Chapter 4

C HAPTER 4

The strange things began happening the next morning when Armand arrived at work.

The evening before, when he and Reine-Marie were heading out to Leméac, it had begun to rain. He looked for his light summer coat, then realized he must have left it in Three Pines, though he couldn't remember seeing it there.

The LaPierres were already at the restaurant, and the couples spent an enjoyable evening catching up on family, on careers, on this and that. Vivienne was heading to the Arctic, to check out the polar ice melt. Marcel was going with her this time. They invited the Gamaches, who were sorely tempted and talked about it all the way home.

By the time they left Leméac, the drizzle had stopped, and Armand and Reine-Marie strolled arm in arm, pausing to look in shop windows along avenue Laurier. Turning up the side street, they glanced into lit windows of apartments, converted from what were once mansions.

They finally arrived at their own small walk-up with its flight of outside stairs, high ceilings, intricate moldings, and ornamental fireplace.

This place reminded them of their first home together, though that one was even tinier, and rented. Buying a place had seemed an impossibility. Armand was just starting out at the S?reté, and Reine-Marie was a young librarian dreaming of one day working for the Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec. Never thinking that one day she would be the senior archivist and Armand would be head of homicide.

Je me souviens , thought Armand as he climbed the stairs. I remember. The motto of Québec was not wrong.

Thankfully the faulty sensor did not play up again that night, and their phones remained silent. All seemed right with the world. Until the next morning, when the package arrived.

The day started predictably enough.

After coffee and croissants in the kitchen together, Reine-Marie went off to the archives to do some research, while Armand headed into his office at S?reté headquarters. It was Monday morning, and there was the weekly meeting with his boss and other department heads to go over the cases still active, those concluded, and those about to go to trial.

He'd already met informally with his counterpart, Evelyn Tardiff, in Organized Crime. He wanted her thoughts on two murders his team was investigating, what he believed were mob-related executions. One in the Saguenay region, and another on the windswept Les ?les de la Madeleine.

Organized crime in Québec went back generations, to Prohibition, when the mob ran booze across the border. And still did. But now it also ran billions of dollars in drugs and arms. It had, in the intervening years, grown into a monster with connections to the East Coast mafia, the Big Five families. So deep were the mafia's roots in construction, trucking, garbage collection, even the cheese industry, all sorts of "legitimate" businesses, that the S?reté had formed a special unit to investigate it.

What troubled Gamache about the cases in both regions outside Montréal was that the victims had no apparent connection to the drug trade, or prostitution, or, or, or. The woman in the Saguenay had worked for Canada Post. The man on the Magdalen Islands was a teacher on the cusp of retirement. Both appeared to be leading perfectly ordinary, peaceful lives.

Until they were trussed up and shot in the back of the head. Within a day of each other.

"What do you think, Evelyn?"

She removed her glasses and reached for her mug of coffee. "They must have seen something that got them killed."

"Both of them? One day apart?"

Tardiff studied her counterpart in homicide. "Are you suggesting the two are related? They're thousands of kilometers apart, have no connection to each other and no record of criminal activity."

"True. And yet…"

"And yet you think the killings aren't just related," said Tardiff, looking at the photographs, "but mob-related." To give her credit, thought Gamache, her tone held no sarcasm or even cynicism.

"They look like executions to me," he said. "Hits. Don't they to you?" He waited for her response, but when none came, he said, "Something must be stirring. Have you heard anything?"

She shook her head. "It's been quiet since old man Moretti died and the son took over the family. We were expecting a war, but the transition has been smooth. This new generation of mobster is more polished. Less interested in violence and more interested in profit. A turf war benefits no one."

Except the winner, thought Gamache. But even then, so much damage was done to everyone involved it took years to recover.

While what Chief Inspector Tardiff said was true, they both were old enough and experienced enough to know that "polish" was superficial. This new generation of mobster might appear more refined, but underneath? They were at least as ruthless, literally cutthroat, as their fathers and grandfathers.

These were not, as his granddaughter Florence would say in typical understatement, nice people.

Gamache knew something else. There was an informant high up in the Montréal mafia. A very "not nice" person. A necessary evil.

Very few knew this person's identity. Armand was not one of them, but the woman across from him was. What he did know was that this was not a brave individual, quietly working to bring down the Moretti organization. No, this was a scheming, manipulative, detestable opportunist. Working to his or her own ends.

So far, the information had proven valuable, but one day, Gamache knew, it would not. One day, when it suited them, this person would lead them into a trap.

