Chapter 20 #2
Armand took a seat in the front pew and noticed that someone had left their hat. Taking it off the hook, he saw it was a Canadiens de Montréal cap. He replaced it, grinning. Few were more religious these days than Habs fans.
He was, from what he could see, alone in the church. But not for long. A few minutes later he heard the heavy door at the entrance softly close. He did not turn.
“Armand. Shall we?”
The two moved to a more discreet pew, off to the right and hidden from the main body of the church. It was their regular meeting place.
The head of the S?reté’s Homicide division turned to the head of the S?reté’s Organized Crime division.
“What’s this about, Evelyn?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” muttered Beauvoir.
“What?” Nichol leaned over to look at his screen and started laughing. “That’s adorable. Play it from the beginning.”
Instead, he hit pause. On his screen was the frozen image of a golden retriever doing yoga with its owner.
“So, while I’m trying to track down whatever crisis we’re facing, you’re googling cute dog videos?”
“I am not. This was sent to me in a message from the Chief Meteorologist. I thought it was an answer to my question about FEDS.”
“Maybe the dog’s called Feds.”
Jean-Guy sighed. Beside him, Henri’s majestic ears were pointing so far forward they almost brushed the computer screen as he stared with adoration at the video.
Beauvoir went back to the text message, found Dr. Maybeck’s phone number, and called her.
“Yes, Inspector. The Prime Minister has instructed me to cooperate completely. Did you get the video? I think that will be helpful.”
“Of the dog doing yoga?”
There was a pause. “Ooops.”
“Ooops” was never the thing a cop, a surgeon, or a pilot liked to hear or, worse, say.
“Attached the wrong one. I’ll send the one about the Fire Event Detection Suite.”
“Great, but in the meantime, can you just tell me about it? Its uses, both obvious and maybe not so obvious.”
Whenever there was sensitive information to pass along, Gamache and Tardiff had long since realized, S?reté HQ was not the place for it. So they came to the basilica, where they were almost guaranteed to be alone.
He’d heard nothing from her since their lunch on Sunday.
Chief Inspector Tardiff looked exhausted. Her hair needed a wash, her clothing was rumpled. Here was a once soignée woman near the breaking point. With energy enough to focus on only one thing. And personal hygiene was not it.
Now she ran her hands through her hair so that it stood on end.
“I read your report of the Castonguay murder in this morning’s briefing notes, Armand. You were vague about it being a mafia hit. Thank you for that. I don’t need the Super coming down on me, as though it was my fault. It’s now obvious that Moretti’s keeping things from me.”
“What do you need from me?”
“I got a message from him today telling me to find out what the S?reté knows about the Castonguay murder. You need to give me something. More than what was in your report. What was the kid looking for way up there?”
“We think it was Charles’s laptop and maybe a map.”
It was safe to let that much out since Moretti must know something was hidden up there. Why else send hitmen with Castonguay, and execute him when it couldn’t be found?
Still, he wasn’t going to tell Tardiff that they had both. He couldn’t risk her telling Moretti.
“Why did Frederick Castonguay think they were there?” asked Tardiff.
“He and Langlois were old friends. Went to school together. Langlois must’ve told Castonguay to look at that lake.”
Tardiff nodded, thinking. “Good, this is good. I can give this to Moretti.”
“I’m a little worried that whoever went up there with him actually found it,” said Gamache, feeling absolutely no discomfort at misleading his colleague.
Evelyn Tardiff was shaking her head. “Non. Moretti would’ve told me.”
“Are you so sure? You just said he’s holding information back. Maybe this’s part of the test. To see what you’ll pass along, when he already knows the answer.”
Now she was considering. “Maybe. It would be like him.”
“Or maybe whoever went up with Castonguay is playing a lone hand.” Gamache watched her closely.
“Who?”
When Gamache didn’t answer, she said, “It’s possible it was made to look like a mob hit, but wasn’t.”
“But if it was?”
She turned in the pew to look at him. “Are you saying the New York mob sent their own people? Behind Moretti’s back? That would be a declaration of war.”
“Is it possible?”
Tardiff thought about it. “A few months ago I’d have said no, but Moretti’s ambitious.
The Five Families won’t want him getting too powerful.
With the recent arrests of Gambino associates, others are moving in.
The Bonanno family in particular. They see their chance.
” Now she was essentially talking to herself.
