A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(72)

“The other thing is the baby,” said Lacoste. “He was looking after his niece until six on Saturday night. Not much time to meet Vivienne on the bridge and get home before his friends arrived.”

“You don’t think it was him, do you?” said Beauvoir, sitting back in his chair and taking a large bite of the sandwich.

“No,” admitted Lacoste. “I think logistically it would’ve been tough, but I also believe he’s telling the truth. I saw him with his niece. He likes kids. I think if his lover had told him she was pregnant, he might not have been thrilled, but he wouldn’t have killed her and the baby.”

Gamache looked at Beauvoir to continue the questioning but saw he was struggling to chew the sandwich, his mouth apparently glued almost shut.

“So the other possibility is that he was telling the truth,” said Gamache, picking up the mantle. “He didn’t know her. Which means Vivienne was calling the wrong number. But over and over?”

“Looks like it.”

“I wonder who she was trying to call?” he said. “They were made in a cluster, right? At six fifteen.”

“Starting then. There were four calls over ten minutes. All to Bertrand’s number.”

“Strange to have called the same wrong number over and over,” said Gamache. “Once, maybe, if you hit the wrong button. We’ve all done it. But to make the same mistake over and over? Even if disoriented you’d think she’d hit different numbers.”

“What do you think it means?” asked Lacoste.

Once again Gamache looked at Beauvoir, who was now regretting not the sandwich itself but taking such a huge bite. Jean-Guy chewed more vigorously and gestured to Gamache to continue.

“I think,” he said, “that Vivienne was given a number to call but had written it down wrong. So while she was dialing correctly, she didn’t realize she was calling the wrong number. Was there a piece of paper found on her body, with a number?”

“No,” said Lacoste. “In her wallet we found paper, but it was wet through. Disintegrated.”

“Nothing legible?”

“No.”

“But that explains why she kept making the same mistake,” said Cloutier, nodding. “She wrote it down wrong and didn’t realize that. So who did she think she was calling?”

“I’m not willing to give up on Bertrand yet,” said Beauvoir, finally swallowing. “What you say is true. She can’t have made exactly the same mistake over and over. So maybe it wasn’t a mistake at all. She meant to call Bertrand and did. We have no idea what she actually said to him. Someone met her on that bridge, and she’d have had to arrange it. I think he’s lying. I’ll put an agent on his place.”

“There is something else,” said Lacoste. “Something Agent Cloutier here discovered.”

She turned, like a proud parent, to the older woman.

This was the accountant’s moment to shine. Lysette Cloutier gathered her notes.

“Vivienne Godin might be having an affair, but her husband certainly was.”

“How do you know?” asked Beauvoir.

“The internet,” said Cloutier.

“Wikipedia?” asked Beauvoir, half joking, half dreading the answer.

“Non,” laughed Cloutier. “Google.”

Beauvoir opened his mouth, but Lacoste jumped in. “Let her explain.”

“Since Tracey doesn’t have internet at home,” said Cloutier, “but does have a website and a social-media presence, it seemed pretty obvious someone was doing it for him, so I tracked down the IP address and found her. I then went onto his public Instagram account and convinced her to give me access to their private account.”

“How did you do that?” asked Beauvoir.

“I set up a dummy website and Instagram account. NouveauGalerie. Said I was a gallery owner looking for new artists. I needed to communicate in private and to see more of Carl Tracey’s work.”

“So she gave you access to their private account, not knowing who you were?” said Gamache.

“Smart,” said Beauvoir.

“Merci.” She smiled and looked at Isabelle Lacoste, who nodded encouragement. “This’s what I found.”

She turned her laptop around for Beauvoir and Gamache to see the photos of Tracey and Vachon together. It was obvious they were lovers.

They scrolled through the pictures and read the private messages between Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon.

“Look at this one,” said Cloutier. “She’s a drunken slut. You deserve better. That’s from Pauline. Pretty clear.”

“Of an affair,” said Gamache. “Maybe. But murder?”

“Look here, patron,” said Lacoste. “On the day of the murder.”

Both Beauvoir and Gamache leaned closer to the laptop as she found the posts sent Saturday around midday.

Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise. That from Carl Tracey.

And Pauline Vachon’s reply: Finally. Good luck. Don’t mess it up.

Beauvoir sat back and exhaled. “I promise. Jesus. So this Vachon was in on it.”

“More than that,” said Lacoste. “I think it was her idea.”

“Well, her encouragement anyway,” said Gamache.