A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(9)

Beauvoir considered her again and weighed his options.

The fact this woman was pregnant shouldn’t change anything. And yet, for Beauvoir, it did.

Missing. Pregnant. Unhelpful husband.

These were worrying signs. Warning signs.

Lysette Cloutier was not an experienced or, let’s face it, effective criminal investigator. If he freed her up to look into it, just for the day, she’d come back with nothing. Probably because there was nothing to find.

The missing woman had probably just gone away for the weekend. Told her husband she was visiting her family but was really with girlfriends. Or a lover.

Far from the first person to do that.

“What do I tell her father?” Cloutier pressed. “He’s really worried. It’s not like her.”

“He might not know her as well as he thinks he does.”

“But he knows his son-in-law.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s never said it outright, but I know he doesn’t like him.”

“That’s not a reason to engage the resources of the homicide department, Agent Cloutier.”

“He thinks something bad’s happened.” She could see she was losing him. She racked her brains for something else to say. “How would you feel, sir? If your child didn’t come home?”

She could see that the words had hit home, but not in the way she’d hoped.

Chief Inspector Beauvoir now looked angry.

Beside him, Superintendent Lacoste watched and braced. There’d be a collision after all, but not with Gamache. Chief Inspector Beauvoir was about to run over Agent Cloutier.

“My son is an infant,” Beauvoir said, his voice cold. “There’s a difference.”

“But if you love them, age doesn’t matter, does it? Really?” she persisted, barely believing she was doing this. “They’re still our children.”

Beauvoir stared at her, the whole room holding its breath while the Chief Inspector weighed the options.

“What’s the name?”

“Vivienne. Vivienne Godin.”

Beauvoir wrote that down. “And husband?”

“Carl Tracey.”

If this Vivienne Godin really was missing, then something bad had happened, and time counted.

Unfortunately, Cloutier was pretty much their Clouseau. She would not find the woman, even if standing next to her in line for a Double Double at Tim Hortons.

It wasn’t that Cloutier was an idiot, just that this was not her strength. It wasn’t why she was brought into homicide.

In a swift glance, Beauvoir took in the officers around the table. All had their hands full with active murder investigations. Where murders had indeed been committed and killers needed to be found. Urgently.

His eyes came to rest on the one officer as yet unassigned.

Jeez, thought Beauvoir, am I really going to do this to him?

“Would you work with Agent Cloutier and see if there’s anything there? Just for the day?”

“With pleasure,” said Chief Inspector Gamache.





CHAPTER FOUR


“I’m sorry,” Beauvoir said under his breath as they left the meeting.

“Why?” asked Gamache.

“You know why.” Beauvoir cocked his head toward Cloutier, who was at her desk. “She stapled her transfer papers to her thigh the first day here.”

“She isn’t armed, is she?” asked Gamache.

“Are you kidding?”

“Is she working out?” Gamache asked. After all, it had been his decision to transfer this desk agent into homicide.

“Actually, if kept off the streets and away from any citizens or anything sharp, yes.”

“Good to know.”

Gamache watched Agent Cloutier sitting at her desk, staring into space. He tried to believe she was thinking, but the look on her face said that she was paralyzed by indecision.

“Noli timere,” said Beauvoir with a grin.

“Huh. Well, maybe just a little timere,” admitted Gamache. As he considered Agent Cloutier, he thought about her question.

How would you feel…?

How would he feel if his daughter, a grown woman, a married woman, had been missing for a day and a half?

He’d be frantic. He’d hope and pray that someone would pay attention. Someone would help.

Agent Cloutier’s persistence had shown courage. Her question had shown empathy.

Both were extremely valuable, he told himself, even as he watched her knock her phone off the desk. Into the garbage.

She was nervous, that much was obvious. About the missing young woman? About working with him? About failing? Or was there something else?

“I’ve arranged for another desk to be put into the office,” said Beauvoir. He’d almost said “my office” but had stopped himself.

“Merci. I appreciate the thought, but I’d like to sit out here.”

“Really?” Beauvoir looked around.

Desks were placed together, facing each other, two by two. Some neat, some with documents piled high. Some personalized, with family photos and memorabilia. Others antiseptic.

Gamache followed Beauvoir’s gaze. It had been years, decades, since he’d sat in an open bullpen. At a desk like any other.