All the Devils Are Here
- Автор: Пенни Луиза
- Серия: Chief Inspector Gamache #16
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: St. Martin's Publishing Group
- ISBN: 9781250145253
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «All the Devils Are Here». Краткое содержание книги:
On their first night in Paris, the Gamaches gather as a family for a bistro dinner with Armand's godfather, the billionaire Stephen Horowitz. Walking home together after the meal, they watch in horror as Stephen is knocked down and critically injured in what Gamache knows is no accident, but a deliberate attempt on the elderly man's life.
When a strange key is found in Stephen's possession it sends Armand, his wife Reine-Marie, and his former second-in-command at the Sûreté, Jean-Guy Beauvoir, from the top of the Tour d'Eiffel, to the bowels of the Paris Archives, from luxury hotels to odd, coded, works of art.
It sends them deep into the secrets Armand's godfather has kept for decades.
A gruesome discovery in Stephen's Paris apartment makes it clear the secrets are more rancid, the danger far greater and more imminent, than they realized.
Soon the whole family is caught up in a web of lies and deceit. In order to find the truth, Gamache will have to decide whether he can trust his friends, his colleagues, his instincts, his own past. His own family.
For even the City of Light casts long shadows. And in that darkness devils hide.
“We’re here to see Monsieur de la Coutu,” said Armand, and showed the guard his ID.
Within minutes the curator arrived, hand extended. “Madame, Monsieur Gamache. Clara Morrow phoned and asked me to help. What can I do for you?”
To be honest, Reine-Marie had the same question.
All she knew was that Bernard de la Coutu was a curator in the Louvre’s Department of Paintings.
“I’d like you to come with us,” said Armand. “I promise, it won’t take long.”
The curator raised his brows and studied the couple, then nodded. “Absolutely. I’m a huge fan of Clara’s paintings, especially her portraits. She’s become a good friend. I’ll do whatever you need.”
Daniel’s mouth dropped open. He understood why his mother wasn’t worried about them being crammed into the suite. The space, even by Stephen’s standards, was insane.
But even more striking than the suite was the officer at the door. He looked grim and held a machine gun.
He remembered the look on his father’s face, in the garden that morning.
In his outrage, he’d interpreted it as his father being afraid that Daniel knew the truth about his being a member of Task Force Two. And would tell the cops.
Now he understood that his father wasn’t afraid of him. He was afraid for him.
Leaving his family behind to explore the hotel, Daniel got into a taxi.
“Thirty-six, quai des Orfèvres, s’il vous plaît.”
“Are you sure this is smart?” asked Xavier Loiselle.
La Défense loomed up ahead, like its own great kingdom.
“It’s so stupid, it’s probably brilliant,” said Séverine Arbour. “Or it’s so brilliant, it’s stupid.”
“That gets my vote,” said Loiselle.
They’d taken the métro to the familiar stop. Once they exited the station, Loiselle dropped back and pretended to be tailing them.
Beauvoir and Arbour signed in and showed their IDs. There was a tense moment when the guard double-checked.
Had SecurForte twigged to what was really happening? Maybe Loiselle had turned them in after all, or—
Just as Beauvoir’s mind sped through the possibilities, none of them good, they were waved through.
Beauvoir and Arbour got off the elevator at their floor, then took the stairs two flights up to Carole Gossette’s office.
“We probably don’t have much time,” said Beauvoir.
He tried Gossette’s office door, but it was locked. Then he nodded toward the assistant’s desk.
He and Arbour started pulling out drawers. Looking for a document. A file. A note. Anything that might tell them what was in the water sample from the mine.
He sat at her desktop and tried various codes to get in.
“So, here you are.”
Beauvoir looked up. Standing at the door was Xavier Loiselle, and beside him was a man in his mid-forties.
He was fit. His arms hung loosely out from his sides, like an old-time gunslinger. It was the stance of someone prepared, preparing, to act. It wasn’t hard to sense aggression in this man.
