Chapter 33

C HAPTER 33

Claudine McGregor stared at the photo Beauvoir had handed her and shook her head.

"Nope."

The Executive Director of The Mission gave it back and walked away.

So much for that theory, thought Jean-Guy. He put the photo of Paolo Parisi back in his pocket and watched the elderly woman with the wild hair and sagging sweats shuffle down the hall to the cafeteria.

"Wait up."

She did not.

When he caught up with her, he had to stand right in front of her to get her attention.

He'd had an idea. "Look at this."

"It's a waste of time."

He brought out his phone and clicked on a photo. This one showed Parisi dead.

Madame McGregor was fiercely protective of the residents, so wouldn't talk about one with a cop. At least not a living resident. But a dead one was another matter.

Claudine looked at the photo and drew her brows together. Not, Jean-Guy thought, in horror at seeing the face of someone clearly dead. She'd seen enough of those, on sidewalks and under bridges, on subway grates and in ditches.

It was seeing a familiar face that concerned her.

"I'm sorry," said Jean-Guy, and meant it. "You did know him."

She nodded, still staring into Parisi's wide-open eyes.

"What happened?"

"He was killed."

"I can see that. How? Why?"

"He was staying here?"

" Oui. For a couple of weeks. Left a few days ago and hasn't been back. I was worried…"

"Who is he?"

"He called himself Guido. I doubt that was his real name. He was a nice young guy. Italian, of course. Spoke a little English. Almost no French, but wanted to learn."

"Did he hang around with anyone in particular?"

"He had breakfast every morning with Big Stink. He was teaching Guido French."

"Is Stink his family name?" asked Beauvoir and saw Claudine's wrinkled face wrinkle even more.

"I believe they changed it to Stink when they immigrated. It had been Smith."

Beauvoir gave a grunt of laughter. "Can I speak to Monsieur Stink please."

"You're out of luck there too. He hasn't been back for a week. I think he wanders."

"Dementia?"

"Maybe. Not bad enough to alert the cops, for all the good that would do. But he always comes back."

"Can you call me when you see him next?"

"No."

Beauvoir sighed in exasperation. "I need to see your security video again. This time over the period when Guido was here. Did it coincide with any of the VIP visits?"

"Probably." But she didn't move. "Since when are the cops interested in the death of a homeless guy?"

Beauvoir felt his hackles rise, partly, mostly, because he knew the truth of it.

"And even I know this isn't your jurisdiction. So why're you investigating?"

"He was involved in the murder of Charles Langlois. We've taken over the investigation."

"Involved? How?"

"He drove the car."

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"He didn't have it in him. He was a homesick young guy who'd had some bad luck. Not a killer."

"And you might be right," Beauvoir lied. "I need to see the security video to help prove it, one way or another."

Madame McGregor glared at him, then shuffled back to the entrance and the small room with the security monitors.

It took Beauvoir a while, but he finally found him. There was Paolo Parisi, sitting at a long table in the cafeteria having breakfast. A man sat across from him.

Beauvoir hurried out of the room and ran down one corridor, then another, looking into rooms until he found Madame McGregor.

"Come with me." He showed her the image frozen on the screen. "Who's that?"

"I told you. Big Stink."

"That's the man teaching Pari—Guido—French?"

" Oui. Every morning."

Beauvoir advanced the tape. The two men were deep in conversation. It looked intense.

"Why do you call him Big Stink? Do you know his real name?"

" Non. We call him that because he smells."

"Of what?" Earlier, when he'd first heard the nickname, Jean-Guy had thought the homeless man must've smelled of shit or booze. But now…

"Mothballs. Stank to high heaven."

"Fucking hell." Beauvoir turned back to the screen and an image seven days old.

Of Dom Philippe chatting with Paolo Parisi.

"Stop here."

They were twenty meters from the pastel home. Oddly, Gamache had asked her to make a quick stop at the grocery store, where he bought milk and eggs, coffee, tea, bread, and thick slices of maple-smoked bacon.

"Planning a picnic, Armand?"

Then they'd driven to the modest house on the outcropping of rock.

"How can someone get into Blanc-Sablon without being noticed?" Gamache asked while staring at the place.

