Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(102)

Gamache nodded, taking it in before he spoke. “I think there’s more to it.”

“Maybe,” admitted Beauvoir, intensely uncomfortable under the gaze.

“I think you lost some respect for me today. I don’t think you believed I would actually do it. Lie under oath, under any circumstances. It breaks every law that you and I believe in. It makes me a hypocrite.”

Was that it? Beauvoir asked himself. Did that explain it? Because the truth was, he couldn’t really explain it to himself. Even saying he couldn’t watch Gamache destroy his career didn’t justify his leaving. The Chief Superintendent had never put career first.

So what was it?

And he knew, at that moment, that Gamache was right. He’d left because he couldn’t watch this fall from grace. This sullying of someone who’d always been a mentor, an example. Who’d stood by his principles, stood by the law when most others were bending it to their own benefit.

But today, Gamache had done the same thing. And not just bent it, but broke it.

He never really believed this man, of all people, would lie under oath. In a courtroom. For any reason. When it came down to it, Jean-Guy had seriously thought another solution would be found. The Mounties would miraculously appear and all would be well.

But instead, in that hellhole of a courtroom, Armand Gamache had perjured himself.

Gamache watched Jean-Guy, and knew he’d hit the target. He hadn’t wanted to, had hoped he was wrong. But he could see now that there was another victim, another body in the ruins.

The respect Jean-Guy had for him. Not the worst of the corpses, for sure, but there was no denying the pain it had caused. In Jean-Guy’s eyes, he was now corrupt. No different from so many other senior S?reté officers who’d sworn to uphold the law, but had broken it instead.

The fact the others had done it to amass fortunes, and Gamache had done it to bring the drug trade to its knees, did not really matter. The fact was, he’d proven himself no different from them.

Corruption starts small, often justifiable. A white lie. A minor law violated for the greater good. And then the corruption, like a virus, spreads.

“I hate to break it to you, Jean-Guy, but I crossed that line the first time I ordered that we step back and not make an arrest. I am being paid to uphold the law. It was an oath I’d taken, a duty entrusted to me. But I chose not to. Today, in court, I simply made my transgressions provable.”

“Does Judge Corriveau know? Is that why she called you into her chambers?”

“She suspects. She asked if the real murderer is still out there.”

“And what did you say?”

“I assured her that the defendant was the real murderer, but I’m not sure she believed it. She’s taking the night to think and will decide what to do about Monsieur Zalmanowitz and me in the morning.”

“But she let you go,” said Beauvoir, seeing what really mattered.

His brows drew together as he considered what the chief had said. He felt a heaviness in his chest. But then something occurred to him.

“If you crossed that line when you issued the orders, then I crossed it with you when I followed them.”

Gamache knew that was true, of course, but had chosen not to say anything. This night would be long enough, hard enough, without that weighing on Jean-Guy.

But the younger man had arrived there on his own. And now Gamache saw something unexpected. Far from adding to Beauvoir’s burden, he seemed lighter.

“I’m equally to blame,” Jean-Guy said, his face opening, the distress vanishing.

And Armand realized that the problem wasn’t so much that he’d fallen from grace in Beauvoir’s eyes, but that a chasm had opened up between them. But now they were at least in it together. The outhouse. The two-holer.

“We’re both in big shit.” Jean-Guy felt almost giddy with relief.

“Up to here.” Gamache lifted his hand over his head and returned to the bathroom to brush his hair, then came back, doing up his tie. “Everything’s ready?”

“Oui. Isabelle hasn’t called yet, but we need to be leaving now. The rest of the team’s getting their equipment together. I have your vest.”

“Merci.” Gamache went to his desk and, unlocking another drawer, he brought out his holster and gun and attached it to his belt before putting on his suit jacket. Rumpled, but dry at least.

The assault van would go down separately, and when it was dark the agents would get into position.

And wait.

He considered replacing the notebook and napkin in the drawer, and locking it. But realized it didn’t matter. And if something happened, and it all went south, the notebook would help investigators understand. If not agree.

The two men walked down the long corridor to the elevators. The gun felt uncomfortable, foreign, on the Chief Superintendent’s hip. He hated firearms. Their only purpose was to kill people. And he’d seen enough death to last many lifetimes.

“I should’ve stayed with you in the courtroom,” said Jean-Guy, as he punched the down button. Then he turned to Gamache. “Are we okay?”

“We were never not okay, Jean-Guy.” The elevator came and they got in. Just the two of them. “Did I ever tell you about my first tactical assault?”

“I don’t think so. You haven’t written a poem about it, have you?”