Page 9 of The Grey Wolf
“It’s not a bomb,” she said.
He turned to her, somewhat amused that she’d have to say it. If it was, he’d have hoped they wouldn’t place it on his desk.
“And why are we standing here?” he asked.
“The fellow who dropped it at reception pretty much ran away. No note, but someone’s printed your name and written,This might interest you.”
The two of them stood on the threshold and considered the package.
“Fingerprints?”
“Non.We’ve also had it checked for toxic materials. Clean.”
“Stay here.” He walked in and noticed that she was right beside him.
It hadn’t exactly been an order, but still…
He bent over to examine the package. Sure enough, written in block letter in felt pen was:Chief Inspector Gamache. This might interest you.
He straightened up as his mind went over the possibilities. The cases still open. The deaths, the murders, they were investigating.Could this be evidence someone had sent anonymously? People often did. Wanting the killers caught, but not wanting to be involved.
It was wrapped inLe Journal de Montréalnewspaper, the most popular daily, so that was no help. It was from an old weekend edition. The food and wine section.
It did not appear to carry an implied threat. Not the obits. Not the reports on crimes. Just recipes and restaurant reviews. His name had been printed on top of instructions for a cocktail called the Last Word.
“Security is sending me the footage from reception,” said Lacoste.
“Good.” Gamache reached into his desk and brought out sealed packages containing sterile gloves. Tossing a pack to Lacoste, he put on a pair, then cut the string and carefully placed each strand aside.
He had to admit to some concern about what might be inside. He was thinking of the murders in Chicoutimi and on Les Îles de la Madeleine, and whether the executions and the appearance of this package could be connected.
There was no seepage. No smell. But…
More agents crowded into the office and watched.
Just then, Beauvoir appeared and pushed his way to the front.
“Are you all here to see if I still know how to collect evidence?” asked the Chief Inspector. “Go back to your work, please.”
He knew they were there out of concern for him. In case this was more threatening than it appeared. And if it was, he wanted them well away.
That left Lacoste, Beauvoir. And himself.
He carefully peeled back the layers of newspaper, page after page, until he got to the last layer. He paused, looked at the others, whose faces were tense, their focus complete. Then he drew the final page aside and stared down at what was revealed.
He tilted his head, his brows drawn together in puzzlement.
The Chief Inspector had a pretty well-developed imagination, but even he had not imagined this.
“What is it?” asked Lacoste, stepping forward, as did Beauvoir.
There, on Gamache’s desk, was a summer jacket. Stone-colored and neatly folded, with a red stain on the chest.
He reached out, but instead of picking up the coat, Gamache picked up his phone.
“Reine-Marie, are you at home?”
“Non.I’m still at the archives. Why? Is something wrong?”
