Glass Houses

by Louise Penny

  Judge Corriveau shifted slightly in her chair, knowing it was her turn now. Knowing what he was about to ask.

  “Tell me about the killing of Madame Kathleen Evans.”

  * * *

  It was much the same conversation Chief Superintendent Gamache had had with Judge Corriveau a few days after the attack.

  The trial had, of course, been put on hold.

  Maureen Corriveau had gone up to the Gamaches’ apartment, along with Barry Zalmanowitz, to discuss the case and what should happen next.

  When they knocked on the door of the second-floor walk-up in the Outremont quartier of Montréal, Gamache himself opened it.

  “Bonjour,” he said. “Thank you for coming to me.”

  He showed them into the living room, while the two people behind him exchanged glances. They’d heard about the grave injuries to Chief Inspector Lacoste. And had read the preliminary reports, written by the senior officers. Including Chief Superintendent Gamache.

  They had heard, through the information and misinformation swirling around government buildings, that Gamache himself had sustained some injuries. But they weren’t prepared for the bruised face, his one eye almost swollen shut. The cuts where the boot had scraped flesh off bone.

  When he’d opened the door to them, Judge Corriveau had searched his eyes, worried that they’d been hollowed out by the events in the village. In the woods.

  That the warmth would be replaced by bitterness. The kindness by cruelty.

  And the decency would be gone completely.

  The look of pain she saw now wasn’t new, and wasn’t physical. It had always been there, in Gamache’s eyes, like an astigmatism that meant he saw things slightly differently from the rest of them.

  He saw the worst of humanity. But he also saw the best. And she was relieved to see that the decency remained. Stronger, even, than the pain. Stronger than ever.

  “Thank you for your flowers,” he said, pointing to the arrangement of cheerful cut flowers on the side table.

  “You’re welcome,” said Judge Corriveau.

  The card had simply read, “Merci.” And had been signed Maureen Corriveau and Joan Blanchette.

  Judge Corriveau had never discussed her personal life, but she felt she needed to give him that much. And besides, Joan had insisted.

  She took in the room around her. It was a pied-à-terre, she knew, their real home being in that little village. The one-bedroom apartment was in a classic Outremont walk-up. The ceilings were high, the room bright and airy and welcoming, with books on shelves and on side tables. La Presse, Le Devoir and The Gazette newspapers were scattered around. It was casual but not messy.

  The sofa and armchairs were inviting, lived in. Upholstered in fresh, warm colors. It was a room she and Joan could happily occupy.

  Another man was in the living room, leaning slightly on a cane.

  “You know Inspector Beauvoir, I believe,” said Gamache, and they all shook hands.

  “You all right?” asked Barry Zalmanowitz.

  “This’s for effect,” said Jean-Guy, waving it in front of himself, as he’d seen Ruth do thousands of times. He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he called the Chief Crown numbnuts.

  “How’s Chief Inspector Lacoste?” asked the Crown.

  “We’re going to the hospital as soon as we’ve finished here,” said Gamache. “I spoke to her husband this morning, and he said that there’s some activity in her brain.”

  The other two nodded. When that was the good news, there was nothing more that could be said.

  “I don’t think you’ve met my wife,” said Gamache, as Reine-Marie came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with cold drinks.

  He took the tray and introduced her to Judge Corriveau.

  “We’ve met, of course,” said Monsieur Zalmanowitz. “I interviewed you as part of the witness process. You found the body of Katie Evans.”

  “Oui,” said Reine-Marie. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not,” said Judge Corriveau, while all the time wondering if she should mind, and if she should have brought a court reporter, to take down what was said.

  But it was too late, and in the morass of unusual events, this departure from the norm would probably be forgiven if not overlooked.

  Judge Corriveau turned to Chief Superintendent Gamache and Chief Crown Zalmanowitz.

  “This is a meeting that had been scheduled for two days ago, in my office. But of course, it would be foolish not to realize things have changed. And yet, some things have not. A woman is still on trial for the murder of Madame Evans. I need to know if she really is guilty, in your mind, or if it was all part of what was clearly a long and detailed scheme.”

