A Better Man

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

@MyrnaLanders: I love @ClaraMorrow works. They’re genius.

@ClaraMorrow: Thanks @MyrnaLanders, but you sent this to me privately. Did you mean to? I’m sitting with you in the bistro. Oh, oh. Here comes Ruth. Look busy!

@MyrnaLanders: #ClaraSucks Merde.

@ClaraMorrow: @MyrnaLanders That one you put out on the public twitter feed. You just agreed with everyone who says my art is shit.

@MyrnaLanders: #ClaraSucks Did I? Fuck

@ClaraMorrow: @MyrnaLanders Please stop.

The incident room in Three Pines was filled with the aroma of wet socks, sweat, cilantro, and lime.

Olivier and Gabri moved aside the firefighting equipment and set out the ginger-garlic chicken soup, sandwiches, and drinks.

Along with the senior officers, there were the more junior agents. Cloutier and the big guy. Cameron. They suspected he’d eat lots.

“Any news on the flooding?” Isabelle Lacoste asked.

“Here?” asked Olivier. “The Bella Bella’s gone down. Thank God.”

“Across the province,” said Isabelle.

“Only what we see on the news,” said Gabri. “You probably know more than we do.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “We’ve been busy.”

“Well, according to CBC, they’re digging huge trenches to divert some rivers,” said Gabri. “That must’ve been where you got the idea from, Armand.”

“Good,” said Gamache, and exhaled. “Good news.”

“Did you see the Deputy Premier in the scrum when that reporter asked about it?” said Olivier.

Gabri and Olivier reenacted, with some exaggeration, Gamache suspected, the Deputy Premier’s face as it went from bafflement to anger to confidence when he was told it seemed to be working.

“And then, just as he’d said he was in the meeting where it’d been decided to dig, another journalist asked about the angry farmers whose fields were now flooded,” said Gabri.

His face fell into an expression somehow combining annoyance and obsequiousness.

“Poor man,” said Olivier, putting linen napkins on the table. Beauvoir watched all this and wondered if they’d pull a candelabra out of the hamper next. “Can’t win.”

While food was being organized, Gamache picked up a landline and went into the storage room. No need for the others to hear this call.

“Alouette Organization,” came the cheery voice.

“The general manager, please.”

“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?”

“If you could ask him to step out for a moment, this won’t take long.”

Gamache explained who he was, and a minute or so later the phone was picked up.

They talked for less than a minute. When Gamache hung up, he thought for a moment, then returned to the table.

Olivier and Gabri had left, and now, as they ate, the Sûreté officers compared notes.

“So this Gerald Bertrand denies knowing Vivienne Godin,” said Beauvoir.

“Oui.” Lacoste picked up an egg salad sandwich on a fresh baguette, spiked with just a little curry, poached raisins, and arugula. “He says it was a wrong number. Says she was slurring her words and upset. Probably drunk.”

Beauvoir casually reached out and took the peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwich on crusty white bread after noticing Cloutier also eyeing it.

“Not drunk,” said Gamache. “Beaten. The coroner’s report says she’d had a few ounces, but not intoxication level.” He passed around hard copies of the preliminary report. “The slurring was probably from being hit.”

He put down his sandwich.

“Nothing more from Dr. Harris?” asked Lacoste after quickly scanning the coroner’s report.

Beauvoir checked the emails again and shook his head. “Nothing. What else did you find?”

“Gerald Bertrand’s alibi checks out,” said Agent Cloutier. “His friends confirm they were over at his place watching the hockey game on Saturday night. They arrived just before seven. None of them knew anything about Bertrand having an affair with Vivienne Godin. In fact, none had even heard of her.”

“The other thing is the baby,” said Lacoste. “He was looking after his niece until six on Saturday night. Not much time to meet Vivienne on the bridge and get home before his friends arrived.”

“You don’t think it was him, do you?” said Beauvoir, sitting back in his chair and taking a large bite of the sandwich.

