by Louise Penny
“Are you seriously suggesting that Carl Tracey did not kill his wife?” asked Zalmanowitz. “But that this Gerald Bertrand did?”
“Non,” admitted Gamache. “I’m just following possibilities. Things any defense would throw out there. I have no doubt that Tracey is the murderer, but there are questions.”
Zalmanowitz was quiet, lost in thought, then looked at Gamache again. “Was he afraid?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Tracey. When you first went there to interview him about his missing wife. You said he was belligerent. But did he seem nervous? Afraid?”
Gamache thought, then shook his head. “No. Nor did he seem concerned that his wife was missing, as any normal husband would be.”
“Or any husband smart enough to pretend,” said Lacoste.
“We’re just running in place,” said Zalmanowitz. “Going back over crumbs and trying to assemble a banquet. The only thing we know for sure, besides that Vivienne was killed, is that she called her father that morning, then made four calls to what might, or might not, be a wrong number. Shit.”
He threw down his pen. “All of this could’ve been avoided if she’d just asked her father to come get her. He’s clearly the sort who could hold his own in a fight and would move heaven and earth to rescue her. And he sure wouldn’t shy away from beating the shit out of her abusive husband. We saw that today.”
As Zalmanowitz spoke, he continued to look at Gamache.
“He reminds me a bit of you, Armand. You have a daughter about Vivienne’s age, don’t you?”
“Annie, oui.”
“What would you do if you knew her husband was abusing her?”
Armand raised his brows at Jean-Guy. Barry Zalmanowitz had obviously forgotten, or didn’t know, that they were married.
“I think it’s best if I didn’t answer that.” Then he grew serious. “What I can tell you is that Homer Godin confronted Tracey several times, but when it came down to it, Vivienne always intervened and denied abuse. It’s not clear if she was trying to protect her husband or her father. Or, most likely, was afraid of another beating. Eventually Tracey isolated her, as abusers often do, refusing to allow Homer to visit. Refusing to allow Vivienne to visit him.”
“In his statement, Tracey says it was Vivienne who didn’t want to see her father,” said Zalmanowitz.
“That’s clearly a lie,” said Beauvoir.
“Obviously, but there’s no one except Homer to contradict him,” said Zalmanowitz. “And unfortunately, any statement by him could be seen as colored by animus.”
“There is Lysette Cloutier,” said Lacoste.
“Who?” asked Zalmanowitz. “Her name sounds familiar.”
“It would. She’s the Sûreté agent who posed as NouveauGalerie,” said Lacoste. “She’s an old friend of the Godin family. It’s because of her that we got onto Vivienne being missing. Homer had asked for her help.”
“They’re friends?” asked Zalmanowitz.
“She was best friends with Homer’s late wife,” Lacoste explained. “They stayed in touch.”
“And she’s Vivienne’s godmother,” said Gamache. “There seem to be feelings there, between Agent Cloutier and Monsieur Godin. At least on Cloutier’s part. It’s unclear how Homer feels.”
“Hmmm,” said Zalmanowitz. “Might be worth seeing if she can add anything.”
“I think if she could’ve added something, she would’ve,” said Lacoste. “But I’ll ask.”
Again they all recognized it for what it was. Desperation.
“Any word from the hospital on Godin’s condition?” Zalmanowitz asked.
“There’s no concussion,” said Gamache. “They’re releasing him soon.”
“Good about the concussion thing, but now what? You know he’ll try to—”
“Yes, we know,” said Beauvoir with a sigh. That seemed to be the only thing they did know. “I’ve put an agent on Tracey. To protect him.”
He actually felt his stomach sour as he said it. But he also remembered what Tracey had said in the interview room while looking directly at Gamache.
“There’s a restraining order on Godin, is that right?” asked Beauvoir. “Keeping him away from Tracey.”
“Yes,” said Zalmanowitz. “It was issued after that fracas in the courtroom.”
