Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(15)

“You of all people should know that statistics,” Gamache nodded toward the file, “don’t tell the whole story.”

“Are you saying all this,” the Premier put his hand on the file, “is a lie?”

“Non, not a lie. But not the complete truth.”

“Are you running for office? What sort of gibberish is that? I’ve never heard you so evasive.”

He glared at Gamache, who stared back. But said nothing more.

“What are you up to, Armand? Dear God, don’t tell me Enquête was right.”

In the TV program they’d intimated, but never crossed the line of actual slander, that Gamache was either incompetent or, like his predecessors, in the employ of organized crime.

“No,” said Gamache. “I can see how they might come to that conclusion, or have that suspicion. But Enquête was not right.”

“Then what is? I’m begging you for an answer. Give me something. Anything. Other than this pile of shit.” He shoved the papers across his desk with such force they cascaded over the edge. “You’re deliberately putting up this mist of arrests that looks good, until someone realizes they’re minor. Until fucking Enquête realized that.”

“We are arresting murderers.”

“Well, congratulations on that,” said the Premier.

They’d known each other a long time. Since Gamache had been a junior agent and the Premier was articling in the legal aid office.

“They’re calling you the worst Chief Superintendent of the S?reté in a very long time. And that’s some bar to squeeze under.”

“It certainly is,” said Gamache. “But believe me, I am doing something. I really am.”

The Premier had held his gaze, searching for the lie.

Then Gamache bent down and picked the report off the floor. He handed it back to the Premier, who held the pile, which was heavy on statistics, and light on actual action.

“My own party is circling, smelling blood,” said the Premier. “Yours or mine. They don’t really care. But they want action, or a sacrifice. You have to do something, Armand. Give them what they want. What they deserve. A significant arrest.”

“I am doing something.”

“This”—the Premier laid his hand, with surprising gentleness, on top of the retrieved pages—“is not ‘something.’ Not even close. Please. I’m begging you.”

“And I’m begging you. Trust me,” said Armand quietly. “You have to get me across the finish line.”

“What does that mean?” the Premier had asked, also whispering.

“You know.”

And the Premier, who loved Québec but also loved power, blanched. Knowing he might have to give up one to preserve the other.

Armand Gamache looked at the good man in front of him and wondered which of them would survive the next few months. Weeks. Days. When the St.-Jean-Baptiste fireworks went off at the end of June, which of them would be standing there to see the skies lit up?

Which of them would still be standing?

Chief Superintendent Gamache had taken the train back to Montréal, walking from the station through the old city, to his office. A few heads turned as he passed, recognizing him from the unfortunately popular TV show that had aired the night before.

Or maybe they knew him from past appearances in the media.

Even before he was the most senior officer in the S?reté, Armand Gamache had been the most recognizable police officer in Québec.

But what had once been glances of recognition and even respect were now tinged, tainted, with suspicion. Even amusement. He was on the verge of becoming a joke.

But Armand Gamache could see beyond those looks, to the finish line.

*

That had been mid-June. A month earlier, almost to the day. Now Gamache glanced at the clock and stood.

“Time to get back to court.”

“How’s it going, patron?” asked Madeleine Toussaint, the head of Serious Crimes.

“As expected.”

“That bad?”

Gamache smiled. “That good.”

They locked eyes, and then she nodded.

“You have that report coming in from an informant on the Magdalen Islands,” he said. Trying not to sound too hopeful. Or was the word “desperate”?

She’d mentioned this in the meeting. There’d been interest, but nothing unusual. Only a handful of them understood just what that report might mean.

“Will you hear in time for the meeting at the end of the day?” Beauvoir asked.

“I hope. It all sorta depends on what happens at the trial, doesn’t it?” said Toussaint.

Gamache nodded. Yes. It did.

After Superintendent Toussaint returned to her office, Beauvoir and Chief Inspector Lacoste remained with Gamache.

“Speaking of the trial,” said Lacoste, gathering up her papers, “I’m not sure I’ve seen a prosecutor go after his own witness in such a way. And the judge sure hasn’t. She’s new to the bench, but not to be underestimated.”

“Non,” said Gamache, who’d noticed the sharp look in Judge Corriveau’s eye.

They walked the length of the corridor and the elevator arrived. Lacoste got off at her floor.

“Good luck,” she said to Gamache.