“No,” admitted Lacoste. “I think logistically it would’ve been tough, but I also believe he’s telling the truth. I saw him with his niece. He likes kids. I think if his lover had told him she was pregnant, he might not have been thrilled, but he wouldn’t have killed her and the baby.”

Gamache looked at Beauvoir to continue the questioning but saw he was struggling to chew the sandwich, his mouth apparently glued almost shut.

“So the other possibility is that he was telling the truth,” said Gamache, picking up the mantle. “He didn’t know her. Which means Vivienne was calling the wrong number. But over and over?”

“Looks like it.”

“I wonder who she was trying to call?” he said. “They were made in a cluster, right? At six fifteen.”

“Starting then. There were four calls over ten minutes. All to Bertrand’s number.”

“Strange to have called the same wrong number over and over,” said Gamache. “Once, maybe, if you hit the wrong button. We’ve all done it. But to make the same mistake over and over? Even if disoriented you’d think she’d hit different numbers.”

“What do you think it means?” asked Lacoste.

Once again Gamache looked at Beauvoir, who was now regretting not the sandwich itself but taking such a huge bite. Jean-Guy chewed more vigorously and gestured to Gamache to continue.

“I think,” he said, “that Vivienne was given a number to call but had written it down wrong. So while she was dialing correctly, she didn’t realize she was calling the wrong number. Was there a piece of paper found on her body, with a number?”

“No,” said Lacoste. “In her wallet we found paper, but it was wet through. Disintegrated.”

“Nothing legible?”

“No.”

“But that explains why she kept making the same mistake,” said Cloutier, nodding. “She wrote it down wrong and didn’t realize that. So who did she think she was calling?”

“I’m not willing to give up on Bertrand yet,” said Beauvoir, finally swallowing. “What you say is true. She can’t have made exactly the same mistake over and over. So maybe it wasn’t a mistake at all. She meant to call Bertrand and did. We have no idea what she actually said to him. Someone met her on that bridge, and she’d have had to arrange it. I think he’s lying. I’ll put an agent on his place.”

“There is something else,” said Lacoste. “Something Agent Cloutier here discovered.”

She turned, like a proud parent, to the older woman.

This was the accountant’s moment to shine. Lysette Cloutier gathered her notes.

“Vivienne Godin might be having an affair, but her husband certainly was.”

“How do you know?” asked Beauvoir.

“The internet,” said Cloutier.

“Wikipedia?” asked Beauvoir, half joking, half dreading the answer.

“Non,” laughed Cloutier. “Google.”

Beauvoir opened his mouth, but Lacoste jumped in. “Let her explain.”

“Since Tracey doesn’t have internet at home,” said Cloutier, “but does have a website and a social-media presence, it seemed pretty obvious someone was doing it for him, so I tracked down the IP address and found her. I then went onto his public Instagram account and convinced her to give me access to their private account.”

“How did you do that?” asked Beauvoir.

“I set up a dummy website and Instagram account. NouveauGalerie. Said I was a gallery owner looking for new artists. I needed to communicate in private and to see more of Carl Tracey’s work.”

“So she gave you access to their private account, not knowing who you were?” said Gamache.

“Smart,” said Beauvoir.

“Merci.” She smiled and looked at Isabelle Lacoste, who nodded encouragement. “This’s what I found.”

She turned her laptop around for Beauvoir and Gamache to see the photos of Tracey and Vachon together. It was obvious they were lovers.

They scrolled through the pictures and read the private messages between Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon.

“Look at this one,” said Cloutier. “She’s a drunken slut. You deserve better. That’s from Pauline. Pretty clear.”

“Of an affair,” said Gamache. “Maybe. But murder?”

“Look here, patron,” said Lacoste. “On the day of the murder.”

Both Beauvoir and Gamache leaned closer to the laptop as she found the posts sent Saturday around midday.

Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise. That from Carl Tracey.

And Pauline Vachon’s reply: Finally. Good luck. Don’t mess it up.

Beauvoir sat back and exhaled. “I promise. Jesus. So this Vachon was in on it.”

