Page 140 of The Grey Wolf
“I can’t tell you that. I can say it has no bearing on your investigation.”
Now he cocked his head. “How do you know that? I haven’t told you what it is.”
“True. But you said it was extremely serious. I’m guessing you aren’t looking into an old episode where two monks and a nun took to singing in a bar.”
It sounded like a bad joke.
“Am I the only one who’s asked about them?”
“Yes.” She stood up and offered him her hand. “Good luck. I wish I could help you.”
And this time Jean-Guy Beauvoir believed her.
CHAPTER31
For reasons Armand Gamache could never understand, when it rained, the entrance to Sûreté headquarters in Montréal smelled like wet dog.
They had a canine unit, but it was not kenneled in the lobby.
Gamache’s shoes left wet marks on the floor, joining all the others who’d arrived for work that damp August morning.
He’d stopped at the café on the corner and picked up a fresh croissant and double-shot cappuccino, the scent of which now mixed with wet fur. As he waited for the elevator, he realized it reminded him of Henri and Fred in the bistro on rainy days.
While others wrinkled their nose in distaste, he inhaled deeply.
Once at his floor, the first thing Armand did was go to the bathroom to scrub his hands and face clean after that restaurant. As the water poured out of the tap, he took a handful and smelled it; then he dipped his tongue in. Though he knew that botulinum had no odor or taste, he still needed to do it.
Just in case.
Nothing. Yet.
Standing at the door into the open bullpen where his officers were working, he once again had the near overwhelming urge to shout,Leave! Now. Take your families and get off the island. Run!But instead of warning these men and women it was his duty to protect, he just stood there watching, and felt a wave of nausea so strong he had tosteady himself. For a terrible moment, he wondered if it was from the tap water he’d tasted. If…
But no. This was a self-inflicted toxin. A guilty conscience.
He shoved it away. It did no good and only messed with his mind. He needed clarity, needed all his focus. Ironically, the only way to save his agents was to keep them there. In the dark. In danger.
It was necessary to give the impression of normalcy. After spending a few minutes discussing ongoing cases with his officers, he called into his office the Sûreté officer assigned as liaison with the Montréal cops investigating the Langlois and Parisi homicides.
He hung up his damp coat and sat behind his desk, waving the agent to a chair on the other side.
“Tell me what you have.”
“The Parisi family has been told. It’s all over the news in Italy and has just hit the internet. We’re getting calls from journalists here and in Italy. It’s a big story and getting bigger.”
“What progress?” He tried not to sound impatient. The media was not his first concern.
The inspector looked down at his notes as the Chief took a long sip of coffee.
Rarely had it tasted so good.
“Parisi stayed at the Gramercy Park Hotel in New York City for five nights, then checked out. We think that’s when he crossed into Québec, but we have no record from Canada Customs. And so far none of the hotels in Montréal have him registered. I have agents going around with the photos the cops in Italy sent when Parisi was alive.”
“He obviously had help here.”
“Oui.The Parisi family has been asked about Montréal connections. The only one is an importer who deals with their olive oil. The importer doesn’t have any known mob connections. I’ve sent an agent over to interview him.”
“Nothing personal? No friends here?”
