All the Devils Are Here(29)

Gamache stopped. It was his turn to glare at the Prefect.

“Your doubt could have cost her her life.”

“And you yours,” admitted Dussault. “It was a mistake on Fontaine’s part. I’ll speak to her.”

Armand almost pointed out that the error didn’t rest solely with Fontaine, but kept his mouth tightly shut.





CHAPTER 10




The coroner knelt beside the body.

“You’re here, good,” she said, her voice heavy with impatience and annoyance. “We can finally start.”

Reaching out gloved hands, she expertly turned the stiff body.

It was their first good look at the dead man.

Even in death, he had an air of success about him. Healthy. Wealthy. But was he wise? One thing was certain: Gamache had never seen him before.

The coroner described her observations.

“Male, Caucasian. Approximately seventy-five years of age. Shot in back and head. No apparent wounds to the front of the body. There’s rigor. Death was more than twelve hours ago, less than twenty-four. Nothing in his hands. Nails look clean. There doesn’t appear to have been a struggle. Slight bruising to the face, probably caused in the fall.” She looked up at the Prefect. “I’d say he was dead before he hit the ground.”

“Excuse me,” they heard. “Excusez-moi.” Everyone turned to see a younger man in jacket, jeans, and scarf tied around his neck trying to get through the wall of cops.

“Who are you?” demanded one of the gendarmes.

Instead of answering, he turned to Gamache. “Reine-Marie called me. I came right over.”

“This’s Jean-Guy Beauvoir, my son-in-law,” explained Gamache.

“Well, he shouldn’t be here,” said Fontaine. “Please wait outside. This’s a crime scene.”

“Yes, I know,” said Jean-Guy. He had sympathy for this officer, who was obviously the agent in charge. But instead of leaving, he took a step forward and stood beside Gamache.

“Jean-Guy was my second-in-command,” Gamache explained to Dussault and Fontaine. “He ran homicide for more than a year before moving to Paris. He also knows Stephen. Do you mind?”

“If he stays?” Fontaine looked at Beauvoir as though he was something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

Then she appealed to the Prefect, who shrugged.

“Fine,” she said. “As long as I don’t have to deal with him.”

“Is there a wallet?” Dussault asked. “Any ID at all?”

“None,” she said, kneeling beside the coroner now. “All his pockets are turned out.”

“May I?” asked Gamache.

“Oh, what the fuck,” muttered Fontaine. Then gestured toward the body, inviting Gamache forward and watching as he pulled aside the dead man’s jacket and felt inside. He lifted a flap to reveal a hidden zipper and pocket.

But he didn’t undo it, preferring to let Fontaine do that.

A moment later she pulled out a thin wallet.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“It’s something seasoned travelers often do. Have hidden pockets in their clothes.”

He chose not to explain that Stephen also had one. Nor did he tell them that he and Reine-Marie had found Stephen’s agenda and passport there.

Fontaine handed the wallet to the Prefect, who walked away from the activity around the body. Gamache and Beauvoir joined him by the window.

“His name’s Alexander Francis Plessner,” said Dussault. “Mean anything to you?”

Armand thought. “Non. Stephen never mentioned him. You?”

Jean-Guy shook his head.

“Driver’s license is from Ontario,” said Dussault.

Irena Fontaine joined them and gave Dussault a passport. “We found it under that dresser. But no phone yet, and no keys.”

“If they found his passport,” said Gamache, “they must’ve realized they hadn’t killed Stephen Horowitz.”

“They killed the wrong man,” said Dussault.

“Or not,” said Gamache, and the Prefect nodded. Or not.

“Canadian,” said Jean-Guy, looking at the passport. “Issued a year ago.”

Claude Dussault flipped through it and sighed. “With kiosks at most customs now, passports aren’t stamped anymore. We’ll have to be in touch with Interpol.”

“I’ll scan the bar code over later today,” said Irena Fontaine.

“Best to do it as soon as possible,” said Gamache. “In my dealings with Interpol, it can take a little while for them to get the information. Even days.”

“This’s the brigade criminelle, monsieur,” she said. “In Paris. Not the S?reté du Québec. Interpol responds quickly to us. They know if we ask, it must be serious.”

Beauvoir opened his mouth, but at a small glance from Gamache remained quiet.

This Fontaine obviously didn’t know that Gamache had been approached in just the last six months to move to Lyon and take over Interpol. He’d refused, preferring to hunt murderers in Québec.

If Gamache wasn’t going to tell her, he sure wouldn’t. Though he was longing to.

“Thank you for explaining that, Commander,” said Gamache. “Does the passport have any stamps at all?”