“More than that,” said Lacoste. “I think it was her idea.”

“Well, her encouragement anyway,” said Gamache.

“Enough to charge her with being an accomplice,” said Beauvoir.

“Is it enough to arrest him for murder?” asked Cloutier.

“I doubt it,” said Lacoste, and she turned to Beauvoir. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s turning into a very strong circumstantial case. And that might be the best we can do. Any jury would be able to follow this evidence directly to Tracey. The admitted abuse, these photos and posts clearly showing he was having an affair, the fact, admitted here, that he packed her bag.” He stopped to think. “That might explain the summer clothes. He just took things at random or maybe took things he knew Vivienne wouldn’t miss.”

“To make it look like she’d decided to leave on her own,” said Cloutier.

“Tracey even told this Pauline that it was happening that night,” said Beauvoir. “Doesn’t get more incriminating than that, the dumb shit. Well done, Cloutier.”

“Merci.”

“Have you spoken to this Pauline Vachon?” asked Beauvoir.

“Non,” said Lacoste. “I wanted to see if there was more that Agent Cloutier could get out of her, posing as the gallery owner.”

Beauvoir was nodding. Considering.

He used to kid Gamache when he’d find him at his desk, staring into space. The Chief would patiently explain that being still and doing nothing were two different things.

Now Beauvoir stared into space while his mind worked.

This was no time for a misstep. It seemed Pauline Vachon was key. If they could get her to turn on Tracey, testify against him, in exchange for a deal, they had their case.

“Is he okay?” Cloutier whispered to Lacoste, who couldn’t suppress a smile.

“He’s thinking.”

“Looks like he has a headache.”

“Let me tell you,” said Beauvoir, slightly annoyed, “what I think might’ve happened that night.”

As he spoke, the others saw clearly what he was describing.

“Suppose Tracey beat Vivienne, maybe into unconsciousness, then went to get piss drunk before finishing her off. He might’ve even thought she was already dead. While he was gone, she came to and made those calls to Bertrand. Pleading for help. Maybe telling him to meet her on the bridge. Tracey hears and sees an opportunity. Much better than putting her body in the woods. He decides to follow her, with the duffel bag he’d packed. Once there, he pushes her off. Vivienne reaches out to stop herself, making that deep cut in her palm from the rotten wood. Then Tracey tosses the bag in after her and leaves. The heavy rain washes away all the footprints and tire marks.”

Done.

That was the scenario he’d take to the Crown Prosecutor when the time came. Unless something showed up to contradict it. Which he doubted.

“And Bertrand?” asked Lacoste.

“Doesn’t show up.” He nodded. It fit. “But let’s keep digging. I want to go for premeditation. Those posts prove first-degree, but I want more.”

He looked around the table.

Gamache nodded. He also wanted first-degree but felt somewhat comforted knowing if all else failed, they probably had enough circumstantial evidence right now to convict Tracey of manslaughter.

But still, a few things perplexed him.

“It’s strange that Madame Vachon would let you see those private messages,” he said, returning to the laptop. “Even if she didn’t know you’re with the Sûreté.”

“She might’ve forgotten they were there,” said Lacoste. “And unless you knew they were planning a murder, you wouldn’t guess from those posts. On the surface, they could be about anything.”

“Oui,” said Gamache. “And that could be a problem.”

“One thing I don’t understand,” said Beauvoir, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table, “is how Tracey managed to send those messages if he doesn’t have internet at home.”

“You can log into an account from anywhere,” said Cloutier. “He must’ve been in town and used someone else’s device or an internet café. I’ll see if I can track down where they originated.”

Beauvoir paused to study the posts again.

Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise.

“I don’t want to blow this,” said Beauvoir. “It needs to stick.”

Lacoste was nodding. “It will.”

“On another issue, I’d like to release Monsieur Godin,” said Gamache.

“But,” said Cloutier, “won’t he—”

“Try to kill Tracey?” said Gamache. “Maybe. But I’m hoping we can convince him that an arrest is imminent. That putting Tracey through a trial and then in prison is far worse than killing him.”

