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?
And ten meters beyond that, to the bend in the river.
It had been a herculean task. But as they finally dragged themselves back to their homes, for hot showers and dry clothes, each villager suspected that it was not enough. That the Bella Bella would rise up in the night and overwhelm Three Pines.
And there was nothing more they could do to stop it.
Ruth had stayed on the stone bridge, with Rosa. Like a droopy sentinel. Unwilling to leave her post. Staring at the river that had been her friend.
Until Clara and Myrna, Reine-Marie and Sarah the baker had coaxed her off. It wasn’t fine words that did it, or fine food, or even the bottle of fine scotch that Myrna had brought with her.
It was Reine-Marie pointing out that Rosa was getting cold.
It was finally love that drew Ruth away from the river.
As the women accompanied the old poet back to her home, a car had appeared on the hill.
“Armand,” said Reine-Marie.
“He’s not alone,” said Clara.
“Is it numbnuts?” asked Ruth.
“No, Jean-Guy’s staying in Montréal,” said Reine-Marie.
She’d long since given up trying to stop Ruth from calling her son-in-law “numbnuts.” And even he’d begun answering to it.
The car stopped in front of the Gamache home, and two men and a dog got out.
Homer Godin looked around.
All he could see through the sleet and darkness was a ring of lights that seemed to hang in midair. He knew they came from homes, but those were invisible.
They’d stopped in Montréal and dropped Lysette and that superintendent woman at Sûreté headquarters.
Homer had sat in the outer office, listening, while Gamache met with a fellow named Jean-Guy something.
The young fellow was obviously another cop. Senior, it seemed. Gamache’s equal? At times it seemed so. His superior? At times it seemed so. His subordinate? At times it seemed so.
They’d discussed the flooding. It was far worse than Homer had realized.
“Have they dynamited the jams on the St. Lawrence?” Gamache asked.
“Not yet.”
“What’re they waiting for?” asked Gamache.
“A decision, I guess. The Corps of Military Engineers is pushing for it, but the Deputy Premier seems afraid it’ll set off a panic.”
Gamache took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. “Bon. I’m almost afraid to ask, but … the dams?”
The dams? thought Homer. What dams?
And then he realized what dams they were talking about. The huge hydroelectric dams in James Bay. He leaned his head around the doorway and asked, “Are they in trouble?”
And for one brief moment, his personal catastrophe was replaced by the collective disaster that was threatening.
“Non,” said the younger man. But Homer Godin recognized a lie when he heard it.
It was said in the same grim tone Vivienne used every time he’d asked if Tracey was hurting her.
Non.
The two continued to talk, but now in tones that suggested much more than just colleagues. These men were friends.
“Keep in touch,” said Gamache, at the door.
“You too. Good luck, patron.” Then this Jean-Guy Someone turned to Homer. “I promise, once the crisis is past, we’ll do everything we can to find your daughter. In the meantime Chief Inspector Gamache will help. He’s the best.”
Godin looked at Gamache and couldn’t help but think if he was the best, why weren’t they using him in this emergency? Why send him away?
Homer couldn’t help himself. He grabbed the younger man’s arm. “I need more. Help me, please. Help.”
“We’re doing all we can. I’m sorry.”
And now Homer Godin stood in the bleak village. In the mud. In the half rain, half snow, and while he couldn’t see much, he could hear a great deal.
He looked toward the sound. The river. That was in full flood. And he thought of his daughter. Disappearing into the night. Disappearing into the flood.
Then he looked past the lights. Somewhere in the darkness, not all that far away, was Carl Tracey.
Homer wasn’t sure how, but he’d get to him.
Lysette Cloutier poured herself another glass of wine and returned to the sofa.
She was at home now, having volunteered to help with the emergency measures but told she wasn’t needed.
She was both very annoyed and very relieved. Mostly she was very worried.
Lysette hadn’t been completely honest with Chief Inspector Gamache and Superintendent Lacoste about her relationship with Homer, such as it was. But also her relationship with Vivienne. Such as it was.
She wasn’t sure why, but it had seemed important not to tell them that she was Vivienne’s godmother. Perhaps because she was a god-awful godmother. Not having had one herself, Lysette had no idea what was expected. Except for her to take Vivienne, should anything happen to her parents, Kathy and Homer.
But beyond that?
The only other thing she could remember from the baptism was being told she needed to act as Viv’s guardian. To guard her. To keep the child safe.
“Well,” she mumbled. “Fucked that one up.”
After taking a long gulp, perhaps even a guzzle, of wine, she pulled her laptop onto her lap and logged in. Agent Cloutier had been told to find out everything she could about Carl Tracey. Might as well start.
She was prepared to have to do a fairly deep dive into government records but had decided, as a lark, to just put his name into a Google search.
She sat there, openmouthed, when up came a website.
“Can’t be.”
Clicking on it, she looked at the photo of the man. Definitely Tracey. Surrounded by his pottery.
“Shit,” she said, and clicked on more links. To exhibitions he’d had. To a buying link. To a brief bio that mentioned his wife, Vivienne, and their dog, Fred.
Like most of the stuff on the Web, it was bullshit. The life people wanted people to see. The neat front yard, not the squalor behind the front door.
She snapped the laptop closed in disgust and, putting it on the floor, she lay back and grabbed the TV remote. But then she looked down at the slender rectangle sitting on the floor below her. And she got to wondering.
How did a man without internet have a website?
Isabelle Lacoste ignored the phone call from Lysette Cloutier.
It was her strict policy to leave work behind, at least until the kids were fed and in bed. Unless the call was from Monsieur Gamache or Jean-Guy.
Besides, she was on leave.
It was only after the third attempt that Isabelle picked up.
“Oui, allô?”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, patron.” The voice was just the tiniest bit off. Not slurred. If anything, the words were too well enunciated. Too precise.
“What can I do for you?”
“Carl Tracey has a web page.” And then came a sound between a laugh and a snort.
“Yes.”
“But he doesn’t have internet. He also has an Instagram account. That’s active. So how does he do it?”
Now Lacoste’s mind was engaged. How did he do it? There was only one answer—
“He has a webmaster,” said Cloutier. “Some woman named Pauline. She must manage it all for him. Post for him.”
“Okay,” said Lacoste, sitting at her own laptop and putting in Carl Tracey’s name.
“Dinner,” her husband called.
“Be right there.”
“You’re coming here?” asked Cloutier with alarm, looking at the almost empty wine bottle and empty bag of chips.