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The Préfecture’s technical department had examined the phone, taking out the chip and declaring that it was destroyed. And Stephen Horowitz had not used any cloud-based system to store information. Either because he was too technically challenged, or because he didn’t trust it. Or, most likely, thought Dussault, Horowitz trusted technology. It was people he distrusted.

“The boy’?” whispered Jean-Guy, as they took seats at the kitchen table.

Madame Faubourg had just brought a pain au citron out of the oven, filling the kitchen with a citrusy baking scent. Now she put a kettle on the gas stove, while Monsieur Faubourg opened a cupboard and brought out three bottles of warm beer.

“He doesn’t want tea, Madame,” said Monsieur. “He’s a grown man. He wants beer.”

“Actually—” Gamache began but was drowned out.

“Beer and pain au citron?” said Madame. “Whoever heard of that? And after what happened? He needs tea.” She turned to Armand. “Unless you’d prefer chocolat chaud ?”

“Actually—” Armand tried again.

“We’ll put it all out,” Monsieur announced, grabbing some glasses, “and let the boy decide. Brewed it myself.”

He tipped the bottle toward his guests.

“Non, merci,” said Armand, managing to hold Monsieur’s hand to stop him from popping the top off the beer. “I think tea, actually.”

On seeing his disappointment, Armand went on, “For my son-inlaw. But I’d love a beer.”

When they’d all settled around the Formica table, Madame Faubourg asked, “How is he?”

“Well, you know Stephen,” said Armand. “Indestructible.”

“So he’ll be all right?” asked Madame.

“I hope so.” That at least was true.

“What happened, Armand?” asked Monsieur Faubourg. “First he’s hit by a car, and now a man’s killed in his apartment. We don’t understand.”

“It can’t be a coincidence, can it?” asked Madame Faubourg.

“Non,” said Jean-Guy. “We think what happened to Monsieur Horowitz wasn’t an accident.”

“Voilà,” said Madame, while Monsieur crossed himself. “That’s what I said.”

“But why would someone do this?”

“That’s what we want to know,” said Jean-Guy. “When did you last see him?”

“Monsieur Horowitz?” Madame looked at Monsieur. “Was it June? July?”

“Not since then?” asked Jean-Guy. “Not in the last couple of days?”

“Days? No,” said Monsieur. “We only knew he was in Paris when we heard about the accident, this morning. We thought he must’ve just arrived. We haven’t seen him here.”

Madame’s hand was shaking as she reached for the teapot.

“Here,” said Jean-Guy, gently taking the heavy pot from her. “Let me be mother.”

“Pardon?” asked Monsieur.

“Désolé,” said Beauvoir, reddening. “Just something a friend back home says when pouring tea.”

Damn Gabri, he thought, remembering the large man in the intentionally frilly apron, pouring the Red Rose from the Brown Betty teapot.

Oh, dear God, thought Beauvoir. Why do I know these things?