Beauvoir recognized him. Even though he’d only seen his profile, and that only briefly. But he’d stared at the image long enough to recognize the third person at the table.
The one sitting with Claude Dussault and the head of GHS, drinking tea from fine bone china in the George V.
Beauvoir could feel Séverine Arbour tense. Could hear her ragged breathing.
“Do I know you?” asked Beauvoir.
“I’m the head of security here,” said the man. “Thierry Girard.”
“Jean-Guy Beauvoir, and this is my number two, Séverine Arbour. Can I help you?”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This isn’t your office.”
“No. It belongs to Madame Gossette.”
“Then why are you here?”
Beauvoir’s brows lowered in annoyance. Getting up, he walked around the desk. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“We don’t like people trying to get into offices that are not theirs.”
“And I don’t like being questioned by a security guard,” said Beauvoir. “I’m senior management here. We haven’t met, but that doesn’t mean you don’t know who I am.”
“Oh, I know, sir. What I don’t know is why you’re here.”
“I’m looking for Madame Gossette. Since you’re so efficient, please check and see if she’s in the building.”
Xavier Loiselle’s eyes had opened wider. Clearly surprised anyone would speak to Thierry Girard like that.
Beauvoir now knew that Loiselle hadn’t sounded the alarm. In fact, he suspected Loiselle had accompanied his boss in order to protect them.
Girard was glaring at Beauvoir.
“Go on,” said Jean-Guy calmly. “We’ll wait.”
They stared at each other until Girard took out his phone, made a call, then put it away.
“Unfortunately, Madame Gossette isn’t in today. Why don’t we show you out.”
As all four stood in the elevator, Beauvoir decided to really push.
He turned to Loiselle.
“I spotted you last night, you know. And you’ve been following me all day. Why is that?”
“You must be mistaken, sir,” said Loiselle.
“Yes. I agree. A mistake has been made.”
Commander Fontaine’s office was dreary, like the rest of the famed 36.
Daniel could see why they’d want to leave the rambling old building. It was probably rat-infested. What he couldn’t figure out was why the Prefect had chosen to keep an office here.
He looked at the mishmash of items on display. There were photos of suspects mixed in with what seemed to be family pictures. Holiday shots and crime scenes.
As though this woman’s life and work were so tightly intertwined, she could no longer distinguish between flesh and blood, and her own flesh and blood.
“Did you like it?” Daniel asked, trying to break the ice. “My oldest daughter’s dying to go. She’s been to Brussels to see the Pissing Boy, but—”
“What are you talking about?” Fontaine interrupted his babbling, glancing up from her notes.
He gestured toward a poster of Copenhagen Harbor. Florence had become obsessed with the story that Copenhagen Harbor had once been the home of all mermaids.
“I don’t even know where that is. Never been out of France. Why would I?”
“Right. Why would you?”
She closed the file and focused on him. “Why did you lie to us about knowing Alexander Francis Plessner?”
“I should have told you,” Daniel admitted. “I’m sorry. I think as an investment banker, especially with venture capital, it’s ingrained to be careful. We let something slip, any tiny detail, and suddenly a potential investment is blown.”
“So you lie? To the police? In a murder investigation?”
“It was a mistake,” he said, sitting forward. “I was shocked when you said the dead man was Alexander Plessner. But I barely knew him, and I knew that what we were working on couldn’t have anything to do with his death.”
“What were you working on?”
“Some small company had come up with a new design for a screwdriver.”
Now it was her turn to raise her brows. “Screwdriver? The tool?”
“Yes. I wanted to look for something bigger to invest in, but Monsieur Plessner thought the bank should start small.”
“The screwdriver.”
“Oui. You see why I knew it couldn’t have anything to do with me. Unless he was killed with a screwdriver.”
He smiled. She did not.
“And did you?”
“Kill him?”
“Invest.”
“Yes. Monsieur Plessner is, was, an engineer, so he had some idea what was interesting about the design.”
“You didn’t?”