealed plastic bag. Stephen’s iPhone was there. Smashed.

She tried it. It was dead.

There was loose change, and mints, and a handkerchief. His wallet had 305 euros, and credit cards.