When he'd knelt beside the recently executed woman and man, who'd had absolutely no reason to be murdered that he could see, Armand had had a prickling sense that day was approaching.

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 S?reté. Old ones, planted years ago. Who bided their time.

The quid to their pro quo informant. The mafia's own, mafia-owned, senior S?reté 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 a need 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.

"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 in Le Journal de Montréal newspaper, 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 ?les 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?"

"I'm not sure. Don't go home just yet."

"Why? What's happened?"

"Please, just stay away until you hear from me."

Reine-Marie was about to agree, but found herself holding a dead phone. He'd already hung up.

" Patron ," said Jean-Guy. "What is it?"

"This's my coat."

"Yours?" said Lacoste. "Are you sure?"

"I recognize the stain from Florence's strawberry ice cream."

He'd meant to throw the coat into the wash but had forgotten.

Lacoste was smiling with relief. "Well, that's good news. We don't have to blow it up. You must've left it in a restaurant or shop, and someone dropped it off." But even as she spoke, she took in his grim expression. "What is it?"

"I didn't leave it anywhere." Gamache continued to stare at the coat. The one he'd looked for the night before. "It was in our apartment."

"Then how did it get here?" Lacoste asked, but Beauvoir had a sick feeling that he knew the answer.

" Tabernak. The alarm," he said.

" Oui. "

Beauvoir got on his phone and asked the Montréal police to send a squad car to the apartment. "And wait outside. We'll be there soon. Merci. "

"What alarm?" asked Lacoste.

"Yesterday. At our apartment in the city. We thought it was a broken sensor or a door that was jiggling in a draft, setting off a false alarm."

"It wasn't?"

Instead of answering, Armand was staring down at his coat. "I looked for this last night and couldn't find it."

Now it was here. On his desk. In his office. At the S?reté. This might interest you.

And it did.

"Wait a minute," said Isabelle. "You're saying someone broke in and took the coat? Nothing else?"

"I checked," Jean-Guy explained. "Nothing was disturbed. The door was still locked."

"But—" began Lacoste.

"Why take just this?" said Gamache. "I don't know."

"And why return it?" said Beauvoir, not expecting an answer and not getting one.

Gamache picked up the coat and let it unfold, half expecting something nasty to fall out. But nothing did.

It was only when he went through the pockets that he found the note.

Please, I need to speak to you. Meet me today. Four o'clock at Open Da Night. I'm sorry. I didn't know it was your home.

He handed it to Beauvoir, who stumbled, "What…? Why…? Wha…?"

"… does it mean?" The Chief had the same question.

"Maybe it means exactly what it says," said Lacoste. "Whoever broke in didn't realize the place belongs to the head of homicide for the S?reté. When he did, he got scared and sent it back."

"And asked to meet?" said Beauvoir. He studied Gamache. "You're not thinking of going?"

"I'm not thinking anything yet." He was going through the other pockets. In the small inside one, he found another piece of paper. It was folded up and thicker than the first.

"What does it say?" asked Lacoste, as they crowded around.

Fennel, thyme, sage, mace, nutmeg … It went on.

"Yours?" asked Lacoste.

" Non. And not Reine-Marie's." He knew her handwriting.

"They're herbs," Isabelle said. "A recipe? Maybe a shopping list?"

"Or a planting list?" asked Beauvoir. "For an herb garden?"

It was possible Myrna or Clara or one of their other neighbors had drawn up this list. But if they had, they hadn't handed it to him, so how did it get into a pocket he never used? Hadn't even known was there.

And while some of the herbs were common—sage and thyme, for instance—others were obscure. Not ones they were likely to use or plant. And some were spices.

Gamache turned it over. On the back was written one word. Water.

"A reminder to water the plants?" asked Isabelle.

"Maybe." Gamache held the paper up to the light. Nothing.

"It's torn." Lacoste pointed to the bottom of the page. "Incomplete."

It was true. The paper was slightly feathered at the bottom.

At the tear, two words could just be made out.

" Angelica ," Gamache read. "And this other seems to be Stems . What's that?"

"No idea," said Lacoste.

He took a photo of both notes, then handed them to Lacoste. "I'm going home."

"I'll get everything to the lab."

"Good. When they've been tested and photographed, bring the notes back to me."

"I'll get the Scene of Crime team to your place," said Beauvoir.

They made for the door. "And get that surveillance video. I want to know who dropped this off."