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Armand stood on the pavement and tipped his head back, looking up at the thirteen saints standing on top of the magnificent Marie-Reine-du-Monde Cathedral.

This was where Reine-Marie had gotten her name. Her mother’s water had broken while she took communion there. Because of that drama, the archbishop himself agreed to baptize the baby girl in the cathedral. Overwhelmed and nervous, her godmother, when asked the name of the child, had said “Reine-Marie” instead of “Marie-Reine.” Her mother, also nervous, didn’t notice until the holy water was already dribbling down her shrieking baby’s head.

She decided, since that was the name God had heard, it was best to keep it.

Armand, while not a huge fan of organized religion, had affection for this church for that reason. He’d go there sometimes to get away from the turmoil of the great city. Sitting in a pew, he’d stare at the altar and imagine those events. Both, as it turned out, involved water.

As did his visit there today.

“God bless you,” said the guard at the front door when he arrived. And seemed to mean it.

“And you,” said Armand, smiling. And meant it.

At the top of the long aisle Armand, out of habit, genuflected. Huge seashell fonts with holy water were on either side. He did not dip his hand in. The only magic water he knew of had been spilled on the altar decades ago.

Armand took a seat in the front pew and noticed that someone had left their hat. Taking it off the hook, he saw it was a Canadiens de Montréal cap. He replaced it, grinning. Few were more religious these days than Habs fans.

He was, from what he could see, alone in the church. But not for long. A few minutes later he heard the heavy door at the entrance softly close. He did not turn.

“Armand. Shall we?”

The two moved to a more discreet pew, off to the right and hidden from the main body of the church. It was their regular meeting place.

The head of the Sûreté’s Homicide division turned to the head of the Sûreté’s Organized Crime division.

“What’s this about, Evelyn?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” muttered Beauvoir.

“What?” Nichol leaned over to look at his screen and started laughing. “That’s adorable. Play it from the beginning.”

Instead, he hit pause. On his screen was the frozen image of a golden retriever doing yoga with its owner.

“So, while I’m trying to track down whatever crisis we’re facing, you’re googling cute dog videos?”

“I am not. This was sent to me in a message from the Chief Meteorologist. I thought it was an answer to my question about FEDS.”

“Maybe the dog’s called Feds.”

Jean-Guy sighed. Beside him, Henri’s majestic ears were pointing so far forward they almost brushed the computer screen as he stared with adoration at the video.

Beauvoir went back to the text message, found Dr. Maybeck’s phone number, and called her.

“Yes, Inspector. The Prime Minister has instructed me to cooperate completely. Did you get the video? I think that will be helpful.”

“Of the dog doing yoga?”

There was a pause. “Ooops.”

“Ooops” was never the thing a cop, a surgeon, or a pilot liked to hear or, worse, say.

“Attached the wrong one. I’ll send the one about the Fire Event Detection Suite.”

“Great, but in the meantime, can you just tell me about it? Its uses, both obvious and maybe not so obvious.”

Whenever there was sensitive information to pass along, Gamache and Tardiff had long since realized, Sûreté HQ was not the place for it. So they came to the basilica, where they were almost guaranteed to be alone.

He’d heard nothing from her since their lunch on Sunday.