Page 113

The kitchen opened to a sitting area with a sofa, two chairs, and a huge television on which cartoons were playing. A card table doubled as a dining table, though Lacoste doubted there’d been many, if any, dinner parties there.

Dishes were piled in the sink, and a near-empty baby bottle was on the counter.

The place was messy, but not, Lacoste could see, dirty.

“Don’t tell my sister,” he said as he muted the sound.

“I’m afraid I can’t promise that,” said Lacoste. “It’s very serious. We might have to talk with her, too.”

“Really? Well, I can tell you now that she doesn’t approve.”

“Few would.”

“It’s not really that bad, is it?”

It was about here that Isabelle Lacoste began to suspect they were discussing two different things.

“What isn’t?” she asked.

“Television. Vendredi likes Babar, so I put it on when Pam isn’t around.”

“Vendredi?” asked Cloutier.

“She was born on a Friday.”

“Pam’s your sister?” asked Cloutier.

“Oui.”

“So this isn’t your child?” asked Agent Cloutier.

“No.” He smiled. “I look after her whenever I can. I’m off work right now. Construction season’ll start again in a couple of weeks.” He looked at the little girl and grinned at her, and she grinned back. “Gotta spend as much time with Dee as I can.”

The agents exchanged looks. Both thinking much the same thing.

That he was adorable. And maybe a murderer.

But would a mother, a sister, trust her baby to a man, a brother, capable of murder? A sibling would probably know, would have seen some of that darkness, that menace, as they grew up.

But maybe he hadn’t intended to kill his lover. Maybe it was a terrible accident and he was afraid to come forward. If he was afraid to tell his sister about an animated elephant, how would he feel about admitting to murder?

Superintendent Lacoste repositioned herself so she was facing him directly.

“Your relationship, sir. With Vivienne Godin.”

His brow dropped in concentration as he bobbed his niece, gently, on his knee.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know her. Is she the one who was killed?”

They watched him closely, but neither agent could see any distress, beyond a normal human reaction when hearing that a stranger was dead.

“Please just answer the question,” said Lacoste.

Despite the fact Agent Cloutier was clearly the elder of the two and should have been the more senior, Gerald Bertrand understood innately that the young woman with the old eyes and cane was in charge.

“I have. I don’t know her. Why do you think I do?”

“Think a little harder,” said Lacoste.