Page 75

He stopped just outside Beauvoir’s office. Then he turned toward the printer before returning his gaze to Beauvoir.

“Working?”

In his early days at the company, Jean-Guy had come in on weekends, when it was quiet and he could bumble around without anyone seeing. Never had a guard shown any interest.

So why was this guard here. Now. Very interested.

The look, while disconcerting, wasn’t threatening. He seemed to be puzzled, trying to work something out.

“Oui. Can I help you?” Beauvoir asked, looking up from his laptop, as though interrupted.

“No, sir. I’m just checking.”

“Checking what?”

“To make sure everything’s as it should be.”

“Well, it’s not. I should be outside, playing with my son. Instead I’m here.” He smiled and got up.

“Why are you here, sir?”

Beauvoir had never had a guard ask him that. It wasn’t any of his business. And yet the guard seemed to think it was. And maybe, thought Beauvoir with some unease, it was.

“I have a baby coming any day now. Little girl.” He picked up his mug, and the guard stepped aside to let him pass. “When she’s born, I’ll be on leave. I just need to get some of the crap out of the way before the blessed event.”

He’d remembered that the coffee maker was on the wall farthest from the copier. He walked over there now.

“Coffee?”

“No, sir.”

The guard did as Beauvoir had hoped. He followed him to the espresso machine.

“You have children?” Beauvoir peered at the guard’s nametag. “Monsieur Loiselle?”

“No.”

Not a big talker. Now Loiselle began to turn around.

“I was a cop once, you know,” said Beauvoir, desperate to stop the man from turning completely. And possibly seeing the papers the printer had coughed up. “In Québec, as you can probably hear.” Jean-Guy had intentionally broadened his accent, giving his words a twang. He’d been in Paris long enough to know that they viewed the Québécois as slightly thick country cousins.

While this was insulting and ignorant, he now found it useful.

“Got tired of being shot at,” Jean-Guy continued. “And with a family coming …” He left it at that.

The guard’s stare was now intense. Scrutinizing him. Practically, Jean-Guy felt, dissecting him.

Beauvoir could see past Loiselle, into Arbour’s office. Something was happening. The computer had come back to life, and images were flashing across the screen.

Even from a distance, he could see what it was. Emails. Schematics. Being erased.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck, thought Beauvoir. Shit.

But his face remained placid, and his eyes returned to the guard.

“You don’t happen to know how this works?” he said, pointing to the espresso machine. “Trust them to have something you need an engineering degree to work. All I’ve managed to figure out in five months is how to grind the beans.”

“Sorry. Can’t help,” Loiselle said.