“I’d like one put on Carl Tracey as well,” said Beauvoir. “Keeping him a distance from Godin and from Three Pines.”
“Three Pines? Your village, Armand?” Zalmanowitz had been taking notes. Now he looked up at the man.
“Oui,” said Gamache. “I doubt he was serious, but he threatened my wife.”
“Really? Jesus, he is stupid. Is it enough to arrest him?”
“Non. It was vague,” said Gamache.
“He said he wouldn’t kill his own wife, but someone else’s…” said Beauvoir, using the same upward inflection Tracey had used. “He was looking at Monsieur Gamache as he spoke.”
“I see. I’ll apply for a restraining order against Tracey.” Zalmanowitz made a note. “But we all know if someone really wants to do harm, a piece of paper won’t stop them.”
But a baseball bat … thought Gamache.
“I take it Godin will be returning home?” said Zalmanowitz.
“I’ve asked the agents to bring him back to Three Pines,” said Gamache. “He can stay with us.”
“And if he doesn’t want to? You can’t force him, Armand,” said Zalmanowitz.
“Since when was it against the law to imprison another human being?” asked Armand. “Oh, wait. I do remember something from my training.”
Lacoste laughed, and Zalmanowitz smiled.
“Okay, I get it. You know what you’re doing. But you can’t keep him there, even with his consent, forever. He’ll want to leave eventually. And I doubt time will blunt his desire to kill the man who killed his daughter.”
“I doubt it, too,” said Gamache. He took a deep breath, then sighed. “I’d hate to have to arrest him for that.”
“And I’d hate to have to prosecute him,” said Zalmanowitz.
“What would he get?” asked Beauvoir. “Out of interest’s sake.”
The prosecutor thought about that. “He’d be charged with murder. His defense would probably say that he was not criminally responsible. Diminished capacity, brought on by extreme grief. If they’re smart, his lawyers will try the case in front of a jury. He’d be convicted, probably of manslaughter, but wouldn’t serve much time. A year, probably less. Maybe time served.”
“That’s not so bad,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache was staring at him. He wasn’t considering taking the protection away from Tracey? Leaving the path clear for Godin to kill the man.
Surely Jean-Guy’s last act as head of homicide would not be as an accessory to a homicide.
They’d have to talk.
Chief Inspector Beauvoir looked at Lacoste, then over to Gamache. And finally back to the prosecutor.
“We don’t have enough evidence, untainted by the poisonous tree or the social-media fiasco, to convict Tracey. Do we.”
“No,” said Zalmanowitz. “Not even close. Unless you can find something else, we’re screwed.”
“And Carl Tracey gets away with murder,” said Lacoste.
Beauvoir got up, and the others rose. “Merci. I’m sorry about this.”
“So’m I. I’ll put in the appeals. Even Judge Pelletier asked me to. She feels awful about it. I think she’s more than half hoping she’ll be overturned.”
He walked them to the door and shook their hands. When it came to Gamache, he leaned in and whispered, “I’m sorry about the videos. Shitty day. I don’t know if dumbass has done you a favor or not. Releasing the real video.”
“I know the answer to that,” said Gamache.
Zalmanowitz nodded. “There is one more thing, Armand.”
“Oui?”
“Did you steal Tracey’s dog?”
Now both Beauvoir and Lacoste turned and star
“I took Fred, yes. But I paid Tracey for him.”
“Apparently not enough. He wants the dog back. He’s filed a complaint.”
“You stole the dog?” Beauvoir asked. “I thought he came with Homer.”
“No. He was Vivienne’s dog. Tracey was going to shoot him, so I took him. And I’m not giving him back.”
On this day of blurred boundaries, one clear line had to be drawn, and it seemed to have been drawn at the dog. They couldn’t save Vivienne, they might not even be able to save Homer. But they could save Fred.
Barry Zalmanowitz stared at Gamache, then nodded. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”
“Merci.”
