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So there had been doubt, thought Gamache. That might explain why the police hadn’t come to Stephen’s apartment themselves. It was one of the first things you’d expect in an attempted homicide investigation.

“I was with him when he was hit,” said Gamache. “It was deliberate.”

“And you’re here now. You found the body,” said Fontaine.

“I did.”

He knew full well what she was getting at. It was, in all honesty, not a surprise. He’d probably be wondering the same thing if the same person showed up at the scene of two separate, but linked, attacks.

Irena Fontaine turned and looked down the hall toward the living room, and the body.

“I wonder if he was murdered by mistake.”

“We were thinking the same thing,” agreed Dussault.

“Someone was obviously trying to kill this Horowitz,” Fontaine continued, speaking directly, and only, to the Prefect. “They came here first, found this man, and shot him, thinking he was Horowitz. When he discovered his mistake, the murderer went in search of his real target.”

“And how did he know where to find him?” asked Armand.

It was a question that was taking on increasing importance in his mind.

“Maybe someone told him,” she said, staring at Gamache. After a moment’s pause she said, “What do you think happened here?”

“First, let me tell you what we found earlier today.”

“No, I asked you a question. What do you think happened?”

He turned to look at her.

Fontaine expected to see a cold, angry glare. Instead, his gaze was calm, thoughtful. Curious even. She was acutely aware she was being assessed.

She assessed him in return.

Mid-fifties, the Prefect’s vintage. Good cut to his clothes. Well-groomed. Distinguished. What struck her were the lines of his face. Not wrinkles. These weren’t made by time, but by events.

There was the deep scar at his temple. And then there were his eyes. Bright, intelligent, thoughtful. Shrewd. And something else.

There was, she felt, a sympathy there. No, not that. Could it be kindness?

Surely not.

Still, there was something compelling about this man. An unmistakable warmth, like embers in a grate on a dreary day.

Irena Fontaine fought the urge to be drawn in. Recognizing that embers could erupt into flame at any moment.

“I think, Commander,” Gamache said, “I can best answer your question by first telling you what we found among Stephen’s things. If you don’t mind.”

“If you insist.”

“Merci. After Stephen was hit, my wife picked up his glasses and a key off the street. She put both in her purse and only remembered them this morning.”

“So?” said Fontaine. “Natural he’d have a key on him.”

“It was to a hotel room. A suite actually, at the George V. We went there and discovered that Stephen had been living at the hotel for the last ten days. He was planning to check out this coming Wednesday.”

Claude Dussault turned to him. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I haven’t had the chance. And it looks like there was someone else staying there,” Armand continued, in the face of Dussault’s glare. “A man who’d just arrived. He hadn’t yet unpacked and wasn’t planning to stay long. He only had a carry-on.”