A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,67
and social media. And with the private Instagram account, she can show galleries—me—” said Cloutier with a smile, “works in progress. Things they might not want public yet. Besides, she’s trying to pretend she’s Carl Tracey. God knows, you don’t want that asshole talking to galleries.”
“Got it,” said Lacoste. “So private Instagram it is.”
Where anyone could take on a false identity. And often did.
Lacoste didn’t know whether to be pleased with the brilliance of this or angry that Cloutier had disobeyed orders.
Before she made up her mind, Cloutier said, “Look at this.” She clicked again. “Voilà.”
Up came photographs and posts. Private messages between Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon. Just the two. No one else, it seemed, had access to the private account.
Except, now, NouveauGalerie.
And one thing was immediately obvious.
“They’re lovers,” said Lacoste.
“Oui.”
“Can you zoom in on this picture, please,” said Lacoste, leaning closer.
It was a selfie Pauline Vachon had taken. She was lying on a sofa in a very suggestive pose.
“There. And there,” said Lacoste, reaching out and moving the image until it showed a close-up of the woman’s bare arm.
Bruises.
“Goddamn,” said Cloutier, with disgust and, Lacoste thought, a touch of triumph.
“What’re they saying to each other?” Lacoste asked.
“I’ve just gotten in. Haven’t gotten to their messages yet.”
Just then Lacoste’s phone vibrated, and she read the email.
It was from an agent back at headquarters, reporting on the phone messages into and out of the Tracey home for the past few weeks. There weren’t many. They’d all be checked, but what Lacoste scanned down to were the ones for that Saturday.
None had come in, and just two numbers were called from the house that day. One of them repeatedly.
“Is either of these Pauline Vachon’s number?”
“Non. But it is a Cowansville exchange,” said Cloutier. “I can look it up. That other one is to her father. That’s Homer’s number.”
Lacoste nodded. And realized Cloutier must know it well.
While Cloutier looked up the second number, Lacoste called Beauvoir.
“Oui, allô.”
“The phone records from the Tracey place have come in,” she said, without preamble. “It shows the call to Vivienne’s father, like he said, on Saturday morning. But someone in that house called another number, repeatedly, early Saturday evening. Most of the calls lasted only seconds.”
“Where to?”
“A local number. Agent Cloutier’s checking now.”
Beauvoir stayed on the line and could hear the clicking of computer keys. Then silence. Before he heard Agent Cloutier’s voice.
“The number belongs to a Gerald Bertrand.”
Jean-Guy put his hand over the phone and relayed the information to Gamache.
“The lover?” Beauvoir said.
“Could be,” said Gamache.
“We’ll find out,” said Lacoste, rising with the help of her cane.
* * *
After hanging up, Beauvoir returned to the coroner.
“Have you done a DNA test on the fetus?”
“I have. The results will be in with the rest of the tests, later today.”
“About the medication that was found in her duffel bag—”
“Mifegymiso. Yes.”
“It’s an abortion pill, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean she was trying to end her pregnancy?”
“It’s unclear. It’s only legal in Canada up to ten weeks, and she was further along than that. I’ll test for both in her blood, but I can tell you there were no signs of an imminent miscarriage.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I doubt she took the pill. And you know that this bottle”—she held it up—“wasn’t from a prescription, right? It’s almost certainly black market.”
“Yes.”
“I have a question for you,” said Gamache.
“Oui,” said Dr. Harris.
“Is Mifegymiso free?”
“If prescribed by a doctor, yes.”
“So if it’s both legal and free, why would anyone pay for it on the black market?”
“Well, I guess if she was twenty weeks along, no doctor would prescribe it,” said the coroner.
“Possible,” said Gamache.
“But you don’t think so,” said Beauvoir.
“I’m wondering if Vivienne got those pills,” said Gamache. “Or if Tracey did.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Dr. Harris.
“He would,” said Beauvoir, “if he knew the baby wasn’t his and wanted her to abort. Probably without her knowing.”
“Which would mean he knew all that long before Saturday,” said Gamache. “But if he knew what the drug was for and he packed her duffel bag, why put them in?”
“Maybe to confuse us,” said Beauvoir.
“Well,” said Gamache, and raised his brows. It was working …
“Or maybe—”
Dr. Harris watched as the two investigators discussed possibilities and probabilities.
She’d worked with them for years. Seen their relationship blossom and wither. Seen it through all its spasms, incarnations, hoops, and dips. The ruptures and the mendings.
Things are strongest where they’re broken.
Gamache had said that, quietly, once. Years ago. In the cathedral in Québec City, at the funerals for four of his