Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(108)

Gamache and Lacoste watched as the person went directly toward the B&B.

And then kept going.

To the Gamaches’ home.

Armand scooped up Gracie and walked swiftly in that direction. Henri ran right past them, straight for the dark figure, now on the Gamaches’ porch.

The person stopped dead when confronted with the German shepherd. Either not noticing the furiously wagging tail and ball in his mouth, or not wanting to risk it.

Gamache arrived a moment later and, taking the visitor by the arm, he turned him to face the light.

Staring for just a moment, Gamache said, “You have something to tell us?”

“I do,” said Jacqueline. “I’ve come to confess.”

*

Isabelle Lacoste turned from watching Olivier, mixing a pitcher of sangria at the bar, to look out the window.

Lea Roux, in sundress and sandals, and Matheo Bissonette, in slacks and light shirt, were walking down the wide steps of the porch at the B&B, and heading in their direction.

“Were they expected?” she asked.

“Non. They called late this afternoon and just arrived.”

The two guests by the hearth, an older and a younger man, were again glancing in her direction. Anton had probably told them that she was the head of homicide for the S?reté. That always brought stares.

Once again she raised her glass to them, and when they lifted theirs in a salute, she took a sip, hoping they couldn’t see from across the room that the liquid only went as far as her lips. But not through them.

But Olivier saw. And frowned. And said nothing.

Lacoste turned away and leaned against the bar. Casually looking out the mullioned window at the pleasant gardens in full bloom.

Her face was placid, even slightly vacant, but her mind was racing.

When Olivier left to take the sangria to a table, she leaned across the bar and took another licorice pipe from the jar. The older man saw this and raised his brows.

Lacoste grinned and put a finger to her lips. He smiled and nodded.

Then she left the bar and walked to the bathrooms, carefully palming the handset she’d taken from behind the bar.





CHAPTER 31

Gamache and Beauvoir were more than halfway to their destination, and still no word from Lacoste.

But they had received a text from Superintendent Toussaint.

The equipment was assembled, the van was loaded. The assault team was ready.

“If we don’t hear otherwise,” Toussaint wrote, “we’ll leave Montréal in ten minutes and get into position before nightfall.”

“Merde,” wrote Gamache. The Québécois equivalent of “good luck,” and an internal S?reté signal that all was proceeding well.

“Merde,” she replied. And went silent.

They wouldn’t see each other again until the action was under way.

Gamache looked at the dashboard clock. Six thirty. It would be dark by eight thirty. Superintendent Toussaint had timed it perfectly.

“What’s keeping her?” Jean-Guy asked, as he drove.

The “her” he meant was obvious.

“I don’t know.”

Picking up his iPhone, Gamache called home. And let it ring. And ring. Until he heard Reine-Marie’s recorded voice.

He left a cheerful message, saying he was on his way and that Jean-Guy was with him.

“No answer?” said Jean-Guy. “She’s probably at Clara’s or Myrna’s.”

“Probably.”

*

Once in the bathroom, Lacoste locked the door and hit the green talk button. Hoping, hoping the old handset signal reached that far.

She heard a dial tone and quickly punched in numbers.

“Chief?” she whispered when he picked up after half a ring.

“Isabelle, where’ve you been?”

“I couldn’t get away until now. I’m in the bistro. He’s here.”

“Who is?”

“The head of the cartel. Here in Three Pines.”

“We know that,” came Beauvoir’s voice over the speaker. “That’s why you’re there, right? To monitor.”

“No. I mean the American cartel.”

Gamache and Beauvoir looked at each other.

“Are you sure?” asked Gamache.

From anyone else, in any other circumstances, Lacoste would have been annoyed. But she understood his need to be absolutely clear.

“Yes. The American cartel.” The insistence in her voice made it sound like a hiss.

“Shit,” said Beauvoir. “Did he recognize you?”

“I don’t know. The other man with him, his bodyguard or counselor, kept staring. I think Anton told him who I am.”

“Fucking great,” said Beauvoir.

“But I made sure to order a drink and even waved at him.”

“Waved? You waved at the head of the drug cartel?” demanded Beauvoir.

“Well, I didn’t wave my gun,” she said. “I wanted him to know I’d seen him, and clearly had absolutely no idea who he was. It was a friendly little gesture. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”

Gamache nodded slowly. Few people had the presence of mind, the poise of Lacoste. It was exactly the right thing to do. And if the U.S. cartel had any doubts about the incompetence of the S?reté, that would surely put them to rest. A senior officer not recognizing one of the top criminals in North America.