Now the prosecutor watched as the three of them, Gamache flanked by the two younger officers, walked down the corridor.
And he remembered the images on the real video. Gamache, amid ferocious gunfire, dragging a critically wounded Beauvoir to safety. Stanching the wound. Then having to leave him there and head back into the battle.
Then, later in the tape, Isabelle Lacoste was seen kneeling beside Gamache, holding his bloody hand as he lay, apparently dying, on the factory floor. Shot in the head and chest.
Now the three of them walked down the corridor, their feet echoing along a bright marble hall that hid so much stench below.
And while the prosecutor didn’t envy Armand Gamache anything about what was happening, with the case and with the social-media attacks, he did envy him this.
He watched until the three of them walked out the huge double doors and disappeared into the crisp April day.
* * *
Once hit by the cold air, Beauvoir, as though slapped awake from a reverie, began to talk.
“I’m not going out like this.”
“What do you suggest we do?” asked Lacoste.
“We head back to the incident room in Three Pines and go over the evidence we can use. Again and again. Until we find something we missed. There has to be something else there. Isabelle, I know you’re still officially on leave, but—
“I have an overnight bag in the car, all ready to go,” she said with a grin. “Old habits, right, patron?”
Gamache smiled. Old habits. Always being prepared to head out at a moment’s notice.
“I have to get back to headquarters,” she said. “I’ll meet you down in Three Pines when I’ve finished.”
Gamache and Beauvoir paused by their cars.
“How’re you going to keep Homer at your place?”
“Helps that he won’t have his own car, and I’ll ask the others to stay with him.”
“He’ll walk there if he has to, Armand.”
“Oui,” said Gamache. “But he needs help, and I don’t know what else to do, Jean-Guy. Do you?”
He was genuinely asking. But Jean-Guy Beauvoir had no answer.
As he drove down the familiar highway, Chief Inspector Beauvoir hoped and prayed they’d find something they’d overlooked.
Something.
Anything.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Gamache was in his car, following Beauvoir and talking with Reine-Marie on the phone, explaining, or trying to explain, what had happened in court.
“Homer?” she asked. “How is he?”
Armand paused, unsure how to answer that.
Out of his mind with grief and pain and rage?
Incensed that a system that called itself “just” would allow his daughter’s murderer to go free? On a technicality. Or two.
Inconsolable? Working out how to punish Carl Tracey himself?
Instead Armand gave the only answer he knew for sure. “There’s no concussion. He can go home. But do you mind—”
“If he stays with us? Of course not. But—”
“Will we be able to keep him from Tracey?” said Armand. “I don’t know. Can you hold on for a moment?”
Agent Cloutier was calling.
“Chief Inspector? We have a problem.” She was whispering, urgency in her voice.
“What is it?”
“We’re still at the hospital. They’re just releasing him, but he won’t come back to your place.”
“He wants to go home?”
“Yes, but mostly he says…” Her voice faltered.
“Go on.” Though Gamache suspected he knew what she was about to say.
“He says he never wants to lay eyes on you again.”
“I see.” Gamache took a breath.
He did see. It wasn’t just that Tracey had walked free. That somehow the investigators had screwed up. It was that he’d broken his promise to Homer.
“Give him the phone, please.”
There was a pause. “He won’t take it.”
“Then hold it up to his ear.”
He knew he had seconds to get through to the man. Only one word, two at most, before Homer would pull away. He had one shot. And he took it.
“Fred.”
Pause. Pause.
There was a rustling of the phone, some muffled conversation, then Cloutier’s voice. “He’ll come. But just to get the dog. He won’t stay.”
“Tell him I’m asking for one night. Just one. Then he can take Fred and go.”
There was more muffled conversation.
Come on. Come on.
Finally, Cloutier’s voice. “One night, patron.”
“Bon.”
It was something. Twenty-four hours he didn’t have before.
“I’ll be in the incident room,” said Gamache. “Let me know when you get to Three Pines.”
