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“I don’t think he actually stumbled. I think he did it on purpose.”

“Why?” asked Lacoste.

“To whisper something to me. He said, ‘Feds.’”

“What does that mean?” asked Lacoste.

Armand raised his hands to indicate he didn’t know. “But this’s the second time it’s been mentioned today. Shona Dorion ran into references to ‘FEDS’ as well.”

“It must mean the federal government,” said Isabelle.

“Or when people say ‘the Fed,’ don’t they mean the Federal Reserve in the States?” said Beauvoir.

“Or the FBI,” said Isabelle. “The Feds.”

“But it’s not ‘the Feds,’” said Armand. “Both Shona and Lauzon said simply ‘Feds.’ And Shona said it was in all caps.”

“An acronym.” Beauvoir brought out his phone to look it up. “Nope, nothing. Why…?” he began, then stopped. They gave him the space and time he needed to marshal his thoughts.

Just then Ruth arrived, but at a look from Isabelle she veered off to the bar.

“Why,” Jean-Guy began again, “would he need to whisper?”

Gamache had been wondering the same thing. Why not just say it out loud?

There was only one answer.

“He didn’t want Chief Inspector Tardiff to hear,” said Beauvoir.

“But why not?” asked Lacoste.

“He doesn’t trust her,” said Beauvoir. “Between us? I know she’s a friend and a senior officer, patron, but I’m not sure I trust her either.”

“Why not?”

“Chief Inspector Tardiff’s the head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté. She had one job in the investigations. And yet Moretti was the only one who got off.”

“And isn’t she supposed to have an informant on the inside, close to him?” asked Isabelle.

“Evelyn Tardiff is the informant.”

They stared at him as though he’d just produced a camel from under the table. Something recognizable but highly unlikely.

“What?” said Jean-Guy.

“Chief Inspector Tardiff has spent years gaining the trust of Joe Moretti, getting close to him. He thinks she’s working for him. That’s how he got off on the charges. I can’t prove it, but I think she buried the evidence.”

“Why would she do that?” asked Isabelle.

“I think she knew that if Moretti was tried, never mind convicted, we’d lose that line of investigation. We’d lose the connection. Though she denies it, I think she does know that something bigger’s about to happen and needs Moretti to tell her. But now I’m worried that Moretti’s on to her. Keeping information from her. Maybe feeding her misinformation.”

“Is it possible, patron”—now Isabelle spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully—“that Chief Inspector Tardiff has turned? Is infiltrating the Sûreté, not the Montréal mafia? She’s informing on us. Is it possible she knows what’s going to happen next and is part of it?”

“And,” said Beauvoir, hating to pile on, but needing to, “if Castonguay’s murder was an execution, a hit, then Moretti’s people were behind it. Shouldn’t she have known?”

Instead of answering, Armand picked up the class picture. He looked down at the bright-eyed boys and girls. And the two buddies in the back row.

“Was this the only class photo in Frederick’s box?”