TWENTY-FOUR
The door to the prior’s office was closed.
The last time Beauvoir had been in this position he’d walked in on what was clearly an argument between Gamache and Francoeur.
He leaned in and listened.
The wood was thick and dense. A hard wood, making it hard to hear. But he could just make out the Chief. The words were muffled, but he recognized the voice.
Beauvoir stood back, wondering what to do. That didn’t take long. If the Chief was again arguing with that fuck-head Francoeur, Beauvoir wasn’t going to let him fight it out alone.
He rapped twice and opened the door.
The sound inside abruptly stopped.
Beauvoir looked around. There was no Gamache.
Superintendent Francoeur sat behind the desk. Alone.
“What is it?” the Superintendent demanded.
It was one of the few times Beauvoir had seen Francoeur rattled. Then Beauvoir noticed the computer. The laptop had been facing in the other direction, toward the visitor’s chair. Now it was turned around, facing Francoeur. He appeared to have been using it when Beauvoir interrupted him.
Was he downloading something? Beauvoir couldn’t see how. The satellite connection hadn’t worked since they arrived. Unless Francoeur had gotten it to work, but Beauvoir doubted it. He wasn’t that smart.
Francoeur had the guilty look of a teenager interrupted by Mom.
“Well?” The Superintendent glared at Beauvoir.
“I heard voices,” he said and immediately regretted it.
Francoeur gave him a dismissive look and picking up a dossier he started to read. Ignoring Beauvoir completely. As though a hole in the atmosphere had just walked in. Nothing. No one. Beauvoir was empty air as far as the Superintendent was concerned.
“What did you mean earlier?” Beauvoir shut the door hard and Francoeur looked up.
Jean-Guy hadn’t meant to ask, had promised himself not to. And had Gamache been there he certainly would never have asked. But the Chief wasn’t there, and Francoeur was, and the question shot out, like lightning from a storm cloud.
Francoeur ignored him.
“Tell me,” Beauvoir kicked the chair, then grabbed it from behind and leaned over it, toward the Superintendent.
“Or what?” asked Francoeur. He was amused, not afraid at all, and Beauvoir felt his cheeks burning. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the wooden chair.
“You going to beat me up?” the Superintendent asked. “Threaten me? That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re Gamache’s dog.” Now Francoeur put the dossier down and leaned toward Beauvoir. “You want to know what I meant when I said I thought you had no balls? That’s what I meant. It’s what all your colleagues say, Jean-Guy. Is it true?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That your only use is as Armand Gamache’s puppy. They call you his bitch, because while you growl and sometimes bite, they don’t think you actually have balls.”
Francoeur looked at Beauvoir as if he was something soft and smelly real men wiped from the bottom of their shoes. The chair squeaked as the Superintendent leaned back, comfortably. His suit jacket opened and Beauvoir saw his gun there.
Through the howl of rage in his head Beauvoir had enough presence of mind to wonder why the Chief Superintendent, a bureaucrat, wore a gun.
And why he had brought it into the abbey.
Not even Gamache wore a gun, though Beauvoir did. And now he was glad.
“That’s what I meant earlier,” said Francoeur. “I went with you when you interviewed that monk not because you invited me, but because I was curious. How would this man who was the laughingstock of the S?reté handle an interrogation? But you surprised me. I was actually impressed.”
And Beauvoir surprised himself. Some small part of him was relieved to hear that. But it was deeply buried under the wrath, the rage, the near apocalyptic fury of the insult.
He opened his mouth but only stuttering came out. No words formed. Just empty air.
“You can’t tell me you didn’t know.” Francoeur actually looked surprised. “Come on, man, only an idiot could miss that. You strut through headquarters, half a pace behind your master, practically sniveling, and you think the other agents and inspectors admire you? They admire the Chief Inspector, and fear him a little. If he could cut your balls off, maybe he could do it to them too. Look, no one blames you. You were this little agent in a little S?reté outpost. You were about to be fired because no one wanted to work with you, and Gamache hired you. Right?”
Beauvoir stared at Francoeur, dumbfounded.
“Right,” Francoeur leaned forward. “And why do you think he did that? Why do you think he’s surrounded himself with agents no one else wanted? He just promoted Isabelle Lacoste to inspector. Your rank—” Francoeur gave Beauvoir a sharp look, “—I’d watch that if I were you. Not good when you’re supposed to be the second in command but she’s the one left at headquarters, in charge. What was I saying? Oui, the Chief Inspector’s hiring practices. Have you looked around the homicide department? He’s created a division of losers. He’s taken the dregs. Why?”
Now Beauvoir’s anger finally erupted. He lifted the chair and brought it down so hard the two back legs broke off. But he didn’t care. He only had eyes for the man in front of him. He had Superintendent Francoeur in his sights.
“Losers?” Beauvoir rasped. “The Chief Inspector surrounds himself with agents who think for themselves, who can act on their own. The rest of you shits are afraid of us. You toss us out, demote us, treat us like crap until we quit. And why?”
He was actually, literally, spitting his words across the desk.
“Because you’re threatened by us. We won’t play your corrupt little games. Chief Inspector Gamache picked up your garbage and gave us a chance. He believed in us when no one else did. And you, you fuck-head, you think I’m going to believe any of your crap? Let your weasels laugh at me. That’s the biggest compliment I can think of. We have the best arrest record of the force. That’s what matters. And if you and your assholes think that’s laughable, then laugh.”
“The best arrest record?” Francoeur was on his feet now. His voice glacial. “Like the Brulé case? Your Chief arrested him. Cost the province a fortune to try him, for murder. He was even convicted, the poor shit, and what happens? It turns out he didn’t kill that guy. And what did your Gamache do? Did he go and clean up his own mess? No. He sent you to find the real murderer. And you did. That’s when I began to think you might not be the complete waste of space you appear to be.”
Francoeur gathered up some papers but paused at the desk. “You’re wondering why I came here, aren’t you?”
Beauvoir said nothing.
“Of course you are. Gamache is too. He even asked. I didn’t tell him the truth, but I’ll tell you. I had to catch him and you away from headquarters. Away from where he has some influence. So I could talk to you. I didn’t need to come all this way to bring you some reports. I’m the Chief Superintendent, for chrissake. A homicide agent could’ve done that. But I saw the chance and I took it. I came here to save you. From him.”
“You’re insane.”
“Think about what I said. Put it together. You’re smarter than that. Think. And while you’re at it, you might wonder why he promoted Isabelle Lacoste to inspector.”
“Because she’s a fine investigator. She earned it.”
Francoeur gave him that look again, as though Beauvoir was spectacularly stupid. Then he walked to the door.
“What?” demanded Beauvoir. “What’re you trying to say?”
“I’ve said far too much already, Inspector Beauvoir. Still, it’s out there now.” He gave Beauvoir an appraising look. “You’re actually a very good investigator. Use those skills. And feel free to tell Gamache exactly what I’ve just said. It’s about time he realized someone was on to him.”
The door closed and Beauvoir was alone with his anger. And the laptop.