“Would you?” Cloutier asked. “Be convinced?”

Gamache stared at her. She turned beet red and stammered an apology.

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s just that I know you have a daughter about Vivienne’s age, and I thought—”

“Don’t presume, Agent Cloutier,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically hard. Showing Lacoste and Beauvoir, who knew him well, that while Cloutier’s comment was inappropriate, she had indeed hit a nerve.

While they studied him, Gamache studied Agent Cloutier.

He realized that something about her made him wary. And he knew Jean-Guy felt the same way.

While it was obvious that his love for his own daughter had created an emotional frisson about this case, it was equally obvious that Lysette Cloutier cared very deeply for Homer Godin. Perhaps too deeply.

But did that matter?

And was it even true? Could her protectiveness toward him not be the natural instincts of a close friend?

That was one of the problems with being a homicide cop. Interpreting innocent, even admirable, acts as somehow suspicious. Once that started happening, it was hard to change the perception.

“I’d like you to come with me,” he said to Cloutier. “You might be able to help calm Monsieur Godin. Talk sense into him.”

“I’ll try,” she said. “Merci.”

She seemed to think it was a peace offering, never dreaming this courteous senior officer might have other motives for asking her along.

“Is this all right with you?” Gamache asked Beauvoir.

“Can we talk?” Beauvoir jerked his head toward the window at the far end of the room, away from the others.

Gamache followed him, and despite himself he felt, if not annoyed, then perplexed, and he realized with some amusement that he’d asked Beauvoir out of consideration, not expecting he might actually disagree.

As they walked to the window, Beauvoir heard the Chief’s footsteps. Familiar yet foreign. He was used to hearing them in front of him. Leading. Not behind, following.

This was not getting any easier, he realized. He’d certainly disagreed with Gamache in the past, sometimes arguing quite forcefully. But he’d always understood that the final word would be Gamache’s. As would the responsibility.

But now it was his. He was in charge. The decisions, and responsibility, were his.

He turned and faced his mentor and father-in-law.

“Cloutier’s right. Homer Godin’s gonna try to kill Tracey. You know that. I think you’re making a mistake.”

He watched Gamache closely. And saw him nod.

“Would you rather we didn’t release Monsieur Godin?”

Jean-Guy relaxed and realized Armand Gamache would not make this difficult. “I’d like to understand your reasoning.”

Gamache considered Beauvoir for a moment. His protégé, now his boss.

He remembered the first time he’d seen the younger man. They met at the outpost where Agent Beauvoir had been assigned straight out of the academy. He’d been placed, by the station commander, in the basement evidence locker because none of the other agents liked working with the arrogant, cocky, disgruntled new guy.

Agent Beauvoir was composing his letter of resignation, in which he’d tell them, yet again, what he really thought of them, when the famed head of homicide for the Sûreté showed up to investigate a murder.

The station commander had assigned this difficult young agent to help the Chief Inspector, in hopes that he’d run afoul of either Gamache or the killer, and one or the other would rid them of the problem that was Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

Gamache had stared through the bars at the caged young man. Beauvoir had stared back.

And they’d recognized each other.

From lifetimes past. From battlegrounds past.

And on the spot, to the shock of everyone except himself, Chief Inspector Gamache had hired the unruly young agent. The human refuse no one else wanted. Eventually promoting him, several years later, to be his second-in-command.

And now this would be their final investigation together. As Jean-Guy broke free and Armand let him go.

It would be, if Gamache had anything to do with it, a successful end to a courageous career.

But they weren’t over the finish line yet.

“Why would you even consider letting Monsieur Godin go,” Beauvoir was saying, “before we’ve arrested Tracey? Knowing what he planned to do. Unless—”

Beauvoir stopped. Almost in time.

“Unless?” asked Gamache, and once again Jean-Guy could feel the natural authority of the man. It radiated off him. “You think I want him to kill Tracey?”