"Not by plane. We know who arrives. Not to monitor them, but in a small commun—"

"Yes. But how else? There are no roads linking the town to the rest of Québec."

"True, but you can drive from Labrador. It's right there. You'd have to go through the Anse-au-Diable, then past the Anse-au-Loup."

Devil's Cove, then past Wolf Cove. To here. Seemed about right, thought Gamache.

"But the best would be by boat, from further down the coast, or even Newfoundland. There's a ferry, but you'd be seen and any stranger would be noted."

"It could be done, then, by a smaller boat."

"Quite easily, yes. Especially if they had a guide and landed at night."

"Okay. Are you armed?"

" Oui. "

"Good. I'm not."

"Would you like my gun?"

" Non, merci. " It was said as though he'd declined another cucumber sandwich. "At my signal, go around the house. Check the windows. If there's a back door, stay there."

They'd stopped just far enough away that any amateur getting off a shot would probably miss. A pro, though, would be another matter.

They got out of the truck and stepped behind it.

Valerie Michaud rested her hand on her holster. And waited. Tense. Eyes sharp.

"Monsieur Rousseau," Gamache shouted. "My name is Armand Gamache. I'm with the S?reté du Québec."

The small home was two stories and painted a now faded periwinkle. Eerily quiet, it had about it an abandoned feel. As she waited for his signal to move, Valerie Michaud could hear the waves hitting the rocks. It had always seemed an almost calming sound.

Now, she heard the violence of it. The thrashing, which had been the last thing so many mariners had heard, drowning out their own screams for help that they knew would not arrive. It was now the sound of relentless despair.

Gamache signaled her to move. Now. As he stepped out from behind the truck, drawing attention momentarily to himself.

"What the hell are you doing here?" demanded Frère Sébastien.

The flush of anger ran all the way down his neck. He'd swept off his straw hat and clutched it as he stared, glared, from the nun to the other two.

The heavy door had been closed and locked behind them, and now the three visitors, the three intruders, stood in the forecourt of the monastery. Admitted, but admittedly not welcome.

Ranged behind Sébastien, holding their pitchforks and shovels, were the other lay brothers. This was half of Claude Dussault's nightmare. The monks with pitchforks. Thankfully, the other half would not now happen. The assault team with automatic rifles would not be needed.

"It's okay, Sébastien. They're here to help," said Sister Irene.

"Help? How? How do you know who they are? And you've brought them straight to us."

"I didn't tell them anything. They already knew about you and Robert and this place." She looked at the tall walls and fading blue of the early-evening sky. Despite the tension, Irene could feel the attraction of the place. Of the safety it offered from a not-always-kind world.

"Who are you hiding from?" Lacoste demanded.

"This is Inspector Lacoste, of the Soor… something, in Kweebec—" Sister Irene started.

"S?reté du Québec." Lacoste stepped forward. "Isabelle Lacoste. And this is Claude Dussault, the former head of the Paris police. You met my boss when he investigated a murder in Saint-Gilbert."

"Gamache? Is he with you?"

"No. He's in Québec looking for Dom Philippe. Do you know where he is?"

"The Abbot? Non. "

"You know why we're here," she said. "You and your friends know something. Brother Robert certainly does. It scared him so much he barricaded himself in here."

She looked around. From the inside it didn't look so bad. There was a healthy, well-tended garden, the calming buzz of bees, and the walls were high enough not even butterflies could get in. Which was, she had to admit, a relief.

Sébastien took Sister Irene aside. "Do you trust them?"

"I didn't at first, but I do now. I really do believe they are who they say they are." She stared at him. "Since when are you a lay brother?"

"It was the only way I could get in. I wanted to be close to Robert, in case…"

"Has he told you anything?"

Sébastien shook his head.

"Do you think Dom Philippe knows? He said Robert didn't tell him anything, but maybe…"

"No, Robert told me he didn't trust the Abbot."

"What? Since when? He worshipped Dom Philippe."

"It was just a feeling he got when they met."

"Since when do we trust Robert's ‘feelings'? He's afraid of the color beige, for God's sake."

"Is beige actually a color?"

"Now he's afraid of Dom Philippe?"

"What's wrong?" Lacoste, along with Dussault, had edged closer. "What're you talking about? I heard you mention Dom Philippe. Has something happened?"