the question. What did Baumgartner want from you?”
There was silence.
“Now,” shouted Beauvoir, bringing his open hand down on the table with such force that Shaeffer nearly jumped out of his skin. As did Agent Cloutier, who dropped her pen on the floor and had to quickly bend to scoop it up.
“An account,” said Shaeffer. “Okay? He wanted me to set up an offshore account. And put the money he sent into it.”
“For both of you?”
“No. Just under the name Anthony Baumgartner.”
“He used his own name?”
The question seemed to surprise Shaeffer. “Of course. Why not?”
“Easy to trace.”
“He didn’t expect to be caught.”
“How much is in it?”
“I’d have to check, but I think it’s somewhere around eight million,” said Shaeffer.
“And how much did you take for yourself?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said Beauvoir. “How stupid are you? You know we’ll find out.” He turned to Agent Cloutier. “She’s in charge of forensic accounting for the entire Sûreté. Nothing gets past her. She’s brought down business leaders, politicians, mob heads. She’ll bring you down too. Before breakfast. So save us the trouble.”
Shaeffer looked at Cloutier, who now wished she hadn’t stuck the pen in her mouth and chewed it.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe a little. But don’t tell him.”
“That I can promise,” said Beauvoir.
Shaeffer shook his head. “Sorry. I forgot he’s dead.”
Beauvoir hadn’t missed the tone of Shaeffer’s voice when he’d, just for a moment, forgotten that Baumgartner was dead.
He was afraid of him, thought Beauvoir. Genuinely afraid. In fact, Jean-Guy thought as he got to his feet, that might’ve been the most genuine moment in this whole interview.
“Give Agent Cloutier the information on the account, please.”
“I can go?”
“We’ll see.”
They were getting closer, thought Beauvoir as he walked toward his office. Closer to embezzlement, if not murder. But he knew Gamache was right. When they found the money, it would be infused with delusion. With madness. With the stink of emotions rotten enough to lead to murder.
* * *
Amelia could hear the footsteps of the junkies and whores and trannies following them as she and Marc walked down the concrete stairs. Marc gripping Amelia’s hand for support.
The air got colder and colder the closer they got to the front door.
Amelia braced for the frigid blast as soon as the door opened, but still it took her breath away and made her eyes water.
“Oh, fuck,” she heard Marc say, coughing and choking on the air.
Through watery eyes Amelia saw a little girl in a red hat with the Montréal Canadiens logo. She stood alone, at the mouth of an alley.
Amelia could just see, poking out of the darkness, a pair of legs. On the ground. In ripped fishnets. The rest of the body was in darkness. But Amelia had no doubt. It was a body.
She caught the eyes of the girl, who looked to be five or six years old.
Amelia took a step toward the girl but was stopped by a single word.
“David.”
A skinny black kid had come up to her. No more than fifteen, she thought. He was staring at her with eyes far too big for his head.
“What about him?” she said, and felt, more than saw, the junkies and whores and trannies form a semicircle behind her.
“I’d heard you want him. I know where he is. For a tab I’ll tell you.”
“Yeah, right. Get outta my way, shithead,” she said, and shoved past him, heading across the street. To the girl, who was still standing there. Staring.
“David,” he repeated, and pushed the sleeve of his thin coat up. To expose his forearm. “Look.”
And there, written in Magic Marker, was the same word she’d found on her own arm. The word that was still there. Indelible.
David.
Like a calling card.
And beside the name there was a number: 13. No. It was 1/3.
She pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and took a closer look at her forearm. “David,” it said. And the number. Not 14 but 1/4.
Amelia stared at it and felt her heart beating in her throat. “Where is he?”
“I have to show you. Now. Before he leaves.” He put out his hand.
“Give him one,” said Amelia, and Marc handed over a single pill. “You’ll get another when we get to meet David.”
The kid pocketed the currency and without another word turned and walked down the dark street.
Amelia looked behind her. To the mouth of the alley. But the little girl was gone.
“Almost there,” Marc whispered as they followed. “Come up with a name yet?”
“Sweet Pea,” she said. “You started calling me that when