Chapter 1 #2
Though they were miles apart on this Saturday morning in early October, she in her office in downtown Montréal and Moretti in the north end of Montréal at the Jean-Talon farmers’ market, she could feel his eyes on her.
Intense, penetrating. Strip-searching her.
Removing layers, not just of her clothing but of her skin, tearing it off in strips as he searched for any lie she might be hiding in her flesh, in her bones, in her marrow.
After all these years, he still did not trust her. Despite all she’d done. He was like some predator that relied on instinct. Sniffing the air for the stench of betrayal, of approaching danger.
She wished she could stop there. Dismiss him as a wild creature, but the fact was, over the years, as she’d watched him closely, she’d seen not just the mafia boss’s cunning, his guile, his charm and brutality, but also his intelligence.
This was no madman, careering from crime to hideous crime. This was a man who could have been anything.
Had Joseph been born into any family other than the Morettis, any other dynasty, his life would have been different.
But now she wondered if that was true.
For all his education and intelligence, something was off. A screw was loose. Whether it was loosened by his upbringing or by genetics, she didn’t know. What she did know was that something rancid, something corrosive, was seeping through that opening.
“You say Gamache isn’t a problem,” said Moretti.
“But he and his people managed to fuck up the first part of the plan. Killing six of my soldiers, including two made men, in the process. It would be over by now if he hadn’t interfered.
The Five Families are getting worried. How much does he know? He found the notebooks, right?”
“Oui. He gave them to the prosecutors.”
“Did he read them?”
She was about to snap, How would I know? But pulled herself back.
“I suspect he did.” Her voice was calm. “But so did I. I don’t think he could tell much from that second book, even if he realizes it’s the one that matters.”
“You don’t think? You don’t think?” Moretti’s voice had risen, then suddenly dropped to a growl. “You should’ve had him killed in the church.”
“I wanted him to be the one to sound the alarm. They’d have believed him. He’s trusted.”
“Yeah, well, if he begins to suspect there’s more—”
“He won’t. Look, the investigation’s wrapped. No one is paying any attention. Especially not Gamache. As far as they’re concerned, it’s over.”
She was tired of his paranoia. It was exhausting. She was exhausted. So close to the shore, to the end, she could not afford a mistake now. Another one. Moretti was right. She should have had Gamache killed in the church.
She had to shut this down.
“The biologist is dead—” she began.
“I know that.” He was getting snippy.
You should, she thought. You’re the one who had him killed.
“He’s the only one who came close to figuring out what’s happening,” she continued.
“But even he didn’t know it all. If he had, he’d have told Gamache when they met at Open Da Night.
And even if Charles Langlois had worked it out, no one would have listened to him.
Would you, if someone came to you with that story? ”
She waited for the laughter, but none came.
“Non,” she answered her own question. “You’d have dismissed what he said as unbelievable, and Charles Langlois as crazy, delusional.
Paranoid. He had a history of addiction, of mental illness.
He’d be seen as a pathetic young man from a homeless shelter who was clearly out of his mind and had bought into one too many conspiracy theories.
Ironically, the truth would have proven how crazy he was. No. He knew nothing of the plan.”
“He knew enough to contact Gamache,” Moretti pointed out. “Gamache listened to him, believed him.”
“True, but only about the lesser target. Voyons, his notebook is pretty much gibberish unless you know what to look for.”
“And Gamache doesn’t?”
“He hasn’t a clue. He’s on leave and recovering in that little village of his. He’s been silent since all this happened.”
“Silent doesn’t mean inactive. You underestimated him once. That can’t happen again.”
She sighed. “If you’re that worried, why not just kill him now? The first snowfall is in the forecast. He probably doesn’t have his snow tires on yet. Just run him off the road. Fini.”
She waited. We wait. We wait.
Moretti was considering it.
“Non. If he’d died in the church or the water-treatment plant, that would’ve been fine.
Line of duty and all that. But now? Kill a senior S?reté du Québec officer?
Can you imagine the blowback? Even if it looked like an accident, the timing would be suspicious.
There’d be questions. His people would never stop digging and God knows what they’d find.
Non. We just need to make sure he’s not a problem. ”
“He’s not.”
“You keep saying that, but how can you be so sure?”
