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She nodded, suddenly exhausted. “I think, judging by Moretti’s reaction to the murder, that’s possible. And if true, it’s trouble. It’s never good when the head of a crime family is worried.”
“But you have no proof?”
“None.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because I do have something that might interest you.”
She brought out her phone and showed him a series of surveillance photos. All of Moretti.
“We know most of his associates, but this person’s new. Do you recognize her?”
Chief Inspector Tardiff zoomed in.
In her office at Sûreté headquarters, Isabelle Lacoste stepped forward and extended her hand.
“Madame Caron.”
“Inspector.”
Unlike some, Jeanne Caron did not appear disappointed that Chief Inspector Gamache himself wasn’t there. In fact, she seemed relieved. Her unpleasant history with the head of homicide meant their interactions could be testy. And, as a result, their conversations mis-, or over-, interpreted.
“A former colleague in Ottawa said they saw you and the Chief Inspector in the Parliament Buildings yesterday.”
The statement surprised Lacoste, but it was no use lying. “Yes, we were there.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering, Isabelle said, “I have news.”
“News that needs to be said in person.” Caron held the officer’s eyes. “I see. Last time the Chief Inspector and I spoke, he mentioned the possibility there was something else, something bigger planned. Have you discovered it?” There was a pause. “Mais, non, it’s not that, is it? This is something else.”
“Please.” Lacoste waved her to a chair and sat across from her. “I asked you here because we’ve found the body of Frederick Castonguay.”
There was a stunned silence before Caron asked, “In Parliament?”
At first Gamache thought the woman in the photos meeting with Moretti was Jeanne Caron, but then he looked more closely. “Non. I don’t know her. Do you?”
“No. I was hoping…”
“May I have a copy of these?”
“Oui.” She sent them to him. “Is there anything else you can tell me. Anything I can use with Moretti?”
He almost told her about FEDS, but decided to keep his own counsel, for now. Instead, he said, “Non, but I promise to update you on the Castonguay case whenever we have developments. Right now we’re trying to track down the pilot who took them there.”
“Merci.” She got up.
Armand watched her leave, walking down the long center aisle, past the monumental paintings of missionaries converting grateful “Indians.” “Savages” in the wilderness. Though judging by the actions of religions and governments, it was now clear who the savages really were. And that the wilderness wasn’t limited to forests.
He looked down at the photos Tardiff had sent. The woman was unfamiliar, but there was no denying that Moretti knew her. And she knew him.
Armand forwarded them to Beauvoir and Lacoste. At the last minute he added Yvette Nichol. Does this person with Don Moretti look familiar?
Armand looked again at the paintings. Far from depicting acts of clerical heroism, they actually showed the nascent barbarism of the church in the so-called New World.
In a dry and parched land, where there is no water, Armand thought.
