“No, that’s his lawyer. Se?or Ruiz is in the background. There.”
He pointed to an elegant man in a well-tailored suit. In his late forties, maybe early fifties. Looking pleased and confident.
“What’re they saying?”
“I don’t know, but I can guess. Se?or Ruiz was arrested for money laundering. The entire company was under investigation, but exonerated.”
“They got off?”
“The verdict came with a public apology.” He stared at the screen. “Someone got to someone.”
Beauvoir pursed his lips. Where there was dirty money, there was organized crime. And where there was the syndicate, there were drugs. Lots of them.
He wondered if Anton knew that too.
The news story continued. The lawyer answering questions and finally, waving reporters aside, he took Ruiz’s arm and guided him through the melee.
And then the report was over.
“Did you see it?” Anton asked.
“What?”
Anton replayed the video. And hit pause.
Just as the image started to dissolve, as the black seeped over the screen, it appeared.
From the top of the courthouse steps.
“A cobrador,” said Beauvoir.
And not the top hat and tails, Fred Astaire type.
This was the carrier of the conscience.
“How did you find this?” Beauvoir asked.
“Someone from Spain came for dinner,” said Anton. “A colleague of Se?or Ruiz. I was serving, and the man used the word cobrador, before Ruiz shut him up. The man turned so pale, I decided to look it up. That’s what I found.”
“Did you tell Jacqueline?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to Ruiz? Did the family really return to Spain?”
“That’s what they told us, but I don’t really know, and I don’t really care.” He sighed. “I’ll tell you, when that cobrador showed up here, I thought I’d piss my pants. Scared the crap out of me.”
“You thought it’d come for you?”
Anton opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head. “I thought Ruiz had sent it, to scare us. Or worse.”
“But why would he want to scare you? Do you know something about him?”
“No.”
“About the murder of Katie Evans? If you do know something, Anton, you have to tell me.”
“I don’t. I promise.”
“But there is something, isn’t there,” said Jean-Guy. “You have to tell me.”
“Just between us?”
“Depends what it is, you know that. Is it to do with Antonio Ruiz?”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“I can’t. Come on, Anton. Tell me. I know you want to.”
*
Myrna was shaking her head.
“I wish I knew Katie better and could help. But what I do know is that those friends really do like each other. They’re not pretending. I just can’t see one of them plotting to kill her. Katie was bright and kind. The mother hen of the group. Not the wild child she once was. We all grow up.”
Not all, thought Gamache. Some, like Edouard, fall down. And never get up. Never grow up.
His mind left the warm loft and the murmur of conversation, and traveled across the cold village green, through the snow and ice, to his home. And the book in his desk. And the notes written there, in black ink. Like charcoal.
His plague diary.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
“And the cobrador?” Clara’s voice cut through Gamache’s wandering mind and brought him back to the loft. “Who the hell was he? How does he fit in?”
“Well, he obviously wasn’t one of them,” said Isabelle. “Or even someone from the village. No one was missing.”
“Then who was he?” asked Reine-Marie.
“There’re a couple of other possibilities,” said Lacoste. “He could’ve followed Madame Evans here, playing out some old grudge. Or he was hired by someone here. Someone who knew that Matheo Bissonette had written about the cobrador phenomenon and would recognize it.”
“There is, of course, a simpler answer,” said Reine-Marie.
“Matheo Bissonette himself hired the cobrador,” said Isabelle. “And then told everyone, including Madame Evans, what it was. Yes, we thought of that. For it to work, she had to know what the thing was. Though it doesn’t answer why he, or anyone, would do it.”
They looked at Myrna.
“I don’t know why. Lea didn’t come to me to say Matheo was planning to kill Katie. Not that I remember, anyway.”
“Maybe he wasn’t,” said Armand. “Maybe the cobrador was just there to shame her. Murder was never part of the plan. But someone saw an opportunity, and took it. And you’re right,” he said to Clara. “It’s possible the cobrador’s target was someone else completely. Would you excuse me?”
He stood up and turned to Reine-Marie, who was also getting to her feet, a look of some surprise on her face at his abrupt need to leave.
“Would you ask Jean-Guy to meet us in the Incident Room, please? Isabelle, can you join me?”
They said their goodbyes to Myrna and Clara.
“Jeez,” said Clara, watching them out the window. “It’s like someone kicked him in the pants. Did we finally say something useful?”
“If we did, I can’t imagine what it was.”
“Maybe we’re out of cheese.” Clara turned around to look, but there was still plenty left.
Then the two women watched from the warmth of the loft as Armand, Reine-Marie and Isabelle paused on the village green, at about the spot the cobrador had stood vigil.
The evening was dire, with snow and ice pellets and freezing rain. A full English of crap.
Then Isabelle headed to the B&B. Armand put his head down and walked straight into the driving snow while Reine-Marie went home, which by now was just a faint glow through the flurries.
“I’m heading back to my studio,” said Clara.
“To finish your painting?” asked Myrna.
“It is finished. I’m going to start a new one.”
“Clara,” Myrna began. “Your show’s coming up. I just…”
She opened and closed her mouth.
“You’re a good friend,” said Clara. “And I know you mean well. But you’re just getting me upset. Making me doubt myself. Please,” she took Myrna’s large hands, “don’t say anything more. Trust me. I know when something’s finished. And when it’s not.”
Myrna walked her to the stairs, and heard the tiny bell tinkle as Clara left.
She wondered if Clara was right. Some things might appear done, complete. But were actually unfinished.
*
At the steps up to the church, Chief Superintendent Gamache paused.
Instead of hurrying inside, he made his way around the corner of the building.
Once at the back, where no one could see, he turned on the flashlight mode of his phone and examined the ground.
The snow in the beam was pristine. No tracks at all. But then, there wouldn’t be. The freshly falling snow would obliterate any tracks made the night before. And Lacoste’s team would have already looked.
But they wouldn’t have found what he was looking for.
Playing the light over the back wall of the church illuminated the weathered white clapboard.
He stepped closer, then back, closing one eye as the snow slapped the side of his face, then he turned to peer into the dark woods.
*