A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(106)

“You were going to marry him.”

“I was going to live with him.”

“Until the money ran out?” asked Beauvoir.

“Fuck you. This’s none of your business. Now, get out.”

“He lied to you. And he killed his wife,” said Gamache. “We saw the photos. Those bruises on your arms.”

“I like it rough.” Again she leered at Gamache, who just stared back. In a way that made her uncomfortable. Not because it was sexual but because it was a look she couldn’t remember ever seeing before. It took her a moment to put a word to it.

Concerned. This man was concerned for her.

But she knew it was a lie. An act. No one had cared before. Why would this stranger?

“No happy person,” he said quietly, “no healthy person, seeks out pain. Be careful.”

“Yeah, well, what the fuck do you care?”

And the door slammed shut in his face.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Beauvoir. “But had to be done.”

As they walked to the car, Gamache thought about the look on Pauline Vachon’s face. That leer. Meant to be seductive, but there was, at its core, something cruel. Definitely something calculating. Though, just for a moment … And then it was gone.



* * *



“Homer?”

The voice of the elderly woman penetrated the closed door as Homer lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Working out how … Fortunately, there was no thought of trying to get away with it. No need.

He didn’t answer.

“It’s Ruth Zardo. We met at Clara’s home the other night. I know you’re there and can hear me. There’s something I want to say to you.”

What he heard then was a very soft murmur. It sounded like fuck, fuck.

He sat up in bed but didn’t open the door. He had no desire for company.

Undaunted, Ruth said her piece, then left.



* * *



“There,” said Isabelle Lacoste, dropping a pair of boots at Beauvoir’s feet with a thud.

“Been shoe shopping?” he asked, picking them up.

He’d left Gamache at his home and returned to the incident room. Now he held the boots at arm’s length, examining them.

They were olive green. Rubber. Lined with felt. And came up to the knees.

“A going-away gift for Paris?” he asked. “Too kind, my little cabbage.”

“More of that and you’ll find them up your ass.”

“Should the new head of organized crime be talking like that?” He smiled at her. “Congratulations. I’ve heard from other senior officers that you accepted the job.”

“Not quite yet,” she said. “Have to talk to my family. And you do know I won’t actually be heading up a crime family, right?”

“Merde, I thought we’d be getting free appliances for life.”

“Silly man. Free cheese, maybe.” She took a seat at her desk. “About the boots, I got them from Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. The Chief was right. According to Monsieur Béliveau, those’re the most common boot he sells. Everyone has a pair.”

“And why wouldn’t they? Very stylish.” Beauvoir dropped them to the floor. “Same ones as Tracey has, right?”

“Right. Same boots that made the print under Vivienne’s car. Same size. Ten. Even Chief Inspector Gamache has a pair.”

“Are you suggesting he’s a suspect?”

“Yes, yes I am,” she said with a patient smile. “You know what I’m saying.”

Jean-Guy did know. He picked up the boots again and examined them.

She was right, of course.

They were exactly like the ones that had made the boot prints under Vivienne’s car. Like the ones they’d found in Tracey’s home and used for evidence. Evidence now deemed poisonous fruit.

And, apparently, like the footwear everyone in rural Québec owned.

“I put them on,” Lacoste said, “and walked around in the snow and mud. Took pictures of the prints I made. The strange thing is, while those’re size-ten men’s, my feet are size seven.”

“Women’s.”

“Thank you. Yes. But because the rubber sole is so thick and the treads so deeply stamped, my boot prints look exactly like the ones under the car.”

“Exactly?” He turned the boots over. The treads were made from tough rubber, designed to insulate and grip. And not to wear down. So that the tread of a five-year-old boot would not be much different, if at all, from that of a brand-new one.

“I sent the pictures to the lab, and they’ll analyze them, but I couldn’t see a difference.”

“So—”

“So anyone could’ve made those boot prints under her car. A man, a woman—a child, even, I suppose.”

“This isn’t getting us closer to Tracey,” he said. “In fact, you’re making the defense’s case, if a case was still needed.”

“I know,” she said.

It didn’t have to have been a large man on that bridge. It could have been a smaller woman. And now that Beauvoir thought about it, the coroner had said that those handprints on Vivienne’s chest, bruises made in a shove, probably were made by a large man.