in my office. Keep it by your desk. Okay then, turn it to face the wall. I don’t care. Just get that number and try it on his laptop. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Beauvoir hung up and turned to Gamache.
“We’ll know soon. I don’t know what we’ll find on that computer, but I’m still betting those two out there”—he jerked his head toward the living room—“are in it over their ridiculous haircuts. I think Anthony Baumgartner was greedy. Scheming. Criminal. I don’t think he had any intention of sharing the wealth.”
“And you think that’s why he was killed?”
“I do. Don’t you?”
Gamache glanced toward the closed door, and Jean-Guy, who knew him well, could guess his thoughts.
“Look, patron, I know you don’t want Benedict to be the one. You like him. I like him. He saved your life. But—”
“You think that’s why I don’t believe it was Benedict?” asked Armand. “Because he did a nice thing?”
“It was a pretty nice thing,” said Beauvoir.
“True, but we’ve arrested too many nice killers to be fooled. I just don’t see any proof. That they’ve lied, yes, but if everyone who lied to us was a killer, there’d be slaughter in the streets. I just don’t believe it.”
“You don’t want to believe it.”
“Show me the proof and I will.”
“You talked about separating facts from all the lies in this case. Well, here’s a fact for you. Benedict was in the farmhouse when Baumgartner was there. He had opportunity and motive. I’m betting under all that rubble we’ll find the sledgehammer, or whatever weapon he used. And then their story will collapse, like the building. With them in it.”
The two men were used to arguing over cases. Challenging each other. Challenging theories, questioning evidence. This was nothing new. Though there was a slight edge to it, and Armand knew why.
Was he refusing to see what was so clear to Beauvoir? What would be so clear to him if he didn’t keep feeling the trembling body on top of him and hearing the crying. Of a young man terrified of dying but instinctively protecting another. A veritable stranger.
Could such a man, just hours earlier, have taken a life?
But Armand knew the answer to that. Yes. One was instinctive. The other well thought out. Premeditated. And maybe also, at a profound level, instinctive.
A parent would do a lot to provide for his child. And if that meant killing a—what had Katie called him?—filthy, greedy, cheating, and lying Baumgartner, then so be it.
Yes, Armand had to admit. It could have been Benedict.
They returned to the living room, and Jean-Guy said his goodbyes, explaining that he had to get back to Montréal.
Myrna got up. “I’ll be leaving too. Those brownies won’t eat themselves.”
“I thought you said it was soup you left behind,” said Reine-Marie, walking her to the door.
“You must’ve misheard,” said Myrna.
“What about us?” asked Katie.
“You’re free to go,” said Beauvoir.
“Me too?” asked Benedict.
Beauvoir hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
They thanked the Gamaches for their hospitality.
“And the tires,” said Benedict, with a smile that a day earlier Gamache might have found disarming but now struck him as possibly calculated. “I won’t forget.”
“And neither will I,” said Armand, shaking the young man’s hand. Then he turned to Katie. “I really do like the hat, you know.”
Beauvoir watched them leave, then said to Gamache, “Next time I see them, it’ll be with an arrest warrant.”
Gamache put on his boots and coat and hat.
“Taking the dogs for a walk?” asked Beauvoir, pulling on his mittens.
“Non. I’m going in to Montréal too.”
“Good,” said Beauvoir. “I’ll drive you. You can stay over with us, if you like.”
“Non, merci. I’ll drive myself. I’ll be coming back out.”
“Your eyes okay?”
“They’re just fine.”
Beauvoir paused, studying his father-in-law. “Are you sure?”
“You’re not accusing me of being blind again, are you?”
“Only to evidence so obvious your infant grandson could see it,” said Beauvoir. “But I think you’re okay to drive.”
Gamache laughed and said good night to his son-in-law, then went and explained to Reine-Marie that he had to go into the city but would be back later.
“Would you like me to come?” she asked.
“Non, mon coeur—”
Just then the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” he said, and went into his study.
When he reached for the phone, he paused. The number lit up on the handset was one he recognized.
He glanced out into the living room, then, with his foot, swung the door closed.
“Oui, allô,” he said.
His voice sounded strange in his own ears. Oddly calm, while his heart pounded.
“Monsieur Gamache?”