Thanks to the great leveler that was fentanyl.
What was on the streets now was not, Gamache knew, his doing. They were opioids. Killers. Hollowing out a generation. And so far the carfentanil he’d let through hadn’t yet gone into circulation.
But it would, he knew. Soon. And if it was bad now, it was about to get incalculably worse.
He’d read a report recently that said an American state with the death penalty was considering using the drug to execute prisoners. It was swift and lethal and guaranteed to do the job.
He’d stared at that report, feeling the blood drain from his face. It wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. But it did put a word to what he’d done. What he was.
The executioner.
“Armand.”
Stephen Horowitz came out of his office, hand extended. His voice still lightly accented from his European upbringing.
All of ninety-three now, he was as vibrant as ever. And as rich as Croesus.
“You’re looking well,” said Armand, taking the firm hand and shaking it.
“As are you.”
The sharp eyes traveled over Gamache before coming to rest on his face.
“Have you been crying?”
Armand laughed. “Seeing you always makes me emotional. You know that. But non. Just some irritation.”
“That sounds more likely. Most people find me irritating.”
Armand did not disagree.
“I’ve made reservations at the Ritz. Too pretentious, but I like seeing which of my clients are there and think they can afford it.”
They walked the two blocks to the Ritz, with Horowitz taking Armand’s arm every now and then, far beyond being bashful about any frailty.
He’d been Armand’s parents’ financial adviser. In fact, Armand’s father had helped set Horowitz up in business when he’d been a young refugee after the war. One of the displaced people who never forgot how that felt. Nor, seventy years later, had Stephen Horowitz forgotten that act of kindness.
There was now a shockingly generous account, in Annie’s and Daniel’s names, with Horowitz Investments. One Gamache himself didn’t even know about.
Horowitz had left instructions in his will, and only then would the Gamaches find out.
“I hear you’re still suspended,” said Stephen, allowing a liveried waiter to flap open the linen napkin before laying it on his lap. “Merci.”
“I am,” he said in response to Stephen’s question.
Sparkling water with lime was on the table waiting for them, along with two scotches and two plates of oysters.
“Merci,” said Armand as the napkin was laid on his lap.
“Stupid of them.” The elderly man shook his head. “Would you like me to make a call?”
“To whom?” asked Armand. “Or do I want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“You’ve already made one call, I know. Thank you for that.”
“You’re my godson,” said Stephen. “I do what I can.”
Armand watched him prepare his oysters. With precision. Knowing exactly how he liked them.
Stephen Horowitz was as close as Armand came to having a father. The investment dealer had been disappointed when the young man had chosen the law over finance, though Stephen had his own three children to leave the business to.
Armand’s relationship with Stephen was divorced, as far as Armand knew, from money. It was about other forms of support.
“See that man over there?” Stephen was now engaged in his favorite thing. Passing judgment. “Runs a steel company. A complete dickhead. My people have just discovered that he’s planning on giving himself a hundred-million-dollar bonus this fiscal year. Excuse me.”
To Armand’s alarm, though no real surprise, Stephen got up and walked over to the man, said something that made the man turn purple, then returned to the table, grinning all the way.
“What did you say to him?” Armand asked.
“I told him that I was dumping all the shares Horowitz Investments holds in his company. I gave the order just before we left. Look.”
And as Armand watched, the man pulled out his iPhone, punched some numbers, and stared. Pale now. As he saw his shares tumble.
“When the stock reaches a low, I’ve told my people to buy it. All,” said Stephen.
“You’ve bought the company?” asked Armand.
“Controlling interest. He’ll see that in a few minutes too.”
“You’ll be his boss.”
“Not for long.”
Stephen raised his hand, and the maître d’ hurried over, bent down, nodded, then left. Armand raised his brows and waited for an explanation.
“I told Pierre that I’d pay for that table. The man won’t be able to afford it after this, and I don’t want the restaurant stuck with a bad debt.”
“You’re very thoughtful,” said Armand, and he watched as Stephen smiled broadly. “Did you know he’d be here when you booked?”
“It’s Wednesday. He’s always here Wednesday.”
“So