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Vivienne’s demon had found her on that bridge.
Though Gamache had never really doubted it, now, thanks to that long, jagged cut on her hand and the ghostly bruises, he was sure. Vivienne had been murdered.
And, what was more, he could put a face and a name to this particular demon.
Now they had to prove it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
@CarlTracey: @NouveauGalerie, We have other more recent work. Would that help?
@NouveauGalerie: No. @CarlTracey, Moving on. But thank you.
In the car on the way over to Gerald Bertrand’s place, Isabelle Lacoste read the Instagram exchange between Pauline Vachon, pretending to be the artist, and Agent Cloutier, pretending to be the gallery owner.
It was true, she thought. Nothing, and no one, on social media was as they seemed.
Still, it looked as though Cloutier had been masterful in her manipulation. Turning Tracey down. Forcing Vachon to almost beg NouveauGalerie for attention.
Stringing Vachon along. Until she got exactly what she wanted.
When they pulled in to Gerald Bertrand’s driveway, Lacoste put away her phone and rang the bell.
“Gerald Bertrand?”
“Oui?”
“My name is Isabelle Lacoste. I’m with the Sûreté du Québec. This is Agent Cloutier. May we come in?”
The man was young, perhaps early twenties. With the burly arms and torso of a fellow who did manual labor. There was about him a sort of cologne of testosterone.
His dark beard was bushy but groomed and his hair styled shorter to his head. His brown eyes were clear and bright, and he held, in his sturdy arms, an infant.
For an instant, Isabelle Lacoste forgot she was married. With two children. She hoped her mouth hadn’t dropped open, but she was pretty sure her eyes had widened.
Beside her, Lysette Cloutier was smiling. Grinning, really. Having lost both her heart and apparently her mind.
“The Sûreté? What’s this about?” he asked.
“We need to speak with you about a homicide.”
“A murder? Here?”
He looked out the door and held his baby closer to his body, instinctively protecting her.
Cloutier swallowed whatever drool had pooled in her mouth.
“No, not right here,” said Lacoste, who’d recovered most of her wits. “May we come in?”
“Yes, sorry.”
He stepped back, and after removing their dirty boots, they followed him into the kitchen of the modest home.
He lived in a subdivision of Cowansville, in a cluster of bungalows exactly the same.
“Can you tell us about your relationship with Vivienne Godin?” Lacoste asked as she took the chair he’d indicated, the best one in the room, and leaned her cane against the arm.
Monsieur Bertrand had taken them to the back of the house, past the small front room normally used as a formal living room, but in this home it held workout equipment.
