A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(11)

Crossing his legs, he leaned back on the bench and waited. Apparently just staring into space.

Cloutier paced, checking her phone for messages, gazing at posters, photographs, warnings, commendations on the walls. Photos of the S?reté hockey team. She checked her phone for messages. Again.

Finally an officer came out and hurried across the entrance hall. Her hand extended. “Chief Superintendent—”

“Inspector,” Gamache corrected, and wondered how many times he’d have to do that. “Chief Inspector.” He was on his feet.

“Brigitte Flaubert,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Yes, I remember,” said Gamache.

As Chief Superintendent, he’d made it a point to visit each detachment in the province. To sit down with the commander, and especially the agents. To get their take on what needed improving.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Commander Flaubert looked at Gamache with an increasingly familiar searching gaze. He suspected he’d have to get used to it.

Different from the curious looks he normally got on the street, as passersby tried to place this familiar face. The looks today were not so much to place him as to judge him.

Flaubert shot a displeased glance at the receptionist, who did not seem to care, then she turned to Agent Cloutier, as Gamache introduced her.

“If you’ll come with me,” said Flaubert.

They followed her into the back of the station and to her office, walking past desks occupied by busy S?reté officers, who glanced up as they passed, then back down.

Then up again. Realizing that the large man in the parka wasn’t a stranger at all but the former head of the whole damn force.

For his part, Gamache scanned the room, meeting eyes that quickly dropped.

But one officer caught his attention. He was hefty though not fat. Solidly built, he sat at his desk, and when the others dropped their gaze, he did not.

Gamache’s eyes moved on, but not before thinking he knew the man. Recognized him from somewhere.

He’d be about thirty. Short, dark hair. Built like a truck. Six feet tall, maybe six-one, Gamache guessed, though it was hard to tell with him sitting down.

Where had he met this officer? The academy? Had he taught him? Had he presented him with a medal? Service? Bravery? Distinction?

Gamache didn’t think so. He’d remember. And yet he knew this man.

There was also the issue of his eyes. Where the other officers in the room seemed curious, this one seemed wary.

The commander waved them to chairs on the other side of her desk and closed the door.

“How can I help you?” Flaubert asked.

Gamache took off his coat and nodded to Agent Cloutier to start.

“Ummm. Well.” She tried to gather herself. “We’re interested in a local woman. Vivienne Godin. We understand she’s missing.”

She placed a photo of Vivienne on the commander’s desk.

Flaubert saw a young woman. Straight brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were a clear, almost piercing blue. She didn’t look particularly happy, but neither did she look angry or upset. Vivienne Godin looked almost blank.

While she might have been attractive in real life, this picture drained all the life from her, leaving her pretty features dulled.

Commander Flaubert looked up from it, then from one to the other, eyes resting back on Agent Cloutier.

“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with her. She’s local, you say?”

“Yes. Married to Carl Tracey.”

“Ahh. Tracey I know.” Flaubert went to the door and called another officer over. The one who’d caught Gamache’s attention when they’d arrived.

“This’s Agent Cameron.”

Gamache rose and saw immediately that he’d been wrong. This man wasn’t six feet tall or even six-one. He’d be at least six-three. And formidably built.

His face from a distance was unremarkable.

But that changed once up close. What was remarkable about it was the scarring. There was a permanent cut through his lip and another through his left brow. His left cheekbone was slightly flattened, as was his nose.

Gamache also noticed, though it was admittedly hard to miss, the ring on Cameron’s finger.

That’s where he knew him from.

“Patron,” said Cameron.

Gamache pointed to the ring. “A great game. I was there. Alouettes came from behind. You had some very impressive blocks. One at the end of the third quarter, right? Allowed the quarterback to run for a touchdown.”

“Right.” Cameron smiled as his beefy hand released Gamache’s grip. He remained standing, squeezed into the small room. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not so long. It’s Robert Cameron, n’est-ce pas?”

“Bob. Yes.”

This man had been a tackle with the Montréal Alouettes. Helped them win the Canadian Football League’s Grey Cup a few years back.

And now he was with the S?reté.

His brown hair was cut short, and his eyes had a sharp focus. An athlete’s eyes. Always aware of his surroundings. Prepared to act and react.

Also a useful quality in a S?reté agent, thought Gamache. As long as react didn’t become overreact. In a man this size, it could be brutal. Even fatal.

But when Cameron spoke, it was almost in a whisper. His voice was deep, audible, more gentle than soft. Many large men enjoyed lording over, looming over, lesser beings. Intimidating with their height and girth. But Bob Cameron seemed anxious to put people at ease. To try to fit into a world not made for him.