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“Yes. Hit-and-run. Terrible. I tried to visit him, but they wouldn’t let me get even close.” Pinot’s eyes, almost buried behind folds of flesh and outcroppings of skin tags, were searching. Shrewd. He examined Gamache. “I’m guessing it was no accident.”

“No. I was there. It was a deliberate attempt on his life.”

“Mon Dieu,” said Pinot, leaning back. “Merde. Who’d do such a thing?” He was silent for a moment, studying Gamache. “Do you know something about this? Stephen told me you’re now the head of the Sûreté du Québec.”

“Used to be. I’m now the head of homicide.”

Pinot raised his brows. “That doesn’t sound like a promotion.”

“It isn’t.” Gamache left it at that. “Did you hear about the body found yesterday morning in an apartment in the Seventh Arrondissement?”

“No.”

No, of course not, thought Gamache. The police hadn’t yet released the news.

“The man was murdered. The apartment is Stephen’s, and the dead man is Alexander Plessner.”

“Oh, shit. I know Monsieur Plessner. Stephen introduced us a few months ago. Jesus, what’s going on? What’s happening?”

Pinot’s face was blossoming from red to purple. Gamache wondered if, before their conversation was over, he’d have to do CPR on him.

How deeply buried was his heart? Wrapped in layers of ambition and foie gras.

“I don’t know,” said Gamache. “I’m hoping you can help.”

“How?” asked Pinot.

“What do you know about GHS Engineering?”

“Ahhh, so that’s it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gamache.

“I’m on the board. Stephen approached me about buying my shares, which would get him on the board. I asked why, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“How long ago was this?”

Pinot considered. “Six, seven months.”

About the time the job at GHS had been offered to Jean-Guy, thought Armand. Stephen was putting his plan in place.

“And did you agree? Without even knowing why?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked. That’s all I needed.” Pinot studied Gamache. “Would you need more?”

Armand smiled slightly and shook his head.

“I was willing to do it immediately, but Stephen wanted to wait until the last minute, until the morning of the board meeting. He swore me to secrecy. Do you have any idea what he had in mind?”

“No, but I found this in his agenda.” Armand showed Pinot the photograph of the slip of paper. “We think the AFP means Agence France-Presse. Do these dates mean anything to you?”

Pinot studied them. “Yes. This one. It’s when one of my reporters disappeared.”

“Anik Guardiola. In Patagonia.”