A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(20)

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At S?reté headquarters, Jean-Guy Beauvoir hung up and quickly made out a warrant request, then put in a call to a judge.

“Yes, Your Honor, we need it immediately. Chief Inspector Ga mache is on-site and waiting. A woman is missing and perhaps murdered by her husband. I’m sending the request now.”

He hit the send key. “Please let me know.”

Then he hung up and looked out the window.

The rain had begun. It was pissing April showers.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Gamache handed the phone back to Tracey, with a smile. “Merci. Most helpful.”

“What the fuck was that?”

“You heard, Mr. Tracey. In a few minutes, that phone will ring again. It’ll be about a warrant to search your property. Best to answer it. Let’s go into your house, and while we wait for the call confirming the search warrant, you can answer some questions.”

Tracey’s face hardened. He looked like an obstinate child.

“Or not,” said Gamache pleasantly. “But we’re cold and wet and would appreciate your cooperation.”

He could almost hear Cameron and Cloutier gagging at his courteous tone.

Tracey, it seemed, had gotten the point. He gestured for them to follow.

The mud had hardened onto their coats and pant legs and boots. They looked and felt like Québec’s version of the Terra-Cotta Warriors. The S?reté officers took off their coats and boots, leaving them on the porch. But they couldn’t very well remove their wet and filthy slacks.

Tracey had no such hesitation about trailing muck through his house and had kept his rubber boots on.

It was hot in the home, almost stifling. An elderly mutt lay by the woodstove in the kitchen.

“Beer walk soon,” said Tracey, gesturing toward the dog.

Gamache knew what that meant, though the others did not. He looked past the gray muzzle into the tired old eyes and thought of the walk into the woods, with the rifle.

And wondered if the same fate had befallen the dog’s mistress.

Dishes, pots, and pans were piled into and out of the sink. The place stank of grease and rotting food. Booze and old dog and cigarettes. The smell was almost overpowering.

Gamache took a deep breath through his nose. Wondering if, in the sweltering heat, he could pick up another scent.

Something familiar. Something unmistakable. Something far worse.

But he could not. It was, perhaps, masked by the other rotting odors. But he doubted it. There was really no masking that one putrid stench.

The three S?reté officers had joined Tracey at the Formica kitchen table. Tracey lit a cigarette while Cloutier and Cameron waited for Gamache to do something.

But he was doing something. Armand Gamache was listening.

For a sound, however remote, telling him that there was someone else in the home. A tapping. A muffled call.

Anything.

But there was only silence.

Finally he said, “Monsieur Tracey, you say your wife isn’t here. Do you know where she is?”

Cloutier had brought out her iPhone and was recording everything.

“I already told you cops. All I know is when I woke up yesterday morning, she was gone. No note, no nothin’.”

“Any ideas?”

Tracey laughed. “She could be anywhere. On a bender. Shacked up with some guy. I’ll tell you, when she comes back—”

He remembered, too late, who he was talking to.

“Yes?” said Gamache. “Go on.”

“Nothin’.”

Armand Gamache had looked across lots of tables, at lots of murderers. He didn’t kid himself that he had, even after all these years, some sort of special talent. To spot a killer.

He didn’t really know if he was looking at one now. But he found himself increasingly repulsed by Carl Tracey.

“We understand from Vivienne’s father that she’s pregnant.”

“Yeah. Who knows who knocked her up? Doubt it’s mine. And if she thinks I’m going to raise the bastard, she has another thing coming.”

“And what would she have coming?” asked Gamache.

Tracey smirked. “How would you feel if your wife screwed another man and got pregnant?”

Gamache raised his chin and stared at Tracey.

And Carl Tracey stared back across the table into those calm, focused eyes and knew that while that shot had missed, this S?reté officer was human. And therefore vulnerable. And he’d find that chink eventually.

“Aren’t you worried at all about her?” asked Agent Cloutier.

Tracey took his eyes from Gamache and shifted to the woman cop. “Why should I be? Look, like I said, she’s probably just taken off, and when that guy gets tired of her, she’ll come back. I don’t even know why it’s any of your business.”

Just then the phone rang.

“You might as well answer it,” said Tracey. “It’s for you.”

Gamache clicked it on, but before he could say anything, he was met with a torrent of abuse. Culminating in the man shouting, “Where’s my daughter? If you don’t tell me, I’m coming down, and I’m going to beat it out of you. You understand?”

Everyone in the room heard the voice, and Gamache could see Tracey looking triumphant.