A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(64)

“But what?” asked Dr. Harris.

Gamache nodded to Beauvoir, inviting the lead investigator to explain.

“A clever defense would still argue that she might’ve tripped. She was drinking, after all. She might’ve just lost her balance and fallen backward. Or she might’ve been leaning against the rail and it broke.”

“That I can refute,” said the coroner. “By the angle of the cut, she was at least two feet from it when she reached back and fell—”

“Or was pushed,” said Beauvoir.

“—against it. And yes, she was trying to save herself. So you can rule out suicide at least.”

Gamache exhaled.

It was far from the first time he’d stood over the corpse of a woman who’d been punched and kicked, belittled and shamed and pushed to the end of her rope. And beyond.

Vivienne Godin, it seemed, had reached the end and had made a choice that cold and dark April night. She’d chosen life. For herself and her baby girl.

Le beau risque. The great risk. The beautiful risk. To climb out of the hole and start again.

Like Annie and Jean-Guy, heading to Paris with their young and growing family. Away from the dangers here. To start fresh.

But while they could escape, Vivienne could not.

Once again, Gamache felt the tightening in his stomach.



* * *



Isabelle Lacoste stood in the doorway of the Cowansville detachment, leaning on her cane. And looked around the open room.

“She’s over there,” said the receptionist, waving toward Agent Cloutier, working at her laptop.

“Merci.”

But the receptionist had already left.

Heads turned as she limped through the room. There was about her an air of ease and confidence. This stranger who belonged.

Then, one by one, they realized this was no stranger. Though most had never met Superintendent Lacoste, they knew her by reputation. Knew what she’d done. And what had, as a result, been done to her. The cane being only the most visible sign.

“Superintendent,” said one young agent, getting up to stand at his desk.

“Bonjour,” said Lacoste, not bothering to correct him and explain she was on leave. Though the rank still held.

“Agent Cloutier,” said Lacoste as she approached the desk.

Lysette Cloutier gave a start and looked up into the familiar face. Then she quickly stood up, smiling.

“Patron. I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you’d be with the Chief Inspector. Sssss.”

Lacoste laughed. With more than one, the grammar became problematic.

“I’ve struck out on my own,” she said. “Are you free?”

“For sure. Do you need my help?”

“You seem to be working on something.”

“I traced the IP address for Carl Tracey’s website. It’s through a local server, and the billing address is a home here in Cowansville, registered in the tax rolls to the same woman I told you about last night. Pauline Vachon.”

Lacoste was slightly surprised Lysette Cloutier could remember anything from their call the night before.

“So that confirms it,” she said, taking a seat. “And we have an address. Well done.”

The website was on Cloutier’s laptop, and Lacoste scrolled through. It showed a man bending over a wheel, intent on the lump of clay he was forming. Down the sides of the page, there were photographs of different works.

“Huh,” said Lacoste. “Quite nice.”

“Yes. He’s talented.” Cloutier would give him that. “Then I went onto the Instagram account and looked around. Not particularly interesting. Just what they want us to see.”

“Yes,” said Lacoste, cautious now. “We talked about this, too, last night. I told you not to do anything else. We don’t want to alert them that the police are interested in any possible private account.”

“Right, well, we’re in.”

“In where? In what?”

“Their private Instagram account.” Cloutier was beaming.

Lacoste was not.

“What’ve you done?”

“I asked if we could communicate privately, and she gave me access.”

“To a cop?”

“Well, not exactly. Like you said, we didn’t want her erasing anything that could be evidence, so I pretended I was someone else.”

“Who?”

Now Lysette Cloutier clicked again, and another website came up. An art gallery in Old Montréal called NouveauGalerie. Specializing in modern Québécois art.

It was a slick, minimalist site. Very cool.

“Who’re they?” Lacoste asked.

“They’re me. I created it.”

“Wait a minute,” said Lacoste, trying to keep up. “You’re pretending to be this NouveauGalerie?”

“Oui. I showed interest in his work, asked to speak privately. After refusing a few times, this Pauline finally give me access to their private Instagram account.”

“Why would she do that?”

“So we can discuss business,” said Cloutier. Her tone said that must be obvious.

“Why wouldn’t she just pick up the phone?”

“Phone? Young people don’t talk on phones. Everything’s done through texts and social media. And with the private Instagram account, she can show galleries—me—” said Cloutier with a smile, “works in progress. Things they might not want public yet. Besides, she’s trying to pretend she’s Carl Tracey. God knows, you don’t want that asshole talking to galleries.”