A Better Man
- Автор: Пенни Луиза
- Серия: Chief Inspector Gamache #15
- Год: 2019
- Язык: английский
- Год: St. Martin's Publishing Group
- ISBN: 9781466873711
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «A Better Man». Краткое содержание книги:
It's Gamache's first day back as head of the homicide department, a job he temporarily shares with his previous second-in-command, Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Floodwaters are rising across the province. In the middle of the turmoil, a father approaches Gamache, pleading for help in finding his daughter.
As crisis piles upon crisis, Gamache tries to hold off the encroaching chaos, and realizes the search for Vivienne Godin should be abandoned. But with a daughter of his own, he finds himself developing a profound, and perhaps unwise, empathy for her distraught father.
Increasingly hounded by the question, how would you feel..., he resumes the search.
As the rivers rise, and the social media onslaught against Gamache becomes crueler, a body is discovered. And in the tumult, mistakes are made.
In the next novel in this constantly surprising series that deepens and darkens as it evolves (The New York Times Book Review), Gamache must face a horrific possibility, and a burning question.
What would you do if your child's killer walked free?
“Yes, Your Honor, we need it immediately. Chief Inspector Gamache is on-site and waiting. A woman is missing and perhaps murdered by her husband. I’m sending the request now.”
He hit the send key. “Please let me know.”
Then he hung up and looked out the window.
The rain had begun. It was pissing April showers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gamache handed the phone back to Tracey, with a smile. “Merci. Most helpful.”
“What the fuck was that?”
“You heard, Mr. Tracey. In a few minutes, that phone will ring again. It’ll be about a warrant to search your property. Best to answer it. Let’s go into your house, and while we wait for the call confirming the search warrant, you can answer some questions.”
Tracey’s face hardened. He looked like an obstinate child.
“Or not,” said Gamache pleasantly. “But we’re cold and wet and would appreciate your cooperation.”
He could almost hear Cameron and Cloutier gagging at his courteous tone.
Tracey, it seemed, had gotten the point. He gestured for them to follow.
The mud had hardened onto their coats and pant legs and boots. They looked and felt like Québec’s version of the Terra-Cotta Warriors. The Sûreté officers took off their coats and boots, leaving them on the porch. But they couldn’t very well remove their wet and filthy slacks.
Tracey had no such hesitation about trailing muck through his house and had kept his rubber boots on.
It was hot in the home, almost stifling. An elderly mutt lay by the woodstove in the kitchen.
“Beer walk soon,” said Tracey, gesturing toward the dog.
Gamache knew what that meant, though the others did not. He looked past the gray muzzle into the tired old eyes and thought of the walk into the woods, with the rifle.
And wondered if the same fate had befallen the dog’s mistress.
Dishes, pots, and pans were piled into and out of the sink. The place stank of grease and rotting food. Booze and old dog and cigarettes. The smell was almost overpowering.
Gamache took a deep breath through his nose. Wondering if, in the sweltering heat, he could pick up another scent.
Something familiar. Something unmistakable. Something far worse.
But he could not. It was, perhaps, masked by the other rotting odors. But he doubted it. There was really no masking that one putrid stench.
The three Sûreté officers had joined Tracey at the Formica kitchen table. Tracey lit a cigarette while Cloutier and Cameron waited for Gamache to do something.
But he was doing something. Armand Gamache was listening.
For a sound, however remote, telling him that there was someone else in the home. A tapping. A muffled call.
Anything.
But there was only silence.
Finally he said, “Monsieur Tracey, you say your wife isn’t here. Do you know where she is?”
Cloutier had brought out her iPhone and was recording everything.
“I already told you cops. All I know is when I woke up yesterday morning, she was gone. No note, no nothin’.”
“Any ideas?”
Tracey laughed. “She could be anywhere. On a bender. Shacked up with some guy. I’ll tell you, when she comes back—”
He remembered, too late, who he was talking to.
“Yes?” said Gamache. “Go on.”
“Nothin’.”
Armand Gamache had looked across lots of tables, at lots of murderers. He didn’t kid himself that he had, even after all these years, some sort of special talent. To spot a killer.
He didn’t really know if he was looking at one now. But he found himself increasingly repulsed by Carl Tracey.
“We understand from Vivienne’s father that she’s pregnant.”
“Yeah. Who knows who knocked her up? Doubt it’s mine. And if she thinks I’m going to raise the bastard, she has another thing coming.”
“And what would she have coming?” asked Gamache.
Tracey smirked. “How would you feel if your wife screwed another man and got pregnant?”
Gamache raised his chin and stared at Tracey.
And Carl Tracey stared back across the table into those calm, focused eyes and knew that while that shot had missed, this Sûreté officer was human. And therefore vulnerable. And he’d find that chink eventually.
“Aren’t you worried at all about her?” asked Agent Cloutier.
Tracey took his eyes from Gamache and shifted to the woman cop. “Why should I be? Look, like I said, she’s probably just taken off, and when that guy gets tired of her, she’ll come back. I don’t even know why it’s any of your business.”
Just then the phone rang.
“You might as well answer it,” said Tracey. “It’s for you.”
Gamache clicked it on, but before he could say anything, he was met with a torrent of abuse. Culminating in the man shouting, “Where’s my daughter? If you don’t tell me, I’m coming down, and I’m going to beat it out of you. You understand?”
Everyone in the room heard the voice, and Gamache could see Tracey looking triumphant.
See what I have to put up with? his expression said.
“Monsieur Godin?” Gamache began.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Gamache, I’m with the Sûreté—”
“Oh, God, has something happened? Have you found her? Oh, God—”
“Non, monsieur. We have no news of your daughter. I’m here with Lysette Cloutier. She’s a friend of yours, I understand. Agent Cloutier asked us to investigate.”
There was heavy breathing on the other end as Godin composed himself.
“We’re interviewing Monsieur Tracey right now.”
“Monsieur Tracey? Monsieur? The man’s a monster and you call him ‘monsieur’? He might’ve … he could’ve … Do you know she’s pregnant?”
“Yes. Please, calm yourself. We’re doing all we can. I promise you, we’ll find her.”
“You will. Alive?”
It was said so pathetically. Not just a word but a world. Alive. Alive. And all that meant. For him. For her. For the child. A life spread out before them. With birthdays and holidays. Celebrations.
Alive.
“We’ll find her,” Gamache repeated, and wondered if Monsieur Godin noticed he hadn’t said “alive.” “Do you have someone with you?”
“Non, non. Vivienne’s my only child. My wife died a few years ago. I was expecting her here, you know. She was going to leave him. I’d begged her for years to leave that son of a bitch.”
There was a pause. Gamache heard heavy breathing, almost sobs, before Monsieur Godin was able to speak again.
“What has he done with her? Ask him. He knows. Make him tell you. If you don’t, I will.”
“Stay at home, Monsieur Godin. In case she calls.”
Even as he said it, Gamache recognized it as cheap, potentially cruel manipulation. But he had to keep Godin away from Tracey. And there was still a chance his daughter was alive and would call her father.
“I’ll be in touch with you when we’re finished here. D’accord?”
There was a deep, deep breath on the other end of the line. And finally, “D’accord.”
“Can I speak to him?” whispered Cloutier, her hand out for the phone. “Homer, it’s Lysette.… Oui. Oui.… I promise.… Oui.”
She’d dropped her eyes to the table and was listening intently. Homer Godin’s voice was now quieter, so the others couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“Chief Inspector Gamache will call you as soon as possible,” said Cloutier once Vivienne’s father had stopped talking. “Oui. I promise.”