A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(73)

“Enough to charge her with being an accomplice,” said Beauvoir.

“Is it enough to arrest him for murder?” asked Cloutier.

“I doubt it,” said Lacoste, and she turned to Beauvoir. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s turning into a very strong circumstantial case. And that might be the best we can do. Any jury would be able to follow this evidence directly to Tracey. The admitted abuse, these photos and posts clearly showing he was having an affair, the fact, admitted here, that he packed her bag.” He stopped to think. “That might explain the summer clothes. He just took things at random or maybe took things he knew Vivienne wouldn’t miss.”

“To make it look like she’d decided to leave on her own,” said Cloutier.

“Tracey even told this Pauline that it was happening that night,” said Beauvoir. “Doesn’t get more incriminating than that, the dumb shit. Well done, Cloutier.”

“Merci.”

“Have you spoken to this Pauline Vachon?” asked Beauvoir.

“Non,” said Lacoste. “I wanted to see if there was more that Agent Cloutier could get out of her, posing as the gallery owner.”

Beauvoir was nodding. Considering.

He used to kid Gamache when he’d find him at his desk, staring into space. The Chief would patiently explain that being still and doing nothing were two different things.

Now Beauvoir stared into space while his mind worked.

This was no time for a misstep. It seemed Pauline Vachon was key. If they could get her to turn on Tracey, testify against him, in exchange for a deal, they had their case.

“Is he okay?” Cloutier whispered to Lacoste, who couldn’t suppress a smile.

“He’s thinking.”

“Looks like he has a headache.”

“Let me tell you,” said Beauvoir, slightly annoyed, “what I think might’ve happened that night.”

As he spoke, the others saw clearly what he was describing.

“Suppose Tracey beat Vivienne, maybe into unconsciousness, then went to get piss drunk before finishing her off. He might’ve even thought she was already dead. While he was gone, she came to and made those calls to Bertrand. Pleading for help. Maybe telling him to meet her on the bridge. Tracey hears and sees an opportunity. Much better than putting her body in the woods. He decides to follow her, with the duffel bag he’d packed. Once there, he pushes her off. Vivienne reaches out to stop herself, making that deep cut in her palm from the rotten wood. Then Tracey tosses the bag in after her and leaves. The heavy rain washes away all the footprints and tire marks.”

Done.

That was the scenario he’d take to the Crown Prosecutor when the time came. Unless something showed up to contradict it. Which he doubted.

“And Bertrand?” asked Lacoste.

“Doesn’t show up.” He nodded. It fit. “But let’s keep digging. I want to go for premeditation. Those posts prove first-degree, but I want more.”

He looked around the table.

Gamache nodded. He also wanted first-degree but felt somewhat comforted knowing if all else failed, they probably had enough circumstantial evidence right now to convict Tracey of manslaughter.

But still, a few things perplexed him.

“It’s strange that Madame Vachon would let you see those private messages,” he said, returning to the laptop. “Even if she didn’t know you’re with the S?reté.”

“She might’ve forgotten they were there,” said Lacoste. “And unless you knew they were planning a murder, you wouldn’t guess from those posts. On the surface, they could be about anything.”

“Oui,” said Gamache. “And that could be a problem.”

“One thing I don’t understand,” said Beauvoir, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table, “is how Tracey managed to send those messages if he doesn’t have internet at home.”

“You can log into an account from anywhere,” said Cloutier. “He must’ve been in town and used someone else’s device or an internet café. I’ll see if I can track down where they originated.”

Beauvoir paused to study the posts again.

Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise.

“I don’t want to blow this,” said Beauvoir. “It needs to stick.”

Lacoste was nodding. “It will.”

“On another issue, I’d like to release Monsieur Godin,” said Gamache.

“But,” said Cloutier, “won’t he—”

“Try to kill Tracey?” said Gamache. “Maybe. But I’m hoping we can convince him that an arrest is imminent. That putting Tracey through a trial and then in prison is far worse than killing him.”

“Would you?” Cloutier asked. “Be convinced?”

Gamache stared at her. She turned beet red and stammered an apology.

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s just that I know you have a daughter about Vivienne’s age, and I thought—”

“Don’t presume, Agent Cloutier,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically hard. Showing Lacoste and Beauvoir, who knew him well, that while Cloutier’s comment was inappropriate, she had indeed hit a nerve.

While they studied him, Gamache studied Agent Cloutier.