A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(52)

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Gamache pressed his lips together and gave a single curt nod. “You’re helping a murderer.”

“How?”

“By muddying the waters. By leaving questions unanswered. Questions we have to now take precious time investigating.”

“I have answered them.”

“But not truthfully.”

Gamache made a mental note to call the Alouettes organization and ask why they’d let Bob Cameron go. And why no other football team picked him up.



* * *



“May I go with him, sir?” Lysette Cloutier asked Chief Inspector Beauvoir.

He looked at her a moment. “Why?”

“Why? Because he’s my friend. He’s just lost his daughter.”

Beauvoir nodded. “Is it possible, Agent Cloutier, that you’re more than friends?”

“More…? Non. I care about him, but his wife was the one who was my friend. My best friend. I was maid of honor at their wedding.”

“When did she die?”

“Five years ago. Ovarian cancer.”

“I’m sorry.” He paused. “You’ve kept up a relationship with Monsieur Godin?”

“There is no relationship. Not in the way I think you mean. We’re old friends, that’s all.” On seeing Beauvoir’s skepticism, she pressed her lips together before nodding. “All right, you’re right. But my relationship isn’t with Homer, it’s with Vivienne. She was my goddaughter.”

She dropped her gaze and studied her muddy boots before lifting her head and looking him straight in the eyes. Perhaps, he thought, a little too straight.

“I should’ve told you sooner, but I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That you’d think I was too close. That you’d take me off the case.”

“You’re right. I probably would’ve.”

Cloutier shook her head. “I’ve screwed up everything. I promised Katherine I’d look after her daughter. Keep her safe. I made that promise at the baptism, and I made it again at her deathbed. I didn’t do a good job of it, did I? But what I can do now is help catch her killer. That’s all I want.”

“And Homer Godin?”

“What about him?”

“More than professional interest?”

“Of course not.”

“You took his hand.”

“I was trying to comfort him. Haven’t you ever held the hand of the mother, or father, of a murder victim? To console them?”

Beauvoir had to admit he never had.

He’d seen Chief Inspector Gamache do it.

And he himself had reached out, come within inches of that brute sorrow, but something stopped him every time.

They were different men, with different strengths. And maybe, he thought, that was one of the many reasons he was leaving the S?reté. Heading to Paris. He knew, deep down, that there was a level, deep down, he could never reach as an investigator.

While Jean-Guy Beauvoir explored the tangible, what could be touched, Armand Gamache explored what was felt. He went into that chaotic territory. Hunting. Searching. Tracking. Immersing himself in emotions until he found one so rancid it led to a killer.

Beauvoir stopped at the door. Gamache went through it.

Which wasn’t to say Beauvoir was insensitive to feelings. Watching Agent Cloutier, he’d picked up on hers.

There was something between her and Homer Godin, he was sure of it. Though he doubted Godin knew that. He wondered if Cloutier had even admitted it to herself.

“May I go with them, sir?” she asked again.

Beauvoir looked over at Homer. As though the day wasn’t bad enough, now he found himself alone in the back of a police car. While the man who killed his daughter was standing in the sunshine.

“Go.”

He might not be able to hold Homer’s hand, but he could offer comfort in other ways.



* * *



Clara, Myrna, and Ruth stepped back as the cop car passed them.

Ruth shook her head and looked over at Gamache and Beauvoir, conferring on the village green.

“Shouldn’t there be a third Stooge?” Just then another car arrived. “Never mind. Spoke too soon.”

Isabelle Lacoste got out and walked, limping slightly, over to her two colleagues.



* * *



“Was that Monsieur Godin in the back of the patrol car?” Lacoste asked. “Is he under arrest?”

Gamache explained to both of them what he’d done, and why.

“I know Reine-Marie won’t press charges. It was an accident. But maybe we can hold him long enough to collect evidence.”

“Against Tracey, oui,” said Beauvoir, glancing over his shoulder at the man lounging, like a reptile, in the early April sun.

He turned to Lacoste and Gamache. “Walk with me, please.”

Isabelle raised her brows in amusement and wondered if Gamache recognized those words. It was something he’d often said to them during murder investigations.

Now they fell into step and waited for Beauvoir to speak.

“What do you think?” he said.

“This one might be difficult,” said Lacoste. “Proving she was murdered.”