A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(68)

“But they’ll think I had something to do with this.”

“Names, please.”

Gerald Bertrand hesitated and, in doing so, moved up the suspect list. Carl Tracey still held the top spot and would be hard to tumble, but this anxious man was closing in.

He gave them some names and phone numbers.

“Please don’t get in touch with them, Monsieur Bertrand,” said Cloutier. “We can easily check up on your calls.”

By now Bertrand was sheet-white. He hugged the baby to him as though she were the one threatened.

Superintendent Lacoste considered the child.

No bruising. No sign at all of anything other than comfort and happiness.

This man might have been a threat to Vivienne Godin, but Lacoste was assured he was no threat to the baby.

“Merci, monsieur,” said Lacoste, giving him her card as they walked to the door. “We’re probably going to ask you for fingerprints and a blood sample—”

“Come on,” he said, clearly upset now. “Why? I had nothing to do with whatever happened. I don’t even know these people.”

“Then your prints and DNA will clear you,” said Lacoste.

Cloutier opened the door, and they stepped out.

“Did you know she was pregnant?” asked Lacoste.

“I didn’t know her,” he said, his voice plaintive. Then he paused, and his muscular shoulders sagged a bit. “She was pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“And someone killed her?”

“Yes.”

“The baby…?”

“Died, too.”

He covered Vendredi’s ears and said, “Goddamned fucking shit of a fucking horrible world.”

Then he uncovered his niece’s ears and kissed her. Gently.

“That’s either a really great guy,” said Cloutier, putting the car in gear, “or a monster.”

Lysette Cloutier never dreamed, while working in accounting, that it could be so difficult to tell the two apart. But it was.



* * *



As Beauvoir and Gamache slid into the booth at the café in Cowansville, Gamache’s phone rang. It was from the RCMP.

“Excuse me.” He slid back out and went outside to take the call.

“Armand?” came the familiar voice, shouting over a familiar noise. “Sorry, meant to get to you sooner, but I wanted to see it for myself.”

“Are you in a helicopter?”

“Oui. Over the La Grande-3 dam.”

One of the oldest, Gamache knew. If any dam was going to—

“We’ve opened the spillways,” the RCMP officer shouted above the rotors.

“And?” Gamache shouted back.

Inside the café, Beauvoir could hear Gamache’s voice through the window and saw him hunkered over, a hand covering his other ear, straining to hear whoever was on the other end.

“It seems to be working. Will let you know about the others.” Gamache heard him give muffled instructions to the pilot. “Call you back.”

“And the diversions farther south? Are they being dug?” Gamache shouted into the phone, but the connection had been broken.

Gamache hung up and exhaled. Closing his eyes for a moment. It just might work.

“What was that about?” Jean-Guy asked when he returned, but there was no chance for an answer.

Someone was walking toward them.

“Thank you for coming, Simone,” said Gamache, as the elegant woman in her early forties approached their booth. “I’m not sure you’ve met Chief Inspector Beauvoir. He’s the head of homicide for the S?reté. Jean-Guy, this’s Simone Fleury. She’s on the board of the Réseau de Violence Conjugale du Québec and runs the local women’s shelters. We’ve sat on several committees together.”

“Committees.” Madame Fleury made a dismissive, almost rude noise.

She looked at Beauvoir’s outstretched hand, ignored it, and sat down.

“Nothing’s changed. Women are beaten, women are killed. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“Oui,” said Beauvoir, dropping his hand and sitting down next to Gamache.

“I see you’re back at work, Armand.” Her voice was abrupt. There was a tone of displeasure and impatience. “Not everyone seems pleased.”

“I’m sure the vast majority are thrilled I’m back,” he said with a smile.

“They’re just too busy to mention it on Twitter, I suppose,” she said. “Though you do have one defender. A dumb-ass.”

Beauvoir looked at her with surprise. But Gamache just gave a small grunt of laughter. What Madame Fleury said next confirmed Beauvoir’s suspicions about her.

“Let’s get on with it.” She looked at her watch. “I have a hair appointment, then a luncheon.”

Rich. Bored. The kids gone, husband busy making more money. A do-gooder.

Simone Fleury regarded Beauvoir.

A bundle of coiled energy she found repulsive. Here was a young guy promoted beyond his competence. Just beginning to develop a paunch. Probably going to seed, she thought.

He was good-looking, clean, well groomed, but Madame Fleury had trained herself to look beyond what could be seen.

Probably went home and whaled on his wife when the Habs lost. Or after he’d had a few. Or just because.