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Stephen told him, and for the first time since the knock on the door, Armand smiled. He could hear Zora saying it, in her thick accent.

“You keep this card with you always, Armand. And anytime you need help, you come to me. If someone won’t let you in, you show them that. They’ll give you everything you want.”

“Ice cream?”

“Yes, any flavor. Money. A safe place to stay. And they’ll find me, no matter where I am, and I’ll come to you. You understand?”

It was a good question. Stephen’s German accent was still thick at the time. And while Armand couldn’t understand each and every word, he understood the meaning.

He put the card in his pocket. Then went outside with his best friend, Michel.

Every now and then, as the day moved to evening, moved to night, he’d put his hand in his pocket. Touch the card. And look at the house.

Zora would be watching over him. And now he knew Stephen would be, too.

He was not alone.

Half a century later, it was Armand’s turn. To watch over Stephen. To protect him.

To find out what had happened. What was happening.

But what was happening?

He looked over at the dead man.

Was Alexander Plessner the intended target, or was he, as they suspected, killed by mistake? Mistaken for Stephen.

Just some poor schmuck.

“Armand,” Dussault said, taking Gamache aside while Beauvoir examined the body. “I don’t mind you being involved with the investigation. In fact, I welcome it. You know Monsieur Horowitz better than anyone. But this fellow? He’ll only get in the way. He’s already annoying Fontaine.”

“Beauvoir is an experienced homicide cop,” Gamache explained. Again. “And ended his career as head of homicide—”

“In Québec.”

“Oui. But murder is murder, and people are people. Even in Québec. No one is better at tracking down killers than Jean-Guy Beauvoir.”

“You forget,” said the Prefect, looking from Gamache to the men and women collecting evidence. “This is the brigade criminelle. In Paris. We choose the very best France has to offer. And these are the best. Not just in Paris. Not just in France. But in the world.”

They stared at each other.

“You’re right, of course,” Armand conceded. “But Jean-Guy stands with the best of them.”

“Does he really? I looked you up this morning, to get caught up on your career. A lot has happened, my friend.”

“True.”

“In my reading, I saw his record, too. He’s an alcoholic and drug addict—”

“In recovery,” snapped Armand. “He’s been clean for years. Don’t tell me you don’t have fine officers who’ve battled addiction. The incidence in our line of work is—”

“Yes. Yes,” admitted Dussault. “Too much damage done.”

“And often to the best,” said Gamache. “Those who care. Those who stand in the front line. Jean-Guy Beauvoir cares. There’s no better officer anywhere. And that includes here.” He paused for a moment. Challenging Dussault to challenge that. “I know no one braver.”

“Or smarter?” suggested Dussault. “I read that he jumped ship to go into private industry. He probably gets paid ten times what we make. And doesn’t get shot at. As you know, my own second-in-command also left. We’re the foolish ones, Armand.”

“Thank God we’re so good-looking,” said Armand, smiling.