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He stared at the Prime Minister. But it was Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense, who spoke. Though it was a partial answer, as though she was afraid to go all the way.
“Not south.”
“Non.” Gamache turned to her briefly, before returning to Woodford. “North. They’ll be coming here.”
“Okay, what do you know?” demanded Isabelle Lacoste.
The two women were standing in the PM’s private bathroom.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Payette.
“We saw the look you gave the Prime Minister when word of the shootings happened.”
“Of course I looked at him. He’s the leader of the nation. We all look to him in times of crisis.”
“Stop with the sound bites. The look you gave him wasn’t fear, it wasn’t a plea for guidance. You knew something. Know something. Suspect something.”
Manon Payette pressed her lips together.
“All right,” said Lacoste. “Let me ask you this. Why did the Prime Minister leave his office to go get you?”
“Because I’m his Chief of Staff,” she snapped. Impatient. Imperious. Self-important. And defensive.
“Yes, but why leave?”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t that what the intercom is for? Isn’t that what text is for? So the leader of the nation doesn’t need to leave his office to search for his Chief of Staff.”
Lacoste had her. Cornered. The only way out was through the truth.
The Montréal cops found Chief Inspector Tardiff’s ID in the woods.
There’s blood, the captain texted, but no body.
Beauvoir pulled over. They’d arrived at mont Royal and were about to join the search. Instead, Jean-Guy sat in the vehicle. Thinking.
Where would Moretti’s people take Evelyn Tardiff to execute her?
“Come on,” demanded Nichol, reaching for the door handle. “We can’t just sit here.”
“Stay where you are. We’re not just sitting here,” snapped Beauvoir. “I’m thinking. I suggest you do too. You spent the last while eavesdropping on conversations with Moretti. Where would he take Tardiff?”
“The Jean-Talon market?”
“Are you asking me?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know—”
“Stop it! Deep breaths. Think. The market’s too public. They’re probably on mont Royal somewhere.” Beauvoir brought up a map of the huge park. “She was taken from here.” He placed a finger on the map. “Probably unconscious, given the blood.” He glanced at Nichol and saw she had taken command of herself. Barely. He understood her anxiety. Had they been talking about Armand or Isabelle, he’d be near hysterical.
“The caves,” Nichol suddenly said. “I remember reading in a message that Moretti had become obsessed with the caves.”
“What caves? There’re caves on mont Royal?”
“Jesus,” said Lauzon, springing forward so that his head was between them. “The ones they found in the Saint-Léonard quartier of Montréal, you mean?”
“That’s right,” said Nichol. “It’s not far from where the Morettis live. He said it would be a perfect place to put a…”