  She looked from one to the other, then settled on Gamache.

  The architect. The leader, who had led them all into this.

  “Tell me,” said the judge, “about the murder of Katie Evans.”

  “It began,” began Gamache, “as most murders do. Long ago. Though not far away.”

  He looked to his left.

  “Just a few blocks from here. At the Université de Montréal. When one of the students killed himself. Doped up, out of his mind, on drugs supplied to him by a third-year political science student. Anton Boucher.”

  Judge Corriveau was very familiar with the name.

  In the pretrial reports, Anton Boucher had been the dishwasher at the bistro.

  In the reports she’d just read, Anton Boucher was the head of the Québec syndicate.

  “His uncle is Maurice Boucher,” said Corriveau, wanting to show she’d done some homework. “He was the head of the Hell’s Angels here. In prison now for murder and trafficking.”

  Beauvoir nodded. “Right. When he was sent up, his nephew took over. He did what Mom Boucher couldn’t.”

  Beauvoir had used the nickname the elder Boucher went by. Apparently because he “mothered” the members of his gang. Though that didn’t stop him from slaughtering other people’s children.

  “Anton moved quickly,” said Jean-Guy. “He was named after his uncle’s best friend, Antonio Ruiz, who guided him in consolidating the three cartels. Anton could see where organized crime was heading.”

  “And where was that?” asked Corriveau.

  “It was on the verge of becoming far bigger, far wealthier, more powerful than anything anyone had known in the past,” said Gamache. “And the catalyst was the opioids.”

  “Like fentanyl,” said Zalmanowitz. “I know all about them. My daughter was addicted. We got her treatment, but…”

  He lifted his hands, then dropped them.

  “This isn’t parents overreacting to a recreational drug,” he continued. “This’s something else. It’s brutal. It changes them. It changed her. And she’s one of the lucky ones. She’s still alive.”

  “Fentanyl was the first to really explode onto the streets,” said Gamache. “But there were others. And now they’re coming in, being created faster than we can stop them. Faster than we can even get the opioids onto the banned list. A tweak of the formula, and it reads differently. It’s no longer illegal. Until we catch up with it.”

  “A hole in the law,” said the judge. “The chemical compounds need to be clearly described. Even a slight change means there’s nothing we can do. We have to release the traffickers.”

  “It’s a modern-day Black Death,” said Zalmanowitz. “And the syndicates are the plague rats.”

  “Anton Boucher saw it coming,” said Gamache. “And he moved quickly, viciously, to take control.”

  “A new generation of criminal,” said Corriveau. “For a new generation of drug.”

  “Oui,” said Gamache.

  “Was Katie Evans part of the cartel?” asked Corriveau.

  “Non. Her crime was that she was at school with the young man who killed himself. She was his lover for a few months, before breaking it off. His name was Edouard Valcourt. He was Jacqueline’s brother.”

  “I remember his na

me from the pretrial reports.”

  “Madame Evans, her husband, Patrick, along with Matheo Bissonette and Lea Roux, were all friends with Edouard. Classmates,” said Beauvoir. “Lea and Matheo were at the rooftop party when he jumped.”

  Maureen Corriveau didn’t react, but Barry Zalmanowitz looked down at his hands.

  It was his nightmare. Maybe they hadn’t saved his daughter in time. Maybe they hadn’t saved her at all. Maybe this chemical was in deeper than even a father could reach.

  “Anton was their dealer, but he made a mistake,” said Beauvoir. “And it was a big one. He decided to try the drugs himself. He got hooked, and then, like most addicts, he got sloppy. When Edouard killed himself and questions started to be asked, he took off. Eventually went into treatment. There he got clean, but he also met a group of other men. Some who genuinely wanted to start fresh, but some who did not. They became Anton’s lieutenants. They, like him, had the advantage now of being clean. And of knowing what the drugs were capable of.”