“Non, not at all. It’s just … honestly?” said Jean-Guy. “Between us? I can understand how Homer feels. And obviously you do, too. If we couldn’t convict Tracey, if he walked free, I’d be tempted to just step aside and let him do it.”

Gamache tilted his head and stared at his son-in-law.

“Don’t tell me that you wouldn’t be tempted, too,” said Beauvoir.

“Tempted, maybe. I honestly don’t know what I’d do, Jean-Guy. But I hope to God not that.”

“So why do you want to let him go now?”

“I’m worried that holding him any longer will just make things worse. My reason for detaining him was to give him a cooling-off period. When he couldn’t do anything. But if it lasts much longer, instead of cooling off, his anger will heat up. I agree that letting him go is a risk, but so’s keeping him in jail. Besides, it’s just not right.”

Beauvoir thought about it, glancing out the window at the Bella Bella and the sandbags lining the river. At the ones still standing and the ones fallen down.

So close to tragedy. It didn’t really take much to tip the balance.

“Okay. Let him out. I’ll have an agent watch his place and follow him if he leaves.”

“You won’t have to. I was thinking of inviting Monsieur Godin to stay with us. His things are already here. And that way I can keep an eye on him. Besides, he shouldn’t be alone.”

“Is that smart?”

“Probably not,” said Gamache with a small laugh. “Is it my first choice? Non. But sometimes you have to do something stupid.”

Beauvoir laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you say that. Sounds more like something I’d say.”

“Guess you’re rubbing off on me, patron.” Gamache smiled, then it faded. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

“He’s not your brother,” said Jean-Guy.

“Non, that’s true. And Vivienne isn’t Annie. But still, I’d want someone to do this for me, to watch over me, if…”

If Annie … If Reine-Marie …

Beauvoir considered and realized that if anything happened to Annie.… To Honoré …

Someone would have to do the same for him.

“Agreed, patron,” he said. “By the way, who were you talking to in the store room?”

“The Montreal Alouettes.”

“What did they say about Cameron? Why’d they let him go?”

“Too many penalties. He was a good player but was costing them yards.”

“Roughing?” asked Beauvoir.

“I’d have thought so, but no. Holding. Apparently it was almost a reflex of his, to grab hold of something and not let go. They couldn’t break him of it.”

As Gamache walked to the car, listening to Agent Cloutier go on excitedly about continuing to string Pauline Vachon along in hopes of getting more evidence, he felt some anxiety stir.

It wasn’t the slight sour feeling he’d had in his gut earlier. The worry they wouldn’t be able to nail Tracey. That was still there, but less and less as the evidence mounted and now threatened to bury Carl Tracey.

This was something else. A prickling at the back of his neck.

Something was wrong. A mistake had been made, or was about to be made.

“Who’s that?” asked Myrna, nodding toward a car just arriving in Three Pines as Armand’s vehicle left.

“Probably more Sûreté,” said Clara. “They’ve set up in the old railway station again.”

“Huh,” said Myrna. “It’s stopped in front of your house.”

“Really?” said Clara, turning to take a closer look.

“Is that who you’ve been looking for?” Reine-Marie asked Ruth. The elderly poet had been glancing out the bistro window all morning.

Now Ruth was smiling as she, too, watched the car arrive.

“What’ve you done?” asked Myrna.

“You’ll see.” Ruth turned to Clara. “You might want to go say hello.”

A young woman was just getting out of the car.

“Why?” asked Clara, not at all liking the satisfied expression on the old woman’s face.

“All that most maddens and torments,” said Ruth. “All that stirs up the lees of things. Moby-Dick.”

“Have you stirred up the lees of things?” Myrna asked.

Ruth was so pleased with herself she was almost exploding with pleasure. It was not an attractive sight.

As they watched, the stranger knocked on Clara’s door and, getting no answer, turned to look around.

And Clara recognized her. “Oh, God, Ruth. What’ve you done?”

“Your white whale,” said Ruth, triumphant. “Thar she blows.”