How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

by Louise Penny

  Isabelle Lacoste smiled. She was used to similar “compliments” from her husband and now their young son. She wondered why the Y chromosome was so smelly.

  At Sûreté headquarters, Gamache clipped Henri on the leather leash and the three of them entered the building.

  “Hold it, please!” Lacoste called as a man got into the elevator at the far end of the corridor. She walked rapidly toward it, Gamache and Henri a pace behind, then she suddenly slowed. And stopped.

  The man in the elevator hit a button. And hit it again. And again.

  Lacoste stopped a foot from the elevator. Willing the doors to close so they could take the next one.

  But Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t hesitate. He and Henri walked past Lacoste and into the elevator, apparently oblivious to the man with his finger pressed hard against the close button. As the doors began to close Gamache put his arm out to stop them and looked at Lacoste.

  “Coming?”

  Lacoste stepped inside to join Armand Gamache and Henri. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

  Gamache acknowledged his former second in command with a small nod.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir did not return the greeting, preferring to stare straight ahead. If Isabelle Lacoste didn’t already believe in things like energy and vibes when she entered the elevator, she would have when she left. Inspector Beauvoir was throbbing, radiating strong emotion.

  But what emotion? She stared at the numbers—2 … 3 … 4—and tried to analyze the waves pounding out of Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

  Shame? Embarrassment? She knew she’d certainly be feeling both of those if she was him. But she wasn’t. And she suspected what Beauvoir felt and radiated was baser. Coarser. Simpler.

  What poured out of him was rage.

  6 … 7 …

  Lacoste glanced at Beauvoir’s reflection in the pocked and dented door. She’d barely seen him since he’d transferred out of homicide and into Chief Superintendent Francoeur’s department.

  Isabelle Lacoste remembered her mentor as lithe, energetic, frenetic at times. Slender to Gamache’s more robust frame. Rational to the Chief’s intuitive. He was action to Gamache’s contemplation.

  Beauvoir liked lists. Gamache liked thoughts, ideas.

  Beauvoir liked to question, Gamache liked to listen.

  And yet there was a bond between the older man and the younger that seemed to reach through time. They held a natural, almost ancient, place in each other’s lives. Made all the more profound when Jean-Guy Beauvoir fell in love with Annie, the Chief’s daughter.

  It had surprised Lacoste slightly that Beauvoir would fall for Annie. She wasn’t anything like Beauvoir’s ex-wife, or the parade of gorgeous Québécoise he’d dated. Annie Gamache chose comfort over fashion. She was neither pretty nor ugly. Not slender, but neither was she fat. Annie Gamache would never be the most attractive woman in the room. She never turned heads.

  Until she laughed. And spoke.

  To Lacoste’s amazement, Jean-Guy Beauvoir had figured out something many men never got. How very beautiful, how very attractive, happiness was.

  Annie Gamache was happy, and Beauvoir fell in love with her.

  Isabelle Lacoste admired that in him. In fact, she admired many things about her mentor, but what she most admired were his passion for the job and his unquestioned loyalty to Chief Inspector Gamache.

  Until a few months ago. Though, if she was being honest, fissures had begun to appear before that.

  Now she shifted her glance to Gamache’s reflection. He seemed relaxed, holding Henri’s leash loosely in his hands. She noticed the scar at his graying temple.

  Nothing had been the same since the day that had happened. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. But it had taken Lacoste a while to realize just how much everything had changed.

  She was standing in the ruins now, amid the rubble, and most of it had fallen from Beauvoir. His clean-shaven face was sallow, haggard. He looked much older than his thirty-eight years. Not simply tired, or even exhausted, but hollowed out. And into that hole he’d placed, for safekeeping, the last thing he possessed. His rage.

  9 … 10 …

  The faint hope she’d held, that the Chief and Inspector Beauvoir were just pretending to this rift, vanished. There was no harbor. No hope. No doubt.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir despised Armand Gamache.

  This wasn’t an act.

  Isabelle Lacoste wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t been in the elevator with them. Two armed men. And one with the advantage, if it could be called that, of near bottomless rage.