  “That was a few years ago,” said Gamache. “As the drugs got stronger, crueler, so did the cartels.”

  “So how does Madame Evans come into it?” asked Judge Corriveau. “She knew this Edouard back at university, and presumably knew Anton Boucher.”

  “She did,” said Gamache. “They all did. He was a couple of years ahead of them. They all bought drugs off him. Mostly grass, some cocaine. Not the pharmaceuticals. Only Edouard did that.”

  “Are you saying that Madame Evans was killed because of something that happened that long ago?”

  “Yes,” said Gamache. “Most murders are simple. The motive clear, though what makes them difficult to see is that they’re often very old. Katie Evans was killed because of what happened at university. Because of a debt owed. And that’s where the cobrador came in. Jacqueline, Edouard’s sister, had the idea, but it was his friends who actually did it.”

  “They took turns being the Conscience,” said Beauvoir. “Standing on the village green. Accusing Anton. But that’s as far as it was supposed to go. They’d stand there for a few days, scare the shit out of the dishwasher, then go home.”

  “So what went wrong?” Maureen Corriveau asked.

  She needed all the details, not simply because it was her case, but because it was her career.

  She’d received a phone call that morning, summoning her to the office of the Premier Ministre in Québec City next week. It was not, she knew, to congratulate her on her role in this.

  Before she went, she needed to know what “this” was.

  “Wait,” she said. “Let me guess. They didn’t realize Anton wasn’t there to wash dishes. He was in Three Pines to monitor the movement of drugs.”

  “They had no idea who they were dealing with,” said Zalmanowitz.

  “They were focused on the suicide of their friend. Nothing more,” said Gamache. “The private investigator hired by the family worked on it off and on for years, finally tracking him down at the home of Antonio Ruiz.”

  “And this Ruiz, he’s also involved in organized crime?” asked Judge Corriveau.

  “In Europe. He’s based in Spain,” said Gamache. “Though the courts can’t seem to convict him.”

  “Another job for the cobrador,” said Zalmanowitz.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Judge Corriveau. “But the investigator didn’t know that Anton was related to Mom Boucher? Doesn’t seem possible to miss that.”

  “It’s a common name,” said Gamache. “And the records had been deliberately obscured. We knew there had been corruption in the Sûreté. Officials at all levels of the police, of government, were compromised. There was a reason we couldn’t get traction on fighting organized crime.”

  “They were better organized,” said Beauvoir.

  Corriveau smiled, then grew serious. “How did you know I wasn’t bought?”

  “We didn’t. Frankly, we had to assume everyone was.”

  They stared at each other, his eyes not quite so kindly.

  “And the Crown?” she asked, turning to Monsieur Zalmanowitz.

  “Our investigation showed the Crown’s office could have been compromised,” said Gamache.

  Zalmanowitz turned to him. “You investigated me?”

  “Of course we did. I had to be sure before approaching you.”

  Now they were getting to it, Corriveau knew. The center, the core, of the issue.

  “How did this”—she waved a finger between the two men—“come about?”

  “I needed help,” said Gamache. “So I asked the Chief Crown for a meeting.”

  “In Halifax,” said Zalmanowitz.

  It took a lot to surprise Maureen Corriveau, but that did. “Nova Scotia?”

  “Yes. We took separate flights and met at some dive on the waterfront,” said Zalmanowitz. “Though it did have great lemon meringue pie.”

  “Really?” said Corriveau. “That’s what you remember?”

  “It was very good,” said the Crown, smiling slightly at her annoyance. “I’ve never liked Monsieur Gamache. It’s not professional. It’s personal.”

  “And it’s mutual,” said Gamache. “I considered him a preening coward—”

  “And I think he’s an arrogant shithead. Désolé,” he said to Madame Gamache.

  “But you both liked the pie,” she pointed out.

  “As a matter of fact, it was the first thing we agreed on,” said Gamache, with a smile that threatened to split open his lip again. “I outlined what I was considering, and what would be necessary, and what I would need from him.”

