A Better Man

Gerald Bertrand was cordial. Young. Attractive. Holding his baby niece in his arms. He was apparently eager to help, but with nothing helpful to add.

Gamache tried. This way. That. He prodded, looking for holes. For chinks. For hairline fractures in Bertrand’s story. In his demeanor. But found nothing.

They came away just as convinced as Lacoste. Bertrand was telling the truth. He did not know Vivienne. Or Tracey.

“Tracey lied, of course,” said Beauvoir. “Vivienne didn’t have a lover.”

“At least,” said Gamache, “not this lover.”

Still, Vivienne Godin had spent the last few minutes of her life doing one thing.

Reaching out to one person.

But who was it? Who did a desperate, terrified woman call for help?

Not her father—he was too far away, thought Gamache. Was she trying Cameron?

But there was someone else in the picture. Someone who’d been in Vivienne’s life, all her life. Her godmother. Who was, after all, a woman and a cop.

On the way back, they stopped at Pauline Vachon’s place. Her signed statement had implicated Carl Tracey, but not herself. Now the investigators wanted the whole truth.

“Did I want her gone?” Pauline said. “Yes, for sure.”

“Why?”

“So I could have Carl.”

“You don’t seem to even like him,” said Beauvoir.

“I did at first. I like older men.” She leered at Gamache.

“And after that?”

“Well, there’d be money, right? If she divorced him, he’d lose money, probably lose the house. But if she died…”

“Yes?”

“Well, there’d be an inheritance. There’s always money when someone dies.”

“Not always,” said Beauvoir.

Jesus, he thought. Vivienne was killed for money she didn’t have?

“Why didn’t you tell the other investigators this?” he asked.

“What? That there might be a reason I’d want her dead? Let’s guess.…”

“Then why tell us now?” asked Beauvoir.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. My lawyer says you can’t touch me. Besides, Carl did it, not me.”

Gamache considered her so closely she began to fidget.

“I’m not going to confess, you know,” she said. “So you might as well leave.”

She got up, and they followed her to the front door. As she held it open, Gamache tried one more time.

“Tell us what happened that day, Pauline. For her father’s sake. For yours. Get it off your chest.”

“Oh, you’re interested in my chest, are you?” she said, in a way that was so artless it made her seem very young. “And as for her father…” She made a rude, dismissive noise. “Have you asked yourself why she’d marry a shithead like Carl Tracey?”

“You were going to marry him.”

“I was going to live with him.”

“Until the money ran out?” asked Beauvoir.

“Fuck you. This’s none of your business. Now, get out.”

“He lied to you. And he killed his wife,” said Gamache. “We saw the photos. Those bruises on your arms.”

“I like it rough.” Again she leered at Gamache, who just stared back. In a way that made her uncomfortable. Not because it was sexual but because it was a look she couldn’t remember ever seeing before. It took her a moment to put a word to it.

Concerned. This man was concerned for her.

But she knew it was a lie. An act. No one had cared before. Why would this stranger?

“No happy person,” he said quietly, “no healthy person, seeks out pain. Be careful.”

“Yeah, well, what the fuck do you care?”

And the door slammed shut in his face.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Beauvoir. “But had to be done.”

As they walked to the car, Gamache thought about the look on Pauline Vachon’s face. That leer. Meant to be seductive, but there was, at its core, something cruel. Definitely something calculating. Though, just for a moment … And then it was gone.