A Better Man

“No, not right here,” said Lacoste, who’d recovered most of her wits. “May we come in?”

“Yes, sorry.”

He stepped back, and after removing their dirty boots, they followed him into the kitchen of the modest home.

He lived in a subdivision of Cowansville, in a cluster of bungalows exactly the same.

“Can you tell us about your relationship with Vivienne Godin?” Lacoste asked as she took the chair he’d indicated, the best one in the room, and leaned her cane against the arm.

Monsieur Bertrand had taken them to the back of the house, past the small front room normally used as a formal living room, but in this home it held workout equipment.

The kitchen opened to a sitting area with a sofa, two chairs, and a huge television on which cartoons were playing. A card table doubled as a dining table, though Lacoste doubted there’d been many, if any, dinner parties there.

Dishes were piled in the sink, and a near-empty baby bottle was on the counter.

The place was messy, but not, Lacoste could see, dirty.

“Don’t tell my sister,” he said as he muted the sound.

“I’m afraid I can’t promise that,” said Lacoste. “It’s very serious. We might have to talk with her, too.”

“Really? Well, I can tell you now that she doesn’t approve.”

“Few would.”

“It’s not really that bad, is it?”

It was about here that Isabelle Lacoste began to suspect they were discussing two different things.

“What isn’t?” she asked.

“Television. Vendredi likes Babar, so I put it on when Pam isn’t around.”

“Vendredi?” asked Cloutier.

“She was born on a Friday.”

“Pam’s your sister?” asked Cloutier.

“Oui.”

“So this isn’t your child?” asked Agent Cloutier.

“No.” He smiled. “I look after her whenever I can. I’m off work right now. Construction season’ll start again in a couple of weeks.” He looked at the little girl and grinned at her, and she grinned back. “Gotta spend as much time with Dee as I can.”

The agents exchanged looks. Both thinking much the same thing.

That he was adorable. And maybe a murderer.

But would a mother, a sister, trust her baby to a man, a brother, capable of murder? A sibling would probably know, would have seen some of that darkness, that menace, as they grew up.

But maybe he hadn’t intended to kill his lover. Maybe it was a terrible accident and he was afraid to come forward. If he was afraid to tell his sister about an animated elephant, how would he feel about admitting to murder?

Superintendent Lacoste repositioned herself so she was facing him directly.

“Your relationship, sir. With Vivienne Godin.”

His brow dropped in concentration as he bobbed his niece, gently, on his knee.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know her. Is she the one who was killed?”

They watched him closely, but neither agent could see any distress, beyond a normal human reaction when hearing that a stranger was dead.

“Please just answer the question,” said Lacoste.

Despite the fact Agent Cloutier was clearly the elder of the two and should have been the more senior, Gerald Bertrand understood innately that the young woman with the old eyes and cane was in charge.

“I have. I don’t know her. Why do you think I do?”

“Think a little harder,” said Lacoste.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Bertrand, looking from one to the other.

Then another thought occurred to Lacoste. Maybe it wasn’t Vivienne who called.

“How about Carl Tracey?”

“What about him?”

“Do you know him?”

“No. Never heard of him either. What’s this about? Why do you think I know these people?”

“Because either Vivienne or Carl called you on Saturday. Repeatedly.”

“Oh, merde. That was her? Some woman kept calling. The first time I tried to tell her she had the wrong number, but she seemed really upset. I’m not sure she was listening. She called back, and I tried again, but after that I just ignored the calls. She left a couple of messages—”

“Can we listen to them?” asked Cloutier.

“I erased them.”

Of course you did, thought Cloutier. What else would a guilty person do?

But then she rethought that.

What else would an innocent person do? She did the same thing with messages from wrong numbers.

She was beginning to see how quickly something completely normal could suddenly seem sinister, if you chose to see it that way.

“May we have a look around?” Lacoste asked.

Gerald Bertrand looked surprised but nodded.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked as they surveyed the small home. It was very messy and very masculine. A man-child lived here, alone. It was furnished with pieces that looked like they’d come from friends or family or a dumpster. Some hockey trophies. A pile of skis and skates and hunting gear was in the basement.

There were a few photos, of Gerald with mates, with teams, with his family. But none of him with Vivienne.

“Who’s this?” Lacoste looked at a photo among many on the fridge.