Part 20 (1/2)
”How did you hear about the gun?” Lacoste asked, sliding the cards back.
”Our boss told us,” said Delorme.
”How did he hear?” she tried again.
”I don't really know.” Delorme looked at Ms. Fraser, who shook her head.
”Frankly, we just do as we're told, and we were told to come here to look at the gun.”
Almost certainly this was the result of General Langelier ”thinking about it,” thought Lacoste. He must've called someone in National Defence, who called CSIS, who sent it down the line until they ran out of line and came to these two.
”Why you?” asked Beauvoir. ”Not that we aren't thrilled to have you.”
”You know,” said Ms. Fraser. ”We were wondering the same thing. We work in the same section, Sean and I. Have for years. Mostly filing.”
”But some fieldwork,” Delorme jumped in.
”Putting records on computer. Cross-referencing,” she said. ”Seeing if any connections were missed. We're quite good at that.”
”We are,” he admitted. ”We see things others don't.”
”Best not to tell them we see things,” she said, and Delorme laughed.
”Well,” said Lacoste, warming to them. ”I imagine you'd like to see the gun.”
She sounded to her own ears like a 1950s housewife discreetly offering to show guests the facilities.
”Do you wish you were out there?” Reine-Marie asked, as her husband took a bite of the maple-smoked ham, apple and Brie sandwich, on a pain de campagne.
He looked out the bistro window, toward the stone bridge.
”You mean in the damp, cold woods at a crime scene?”
”Yes.”
”A little.”
”Monsieur Gamache,” said Reine-Marie, ”you're crazier than even my mother thought.”
”Your mother loved me.”
”Only because you made her own children look sane. Except Alphonse, of course. He really is nuts.”
Henri was curled under their bistro table. The shepherd's head, resting on Armand's shoes, was smattered with flakes of crusty bread.
”Isabelle's doing a good job?” Reine-Marie asked.
”Not just a good job, a remarkable job. She's completely taken control of the department. Made it her own.”
Reine-Marie watched him for signs of regret hiding beneath the obvious relief. But there was only admiration there for his young protege.
”Jean-Guy seems to be accepting her as his boss,” she said, b.u.t.tering a piece of fresh baguette from the basket that came with her parsnip and apple soup.
”I think it's still a bit of a struggle,” said Armand. ”But he at least respects Isabelle and knows he couldn't possibly be made Chief Inspector, after what happened.”
”You mean after he shot you?” Reine-Marie asked.
”That didn't help,” Armand admitted. He picked up his sandwich again, then put it down. ”I was threatened yesterday by a young agent.”
”I saw him put his hand on his billy club,” said Reine-Marie, lowering her spoon.
Armand nodded. ”Fresh out of the academy. He knew I was once a cop and he didn't care. If he'd treat a former cop like that, how's he going to treat citizens?”
”You look shaken.”
”I am. I'd hoped by getting rid of the corruption the worst was over, but now...” He shrugged and smiled thinly. ”Is he alone, or is there a whole cla.s.s of thugs entering the Srete? Armed with clubs and guns.”
”I'm sorry, Armand.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand on his.
He looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes, and smiled.
”It's a place I no longer recognize. To everything there is a season. I'm thinking of talking to Professor Rosenblatt about his job at McGill.”
”You think he's not who he claims to be?”
”Oh, no, not at all. I'm sure Isabelle and Jean-Guy checked him out. No, this is personal interest.”
”Really? Thinking about becoming a physicist?” asked Reine-Marie. When he didn't answer, she looked at him closely. ”Armand?”
She knew he wasn't considering studying science, but now she understood what he was considering.
If the big question facing both of them was, What next? could the answer be, University?
”Would that interest you?” he asked.
”Going back to school?”
She hadn't really thought about it, but now that she did she realized there was a world of knowledge out there she'd love to dive into. History, archeology, languages, art.
And she could see Armand there. In fact, it was a far more natural fit than the Srete ever seemed. She could see him walking through the hallways, a student. Or a professor.
But either way, he belonged in the corridors of academe. And so did she. She wondered if the killing of young Laurent had finally, completely, put paid to any interest he had in the disgrace that was murder.
”You like the professor?” she asked, going back to her soup.