A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,91
Cloutier, who gave a curt nod.
The clotted makeup could not conceal the panic in her face.
Lacoste opened the file again and read, “Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise. That was a message from Carl Tracey to you, around noon on the day Vivienne disappeared. And your reply?”
“Look, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Finally. Good luck. Don’t mess it up.” She looked up from the file. “But he did, didn’t he? He messed it up royally. That’s why you’re here, Pauline.”
The younger woman was flushed. But she tried one more twist to get off the hook.
“Those were about the clay Tracey was buying. He was going to do more pieces that night. I told him not to mess it up. He’d been promising some for weeks.”
Lacoste got up. “I’ll let you think about what you just said. Unless something happens in the next few minutes, like a meteor strikes, you’ll be charged with the murder of Vivienne Godin.”
She and Cloutier left the room. Leaving the file behind.
* * *
“We have her,” said Lacoste, walking up to Beauvoir, who was standing outside the meeting room. “Pauline Vachon doesn’t admit to being part of the murder—yet—but she will. I’m letting her stew for a few minutes. She was clearly shaken when she realized we’d seen the private account.”
“You should’ve seen her face,” said Cloutier.
Lacoste nodded. “She admits she used the abortion drug herself and was the one who told Carl Tracey how to get it on the black market.”
How Lacoste got the young woman to admit to a third abortion, never mind buying the black-market drug, still amazed Cloutier. It had been a masterful combination of guile, of guesswork, of knowing when to push and when to make nice. Until Vachon had nowhere to go but the truth.
Cloutier was looking at Lacoste with something close to awe. But there was caution there as well. She did not want to make the same mistake as Vachon.
Whether by natural instinct or honed skills, Isabelle Lacoste had the power to see things people wanted to hide.
And they all had them, as Lysette Cloutier knew only too well.
But while Cloutier was focused on Lacoste, Lacoste was focused on Beauvoir.
“What is it?”
He told them about the video.
Before Lacoste could react, the door opened and Gamache stepped out. He was pale but composed.
Every agent in the open room looked over at him.
They’d all read the Twitter feed and seen the doctored video that was blowing up online. They had yet to see the real video that had just been posted.
“What can we do, patron?” Lacoste asked, going to him and touching his hand.
“There’s nothing to be done. Mais merci, Isabelle. I’ve spoken to the families.” His smile was tight and his voice brisk. “How did the interview go with Pauline Vachon?”
As they returned to the meeting room to talk privately, both Lacoste and Beauvoir noticed that Gamache’s right hand was closed into a tight fist. But still it trembled.
* * *
They watched on the monitor as Pauline Vachon turned the folder around and went through the photographs and printouts.
Then she sat back in her chair. And stared at the far wall.
Seeing, Lacoste knew, all her work, all her dreams, dissolving.
Then Beauvoir closed the feed on his laptop and turned to Lacoste.
“Tell us what happened.”
When Lacoste finished, Beauvoir thought for a moment. “She’ll crack.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Lacoste. “She’s clever and she’s tough. Makes me so angry. She really could’ve made something of her life. I still don’t know why she’d hook up with Carl Tracey.”
“She saw a shortcut,” said Beauvoir.
“To what? An abusive relationship in a remote farmhouse? Not exactly Cinderella.”
“She probably thought she was smarter, tougher than Vivienne Godin,” said Beauvoir. “That she could control Tracey.”
“We saw the bruises on her arms,” said Cloutier. “She must know.”
“Maybe she does. Maybe it’s the cycle of abuse, right, patron?” said Beauvoir, and Gamache nodded.
Beauvoir and Lacoste exchanged glances but said nothing. They’d give him time, and space, to return to them.
Beauvoir sat forward, his voice all business. “The coroner’s report came in. The fetus, a baby girl, was his.”
“His who?” asked Lacoste, needing to be absolutely clear.
“Carl Tracey. The baby was his.”
“You’re kidding.” It was, of course, rhetorical. Isabelle Lacoste sat back in her chair. What did this mean?
“Do you think Vivienne knew this and was messing with Carl when she told him it wasn’t his?” she asked. “Or did Vivienne really believe the baby was someone else’s?”