A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(66)

Things are strongest where they’re broken.

Gamache had said that, quietly, once. Years ago. In the cathedral in Québec City, at the funerals for four of his agents, killed in a raid. He’d whispered it to himself as he knelt, head bowed, during one of the silent prayers. Not realizing, perhaps, that anyone other than God was listening.

And God knew, as did Sharon Harris, that the relationship between Gamache and Beauvoir had been shattered, more than once. But it had survived to this day, stronger than ever.

She listened, and marveled, and envied this bond.

She also noticed that in each scenario they knew exactly who the murderer was. Which was a good start.

“Or,” said Gamache, “Vivienne did pack the bag, intending to leave her husband. She put the pills in because she was still undecided about the baby.”

“At more than three months out? Why would she decide to end the pregnancy now? I think protecting the baby was the reason she left him. Vivienne wanted to start a new life, with the child.”

“The problem is, we can’t always get clean away,” said Dr. Harris. “Not when we’re running from our demons.”

She knew. She was surrounded by their work every day.

Gamache nodded and caught Beauvoir’s eye.

They’d spent decades tracking the creatures. Into dark alleys. Into homes. Deep into lives. Often in the guise of friends, lovers, caring colleagues. Sometimes complete strangers. Sometimes they were of people’s own making.

Vivienne’s demon had found her on that bridge.

Though Gamache had never really doubted it, now, thanks to that long, jagged cut on her hand and the ghostly bruises, he was sure. Vivienne had been murdered.

And, what was more, he could put a face and a name to this particular demon.

Now they had to prove it.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


@CarlTracey: @NouveauGalerie, We have other more recent work. Would that help?

@NouveauGalerie: No. @CarlTracey, Moving on. But thank you.

In the car on the way over to Gerald Bertrand’s place, Isabelle Lacoste read the Instagram exchange between Pauline Vachon, pretending to be the artist, and Agent Cloutier, pretending to be the gallery owner.

It was true, she thought. Nothing, and no one, on social media was as they seemed.

Still, it looked as though Cloutier had been masterful in her manipulation. Turning Tracey down. Forcing Vachon to almost beg NouveauGalerie for attention.

Stringing Vachon along. Until she got exactly what she wanted.

When they pulled in to Gerald Bertrand’s driveway, Lacoste put away her phone and rang the bell.

“Gerald Bertrand?”

“Oui?”

“My name is Isabelle Lacoste. I’m with the S?reté du Québec. This is Agent Cloutier. May we come in?”

The man was young, perhaps early twenties. With the burly arms and torso of a fellow who did manual labor. There was about him a sort of cologne of testosterone.

His dark beard was bushy but groomed and his hair styled shorter to his head. His brown eyes were clear and bright, and he held, in his sturdy arms, an infant.

For an instant, Isabelle Lacoste forgot she was married. With two children. She hoped her mouth hadn’t dropped open, but she was pretty sure her eyes had widened.

Beside her, Lysette Cloutier was smiling. Grinning, really. Having lost both her heart and apparently her mind.

“The S?reté? What’s this about?” he asked.

“We need to speak with you about a homicide.”

“A murder? Here?”

He looked out the door and held his baby closer to his body, instinctively protecting her.

Cloutier swallowed whatever drool had pooled in her mouth.

“No, not right here,” said Lacoste, who’d recovered most of her wits. “May we come in?”

“Yes, sorry.”

He stepped back, and after removing their dirty boots, they followed him into the kitchen of the modest home.

He lived in a subdivision of Cowansville, in a cluster of bungalows exactly the same.

“Can you tell us about your relationship with Vivienne Godin?” Lacoste asked as she took the chair he’d indicated, the best one in the room, and leaned her cane against the arm.

Monsieur Bertrand had taken them to the back of the house, past the small front room normally used as a formal living room, but in this home it held workout equipment.

The kitchen opened to a sitting area with a sofa, two chairs, and a huge television on which cartoons were playing. A card table doubled as a dining table, though Lacoste doubted there’d been many, if any, dinner parties there.

Dishes were piled in the sink, and a near-empty baby bottle was on the counter.

The place was messy, but not, Lacoste could see, dirty.

“Don’t tell my sister,” he said as he muted the sound.

“I’m afraid I can’t promise that,” said Lacoste. “It’s very serious. We might have to talk with her, too.”

“Really? Well, I can tell you now that she doesn’t approve.”

“Few would.”

“It’s not really that bad, is it?”

It was about here that Isabelle Lacoste began to suspect they were discussing two different things.

“What isn’t?” she asked.

“Television. Vendredi likes Babar, so I put it on when Pam isn’t around.”