“D’accord, patron.”
He hung up and went back to Reine-Marie. And explained what had just happened.
“And you? Are you all right?” she asked.
How could he answer that?
“Never mind,” she said. “I know. Come home soon.”
“We’re not far. Should be there in—”
“What is it, Armand?”
* * *
In the car ahead of him, Jean-Guy had put on the brakes and swerved, taking a dirt road off to the right.
They were almost at Three Pines. But now Jean-Guy was heading away from the village. At speed. Recklessly bumping along the washboard road.
The agent guarding Tracey had just reported that instead of going straight home, as he’d been advised to do after being discharged, Tracey had headed to his local bar.
To celebrate.
“What do you want me to do, patron?” the agent asked. “Should I go in?”
“No, stay where you are. I’m coming to you.”
Jean-Guy knew he shouldn’t, but still he did. He turned the car and now was gunning it toward Carl Tracey.
* * *
Beauvoir pulled in to the parking lot of the dive bar and parked beside the very well-marked Sûreté vehicle.
Normally, when doing surveillance, they wanted to be discreet.
But Beauvoir had specifically asked for a vehicle with “Sûreté du Québec” clearly marked. “In neon if possible,” he’d said. “And I want the agent in uniform.”
Tracey needed to be in no doubt that he was being not just guarded but watched.
As Beauvoir walked toward the bar, his hands flexed into tight fists, then opened. Then closed again. Into weapons.
Jean-Guy knew this was a mistake. The issue wasn’t whether he was about to step into a pile of something soft and smelly. That much was obvious. The only question was, how big would it be? How deep would he go?
And could he stop himself before…?
Chief Inspector Beauvoir walked right past the agent sitting in the car and said only two words.
“Stay here.”
He heard a car pull in to the parking lot. As he reached the door to the bar, his hand on the knob, he heard the familiar voice behind him.
“Jean-Guy.”
But for one of the few times in his life, Beauvoir chose to ignore Gamache.
* * *
“Stay here,” said Chief Inspector Gamache as he strode by the agent who was beginning to get out of the car.
She stayed.
* * *
Beauvoir stepped into the bar.
It was dark. Smelled of stale cigarettes and fresh urine and flat beer.
A television was on, showing an Andy Griffith rerun. Opie had questions for his father. Again. But the answers were drowned out by the burst of laughter from a group of grubby men at the bar.
Four of them, Beauvoir saw immediately. No, five.
Two bottles of rye on the bar. Beer bottles clasped in hands, the men turned and squinted into the unexpected and unwanted light through the open door before it swung shut.
“Who the fuck are you?” one of them demanded.
Beauvoir didn’t answer. He just stood there. Staring.
At Carl Tracey.
“Wait a minute,” said Tracey. “A little respect, please. This’s Chief Inspector Beauvoir. The guy who arrested me. Come to apologize?”
That brought more laughter.
Beauvoir did not react. Did not speak. Did not move.
Tracey lifted his beer. “Come on in. Jean-Guy, isn’t it? Now that it’s over, we can be friends. No hard feelings. Beer?”
He held the drink out toward Beauvoir, who could smell the musky, familiar aroma.
* * *
Gamache had stopped at the door. Through the dirt-smeared window, he was just able to make out the occupants of the bar.
Every cell in his body was straining forward. Demanding that he go in. To rescue Jean-Guy, from himself.
He was pretty sure, judging by the look on Beauvoir’s face, that the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec was about to beat the crap out of Carl Tracey.
Maybe worse. Maybe he wouldn’t stop at the crap.
But still, Gamache stopped himself. And he wondered why.
Then the thought appeared. Was it possible he wanted Beauvoir to do it?
* * *
Jean-Guy Beauvoir stood ten paces from Carl Tracey.
He stared but didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t react at all.
Even when Tracey stepped toward him, goaded on by his drinking buddies, Jean-Guy’s face remained completely impassive. A mask.
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