Glass Houses

  “Or hope,” said Reine-Marie.

  “They were just following orders,” said Clara. She turned to Reine-Marie. “Would you have given that last shock?”

  “If you’d asked me five minutes ago, I’d have said absolutely not. But now?” She sighed. “I’m not so sure.”

  Armand nodded. It was a terrible admission. But it was also a brave one. The first step to not actually doing it.

  Facing the monster. And recognizing it. Knowing that it was not a vile few. It wasn’t “them.” It was us.

  That was one of the many horrors of the Nuremberg trials. Of the Eichmann trial. Something all but forgotten today.

  The banality of evil.

  It wasn’t the frothing madman. It was the conscientious us.

  “Always let your conscience be your guide,” Clara sang in a thin voice, the words drifting into the fire. “Not so easy after all.”

  “Why were you talking about Pinocchio?” Armand asked.

  He was beginning to think it was more than Reine-Marie describing the nightly ritual of reading to Honoré.

  “Oh, it’s silly,” she said. “Especially now, after what we just talked about. Never mind.”

  “No, really,” he said.

  Reine-Marie looked at Clara, who raised her brows.

  “Go on,” Clara urged, and got a “thanks a lot” look from Reine-Marie.

  “Do you remember why Pinocchio wasn’t a real boy?” Reine-Marie asked Myrna and Armand.

  “Because he was made out of wood?” asked Myrna.

  “Well, that didn’t help,” she admitted. “But what really stopped him from being human was that he had no conscience. In the film, Jiminy Cricket played that role. Teaching him right from wrong.”

  “Cricket as cobrador,” said Clara. “A singing and dancing one, but one nonetheless.”

  “There’s a difference between having a weak conscience or a misdirected one,” said Armand, “and none at all.”

  “You know what psychologists call it when someone has no conscience?” Myrna asked.

  “Antisocial personality disorder?” asked Reine-Marie.

  “Smart-ass,” said Myrna. “Okay, yes, officially. But unofficially we call that person a psychopath.”

  “You’re not suggesting Pinocchio is a psychopath?” said Reine-Marie. She turned to Armand. “We might have to amend Ray-Ray’s nighttime reading.”

  “Well, those scenes sure didn’t make it into the movie,” said Clara. “The part where Pinocchio slaughters the villagers. I wonder what Jiminy sang then.”

  “You see, that’s the problem,” said Myrna. “We’re used to the film versions of psychopaths. The clearly crazies. But most psychopaths are clever. They have to be. They know how to mimic human behavior. How to pretend to care, while not actually feeling anything except perhaps rage and an overwhelming and near-perpetual sense of entitlement. That they’ve been wronged. They get what they want mostly through manipulation. Most don’t have to resort to violence.”

  “We all use manipulation,” said Armand. “We might not see it that way, but we do.”

  He pointed to the wine, the lure Myrna had used to get them there. Myrna lifted her glass in acknowledgment. But without remorse.

  “Unlike most of us, who tend to be transparent, people rarely see through a psychopath,” she continued. “He’s masterful. People trust and believe him. Even like him. It’s his great skill. Convincing people that his point of view is legitimate and right, often when all the evidence points in the other direction. Like Iago. It’s a kind of magic.”

  “Okay, so I’m confused,” said Clara. “Is the cobrador the psychopath, or was Katie Evans?”

  They looked at Armand, who raised his hands. “I wish I could tell you.”

  What he was beginning to think was that this crime didn’t have such a tight circle. The cobrador and Katie Evans. It was possible there was a third person, who had manipulated both of them.

  And was now manipulating the investigators.

  Which meant that there was someone in the village who might look it, but who was in fact not quite human.

  CHAPTER 27

  The gavel came down with such force that several spectators leapt in their seats.

  A few had been dozing, overcome with lethargy induced by the extreme heat.

  Most, though, had fought off the urge to nap, wanting to hear what the Chief Superintendent would say next.

  And what the Chief Crown would do next.

  To the spectators it looked like a battle of wits. Thrust. Parry. Riposte. Lunge.