  “What did he need from you?” the judge asked the Crown.

  “I think you know,” said Zalmanowitz.

  “And I think you know that I need to hear it from you.”

  “He asked that I suppress vital evidence that would compromise their investigation into the cartel. He needed the time and the distraction. He needed Anton Boucher to believe he was free and clear, and that the Sûreté under Gamache’s leadership was incompetent.”

  Barry Zalmanowitz sat back and placed his hands on the soft arms of the chair, much like Lincoln at the stone memorial.

  “And I agreed.”

  There. But unlike Abraham Lincoln, his was a self-assassination. And there would be no statues commemorating his service.

  Barry Zalmanowitz knew that in cataloguing so clearly what he’d done, he was possibly placing himself in prison. Definitely ruining his career. Hurting his family.

  But his actions had helped bring down the cartel. They’d finally broken the back of the traffickers. There was mopping up to be done, but the war on drugs had been won.

  If he, and his career, and his name were casualties, well, people had suffered worse. And the fuckers who’d sold the drugs to his daughter wouldn’t ruin another young life.

  Across from him, Gamache nodded, then did something that Zalmanowitz found unsettling.

  He looked down at his hands, also bruised. A mark that looked like the sole of a boot clearly stamped across the swollen knuckles.

  And Gamache sighed. Then he raised his eyes to Zalmanowitz and said, “Désolé.”

  In the silence, the Crown could feel his cheeks tingling as they flushed, then went pale. As the blood rushed forward, then ran away.

  “For what?” he asked quietly.

  “I haven’t told you everything.”

  Now Barry Zalmanowitz turned to stone. “What?”

  “Anton Boucher did not kill Katie Evans.”

  Zalmanowitz gripped the arms of the chair, in a sort of spasm.

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I lied to you. I’m very sorry.”

  “Tell me what you’re saying.”

  “You’re prosecuting the right person. Jacqueline killed Katie Evans.”

  Zalmanowitz’s mind both froze and raced. Like a car chained to the wall. Spinning its wheels.

  He was trying to understand these words. And trying to work out if this was good news, or a further disaster.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally got out. Not sure if that was the most pressing question, but it was the first out of the gate.

  “Because I only completely trusted a small group of my own officers,” said Gamache. “Though I’d never have approached you if I’d had serious doubts.”

  “But you did have doubts,” said Zalmanowitz.

  “Yes. I had no proof that you were corrupt. But neither did I have proof that you weren’t.”

  “So what made you approach me?”

  “Beyond desperation? Your daughter.”

  “What about her?” he asked, his voice, and his expression, filled with warning.

  “Our son, Daniel, has had experience with hard drugs,” said Gamache, and Zalmanowitz’s eyes narrowed. This was news to him.

  “So have I,” said Beauvoir. “Almost killed me. Almost destroyed the people I care most about.”

  “We know what it does to a family,” said Gamache quietly. “And I thought if anyone would do anything to stop the trafficking, it would be you. So I took the chance, and approached you. But I knew that even if you were clean, that didn’t mean your department was.”

  “You arrogant shithead.”

  Gamache held his glare.

  “If it helps, I didn’t trust my own service either. That’s why only a handful of officers knew what I was doing. The entire Sûreté was involved, but each department, each detachment had a very small role. So small, none could see clearly what was happening. To the extent, as you know, that there was eventually open revolt. They also felt I was incompetent and didn’t flinch from saying it. But only a few saw the whole picture.”

  Like Clara’s paintings, thought Beauvoir. Tiny dabs that in themselves were nothing. But when combined added up to something completely unexpected.

  “You think that excuses it?” said Zalmanowitz. “Do you know what you’ve done? You made me betray all my training, all my beliefs. You made me lie and suppress evidence. You made me believe I was trying the wrong person for a capital crime. You know what that does to a person? To me?”

  His clenched fist hit his breastbone so hard they heard the thump across the room.

  “Do you regret what you did?” Gamache asked.

  “That’s not the issue.”

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