Page 48 of The Grey Wolf
“The woman who signaled the SUV,” said Jean-Guy. “Any news?”
“None yet.” It was her turn to report. “We have her photo on the wire. I went to the landfill to check out the body of the driver. We still don’t have an ID, and it’s not our case, as you know. It’s Montréalhomicide, but I know the investigating officer and he’s happy to cooperate.”
“Security video?” asked Beauvoir.
“Cameras down.”
Gamache narrowed his eyes, taking this in. “The security guard?”
“Had left before her shift was over. We’re trying to track her down.”
“Garbage collection and the landfill are both run by the mob in Montréal,” said Beauvoir. “Could they be behind this?”
“We’ve gone from an environmental group, to international terrorists, to the Montréal mafia,” said Gamache. “What next? The National Hockey League? Let’s just regroup. The mob is not interested in contaminating the water supply, or working with terrorists. It has its own agenda. It wants to hook the population on fentanyl, not kill us all off. I want to know how Charles Langlois fits into this. Whose side was he on? Was he trying to help, or was he sent to confuse?”
The voice of Charles’s father drifted across Gamache’s mind.
I can see he has you fooled too.
Beauvoir heaved an exasperated sigh. “Shit. Why didn’t he tell us more?”
“Maybe he did,” said Lacoste. “He sure seemed to think he’d told us enough.”
“If he thought he was in danger, he might’ve hidden his notes, right?” said Beauvoir. “Maybe that’s why he kept mentioning The Mission.”
Gamache raised his brows. That had not occurred to him.
“Bon,” he said, leaning down to put on his new shoes. The ice pack had done its job. His foot no longer hurt, and the swelling was going down. “There’s one way to find out.”
As he got up, he noticed a smear of whipped cream on Beauvoir’s fingers. To Jean-Guy and Isabelle’s surprise, the Chief Inspector took a paper napkin and wiped it off.
Then he walked, without a limp, to the door.
CHAPTER13
“Fucking hell.”
Those were the first words out of the mouth of the first person they met at the entrance to The Mission. In a crescendo of irony, the founders had chosen to place the homeless shelter in an abandoned distillery in the old port.
“Pardon?” said Gamache, staring at the tiny woman blocking their way.
“Saw the video. Poor Charles. Talks to you and dies.” She looked around as though expecting a vehicle to come crashing through the entrance.
“We’re with the Sûreté.”
“I know.”
“Armand Gamache. And these are—”
“I don’t care.”
The woman’s grey hair was shooting off in all directions, including from her chin and upper lip. Her head looked like a Russian satellite. Her face, crisscrossed with deep lines like the earth after a drought, had a homemade tattoo between her eyes. A cross. Or anX. It was the sort made in prison.
She wore a sagging tracksuit over her thin frame.
“We’re here to see the Executive Director, Monsieur Gagnon.”
Armand stepped to his left to get around her, but she stepped to her right, and again they were face-to-face. Or face-to-chest.