  But to Judge Corriveau, who was closer and could see what others could not, it had stopped being a battle and had become a relay. One man handing off to the other.

  Taking turns carrying the burden.

  They didn’t like each other, she knew. That much had been obvious from the start. And it wasn’t pretense, it was genuine. So whatever was happening, it superseded enmity.

  It might even, she now knew, supersede this entire trial.

  She’d had enough.

  “Court is adjourned for the day,” she proclaimed. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning at eight.” There was grumbling among the spectators at the early hour. “Before the day heats up.”

  That seemed to make sense and as she rose, and they rose, there were nods of grudging agreement.

  “Gentlemen,” she said to Gamache and Zalmanowitz. “I’d like to see you in my chambers.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” both men said, bowing slightly as she exited.

  “Oh, Christ,” said Zalmanowitz, as he finally sat and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked up and saw Gamache standing there, waiting. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

  “This might be a good thing,” said Gamache.

  “Right.” The Chief Crown shoved his papers into his briefcase. “A few years in prison will be just the break I need. I’d thought maybe a retirement community in Arizona, but this way I’ll also get retrained. I wonder if they offer language courses in the penitentiary. I’ve always wanted to learn Italian.” He glanced up at Gamache. “Do you find it at all ironic that we’ll end up in jail because of Gandhi?”

  Chief Superintendent Gamache smiled. But it was thin and strained.

  “You did nothing wrong,” he said. “I’m the one who perjured himself.”

  “And I let you. I knew the truth and didn’t call you on the lie. Which makes me equally guilty. We both know that. And I’m afraid she knows it too. Maybe not the specifics, but she smells something.”

  Zalmanowitz shoved some more papers into his briefcase, then, looking up, he saw Gamache staring toward the now empty courtroom.

  Though there was one man standing there.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir raised his hand in a tentative wave to Gamache.

  He’d rushed over to the Palais de Justice with the news from Toussaint. But now that he was there, he was unsure how to proceed.

  Between the two men was a void where once there had been lifetimes of trust, intimacy, friendship.

  All dissolved into empty space because of a single act. A simple act. Beauvoir had left the courtroom. Unable to witness, unable to watch, as Armand Gamache betrayed everything he’d believed in.

  Gamache had walked right into it. And Beauvoir had run away.

  “And there he was,” mumbled Zalmanowitz. “Gone.”

  Gamache turned to him, angry. “Jean-Guy Beauvoir has stood beside me through things you can’t even imagine.”

  “But not today.”

  It was cruel, Zalmanowitz knew. To twist the knife. But it was also true. This wasn’t the day, and now wasn’t the time, to hide from unpleasant facts. Besides, he was hot and tired and about to be dragged over the coals.

  Barry Zalmanowitz was not in the best of moods.

  “Gentlemen.” The court clerk stood at the now open door. “Judge Corriveau will see you.”

  The Chief Crown sighed, picked up his bulging briefcase, and with one more wipe of his face, he shoved
the sodden tissue in his pocket and walked toward the door. A guilty man about to be condemned.

  But Chief Superintendent Gamache didn’t move. Caught, it seemed, between Beauvoir and Judge Corriveau’s summons.

  Gamache hesitated, then turned to the clerk.

  “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

  “Now, monsieur,” he insisted.

  “In a moment,” Gamache repeated. “S’il vous plaît.”

  He turned his back to the door and approached Beauvoir.

  Behind him, Barry Zalmanowitz stopped. And waited. Trying to ignore the look of increasing annoyance on the face of the court clerk.

  Oh, what the hell, he thought, putting down his briefcase. How much worse can it possibly get?

  Charged with contempt of court, on top of everything else. It might add another couple of months to the sentence. A chance to learn the past participles of Italian.

  Parlato, he mumbled, as he watched Gamache approach Beauvoir. Amato.

  Yes, thought Zalmanowitz. I have a lot to learn.

  “Patron,” said Beauvoir. Brusque. Matter-of-fact. Any other agent reporting to his superior.