“If Moretti was looking to grab more territory, this would be the time. Maybe they want to cut him off at the knees.”
With the mafia that was not simply an expression.
“And maybe Moretti knows it,” said Gamache. “Could that be the war we’re hearing about? The invasion? Not from the Canadian military, but an attempt by Moretti to take over the Five Families before they get him?”
She shook her head. “I can’t see it. More likely the other way around. But even that’s unlikely. Why would they?”
“Why would the mob want more control?” asked Armand, with a smile.
“You have no idea what the mob wants,” she snapped. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to. You watch The Godfather or Goodfellas or Omertà and think you know. You know shit.”
“Then tell me. What’s going on? I told you about the laptop and the map. Now you have to give me something.”
“Okay, you’re right. It’s just possible Moretti isn’t telling me anything about Castonguay’s murder because he doesn’t know.”
“So you do think the New York crime families came onto Moretti’s territory and killed Frederick, without his permission,” said Gamache.
She nodded, suddenly exhausted. “I think, judging by Moretti’s reaction to the murder, that’s possible. And if true, it’s trouble. It’s never good when the head of a crime family is worried.”
“But you have no proof?”
“None.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because I do have something that might interest you.”
She brought out her phone and showed him a series of surveillance photos. All of Moretti.
“We know most of his associates, but this person’s new. Do you recognize her?”
Chief Inspector Tardiff zoomed in.
In her office at S?reté headquarters, Isabelle Lacoste stepped forward and extended her hand.
“Madame Caron.”
“Inspector.”
Unlike some, Jeanne Caron did not appear disappointed that Chief Inspector Gamache himself wasn’t there. In fact, she seemed relieved. Her unpleasant history with the head of homicide meant their interactions could be testy. And, as a result, their conversations mis-, or over-, interpreted.
“A former colleague in Ottawa said they saw you and the Chief Inspector in the Parliament Buildings yesterday.”
The statement surprised Lacoste, but it was no use lying. “Yes, we were there.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering, Isabelle said, “I have news.”
“News that needs to be said in person.” Caron held the officer’s eyes.
“I see. Last time the Chief Inspector and I spoke, he mentioned the possibility there was something else, something bigger planned. Have you discovered it?” There was a pause.
“Mais, non, it’s not that, is it? This is something else. ”
“Please.” Lacoste waved her to a chair and sat across from her. “I asked you here because we’ve found the body of Frederick Castonguay.”
There was a stunned silence before Caron asked, “In Parliament?”
At first Gamache thought the woman in the photos meeting with Moretti was Jeanne Caron, but then he looked more closely. “Non. I don’t know her. Do you?”
“No. I was hoping…”
“May I have a copy of these?”
“Oui.” She sent them to him. “Is there anything else you can tell me. Anything I can use with Moretti?”
He almost told her about FEDS, but decided to keep his own counsel, for now. Instead, he said, “Non, but I promise to update you on the Castonguay case whenever we have developments. Right now we’re trying to track down the pilot who took them there.”
“Merci.” She got up.
Armand watched her leave, walking down the long center aisle, past the monumental paintings of missionaries converting grateful “Indians.” “Savages” in the wilderness.
Though judging by the actions of religions and governments, it was now clear who the savages really were.
And that the wilderness wasn’t limited to forests.
He looked down at the photos Tardiff had sent. The woman was unfamiliar, but there was no denying that Moretti knew her. And she knew him.
Armand forwarded them to Beauvoir and Lacoste. At the last minute he added Yvette Nichol. Does this person with Don Moretti look familiar?
Armand looked again at the paintings. Far from depicting acts of clerical heroism, they actually showed the nascent barbarism of the church in the so-called New World.
In a dry and parched land, where there is no water, Armand thought.
The Psalms, of course, meant it figuratively.
Water being faith. But suppose Dom Philippe meant it literally?
The Abbot of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups had stood on the dock, looked out at the vast lake, and quoted that phrase from the Psalms just before he left the remote monastery. Never to return.
He’d been murdered shortly after, in the small church in Three Pines.
Armand closed his eyes. In a dry and parched land …
What happens when the water runs out?
“No, not in Parliament,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “Frederick was in a shallow grave at a remote lake. Shot in the head. Execution style.”
Jeanne Caron’s eyes widened and there was the slightest intake of breath.
“He was murdered? By a lake?”
It seemed odd to mention the lake in the same breath as the killing, as though it was equally important.
“Oui.”