Page 44

“Here, Irena,” said Dussault, stepping back into the kitchen. “What is it?”

Irena Fontaine stood beside the Prefect. As she’d stood beside and slightly behind him for years. Since she was a junior agent.

When Claude Dussault had been promoted to Prefect after the death of his predecessor, he’d elevated her to head the brigade criminelle.

At thirty-eight, she was the youngest to do so. And only the second woman.

From there, when his longtime second-in-command left the Préfecture, Dussault had promoted her to his number two.

And now, once again, she took her natural place beside him. Tall, blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, she emanated competence. The sort of person, Gamache thought, you’d want piloting any plane you were flying in.

“The coroner’s here. We’re ready to turn him over.” She looked from the Prefect to his companion.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced you. Commander Irena Fontaine is my second-in-command. Chief Inspector Armand Gamache is the head of homicide with the Sûreté du Québec. He’s a friend and trusted colleague.”

They shook hands, and Fontaine said, “Québec?”

The slight condescension in the tone had long since stopped bothering Gamache. Her attitude was, after all, not his problem.

“Oui.”

“What’ve you found?” Dussault asked as they walked back down the corridor.

“Shot twice, once in his back, once in the head. Looks like a robbery. The victim returned home, surprised the intruder, and was shot.”

“And yet,” said Gamache, a step behind, “nothing was taken.”

Fontaine stopped and turned. “How do you know that?”

“You can see. The artwork alone is worth a fortune. The intruder took the time to take it off the walls, even tearing the framing paper, but didn’t then cut the paintings out.”

“He was looking for ready cash, jewelry,” said Fontaine. “The victim’s wallet is missing.”

“A little early to come to that conclusion, surely,” said Gamache. “With all this mess, it could be anywhere. It looks more like a search than a robbery, non?”

While annoyed at being contradicted by this stranger, Irena Fontaine couldn’t quite suppress a smile. The Québécois accent always amused her. It was like talking to a bumpkin.

“Non,” she said. “It looks to me like a robbery. Not everyone, monsieur, wants to wander the streets with oil paintings under their arms, trying to fence them.”

“There’s something I’ve failed to tell you, Irena,” said Dussault. “Monsieur Gamache isn’t here in his professional capacity, though that is helpful.” He gave her a stern look. Of reproach, Gamache wondered, or warning? “He knows the owner of this apartment. He and his wife found the body.”

Fontaine turned more interested eyes on Gamache. “You know the dead man. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Because the victim isn’t the owner of the apartment. I have no idea who the dead man is, but the owner of the apartment is my godfather. Stephen Horowitz.”

“And where is he?”

“In a coma at the Hôtel-Dieu. He was hit by a van last night in an attempt on his life.”

Fontaine’s eyes widened, and she looked at the Prefect. “That’s the case you passed along to me.”

“Yes.”

“And he owns this apartment?”

“Yes,” said Gamache.

“The two attacks have to be connected,” she said. “There can’t be any doubt now about the hit-and-run last night.”