A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(88)

“You should’ve seen her face,” said Cloutier.

Lacoste nodded. “She admits she used the abortion drug herself and was the one who told Carl Tracey how to get it on the black market.”

How Lacoste got the young woman to admit to a third abortion, never mind buying the black-market drug, still amazed Cloutier. It had been a masterful combination of guile, of guesswork, of knowing when to push and when to make nice. Until Vachon had nowhere to go but the truth.

Cloutier was looking at Lacoste with something close to awe. But there was caution there as well. She did not want to make the same mistake as Vachon.

Whether by natural instinct or honed skills, Isabelle Lacoste had the power to see things people wanted to hide.

And they all had them, as Lysette Cloutier knew only too well.

But while Cloutier was focused on Lacoste, Lacoste was focused on Beauvoir.

“What is it?”

He told them about the video.

Before Lacoste could react, the door opened and Gamache stepped out. He was pale but composed.

Every agent in the open room looked over at him.

They’d all read the Twitter feed and seen the doctored video that was blowing up online. They had yet to see the real video that had just been posted.

“What can we do, patron?” Lacoste asked, going to him and touching his hand.

“There’s nothing to be done. Mais merci, Isabelle. I’ve spoken to the families.” His smile was tight and his voice brisk. “How did the interview go with Pauline Vachon?”

As they returned to the meeting room to talk privately, both Lacoste and Beauvoir noticed that Gamache’s right hand was closed into a tight fist. But still it trembled.



* * *



They watched on the monitor as Pauline Vachon turned the folder around and went through the photographs and printouts.

Then she sat back in her chair. And stared at the far wall.

Seeing, Lacoste knew, all her work, all her dreams, dissolving.

Then Beauvoir closed the feed on his laptop and turned to Lacoste.

“Tell us what happened.”

When Lacoste finished, Beauvoir thought for a moment. “She’ll crack.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Lacoste. “She’s clever and she’s tough. Makes me so angry. She really could’ve made something of her life. I still don’t know why she’d hook up with Carl Tracey.”

“She saw a shortcut,” said Beauvoir.

“To what? An abusive relationship in a remote farmhouse? Not exactly Cinderella.”

“She probably thought she was smarter, tougher than Vivienne Godin,” said Beauvoir. “That she could control Tracey.”

“We saw the bruises on her arms,” said Cloutier. “She must know.”

“Maybe she does. Maybe it’s the cycle of abuse, right, patron?” said Beauvoir, and Gamache nodded.

Beauvoir and Lacoste exchanged glances but said nothing. They’d give him time, and space, to return to them.

Beauvoir sat forward, his voice all business. “The coroner’s report came in. The fetus, a baby girl, was his.”

“His who?” asked Lacoste, needing to be absolutely clear.

“Carl Tracey. The baby was his.”

“You’re kidding.” It was, of course, rhetorical. Isabelle Lacoste sat back in her chair. What did this mean?

“Do you think Vivienne knew this and was messing with Carl when she told him it wasn’t his?” she asked. “Or did Vivienne really believe the baby was someone else’s?”

“We only have Tracey’s word on it that she said anything,” Beauvoir pointed out. “I think that’s bullshit. Her father said she was desperate to get out as soon as she could, that day. Why would she provoke Tracey by saying anything?”

“What did Pauline Vachon say about the messages on the private Instagram?” Gamache asked, speaking for the first time in the meeting. “How did she explain them?”

“Said they were about clay he was buying.”

Gamache frowned. “Smart. She’s quick on her feet.”

“She is that,” agreed Lacoste. “This might not be as easy as we’d hoped.”

“But she must know no one in their right mind would believe that,” said Beauvoir. “Not after what happened.”

“Do you get the impression she cares for Tracey?” Gamache asked.

“Not especially,” said Lacoste. “I think she has sex with him for the same reason she has sex with so many other men. It’s a form of self-loathing.”

“What role do you think she has in all this?” Gamache asked.

“I don’t know, but I can tell you she’s involved. And she knows we know.”

“What do you think would happen if you told her the baby was Tracey’s?” Beauvoir asked.

Lacoste considered that.

“It’d be a surprise. A shock. Not because she loves Tracey, but it would prove to her that he lied about that. He can’t be trusted.”

“Exactly,” said Beauvoir, sitting forward. “She’s smart. She must realize that he’d blame the killing on her in a second if he was cornered.”

“So we need to press that home,” said Lacoste. “She must be thinking about it even now. This information about the fetus might be just that last shove we need.”