  Here was a man with a gun and nothing more to lose.

  If Jean-Guy Beauvoir loathed Gamache, Lacoste wondered how the Chief felt.

  She studied him again in the scratched and dented elevator door. He seemed perfectly at ease.

  Henri chose, if such a thing is a choice, to hand out another great compliment at that moment. Lacoste brought her hand to her face, in an involuntary survival instinct.

  The dog, oblivious to the curdled air, looked around, his tags clinking cheerily together. His huge brown eyes glanced up at the man beside him. Not the one who held his leash. But the other man.

  A familiar man.

  14 … 15.

  The elevator stopped and the door opened, bringing with it oxygen. Isabelle wondered if she’d have to burn her clothes.

  Gamache held it open for Lacoste and she left as quickly as possible, desperate to get out of that stink, only part of which could be blamed on Henri. But before Gamache could step out, Henri turned to Beauvoir, and licked his hand.

  Beauvoir pulled it back, as though scalded.

  The German shepherd followed the Chief from the elevator. And the doors closed behind them. As the three walked toward the glass doors into the homicide division, Lacoste noticed that the hand that held the leash trembled.

  It was slight, but it was there.

  And Lacoste realized that Gamache had perfect control over Henri, if not Henri’s bowels. He could have held the leash tight, preventing the German shepherd from getting anywhere close to Beauvoir.

  But Gamache hadn’t. He’d allowed the lick. Allowed the small kiss.

  *

  The elevator reached the top floor of Sûreté headquarters and the doors clunked open to reveal a couple of men standing in the corridor.

  “Holy shit, Beauvoir, what a stink.” One of them scowled.

  “It wasn’t me.” Beauvoir could feel Henri’s lick, moist and warm on his hand.

  “Right,” said the man, and caught the eye of the other agent.

  “Fuck you,” Beauvoir mumbled as he pushed between them and into the office.

  *

  Chief Inspector Gamache looked at his homicide department. Where busy agents would once have sat into the night, the desks were now empty.

  He wished the tranquillity was because all the murders had been solved. Or, better yet, there were no more murders. No more pain so great it made a person take a life. Someone else’s, or his own.

  Like Constance Ouellet. Like the body below the bridge. Like he’d felt in the elevator just now.

  But Armand Gamache was a realist, and knew the long list of homicides would only grow. What had diminished was his capacity to solve them.

  *

  Chief Superintendent Francoeur didn’t get up. Didn’t look up. He ignored Beauvoir and the others as they took seats in his large private office.

  Beauvoir was used to that now. Chief Superintendent Francoeur was the most senior cop in Québec and he looked it. Distinguished, with gray hair and a confident bearing, he exuded authority. This was a man not to be trifled with. Chief Superintendent Francoeur associated with the Premier, had meals with the Public Security Minister. He was on a first-name basis with the Cardinal of Québec.

  Unlike Gamache, Francoeur gave his agents freedom. He didn’t worry about how they got results. Just get it done, was what he said.

  The only real law was Chief Superintendent Francoeur. The only line no
t to be crossed was drawn around him. His power was absolute and unquestioned.

  Working with Gamache was always so complicated. So many gray areas. Always debating what was right, as though that was a difficult question.

  Working with Chief Superintendent Francoeur was easy.

  Law-abiding citizens were safe, criminals weren’t. Francoeur trusted his people to decide who was who, and to know what to do about it. And when a mistake was made? They looked out for each other. Defended each other. Protected each other.

  Unlike Gamache.

  Beauvoir rubbed his hand, trying to erase the lick, like a lash. He thought about the things he should have said, could have said, to his former Chief. But hadn’t.

  *

  “Just drop your things and head home,” said Gamache at the door to his office.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive down with you?” asked Lacoste.

  “I’m sure. As I said, I’ll probably stay over. Thank you, Isabelle.”

  As he looked at her now he saw, as he almost always did, a brief image. Of Lacoste bending over him. Calling to him. And he felt again her hands gripping either side of his head as he lay sprawled on the concrete floor.

