Page 44 of The Grey Wolf
Most in the room knew him well. They’d all watched the video, over and over. It was clear that the Chief Inspector had made a choice and, yes, managed to save himself, but that hadn’t been the goal. His only aim had been to push the child out of the way of the speeding vehicle.
“Chief Inspector Gamache faced a split-second decision,” said Toussaint, her voice glacial. “I hope I’d have made the same one.” She stared at the vlogger. “Or would you have let the child die?”
The vlogger colored and glared at the two of them. Trapped without an answer.
Standing beside Toussaint, Armand muttered, “Merci.” And felt a slight pang of guilt that he had suspected her of betraying not just the Sûreté, but also the citizens of Québec. And him.
But he also knew that if the Chief Superintendent was the collaborator, she’d have done exactly what she just did. And his racing mind went one step further.
Toussaint might have even set up the question, or at the very least predicted it. She might have made sure this vlogger was invited to the news conference, knowing she would attack Gamache. Because she always did.
And that would give Toussaint the opportunity to defend him. Reassuring Gamache that she was on his side.
It was, he recognized, a catch-22. Toussaint was damned if she defended him, damned if she did not. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to get at the truth.
CHAPTER12
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Jean-Guy replied.
Gamache had texted both Beauvoir and Lacoste to meet him at Chez Mère Grand, a hole-in-the-wall diner in the old port area of Montréal, not far from Champ-de-Mars. It was conveniently, and not coincidently, on the way from Sûreté headquarters to their next stop.
Grandma’s was not a place frequented by Sûreté officers, most of whom preferred darkened bars even during the day. Which was one of the reasons the Chief Inspector had chosen it.
It didn’t hurt that the place, and the young owners, were cheerful and the food homemade and delicious.
Normally Armand would have walked there, to get some fresh air and clear his mind on this fine summer evening. But the damaged shoe was biting into his bruised foot, and the cobbled streets of the old city would make walking even more difficult. So he’d grabbed a taxi.
Isabelle was already there when he arrived. Armand ordered grilled cheese sandwiches for the table, bulging with melted Gruyère and blue cheese, with chutney oozing out. He added an éclair for Isabelle, a mille-feuille for Jean-Guy, and a slice of tall, wobbly lemon meringue pie for himself.
While they waited for Jean-Guy, Armand described for Isabelle the search of Charles’s apartment, and the missing computer, notes, and map.
“He got too close to something,” she said. “We recorded your conversation, of course. I’ve been over it again, and two things stand out. One”—she raised a finger—“he was sure there was someone in the Sûreté working with whoever’s behind this. Two”—another finger—“he wasn’t sure about his boss. He must have meant the head of that environmental organization.”
“Who’s a woman, but that means nothing. The other thing that was clear was that he was afraid, but I don’t think he really grasped how much danger he was in. Or couldn’t bring himself to believe it.”
Most decent people could not fully see, or believe, the size of the monster.
Just then, Jean-Guy breezed in. He went up to the counter, spoke to the owner, waited, then came to the table, handing something to Armand.
“It’s an ice pack,patron. And—” He held out a large bag.
Gamache opened it and smiled. Inside was a cardboard box. With new shoes. Soft-sided.
“Merci.” He held Jean-Guy’s eyes. “Beaucoup.”
When, Armand wondered as he took off the offending shoe and laid the ice pack across his swollen and bruised foot, had things changed? When did Jean-Guy begin to look after him, when it had long been the other way around?
But as the pain eased, Armand realized it had always been mutual. They’d guarded and protected each other from the moment they’d met, lifetimes ago.
“What did you find out at Action Québec Bleu?”
“Not much.” As he ate the sandwich, Jean-Guy gave his report.
Armand sat back and listened. Watching them.
He felt enormous pride in his people, and none more than these two, who shared second-in-command duties.
His entire department had been handpicked, not from the top of the heap but from the bottom. To his colleagues’ amusement, Chief Inspector Gamache had, in effect, gone dumpster diving for his agents. Chosen men and women on the verge of being tossed out.
