Chapter 10 #2
Her face, her whole being, radiated happiness and trust. This was a child raised in a crack house, by a prostitute who’d murdered her dealer.
But, more than that, this was a child raised with love.
Profound, all-encompassing love. And, with it, trust. She knew if she was holding her mother’s hand, she was safe.
Until …
In that moment, when he’d arrested her mother for murder and gently broken that grip, the smile had been wiped off Shona’s face, to be replaced by confusion. Then fear. And then, later, rage. And hatred. And finally contempt.
Shona Dorion had become a journalist. And a very good one.
An investigative journalist, she was relentless in pursuit of the entitled, the bullies, those who took advantage of the vulnerable and broken.
She had her own site, with hundreds of thousands of followers.
Her emblem was the raised finger. And her main targets were those in power.
Her favorite target was the man who’d arrested her mother.
The senior S?reté officer she held responsible for her mother’s suicide in detention just days later.
Here was an old white cop who held so much power she felt in her bones he must be corrupt, though she hadn’t been able to find anything on Chief Inspector Gamache.
But that hadn’t stopped her from hurling insulting, bordering-on-abusive questions at him in news conferences.
Ones that always had some margin of truth.
Like calling him a coward because he’d survived the hit-and-run, and Charles Langlois had not.
“You saved yourself,” she’d shouted from the back of the hastily called conference. “How can we trust the S?reté when its senior officers protect themselves first?”
It was in that moment, when Armand had seen the rage and satisfaction in Shona Dorion’s eyes, and the discomfort of his colleagues and even the other journalists, that he’d made up his mind.
He needed an ally outside the S?reté. Someone smart, connected, courageous, unrelenting, who could dig into things without setting off alarms. He needed someone no one would suspect could possibly be working with him.
He needed Shona Dorion.
And so, months ago, before the events in the water-treatment plant, he’d invited her to this very café to ask for her help. She’d agreed, volunteering at Action Québec Bleu, the organization where Charles Langlois had worked, to find out what she could.
Though she made it clear it was a limited truce. Once their work together was over, he was again in her crosshairs.
“So, what’re you doing here?” Ruth asked. “Why did you agree to meet him?”
The old poet looked from one to the other. It was clear that if there was an entente between them, it was not exactly cordiale. Once it was over, they would return to where they had been.
Hunter and hunted.
“What do you know about FEDS?” Shona asked.
“Feds?” said Ruth. “Can’t say—”
“I was asking him.”
“Right.”
“I take it you mean the federal government,” said Gamache.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. And if so, which one?”
“What do you mean?”
“In the Action Québec Bleu files, the ones in Madame Chalifoux’s office, I’ve found repeated references to FEDS and DC.”
“Washington?”
“I don’t think it’s the comics, do you?”
Both Ruth and Rosa snorted.
“It didn’t make sense since AQB never got money from the federal government,” Shona continued. “And certainly not from the Americans.”
“When Americans say ‘Feds,’” said Armand, “don’t they mean the FBI?”
“That’s my understanding,” said Ruth.
“I was talking to her.”
“Right.”
“Or the Federal Reserve,” added Armand. He leaned across the table, forgetting how filthy it was. Until his hand touched it.
But it was too late.
“The thing is, it’s not ‘the Feds,’ just ‘FEDS,’” said Shona. “And every reference to it is spelled with all caps.”
“You’ve obviously looked it up online,” said Armand.
“Obviously. Just what we’ve already said, but nothing with all caps.”
Armand sat back and, deep in thought, he reached for a thin paper napkin. As he tried to wipe the sticky stuff off his hands, all he managed to do was glue the paper to his palms.
“Are you done? Can we go to the Ritz?” asked Ruth.
“Non,” said Armand, studying the young woman across from him. “I think there’s more. Why did you want to meet?”
“Because of this.”
Shona placed a piece of paper in front of Gamache. He put on his reading glasses.
“What am I looking at?”
“Bank accounts. I said I wanted to write a piece on the lack of funding for AQB. Chalifoux gave me access to her applications for government funding and requests for private donations. I don’t think she realized that from there I could get deeper.”
“To see the funding and donations themselves,” said Gamache.
“Exactly. Look at the amounts. They’re huge. I can guarantee you none of this ever came to AQB. I think the organization is being used to launder money.”
Armand shook his head and gave one gruff laugh, though there was little actual amusement. Removing his glasses, he rubbed his eyes. “Incredible. I think you’ve found it. We’ve been looking into this.”
“What?” said Shona and Ruth in unison.
“How the bribes got to Marcus Lauzon. This must be it. They were funneled through AQB. And Charles Langlois found out.”
“And ‘DC’? What does that mean?” asked Shona.
“It must mean where the money came from. Washington, DC,” said Ruth. “And ‘FEDS’ means the Federal Reserve.”
“Which means not just American corporations, but the American government’s involved,” said Shona.
“Which means the American government’s involved,” Armand said, not realizing he was repeating what Shona had just said. But neither woman pointed that out.
It seemed to bear repeating.
“What is it?” whispered Vivienne, edging closer.
Isabelle Lacoste had spotted a lump, a bit of ground higher than it naturally would be, should be.
“Maybe nothing,” she said, kneeling beside it. From her knapsack she took out gloves and a small shovel.
“Please,” she muttered to herself, “let it be Langlois’s laptop. Please…”
Several inches down she found something promising. A heavy-duty green bag. The type you’d wrap something in to keep it safe from the elements.
But as she worked the earth around it, Isabelle Lacoste grew wary. It was much larger than a normal garbage bag, and certainly larger than a laptop would be, should be. Could be.
Completely oblivious now to the sleet hitting her face and the rivulets of cold water dribbling through her scalp as she bent over, Isabelle carefully dug around the edges of the plastic. Then stopped.
“What?” asked Vivienne, sensing the change. She was no longer with Isabelle. Her companion had become Inspector Lacoste.
Vivienne leaned in to get a closer look, then took a step back. The green garbage bag was outlining what could only be a boot.
For the first time in decades, Vivienne LaPierre crossed herself.