How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9)

How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) Page 37

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

“Perhaps nothing.”

“Do you think that’s what the killer took?”

Gamache thought about that. “Photographs of the parents?”

“Family photographs. Of the parents and the sisters.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” he said.

“I’m just wondering…” she said when they reached her car.

“Go on.”

“No, it’s really too stupid.”

He raised his brows, but said nothing. Just stared at her.

“What do we really know about the Ouellet Quints?” she asked. “They deliberately dropped from view, became the Pineault sisters. They were private in the extreme…”

“Just say it, Inspector,” said Gamache.

“Maybe Constance wasn’t the last.”

“Pardon?”

“How do we know the others are dead? Maybe one isn’t. Who else could get into the house? Who else even knew where they lived? Who else might take family photographs?”

“We don’t know if the killer even realized she was a Quint,” the Chief Inspector pointed out. “And we don’t know that family photos were stolen.”

But as he drove away, Lacoste’s statement grew in his mind.

Maybe Constance wasn’t the last.

TWELVE

Pay attention, Jean-Guy Beauvoir begged himself. For chrissake, hold it together.

His knee jittered up and down and he placed his hand on it. Pressing down.

At the front of the room, Martin Tessier was instructing the Sûreté agents who’d soon be raiding the biker gang stronghold.

“These aren’t tattooed thugs,” said Francoeur’s second in command, turning away from the graphics on his tablet to face them. “Too many dead cops and mob bosses have underestimated the bikers. These’re soldiers. They might look like yahoos, but make no mistake, they’re disciplined and committed and highly motivated to protect their territory.”

Tessier went on, flashing images, schematics, plans.

But all Beauvoir heard was his own voice, pleading.

Dear God, don’t let me die.

*   *   *

Chief Inspector Gamache knocked on the door, then stepped into Thérèse Brunel’s office. She looked up from her desk as he entered.

“Close the door, please,” she said, removing her glasses. Her voice and manner were uncharacteristically brusque.

“I got your message but was out of town.” He glanced at the clock on her desk. Just past noon.

She indicated a seat. He hesitated a moment, then sat. She took the chair beside him. She looked tired, but was still perfectly turned out, and perfectly in command of herself and him.

“We’ve come to the end, Armand. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I’ve been thinking about it, and speaking with Jérôme, and we think there’s nothing there. We’ve been chasing our own tails.”

“But—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Chief Inspector. This whole video thing has gotten out of control and out of proportion. It’s done. The video’s out there, nothing we can do will get it back. You need to let it go.”

“I don’t understand…” He searched her face.

“It’s quite simple. You were hurt and angry and wanted revenge. Perfectly natural. And then you became convinced there was more there than just the video. You got yourself rattled and managed to rattle everyone around you. Including me. That’s my fault, not yours. I allowed myself to believe you.”

“What’s happened, Thérèse?”

“Superintendent,” she said.

“Désolé. Superintendent.” He lowered his voice. “Has something happened?”

“It certainly has. I’ve come to my senses and I advise you to do the same. I hardly slept last night, then I finally got up and made notes. Would you like to see them?”

Gamache nodded, watching her closely. She handed him a handwritten note. He put his reading glasses on and studied it. Then he carefully folded it in half.

“As you see, I listed all the evidence in favor of your contention that Chief Superintendent Francoeur leaked the video of the raid and has a larger, more malevolent purpose—”

“Thérèse!” Gamache exclaimed, leaning forward suddenly as though to physically stop her from saying more.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Chief Inspector, give it up. The office isn’t bugged. No one’s listening to us. No one cares. It’s all in your head. Look at my notes. There’s no evidence. The weight of our friendship and my respect for you clouded my judgment. You’ve connected dots that you yourself created.” She leaned toward him in a manner almost threatening. “Driven almost certainly by your own personal loathing for Francoeur. If you keep this up, Armand, I’ll go to him myself with evidence of your actions.”