of murderers. He didn’t kid himself that he had, even after all these years, some sort of special talent. To spot a killer.
He didn’t really know if he was looking at one now. But he found himself increasingly repulsed by Carl Tracey.
“We understand from Vivienne’s father that she’s pregnant.”
“Yeah. Who knows who knocked her up? Doubt it’s mine. And if she thinks I’m going to raise the bastard, she has another thing coming.”
“And what would she have coming?” asked Gamache.
Tracey smirked. “How would you feel if your wife screwed another man and got pregnant?”
Gamache raised his chin and stared at Tracey.
And Carl Tracey stared back across the table into those calm, focused eyes and knew that while that shot had missed, this Sûreté officer was human. And therefore vulnerable. And he’d find that chink eventually.
“Aren’t you worried at all about her?” asked Agent Cloutier.
Tracey took his eyes from Gamache and shifted to the woman cop. “Why should I be? Look, like I said, she’s probably just taken off, and when that guy gets tired of her, she’ll come back. I don’t even know why it’s any of your business.”
Just then the phone rang.
“You might as well answer it,” said Tracey. “It’s for you.”
Gamache clicked it on, but before he could say anything, he was met with a torrent of abuse. Culminating in the man shouting, “Where’s my daughter? If you don’t tell me, I’m coming down, and I’m going to beat it out of you. You understand?”
Everyone in the room heard the voice, and Gamache could see Tracey looking triumphant.
See what I have to put up with? his expression said.
“Monsieur Godin?” Gamache began.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Gamache, I’m with the Sûreté—”
“Oh, God, has something happened? Have you found her? Oh, God—”
“Non, monsieur. We have no news of your daughter. I’m here with Lysette Cloutier. She’s a friend of yours, I understand. Agent Cloutier asked us to investigate.”
There was heavy breathing on the other end as Godin composed himself.
“We’re interviewing Monsieur Tracey right now.”
“Monsieur Tracey? Monsieur? The man’s a monster and you call him ‘monsieur’? He might’ve … he could’ve … Do you know she’s pregnant?”
“Yes. Please, calm yourself. We’re doing all we can. I promise you, we’ll find her.”
“You will. Alive?”
It was said so pathetically. Not just a word but a world. Alive. Alive. And all that meant. For him. For her. For the child. A life spread out before them. With birthdays and holidays. Celebrations.
Alive.
“We’ll find her,” Gamache repeated, and wondered if Monsieur Godin noticed he hadn’t said “alive.” “Do you have someone with you?”
“Non, non. Vivienne’s my only child. My wife died a few years ago. I was expecting her here, you know. She was going to leave him. I’d begged her for years to leave that son of a bitch.”
There was a pause. Gamache heard heavy breathing, almost sobs, before Monsieur Godin was able to speak again.
“What has he done with her? Ask him. He knows. Make him tell you. If you don’t, I will.”
“Stay at home, Monsieur Godin. In case she calls.”
Even as he said it, Gamache recognized it as cheap, potentially cruel manipulation. But he had to keep Godin away from Tracey. And there was still a chance his daughter was alive and would call her father.
“I’ll be in touch with you when we’re finished here. D’accord?”
There was a deep, deep breath on the other end of the line. And finally, “D’accord.”
“Can I speak to him?” whispered Cloutier, her hand out for the phone. “Homer, it’s Lysette.… Oui. Oui.… I promise.… Oui.”
She’d dropped her eyes to the table and was listening intently. Homer Godin’s voice was now quieter, so the others couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“Chief Inspector Gamache will call you as soon as possible,” said Cloutier once Vivienne’s father had stopped talking. “Oui. I promise.”
Her voice, gentle, calming, seemed to be having an effect. After saying goodbye, she placed the phone on the table.
“The man’s a shithead,” said Tracey, speaking to the phone as though it were his father-in-law. “You heard him threaten me. He’s the dangerous one.”
“Enough,” said Cameron, hitting the table with such force that the ceramic roosters took flight and spilled salt and pepper over the table.
“Agent Cameron,” said Gamache sharply.
“Sorry,” he muttered, bringing himself under control.
Gamache shifted his attention back to where it belonged. “How long have you and Madame Godin been together?”
“I dunno. Four, five years.”
“How did you meet?”
“It was in a bar. Where did you think? Church? The gym? Look, I have things to do around