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“Lost my taste for killing things, I guess.”
“Where were you on Saturday afternoon and evening?” asked Lacoste.
“You’re kidding, right?”
But it was clear by her expression that she was not.
Bertrand thought for a moment. “I was looking after Dee until about six, when my sister finished work and came over to get her, and then some buddies dropped by and we watched the game.”
“Which game?”
“The hockey game.” He seemed shocked she needed to ask. “Canadiens and Leafs. Terrible game.”
He was right. Lacoste had watched it with her husband and kids. The Leafs won.
“May I have their names, please. Your friends,” said Cloutier, bringing out her notebook.
“You’re going to talk to them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But they’ll think I had something to do with this.”
“Names, please.”
Gerald Bertrand hesitated and, in doing so, moved up the suspect list. Carl Tracey still held the top spot and would be hard to tumble, but this anxious man was closing in.
He gave them some names and phone numbers.
“Please don’t get in touch with them, Monsieur Bertrand,” said Cloutier. “We can easily check up on your calls.”
By now Bertrand was sheet-white. He hugged the baby to him as though she were the one threatened.
Superintendent Lacoste considered the child.
No bruising. No sign at all of anything other than comfort and happiness.
This man might have been a threat to Vivienne Godin, but Lacoste was assured he was no threat to the baby.
“Merci, monsieur,” said Lacoste, giving him her card as they walked to the door. “We’re probably going to ask you for fingerprints and a blood sample—”
“Come on,” he said, clearly upset now. “Why? I had nothing to do with whatever happened. I don’t even know these people.”
“Then your prints and DNA will clear you,” said Lacoste.
Cloutier opened the door, and they stepped out.
“Did you know she was pregnant?” asked Lacoste.
“I didn’t know her,” he said, his voice plaintive. Then he paused, and his muscular shoulders sagged a bit. “She was pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“And someone killed her?”
“Yes.”
“The baby…?”
