“Did either of them admit to knowing about the cobrador? Did Ruiz ever mention it?”
“I asked about the cobrador, but both denied knowing anything about it,” said Lacoste.
“This Antonio Ruiz, what does he do?” asked Beauvoir.
“They wouldn’t tell me.”
Now Beauvoir became angry. “Come on. They wouldn’t even tell you that?”
“Easy enough to find out,” said Lacoste. “He must be in business of some sort.”
“Probably,” said Beauvoir. “Businesspeople must be the main targets of the top-hatted cobradors in Spain. He’d be aware of them, if not because he was targeted, but he probably knows people who were. Or at least saw some in the streets.”
“Or read news reports,” agreed Lacoste. “He probably reads the pink paper. You think he talked about it and Anton and Jacqueline overheard?”
“I think it’s possible. Still,” Beauvoir admitted, “it’s a long way from that to murdering Madame Evans.”
Lacoste nodded. Murder often struck her as similar to Hannibal crossing the Alps. How does a human get from here to there? From being upset, hurt, angry. Even vengeful. To taking a life.
How do they get from a family sitting down to Sunday roast and talking about a strange phenomenon back home in Spain, to a crumpled, beaten figure in a root cellar in Québec?
And yet it happens. The Alps are crossed.
But as Gamache drilled into each of his agents when they joined homicide, a murder is always tragic and almost always simple. They were often the ones who complicated things.
And a murderer liked that. Liked to get lost in the fog.
So what was the simple answer to this?
“Let me put in a call to the Guardia Civil in Spain,” said Beauvoir. “See if they have anything on Antonio Ruiz.”
“Good.” She turned back to her laptop, but when Beauvoir didn’t leave, she swiveled back to him. “Something else?”
“I think so.”
Beauvoir walked over to his desk, and returned with his laptop.
“This.”
*
“We’re up here,” Myrna’s voice sang down the stairs and into the bookstore.
She’d heard the bell over the door jingle and now there were footsteps on the stairs up to her loft.
Clara was already pouring a red wine for Reine-Marie and a scotch for Armand.
“Oh my God, it’s cold,” said Reine-Marie, shaking the ice pellets off her coat and laying it over the bannister. “Merci.”
She took the glass from Clara and followed them to the living room area. Myrna waved at the armchairs closest to the woodstove, while she and Clara sat facing it on the sofa.
“Okay,” said Clara, putting her feet up on the hassock. “You’ve got your drink. Now pay for it. Information, please.”
Armand took a sip of the scotch and exhaled.
“Isabelle’s still interviewing people,” he said. “You were interviewed, right?”
The two women nodded.
“We weren’t much help, I’m afraid,” said Clara. “At least I wasn’t. I saw nothing. I didn’t see Katie go up there, and I didn’t see the cobrador follow her.”
“How did Katie seem to you, this visit?” he asked.
“The same as usual, I think,” said Myrna. “Maybe a little distracted, but that could be my imagination, given what’s happened.”
“Come on, Armand,” said Clara. “Give us something. This isn’t just curiosity, you know. There’s a murderer out there, and honestly, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Armand. “And that’s one of the reasons I’m here. I really can’t tell you much, partly because we don’t know much. But I can tell you that Katie Evans’s murder doesn’t seem to have been random.”
“What does that mean?” asked Myrna. “She was the target all along? Did the cobrador do it? He must’ve.”
“It looks like it,” said Armand, and wondered if they noticed the evasion.
“But why toy with her?” asked Clara. “That’s just cruel.”
“From what you told us, the original cobradors weren’t cruel,” said Myrna. “They were almost passive. Like an act of civil disobedience.”
“Wouldn’t be the first example of something good and decent twisted to suit another agenda,” said Reine-Marie.
“But still, if you look at what the cobrador actually did,” said Clara. “He just stood there. For two days. Not hurting anyone.”
“Until he killed Katie,” Myrna pointed out. But she shook her head. “It still doesn’t add up. If you’re going to try to terrify someone, why do it with some obscure Spanish creature no one knows about? And one that has a history of nonviolence.”
Armand was nodding. They were back to that. If the original cobradors were known for anything, it was extraordinary acts of bravery.
“He did nothing wrong,” said Clara, “and we hated him.”
“You defended him,” Armand pointed out. “When he was threatened.”
“We didn’t want him killed,” said Myrna. “But Clara’s right. We wanted him gone. You too, I think.”
Armand slowly nodded. It was true. The cobrador was different, unexpected, uninvited. Not playing by the normal rules of civilized behavior.
He’d unearthed some uncomfortable, some unpleasant questions. Maybe even some truths.
“You’re right,” Armand admitted. “But for all that, it’s important not to romanticize. There’s a very good chance he murdered Madame Evans.”
“Maybe—” Clara began, but stopped.
“Go on,” said Myrna. “Say it.”
“Maybe she deserved it. I’m sorry. That’s an awful thing to say. No one deserves it.”
“No,” said Reine-Marie. “But we know what you mean. Maybe Katie Evans did something to bring this on.”
“She must have,” said Myrna. “If what you say is true. That the cobrador was a conscience.”
“But a conscience doesn’t kill,” said Clara. “Does it?”
“Of course it does,” said Myrna. “To stop a greater evil. Yes.”
“So murder is sometimes justified?” asked Reine-Marie.
“If not justified, it’s explainable, at least,” said Myrna, filling the void. “Even atrocities. We might not like the explanation, but we can’t deny it. Look at Nuremberg. Why did the Holocaust happen?”
“Because deluded, power-crazy leaders needed a common enemy,” said Clara.
“No,” said Myrna. “It happened because no one stopped them. Not enough people stood up soon enough. And why was that?”
“Fear?” asked Clara.
“Yes, partly. And partly programming. All around them, respectable Germans saw others behaving brutally toward people they considered outsiders. The Jews, gypsies, gays. It became normal and acceptable. No one told them what was happening was wrong. In fact, just the opposite.”
“No one should have had to,” snapped Reine-Marie.
“Myrna’s right,” said Armand, breaking his silence. “We see what she describes all the time. I saw it in the S?reté Academy. I saw it in the brutality of the S?reté itself. We see it when bullies are in charge. It becomes part of the culture of an institution, a family, an ethnic group, a country. It becomes not just acceptable, but expected. Applauded even.”