  Nothing unusual, Beauvoir repeated to himself. Nothing unusual has happened. Nothing has changed.

  “Jean-Guy,” said Gamache.

  Armand saw the face, so familiar, but he also saw the wall Jean-Guy had raised. Not stone. Not wood. But sleek sheet metal. Without purchase. Without a rivet or a crack. Unscalable.

  It was a device Beauvoir didn’t use often anymore. In fact, it had been years since Gamache had experienced it.

  And he knew enough not to try to breach the barrier. It was unassailable. But it was also not a protection. It was, he knew, a prison. And trapped inside those walls a fine man hid. Not from Gamache, but from himself.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir had locked the enemy inside with him.

  “I met just now with Superintendent Toussaint,” said Beauvoir. “That’s why I left.”

  Gamache held his eyes. But said nothing.

  “It’s as we thought,” Beauvoir continued, stammering a little under the steady gaze, before collecting himself. When he continued, his voice was businesslike. “The shipment of fentanyl has crossed the border.”

  “Where we expected?”

  “Exactly there,” said Beauvoir. “Our informants watched it.”

  “And the DEA?”

  “Know nothing about it. We’ve lost track of it now. As per your instructions.”

  Jean-Guy had no idea why he’d said that last bit, except an infantile desire to cause pain. To drill home what this man had done, which was so much worse, surely, than anything he himself had done.

  Beauvoir had thought he was beyond the childish lashing out, but apparently not. It was back, and rested, and more powerful than ever. He braced for the counterattack, hoping for some brutal response. That would justify his own attack.

  He waited for the clever, cleaver word.

  But there was silence.

  A look, thought Beauvoir. Prayed Beauvoir. A smug little assassin glance. Something. Anything. But there was nothing. Just eyes that were thoughtful, almost gentle.

  “We expected that,” Beauvoir continued. “But there was something unexpected.”

  “Go on,” said Gamache.

  “They didn’t take it all with them. They left some fentanyl behind. To sell here.”

  Now there was a reaction. Chief Superintendent Gamache’s eyes widened.

  “How much?”

  “At least ten kilos. We’ve lost track of that as well.”

  Don’t say it, Beauvoir warned himself. No need to say it.

  “Of course.” He said it.

  Gamache tensed and there was a quiet intake of breath, as another thrust hit home.

  “Of course,” he whispered. And slowly lowered himself to the spectator’s bench.

  He sat there and did the calculations. According to the report he’d commissioned, there were at best fifty deaths per kilo of fentanyl. It wasn’t difficult to do the math.

  Seventy kilos of fentanyl now in the United States.

  More than three thousand deaths.

  And in Québec? Five hundred people alive today who would die. Because of what he’d decided to do. Or not do. And there could be many, many more. Deaths that Armand Gamache had just sanctioned.

  “Monsieur,” the clerk called.

  Gamache turned to look at him, and the man’s expression changed instantly. From officious to afraid. Not of Gamache, but of what he saw in the Chief Superintendent’s face.

  Zalmanowitz saw it too, and guessed what Gamache was being told.

  And felt both sick and elated. Relieved and appalled. Something had changed. Something had happened.

  Could it be that their plan was working? God help them.

  “Merci.” Gamache got up. “I have to go. The judge wants to see Monsieur Zalmanowitz and me. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Beauvoir could guess what it was about.

  “There’s more,” he said.

  “Oui?”

  “A small shipment of a new drug is sitting in a warehouse at Mirabel. It was flown in two days ago in a load of nesting dolls.”

  He took the paper out of his pocket and handed it to Gamache, who put on his reading glasses.

  “The same cartel?” Gamache asked, without looking up.

  “Oui.”

  The chief still wore his suit jacket, and Beauvoir could see that the white shirt beneath it was soaked through with perspiration.

  “Chlorocodide?” Gamache read, then looked up, meeting Beauvoir’s eyes.

  “Codeine derivative. Popular in Russia but not, as far as we know, over here yet. This would be the first. It’s known on the street as krokodil. Very potent, very toxic.”