  There’d been a crushing weight on his chest and a rush in his head. And two words that needed to be said. Only two, as he stared at Lacoste, desperate for her to understand him.

  Reine-Marie.

  That was all there was left to say.

  At first, when he’d recovered and remembered Isabelle’s face so close to his, he’d been embarrassed by his vulnerability.

  His job was to lead them, to protect them. And he’d failed. Instead, she’d saved him.

  But now when he looked at her, and that brief image exploded between them, he realized they were fused together forever by that moment. And he felt only great affection for her. And gratitude. For staying with him and hearing those barely whispered words. She was the vessel into which he’d poured his last thoughts.

  Reine-Marie.

  Armand Gamache would always remember the enormous relief when he’d realized she’d understood. And he could go.

  But, of course, he hadn’t gone. In large part thanks to Isabelle Lacoste, he’d survived. But so many of his agents hadn’t, that day.

  Including Jean-Guy Beauvoir. The swaggering, annoying smartass had gone into that factory, and something else had come out.

  “Go home, Isabelle,” said Gamache.

  *

  The Superintendent continued to read the document in front of him, slowly turning a page.

  Beauvoir recognized the report on the raid he’d been on a few days earlier.

  “I see here,” Francoeur said slowly in his deep, calm voice, “that not all the evidence made it to the locker.”

  He met Beauvoir’s eyes, which widened.

  “Some drugs seem to be missing.”

  Beauvoir’s mind raced, while the Superintendent again lowered his eyes to the report.

  “But I don’t think that will affect the case,” Francoeur said at last, turning to Martin Tessier. “Remove it from the report.”

  He tossed the paper across to his second in command.

  “Yessir.”

  “I have a dinner in half an hour with the Cardinal. He’s very worried about the biker gang violence. What can I tell him?”

  “It’s unfortunate that girl was killed,” said Tessier.

  Francoeur stared at Tessier. “I don’t think I need to tell him that, do you?”

  Beauvoir knew what they were talking about. Everyone in Québec did. A seven-year-old child had been blown up along with a few members of the Hell’s Angels when a car bomb exploded. It was all over the news.

  “Up until then, we’d been pretty successful at feeding rival gangs information,” said Tessier, “and having them go at each other.”

  Beauvoir had come to appreciate the beauty of this strategy, though it had shocked him at first. Let the criminals kill each other. All the Sûreté had to do was guide them a little. Drop a bit of information here. A bit there. Then get out of the way. The rival gangs took care of the rest. It was easy and safe and, above all, effective. True, sometimes a civilian got in the way, but the Sûreté would plant suggestions in the media that the dead man or woman wasn’t perhaps as innocent as their family claimed.

  And it worked.

  Until this child.

  “What’re you doing about it?” Francoeur asked.

  “Well, we need to respond. Hit one of their bunkers. Since the Rock Machine planted the bomb that killed the kid, we should plan a raid against them.”

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir lowered his eyes, studying the carpet. Studying his hands.

  Not me. Not me. Not again.

  “I’m not interested in the details.” Francoeur got up and they all rose. “Just get it done. The sooner the better.”

  “Yessir,” said Tessier, and followed him out the door.

  Beauvoir watched them go, then exhaled. Safe.

  At the elevator the Chief Superintendent handed Tessier a small vial.

  “I think our newest recruit is a little anxious, don’t you?” Francoeur pressed the pill bottle into Tessier’s hand. “Put Beauvoir on the raid.”

  He got in the elevator.

  *

  Beauvoir sat at his desk, staring blankly at the computer screen. Trying to get the meeting out of his mind. Not with Francoeur, but with Gamache. He’d structured his days, done everything he could, to avoid seeing the Chief. And for months it had worked, until tonight. His whole body felt bruised. Except for one small patch, on his hand. Which still felt moist and warm no matter how hard he rubbed it dry.

  Beauvoir sensed a presence at his elbow and looked up.

  “Good news,” said Inspector Tessier. “You’ve impressed Francoeur. He wants you on the raid.”