“Because if he has any suspicions, I’ll be the first one he comes to.”
“He trusts you? Still?”
“Of course. Why not? As far as he knows, I helped end the poison plot.”
“You aren’t lying to me, are you?”
“I wouldn’t do that, Don Moretti. If nothing else, it wouldn’t be prudent.”
There was a pause, and then soft laughter. “You are many things, but prudent isn’t one.”
He was probably right, she thought. Otherwise she’d never have found herself this far from shore.
“Bon,” he finally said. Good. “It’ll be over soon.”
The thing about psychopaths, and she’d met her fair share, was that they knew they were the sun around which everything moved.
They were the light, the dark, the gravity, the rational.
The reason and the reason why. Joseph Moretti knew he was the sun, the son, the grandson.
The grand sun. That nothing happened without his approval. He was all-seeing, all-knowing.
He was wrong.
This was bigger than even he knew. There was another celestial body that eclipsed even the boss of bosses. She just had to keep skating, keep her equilibrium. Keep him happy and onside. And looking in one direction, and not the other.
“C’est vrai,” she laughed. “We’re safe. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, I’m not the one who should be worried.”
There was a pause, and in that moment she saw her mistake. She’d dared think that she might yet make it to safety.
That was how mistakes were made, how cracks formed.
Hope lured people closer to the edge, to the shore.
Not realizing that was where the ice melted first. Just feet from solid ground, it gave way, and they plunged into the icy water, their breaths taken away, their hearts spasming, their last view that of the pine trees overhead, almost within reach as they sank.
“And the map?” he asked. Down the phone line she could hear voices raised, calling to each other. Friendly voices.
“We don’t know for sure there is one. If Charles Langlois had a map, it’s well hidden. If it exists at all, we’ll find it. No one else has it, otherwise I’d have heard.”
“I think it would be a good idea if you joined me here, Evelyn.”
“Now, today? At the market?” She felt her anxiety rise along with the hairs on her forearms.
Was he serious? Was this a test? Or had she already flunked the test? Was it a trap? “But we might be seen together.”
“I’m sure you can come up with a believable explanation. You’re allowed to shop for dinner.”
Into the silence, she sighed. “I’m on my way.”
She hung up and looked at the small, slightly disheveled young woman standing at the door to her office.
“You’re not going, are you, patron?”
“No choice.” She put on her fall coat and large hat. “Besides, I do need Brussels sprouts.”
“Can’t you get them at the grocery store?”
“I was kidding.”
They were walking briskly down the long, deserted corridor toward the elevators.
“Stop!”
“What is it?”
Her assistant now hesitated. “I heard what Moretti said. He’s right. You should have had Gamache killed.”
She nodded. They both knew that was true. That was her mistake, the chink in her armor through which Joseph Moretti was peering. And did he see the big lie?
“Should I get you a car?”
“Non. I’ll take the Métro.”
Just as the elevator doors closed, she heard, “Fais attention.”
Be careful.
As she searched her handbag for her subway pass, Chief Inspector Evelyn Tardiff knew they were well beyond careful.
It was now just degrees of reckless. Her skates had slid out from under her.
Her arms were pinwheeling. She was suspended in midair, and the only question was how bad, how hard, would the fall be? How much would this hurt?
On the station platform, her back pressed against the tile wall, she heard the singsong of an approaching subway train. And sighed. She’d been at this too long. She was getting too old, too tired, too sloppy. She had no idea how to regain her balance, never mind get to the shore.
Survival was not guaranteed.
You should have had Gamache killed.
There was nothing vindictive in it. It was simply true. And might still be necessary. Her only way to shore might be over his body.
Don Moretti slid his phone into his pocket.
Picking a plump beefsteak tomato off a neat pile, he caressed its flesh for firmness in a gesture that managed to be sensual.
Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled and smiled as he caught his wife’s eye, one aisle over.
Then he cocked his arm and pretended to throw the tomato at his young daughter, who squealed with laughter and ducked.
Moretti then carefully replaced the tomato. Its thin skin undamaged.
It was a few minutes to seven on this autumn morning, the market not yet open. The farmers still putting out their produce.
The sky was a deep velvety blue at the horizon. The day would dawn bright and fresh and filled with promise. Anything might happen.