“How well did you know Professor Leduc?” asked Isabelle Lacoste.
She’d placed Amelia to her right and the two men further down the table, on the cadet’s right, so that Amelia’s head was turned to her, and only her.
It was a technique Lacoste had picked up early in her career in homicide. While many of the male investigators preferred to intimidate by having two or three agents looming over suspects, shooting questions to try to push them off balance, Lacoste went in the other direction.
She created an atmosphere of extreme intimacy. A semblance of conspiracy even. Isabelle Lacoste wasn’t surprised that it worked very well with the women she interviewed. What had come as a surprise was how well it worked with the men.
They were steeled against an onslaught. But had no defenses against gentle, even friendly, conversation.
“Not well,” said Amelia. “Professor Leduc taught us crime prevention.”
“Oh, I hated that course. I wanted to learn about weapons and tactics,” said Lacoste with a laugh. “Was he a good teacher?”
“Not really. I think it wasn’t his favorite course either. He used to run the academy, didn’t he?”
“Not officially, but in every other way, yes. Until Monsieur Gamache took over.”
Amelia nodded.
Isabelle Lacoste watched her closely. She could see what Beauvoir had meant. Cadet Choquet would be striking anywhere, but especially so in the S?reté Academy. She’d stand out. But she’d also stand apart.
Lacoste took in the piercings. The rings and studs, like bullets. A girl pierced and pieced together. Like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. Looking for a heart.
Hints of tattoos flicked out of her clothing.
The eyes that watched her were bright, inquiring. Smoldering, but not burning. But where there was smoke …
This was a young woman of unusual intelligence and intensity, thought Lacoste. A girl not afraid to be different. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid of something.
Everyone was, Isabelle knew. Maybe this young cadet was afraid of being the same.
How isolating that must be, she thought. But we all seek solace somewhere. Some in friendships and family and beliefs. Some in drugs, in a bottle, in food or gambling or good deeds. And some in casual sex. It masqueraded as human contact, but was closer to loathing than liking. And certainly wasn’t love.
On the far side of Amelia, Gélinas opened his mouth, but shut it quickly at one eviscerating glance from Lacoste.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir’s mouth compressed, squashing the smile. He’d received more than a few of those looks in the past. He was happy to see it worked on someone else besides him.
“Did you like the Duke?” Lacoste asked.
“I didn’t know him.”
“I don’t know you, but I like you. I like your bravery.”
And it was true. Isabelle Lacoste knew how much courage it must take Amelia Choquet to face each day. Alone.
Amelia’s eyes widened, and her small fists tightened. But she said nothing.
And Isabelle wondered when the last time was that someone, anyone, had told Amelia they liked her.
She also wondered how she was going to get this guarded girl to open up.
“Come hither, all ye empty things,/Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings,” she found herself saying, and saw Amelia cock her head to one side. “Who float upon the tide of state,/Come hither, and behold your fate.”
Beyond Amelia, Lacoste could see the faces of the two men, their expressions ranging from despair to incredulity.
“What is that?” Amelia asked.
“A satirical poem. By Jonathan Swift,” said Lacoste.
Beauvoir’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.
“On the death of a duke. I understand you like poetry.”
Amelia nodded and repeated, “Come hither, and behold your fate.”
“If ever there was an empty thing, it was Serge Leduc. The Duke,” said Lacoste. “What was his fate?”
“I guess it was to die, at the hands of another.”
“But who?”
“Do you think it was me?” Amelia asked.
“Your fingerprints were on the map in his bedside table. It was your map, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Amelia admitted. “It must have been, I guess. No one else’s is missing. But I didn’t give it to him.”
“What was your relationship with Serge Leduc?” Lacoste repeated.
“He wanted to screw me.”
“And did he?”
“No. I told him I’d cut off his dick and shove it down his throat.”
Now the men’s eyes widened.
“What did he say to that?” asked Lacoste.
“He threatened to expel me.”
“And what would that mean?” Isabelle asked. Her voice steady. No hint of the outrage she felt.
“I would die,” said Amelia.
Isabelle Lacoste forced herself to be quiet. To give no easy comfort. To not dismiss the gravity of those words by saying she was sure it wasn’t true.
Because she knew it was true.
Amelia Choquet would leave the academy and go back to the streets. This time without hope. And she would die.
“Did you kill him, Amelia? To stop him from expelling you? To save yourself?”
The young woman looked at Isabelle Lacoste. Here was the woman she longed to be, hoped to be. Could be. But it wasn’t to be. Amelia knew that now.
She shook her head, and when she spoke her voice was clear, certain.
“I did not.”
“Your fingerprints were also on the case where the murder weapon was kept,” said Lacoste. “And on the gun itself.”
Amelia just stared at her. “If I killed him, I’d have wiped the gun. I’m smart enough to do that.”
“Probably true,” said Lacoste. “But I don’t think we’re looking for an exceptionally stupid person, do you?”
Amelia was quiet now.
“You don’t seem surprised that your prints were on the gun. Are you?”
She just shook her head, but was silent.
“What was your relationship with Commander Gamache?”
So she had noticed, thought Jean-Guy. That look on Monsieur Gamache’s face as they’d led Amelia away.
“I have no relationship with him.”
“Then why is he so protective of you?” asked Lacoste.
Down the table, Paul Gélinas shifted in his chair, preparing to interrupt, and once again Lacoste flicked a warning glance at him.
“He isn’t,” said Amelia. “Not more than any of the others.”
“But he is,” said Gélinas, finally ignoring Chief Inspector Lacoste. “He’s the one who got you into the academy. You’d been turned down, you know. He changed that.”
“He did?” asked Amelia, turning to look at the RCMP officer. Breaking the carefully woven connection with Lacoste. “The Duke told me Commander Gamache had rejected my application, but that he’d reversed it. And he could reverse it again.”
“Well, he was lying,” said Gélinas. “It was Monsieur Gamache. Why would the Commander do it? Especially when, forgive me, you’re so clearly unsuited to the place.”
Isabelle Lacoste stared at Gélinas. Amazed by his casual brutality.
Gélinas had ignored her wishes and destroyed an atmosphere between the two women that was clearly working. Was that his intention? Was he afraid Amelia was about to say something, reveal something?
But for all that, Lacoste had to admit the RCMP officer wasn’t wrong. It was a good question. Why had Commander Gamache reversed his predecessor’s decision and admitted the Goth Girl to the S?reté Academy?
Isabelle Lacoste was growing more and more concerned about the answer.
CHAPTER 33
“What’re you thinking?” asked Reine-Marie.
They’d left the bistro and gone to St. Thomas’s Church, drawn by the quiet there, and the peace.
She sat next to Armand in the pew. He was staring straight ahead, and though his eyes were open, she had the impression he’d been praying.
Her question, she knew, wasn’t accurate. What she really wanted to know was what he was feeling.
Armand took a deep breath and exhaled, forcefully. As though he’d been holding it in for a long time.