  “And it’s just sitting there?” asked Gamache. “For two days, you say?”

  “Oui.”

  “Two days,” Gamache said softly, under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he focused on some distant target. “Could it be?”

  Then, as Beauvoir watched, Chief Superintendent Gamache closed his eyes. And dropped his head. His shoulders sagging. With a new burden? Or was it relief?

  He put out an unsteady hand, touching the bench in front of him, to steady himself. Jean-Guy Beauvoir thought, just for an instant, that he might be about to pass out. From heat. From stress. From smoke inhalation.

  There was a long exhale from Gamache that sounded like, “Ohhhh.”

  Then his hand closed into a fist, crushing the paper. And he looked up.

  “I have to see the judge,” he said, removing his glasses and drawing a handkerchief across his eyes. To wipe away the sweat, thought Beauvoir. “I’ll text you when I’m out. Convene a meeting in the conference room.”

  “Who with?”

  “Everyone.” Gamache handed the paper back to Beauvoir, then he stepped toward Zalmanowitz and the clerk. But stopped and considered Beauvoir for a moment. “You know what that means?”

  He pointed to the paper in Beauvoir’s hand.

  “It means we have a chance.”

  Beauvoir felt the familiar flutter in his chest and rush of adrenaline.

  Gamache gave a curt nod. “We’ll know soon.”

  Then he headed toward the door held open by the clerk.

  “Patron,” said Beauvoir.

  But it was too soft, and Gamache was too far away. And it was, Jean-Guy knew, probably too late.

  * * *

  Judge Corriveau leaned back in her chair and looked at the two men.

  She’d spent the past few minutes alone in her chambers and, after rubbing her armpits with a cold washcloth and throwing water on her face, she tried to work out a strategy.

  She would, she decided, keep on her robes. To remind them they were in the presence not of a woman. Not even of a person. But of a position. A symbol.

  Justice.

  Besides, it made her feel both powerful and protected. And hid the perspiration stains. And the w
ater that had dribbled down her blouse.

  The other strategy she was putting into action, or inaction really, at that moment.

  She was making them stand.

  A fan had been placed in her office and it swiveled, blowing warm air over them, puffing up her robes, which had the undesired effect of lifting and flapping. Not the dignified image she’d hoped to project.

  It also, when the fan swung her way, blew her now stringy hair into her face so that she was forced to constantly brush it out of her eyes and spit it out of her mouth.

  The two men stood quite still, their hair rising only slightly as the breeze brushed by them.

  She got up, turned off the fan, took off her robes, ran her fingers through her hair, and gestured to the two chairs in front of her desk.

  “Sit.”

  They sat.

  “All right,” she said. “It’s just us. As far as I know the room isn’t bugged.” She looked at both men and raised her brows in inquiry.

  They looked at each other, and lifted their shoulders. If it was, it wasn’t them.

  “Good.” She paused for a moment. All the fine speeches she’d crafted, all the clever arguments, all the justified anger put into pithy phrases were thrown out when faced with Barry Zalmanowitz and Armand Gamache.

  Two men who had served justice for much longer than she had. Served their province. Served their consciences. Often at great personal risk, and cost.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, calmly meeting their eyes. When neither spoke, she added, “You can tell me.”

  The air was heavy in the room. Humid, sticky, close. Time trickled by.

  Zalmanowitz opened his mouth, his lips trying to form words, sentences, cogent thoughts. Then he glanced to his right, at Gamache.

  And wished he hadn’t. In the instinctive gesture, he’d given something vital away. Something the astute judge couldn’t fail to see.

  Whatever was happening, it had been Chief Superintendent Gamache’s idea.

  Gamache looked down at his hands, clasped together on his crossed legs, and spent a moment collecting his thoughts. There were so many ways to handle this badly, and maybe no way to do it right.

  He didn’t dare look at his watch, or even glance at the small carriage clock on the judge’s desk.

  But he was aware of time going by. Of the officers gathering in the conference room of Sûreté headquarters. Of the matryoshka dolls at Mirabel and what nested inside them.