A Better Man

by Louise Penny

  “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 promotin

g 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.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  @CarlTracey: I’ve put up more pictures of Carl’s work for you to see.

  @NouveauGalerie: Who’s this? I thought I was communicating with Tracey.

  @CarlTracey: Pauline Vachon. Carl’s partner.

  @NouveauGalerie: Business or life partner?

  @CarlTracey: Does it matter?

  @CarlTracey: Hello?

  @CarlTracey: Hello?

  @CarlTracey: Both.

  Gamache sat on the cot across from Homer Godin while Lysette Cloutier stood by the open door to the holding cell.

  Homer looked sick. Gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his face blotched. Bright red in places, white, almost green, in others.

  “We’ve come to release you,” said Gamache. “If you promise not to do anything to Carl Tracey.”

  “Or yourself,” said Cloutier.

  Homer continued to stare at his large hands, hanging limp between his knees.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was remote. “I can’t promise.”

  “Then I can’t release you,” said Gamache. He leaned forward and dropped his voice even further, so that Homer had to also lean forward. Had to make some small effort.

  Which he did.

  “You can do this,” Armand said softly.

  “There’s only one thing I want to do.”

  That sat between them. The silence stretching on. Until Homer finally broke it himself, lifting his eyes to Armand’s.

  “How’m I gonna go on?”

  Armand placed his hand on Homer’s. “You’ll come stay with us. We’ll keep you safe.”

  “Really?”

  And for a moment, a split second, Armand saw a glimmer amid the gloom. And then it was gone.

  “I can’t come to your house.”

  “Why not?”

  The two men were quiet for a moment before Homer spoke again.

  “You’ve been kind. Your wife—” Homer lifted his hand to his own face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  “I know. She knows. Are you worried about doing it again?”

  Homer shook his head. “No. Never. But if I stay with you, I’ll hurt you in other ways. When I kill Tracey, they’ll blame you.”

  * * *

  “And what’s this?”

  Dominica Oddly went to lift the corner of the canvas, but Clara stopped her.

  “Something I’m working on.”

  “A portrait?”

  “Sort of.”

  Clara’s uninvited guest raised her brows in a way that would be comical, cartoonish, if it weren’t so terrifying.

  Ruth Zardo had somehow managed to convince the art critic for the online journal Odd to come from Brooklyn to Québec. To come into the countryside, to Three Pines. To come into Clara’s home. Where Clara, against every instinct, had invited her into her studio.

  Seemed courtesy beat good sense. Almost to death.

  “Come,” Dominica Oddly said after an all-too-cursory glance around.

  She indicated the shabby sofa against the wall of Clara’s studio. They sat side by side, the young woman turning her lithe body to Clara.

  She was dressed in sort of harem pants, with combat boots and a T-shirt that read YES, HE’S A RACIST.

  Clara doubted she’d passed thirty. Her hair was in long dreadlocks. Her face was unlined and unblemished. No piercings and, from what Clara could see, no tattoos. She didn’t need those to prove she was cool. She just was. So cool that Clara felt goose bumps rise on her forearms.

  To say Dominica Oddly was a rainmaker was to vastly underestimate her power. Clara knew that the woman sitting next to her didn’t just make rain, she made the whole goddamned environment. She could cause the sun to shine on your career. Or a tsunami to sweep your life’s work away.

  She had an eye for the avant-garde, an ear for undercurrents, and, perhaps above all else, a savant’s gift for social media.

  Oddly had understood early that those platforms were the new “high ground.” The place from which attacks could be launched. Territory could be captured. Where hearts were influenced and opinions made.

  Her online journal, Odd, had millions of subscribers while still managing to position itself as underground, even subversive. Dominica Oddly was like some hipster oligarch.

  Clara subscribed to Odd, and every morning over coffee she read Dominica’s daily column.

  Oddly’s pithy, articulate, often cruel, always elegant prose both amused and appalled Clara, as the critic stripped away the artifice in the art world. Ruthlessly.

  All truth with malice in it.

  But, despite Clara’s rise, Dominica Oddly had never reviewed her works. As far as Clara knew, Oddly had no idea she existed. She’d never met the woman and certainly had never seen her at one of her shows.

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