that came to mind was to say, That’s bullshit.
A few years ago, he might’ve. But then a few years ago he wasn’t the Chief Inspector.
“What’re you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking that’s bullshit.”
Oh well, if life really is short, might as well be himself.
She stopped and looked at him. “Why do you say that?”
He looked around before his attention returned to her. “It’s the sort of thing someone who works here would say. I’m not saying you don’t believe it. I’m saying most people don’t have the luxury to pick and choose. They’re just trying to make it through the day. Taking whatever shitty job they can. Trying to hold the family together. Maybe in a shitty marriage with kids who’re out of control. You live in a world of choice, Madame Ogilvy. Most don’t have investments. They have lives. And they’re just trying to get by.”
“A zero-sum game?” she asked. “That’s bullshit. And patronizing. People might not be able to choose to work here, or live in a mansion, but they still have choices. And investments of time if not money.”
They stared at each other, the strain obvious. Beauvoir didn’t care. He preferred it like this. Pushing people. Seeing what they’re really like underneath.
He found it interesting that when he’d become crass, she’d changed. Used exactly the same language. The difference was, it was natural to him. Not to her.
Here was a chameleon. Who adapted to situations, and people.
It was a useful skill. Both a defense and an offense. It was designed to lower people’s guards. I’m just like you, she was saying. And you’re “one of us.”
It was a subtle and powerful message. One that put people at ease and let her into their confidence.
Elegant and refined when called for. Foulmouthed when called for.
Demure. Scrappy. Crass. Classy.
All things. And nothing. Except calculating.
One of the many things he loved about Annie was that, while adaptable, she was always herself. Genuine.
This woman was not.
Still, this was going to be, if he was smart, a good investment of his time.
“Do you have any Clara Morrows?” he asked as they turned a corner.
“No. I tried to buy one of her Three Graces, but there were no prints left. Only the one of that old woman. Scared the merde out of me.”
“You should see the original,” said Beauvoir. “Better than an enema.”
She laughed and showed him into her office.
It was like walking from the past into the future or, at least, a very glossy present day. It was a corner office, of floor-to-ceiling glass. There, before him, spread Montréal. Magnificent. In one direction he could see the Jacques Cartier Bridge across the St. Lawrence River. In the other, Mount Royal, with its massive cross. And in between, office towers. Bold, gleaming, audacious. Montréal. Set for the future with roots deep in history. It never failed to thrill him. And the ice fog only made it more otherworldly.
Her desk was wood. But sleek and simple. An age-old material with a modern design. There was a sofa, some chairs, and the art, like everything else, was contemporary.
“No one you’d know,” she said as he scanned the walls. “Students mostly. We fund a scholarship for young artists to study at the Musée d’art contemporain. What I ask in return is one of their works.”
“In the hopes one day it’ll be worth something?” he asked.
“There’s always that, Chief Inspector. But mostly I hope they do what they love.”
“And do you?” he asked, sitting down.
“As a matter of fact, I do. Born to it, I suppose. Investing, finance, the market. Both my parents are in investing.”
“Your father’s the CEO and your mother’s the chair of the board.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
He felt himself getting prickly. It was such a condescending thing to say.
“Not difficult. A simple Google search. Is that how you got your job?”
Two can be insulting.
“Well, it’s not a coincidence my name is Ogilvy. But I earned this office. Believe me. Investing not only comes naturally, it fascinates me.”
“How so?”
“The chance to make a real difference in people’s lives. To secure their retirement. Their children’s educations. Their first home. What could be better?”
The truth, thought Beauvoir. That could be better. This was, like the patter down the hallway, a practiced speech. More oak paneling. More fake originals.
“And you?” she asked.
“Me?”
“Do you love what you do?”
“Of course.”
But the question surprised him. He’d never really thought about it.
Did he love it?
He certainly hadn’t stood over corpses, hunted killers all these years for the money or glamour. Then why had he?