Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(126)

“So what went wrong?” Maureen Corriveau asked.

She needed all the details, not simply because it was her case, but because it was her career.

She’d received a phone call that morning, summoning her to the office of the Premier Ministre in Québec City next week. It was not, she knew, to congratulate her on her role in this.

Before she went, she needed to know what “this” was.

“Wait,” she said. “Let me guess. They didn’t realize Anton wasn’t there to wash dishes. He was in Three Pines to monitor the movement of drugs.”

“They had no idea who they were dealing with,” said Zalmanowitz.

“They were focused on the suicide of their friend. Nothing more,” said Gamache. “The private investigator hired by the family worked on it off and on for years, finally tracking him down at the home of Antonio Ruiz.”

“And this Ruiz, he’s also involved in organized crime?” asked Judge Corriveau.

“In Europe. He’s based in Spain,” said Gamache. “Though the courts can’t seem to convict him.”

“Another job for the cobrador,” said Zalmanowitz.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Judge Corriveau. “But the investigator didn’t know that Anton was related to Mom Boucher? Doesn’t seem possible to miss that.”

“It’s a common name,” said Gamache. “And the records had been deliberately obscured. We knew there had been corruption in the S?reté. Officials at all levels of the police, of government, were compromised. There was a reason we couldn’t get traction on fighting organized crime.”

“They were better organized,” said Beauvoir.

Corriveau smiled, then grew serious. “How did you know I wasn’t bought?”

“We didn’t. Frankly, we had to assume everyone was.”

They stared at each other, his eyes not quite so kindly.

“And the Crown?” she asked, turning to Monsieur Zalmanowitz.

“Our investigation showed the Crown’s office could have been compromised,” said Gamache.

Zalmanowitz turned to him. “You investigated me?”

“Of course we did. I had to be sure before approaching you.”

Now they were getting to it, Corriveau knew. The center, the core, of the issue.

“How did this”—she waved a finger between the two men—“come about?”

“I needed help,” said Gamache. “So I asked the Chief Crown for a meeting.”

“In Halifax,” said Zalmanowitz.

It took a lot to surprise Maureen Corriveau, but that did. “Nova Scotia?”

“Yes. We took separate flights and met at some dive on the waterfront,” said Zalmanowitz. “Though it did have great lemon meringue pie.”

“Really?” said Corriveau. “That’s what you remember?”

“It was very good,” said the Crown, smiling slightly at her annoyance. “I’ve never liked Monsieur Gamache. It’s not professional. It’s personal.”

“And it’s mutual,” said Gamache. “I considered him a preening coward—”

“And I think he’s an arrogant shithead. Désolé,” he said to Madame Gamache.

“But you both liked the pie,” she pointed out.

“As a matter of fact, it was the first thing we agreed on,” said Gamache, with a smile that threatened to split open his lip again. “I outlined what I was considering, and what would be necessary, and what I would need from him.”

“What did he need from you?” the judge asked the Crown.

“I think you know,” said Zalmanowitz.

“And I think you know that I need to hear it from you.”

“He asked that I suppress vital evidence that would compromise their investigation into the cartel. He needed the time and the distraction. He needed Anton Boucher to believe he was free and clear, and that the S?reté under Gamache’s leadership was incompetent.”

Barry Zalmanowitz sat back and placed his hands on the soft arms of the chair, much like Lincoln at the stone memorial.

“And I agreed.”

There. But unlike Abraham Lincoln, his was a self-assassination. And there would be no statues commemorating his service.

Barry Zalmanowitz knew that in cataloguing so clearly what he’d done, he was possibly placing himself in prison. Definitely ruining his career. Hurting his family.

But his actions had helped bring down the cartel. They’d finally broken the back of the traffickers. There was mopping up to be done, but the war on drugs had been won.

If he, and his career, and his name were casualties, well, people had suffered worse. And the fuckers who’d sold the drugs to his daughter wouldn’t ruin another young life.

Across from him, Gamache nodded, then did something that Zalmanowitz found unsettling.

He looked down at his hands, also bruised. A mark that looked like the sole of a boot clearly stamped across the swollen knuckles.

And Gamache sighed. Then he raised his eyes to Zalmanowitz and said, “Désolé.”

In the silence, the Crown could feel his cheeks tingling as they flushed, then went pale. As the blood rushed forward, then ran away.

“For what?” he asked quietly.