Page 8 of The Grey Wolf
Tardiff was right, though. Things were relatively quiet. But far from feeling that a monster had gone to sleep, it felt to Armand like it was resting, watching, gathering strength. The silence wasn’t slumber, it was a deep breath. Held.
And those murders he was investigating? They were the prelude, the short, sharp gasps before the scream.
Evelyn Tardiff tapped the dossiers with her glasses. “You really believe these were hits, Armand?” At his nod, she sat back, crossed her legs, and looked out the window at the skyline of Montréal. Then her gaze returned to her colleague. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Bon, merci.”
It occurred to him that these executions might not be news to Evelyn Tardiff. Like him, she had her secrets. Closely guarded and dangerous if allowed to escape.
One day soon it would be a good idea to sit down quietly together and bring those secrets out into the relative open. But that carried risks. While he trusted Tardiff, he knew that there were elements within the Sûreté. Old ones, planted years ago. Who bided their time.
Thequidto theirpro quoinformant. The mafia’s own, mafia-owned, senior Sûreté officers. And they wouldn’t be alone.
There’d be prosecutors and judges, politicians and lobbyists. Journalists.
Gamache had no proof of this, it was just common sense. The mob had untold wealth, weapons, no conscience, a thirst for power, and aneed for protection. They could buy almost anyone they wanted, and did.
Were those executions the first putrid whiff of the storm to come?
But if so, it still begged the question, why were those two victims the harbinger? Why would anyone, never mind the mob, need them dead?
He checked his watch and got up. “We’re going to be late.”
“Oh, no,” said Chief Inspector Tardiff, and Gamache gave a grunt of amusement and commiseration.
These Monday morning meetings of department heads could be tedious, especially when Chief Inspector Goudreau of the Highways division felt slighted and decided to take up more time than was allotted him.
Which was most Monday mornings.
Armand sat at the long table, his dossier closed in front of him, and listened. Where others looked bored, or glanced out the window, or surreptitiously checked their phones, he forced himself to pay attention. Though he struggled to pay close attention, or any, to the head of the Highways division. He found his mind wandering to Goudreau’s tie. It was a warm orange. Was “amber” more the word? He liked it and thought he might go to Ogilvy’s later and see…
Goudreau had just finished droning on about how many perforated lines per kilometer were ideal, and the Chief Super was turning to the next report, when Goudreau began again.
There was an audible moan in the room.
Maybe get a new summer coat…
Gamache all but shook himself out of his reverie.
Goudreau was now trying to justify cutting back on inspectors at weigh stations, citing statistics that showed truckers were, for the most part, complying with the laws.
“Could that be,” the Chief Superintendent asked, wearily, “because of the lack of inspections? You’re simply not catching them?”
Gamache lowered his head and pretended to consult his report, to mask his smile. By now most of the senior officers were wondering if the windows opened and they could jump.
“It’s because of the hard work my department does,” said the perpetually wounded officer. “Truckers don’t dare try to get away with anything. They know they’ll be caught.”
“Yes, but if…,” began the Chief Superintendent, then stopped herself. “Let’s discuss this after the meeting.”
When Gamache returned to his office, he found Isabelle Lacoste waiting. In her mid-thirties, married with two small children, she’d worked for Gamache for ten years, ever since he’d hired the young agent on the day her former chief was about to fire her. For being “soft.”
But then, Armand Gamache himself was often accused of being “soft.” Because he cared. Because he knew the value not just of facts but of feelings. Because he preferred listening to intimidating. Because he wanted to understand.
Lacoste had risen swiftly through the ranks and was now his co-second-in-command, a position shared with Jean-Guy Beauvoir.
“Wait,patron,” she said, barring his way into his office and pointing to his desk.
A parcel, wrapped in newspaper and tied with string, sat there.