  Beauvoir’s stomach curdled. He’d already taken two OxyContin, but now the pain returned.

  Leaning over the desk, Tessier placed a pill bottle by Beauvoir’s hand.

  “We all need a little help every now and then.” Tessier tapped the top of the bottle, his voice light and low. “Take one. It’s nothing. Just a little relaxant. We all take them. You’ll feel better.”

  Beauvoir stared at the bottle. A small warning sounded, but it was too deep and too late.

  SEVEN

  Armand Gamache turned off the lights, then he and Henri walked down the corridor, but instead of pressing the down button, he pressed up. Not to the very top floor, but the one just below it. He looked at his watch. Eight thirty. Perfect.

  A minute later he knocked on a door and went in without waiting for a response.

  “Bon,” said Superintendent Brunel. “You made it.”

  Thérèse Brunel, petite and soignée as always, rose and indicated a chair next to her husband, Jérôme, who was also on his feet. They shook hands and everyone sat.

  Thérèse Brunel was beyond the Sûreté retirement age, but no one had the stomach, or other organs, to tell her. She’d come late to the force, been trained by Gamache, then rapidly lapped him, partly through her own hard work and ability, but partly, they all knew, because his career had hit a wall, constructed by Chief Superintendent Francoeur.

  They’d been friends since the academy, when she was twice the age of any other recruit and he was her professor.

  The roles, the offices, the ranks they now enjoyed should have been reversed. Thérèse Brunel knew that. Jérôme knew that. And Gamache knew that, though he alone didn’t seem to care.

  They sat on the formal sofa and chairs, and Henri stretched out between Gamache and Jérôme. The older man dropped an arm, absently stroking the shepherd.

  Jérôme, hovering on the far side of seventy, was almost completely round, and had he been slightly smaller, Henri would have been tempted to chase him.

  Despite the difference in their ranks, it was clear that Armand Gamache was in charge. This was his meeting, if not his office.

  “What’s your news
?” he asked Thérèse.

  “We’re getting closer, I think, Armand, but there’s a problem.”

  “I’ve hit a few walls,” Jérôme explained. “Whoever’s done this is clever. Just when I get up a head of steam, I find I’m actually in a cul-de-sac.”

  His voice was querulous, but his manner was jovial. Jérôme had rolled forward, his hands clasped together. His eyes were bright and he was fighting a smile.

  He was enjoying himself.

  Dr. Brunel was an investigator, but not with the Sûreté du Québec. Now retired, he’d been the head of emergency services for the Hôpital Notre-Dame in Montréal. His training was to quickly assess a medical emergency, triage, diagnose. Then treat.

  Retired a few years now, he’d refocused his energy and skills toward solving puzzles, cyphers. Both his wife and Chief Inspector Gamache had consulted him on cases involving codes. But it was more than a retired doctor passing the time. Jérôme Brunel was a man born to solve puzzles. His mind saw and made connections that might take others hours or days, or never, to find.

  But Dr. Brunel’s game of choice, his drug of choice, was computers. He was a cyber junkie, and Gamache had brought him uncut heroin in the form of this gnarly puzzle.

  “I’ve never seen so many layers of security,” said Jérôme. “Someone’s tried very hard to hide this thing.”

  “What thing, though?” Gamache asked.

  “You asked us to find out who really leaked that video of the raid on the factory,” Superintendent Brunel said. “The one you led, Armand.”

  He nodded. The video was taken from the tiny cameras each of the agents wore, attached to their headphones. They recorded everything.

  “There was an investigation, of course,” Superintendent Brunel continued. “The conclusion of the Cyber Crimes division was that a hacker had gotten lucky, found the files, edited them, and put them on the Internet.”

  “Bullshit,” said Dr. Brunel. “A hacker could never have just stumbled on those files. They’re too well guarded.”

  “So?” Gamache turned to Jérôme. “Who did?”

  But they all knew who’d done it. If not a lucky hacker, it had to be someone inside the Sûreté, and high enough up to cover his trail. But Dr. Brunel had found that trail, and followed it.