Page 104

Though Agent Lysette Cloutier did just wonder if it would really be such a bad thing, if she opened the cell door.

Homer would murder Carl Tracey, of course. But he’d almost certainly be given as light a sentence as the justice system allowed.

He would not be held criminally responsible. And he would clearly not be a menace to society. Just to one man.

She would also be arrested and tried, for letting him out. But at least Homer would know what she was willing to do for him.

The other agents in the room, including Agent Cameron, looked at her as she returned to her desk and brought up the Instagram account.

Do they suspect what I’m considering doing?

Did it matter?

Lysette Cloutier looked down at her computer and saw, again, the curt No on the screen. Now a few hours old. She typed in her own reply.

@NouveauGalerie: Sorry. Busy with buyers. No worries. Lots of other promising ceramicists. I’m sure you have other options. Good luck to you.

Within two minutes there was a reply. Again, terse. But enough. It contained an invitation to join Carl Tracey’s private Instagram account.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

@NouveauGalerie: Thanks for the access. Looked at your work. Ceramic pieces promising, but not right for the gallery. Good luck @CarlTracey.

@SeriousCollector: Rethinking the Morrow portrait I bought. Three old women laughing. Weaker than I first thought. Sorta superficial.

Holy shit. Check out this video. #GamacheSux

There was, Gamache knew, an unmistakable smell about a morgue.

Not the sickly aroma of rot. He could pick that up from a distance after years of approaching corpses. And killers.

No. The morgue smelled of extreme, almost severe cleanliness.

It turned his stomach.

As the door swung open, sterile air met him, and he braced himself.

But Armand Gamache knew the slight sick feeling in the pit of his stomach this time went beyond the smell. Went beyond, even, the gnawing thought that this could be Annie on the metal slab.

Only once before in his career had he felt this particular sensation.

It was doubt. Not that they could find the killer. He was pretty sure they’d already done that. But that they could convict him.

That other time, his first year as head of homicide, he had indeed failed. And a killer had gone free.

And now he looked down at the body of Vivienne Godin. Saw her bruises. Saw the incision on her belly.

And felt that wave of nausea. That fear that whoever did this would walk free.

“What do you have?” Jean-Guy Beauvoir asked Dr. Harris.

“As you can see, the body is badly damaged. Some trauma clearly postmortem, but some done while she was alive.”

“She was beaten,” said Beauvoir.

“Well—”

“Well, what?” he snapped, then put up his hands in apology. “Désolé.”