Page 11

His questions were for the benefit of the team.

Beauvoir sat now with his elbows on the shiny table, hands clasped, leaning forward. Intent, focused. He hoped he gave off an aura of calm and steady leadership. The truth was, he gave off a sense of energy. Vitality. Extreme alertness.

As he glanced at his investigators, Jean-Guy Beauvoir’s eyes were bright and encouraging. His glasses gave the impression he was older than he actually was. In his late thirties, he was younger than many of the senior investigators in the room.

Twenty years younger than the man to his right.

Slender and well-groomed, Beauvoir had dark hair that was just beginning to show some gray. And his once-lithe frame was filling out slightly.

As he’d approached the conference room, he’d heard some of the comments. And knew who they came from. It was no surprise. These were the agents most likely to question.

When Gamache was the Chief Superintendent, Lacoste and Beauvoir had gone to him asking that these same troublesome agents be removed.

“Remember what happened before,” said Beauvoir.

There was, within the Sûreté du Québec, a before and after. A line drawn in their collective and institutional memory.

“Before” was a time of fear. Of distrust. Of enemies disguised as allies. It was a time of vast and rampant brutality. Of senior officers sanctioning beatings and even murders.

Gamache had led the resistance, at huge personal risk, and had eventually agreed to become Chief Superintendent himself.

No one left standing in the Sûreté who’d been through that could ever forget what had gone “before.”

“We have to get rid of these agents,” Lacoste had said. “They were transferred into homicide when things were out of control, just to cause trouble.”

Gamache nodded. He knew that was true.

But he also knew that few were more loyal than those who’d been given a chance.

“Keep them on,” Gamache had said. “And train them properly.”

They had. And now, under Chief Inspector Beauvoir, those agents had become leaders themselves. Battle-hardened and trusted.

Which wasn’t to say they didn’t have their own opinions, opinions they were keen to voice.

Those had been the very homicide agents Beauvoir had heard questioning Gamache, just before he had arrived in the conference room.

With the Monday-morning meeting about to wrap up, something caught Beauvoir’s attention, and he looked down the long conference table.

“Are we boring you?”

Agent Lysette Cloutier looked up, and her eyes grew round.

“Désolée,” she said, fumbling with her phone.

Chief Inspector Beauvoir continued to stare at her until she put it down.

The meeting continued, but only for another minute, before Beauvoir stopped it again.

“Agent Cloutier, what’re you doing?”

Though it was clear what she was doing. She was typing on her phone. Again.

She looked up, flustered.

“I’m sorry. So sorry, but—”

“Is it a personal emergency?” Beauvoir asked.