Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(88)

Of the robed figure looming. Masked. Still. Staring. Standing on the pretty village green.

The devil among us. Maybe it wasn’t such a ludicrous thing to say after all.

Judge Corriveau was quiet for a moment, then her brows drew together and she shook her head.

“You’re still not telling me how you found it. The cartel and the person who runs it. And what this has to do with the trial.” Then her face opened in surprise. “The defendant? You’re not telling me the defendant is the head of the drug cartel?” Her mind raced. “But the charge is murder, not trafficking. The killing of Katie Evans. Does the defendant know that you know the rest? Wait a minute…”

Why were the two of them in this, whatever “this” was, together? The cop and the Crown?

It was Chief Superintendent Gamache’s idea, his plan. Why did he have to involve the Crown? Why did he need Barry Zalmanowitz?

And if the defendant really was the head of the cartel, why would the Chief Superintendent of the S?reté hide that fact? Surely arresting Québec’s equivalent of a drug lord would be reason to celebrate. Especially when the government, the press, members of his own force were accusing the S?reté, accusing Gamache, of incompetence.

The S?reté had become a national shame. An embarrassment.

Surely this would be vindication, something to be shouted from the rooftops. A great victory.

But instead, there was this quiet conspiracy between two men who didn’t even like each other.

Why?

Because … because … Judge Corriveau slowed down her racing mind, and stepped from logic to logic.

Chief Superintendent Gamache needed the Crown’s help. His collusion.

And there was only one thing the Chief Crown could bring to the table.

The charges.

“You don’t want the defendant to know that you know,” she said. “So you trumped up these charges to buy time.” She glared at Gamache. “You’ve intentionally arrested the wrong person for the murder of Katie Evans, to get them off the street while you collect evidence.” Then her eyes swung over to Zalmanowitz. “And you’re trying someone for a murder you know they didn’t commit. Not this murder anyway.” She glared at them. “Which means the person who really killed Katie Evans is still out there.”

Her eyes narrowed, studying the men.

She looked from Gamache to Zalmanowitz.

The Crown, while an effective prosecutor, would never make it as a professional poker player.

He blinked.

And she turned back to Gamache, who would have made a fortune on that circuit.

“No, no,” she murmured. “That’s not it, is it? I’ve missed something. There’s more to it than that. Tell me, now.”

Gamache was silent.

“You came in here knowing you would, Chief Superintendent. No more bullshit. I’m hot and tired and now I’m afraid. It’s not a pleasant combination. For me. Or for you.”

Gamache gave a decisive nod, then looked toward the pitcher of water, ice now melted, on a tray on the sideboard.

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

He got up and poured them each a tall glass before sitting down and drinking his all in one go. He was parched but, more than that, the gesture gave him the chance to look at his watch without being noticed.

Four fifteen. The court had adjourned early. He glanced outside. The sun was still a good way up in the sky.

And while it was up, the new shipment would remain in Québec. But he knew that as the sun approached the horizon, the opioid would approach the border.

Still, he had time. Just.

“On the day the body of Katie Evans was discovered in the root cellar, I was having lunch with Superintendent Toussaint in Montréal. She’s the head of Serious Crimes.”

“I know her, oui,” said the judge.

“I was new to the job, and so was she,” Gamache continued. “We were going over our notes, the mess we’d inherited. We both knew then, of course, that the drug situation was out of control. And, frankly, beyond our control. We were tossing around ideas on what to do. None of them, honestly, useful or effective. We agreed that we had to try something new. Something bold and unexpected. And then Superintendent Toussaint said something, she used an expression. A cliché, really. Burn our ships.”

He looked at Judge Corriveau to see if it meant anything to her.

She was listening closely. The phrase was familiar, but without import.

“It means doing something from which there is no return,” he said.

“I know what it means, Monsieur Gamache.”

But he let it sink in. Everyone knew what it meant. But did they really, really, know what it meant?

To her credit, he could see the judge thinking more about it. Looking beyond the cliché, beyond the words, to the action it implied.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Going after all crime, everywhere, wasn’t working. That much was obvious. So if that wasn’t working, what would?”

She remained still. It was clearly a question she couldn’t answer, nor was he expecting her to.

“Focusing,” he said. “Specializing. I thought about choosing two or three areas to crack down on, ones that were particularly out of control. But that would’ve been a half measure. It would’ve been like burning half our ships. We had to burn them all.”