The Black Jersey

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

  Most important, we’d knocked Matosas off the podium: He arrived, zigzagging and at death’s door, almost five minutes after us. With bonus points added, I was beating Paniuk and ended up in second place in the rankings. With one day left until Paris, Steve and I were again one and two in the competition. And this time, we thought, nothing could change that. We came together in a long embrace that the photographers snapped effusively, even if we were essentially falling into each other’s arms out of fatigue.

  On the way back to the hotel, Giraud said a few words in his motivational team leader mode. Though I was barely listening, I stared intensely at Giraud. I saw his flabby mouth, his heavy paws, and that enormous belly, wondering if he had been directly involved in the tragedies affecting my fellow racers. Had he himself run over Lampar on that lonely highway a few days before the Tour? Had the money to pay the women who seduced the Baleares team for three nights in a row come from the silly fanny pack that hung from his gut? Had those fat fingers left the marks on poor Fleming’s neck?

  I wished with all my soul that Favre’s investigation would close quickly and that it would end in this sick bastard’s arrest. I fantasized about Giraud being handcuffed at the very moment Steve and I climbed up onto the podium at the awards ceremony in Paris. I let my daydream go even further. Fiona would stand at the foot of the platform, flanked by Lombard and Ray, and I would throw my championship bouquet into her arms.

  Lombard’s presence in my idyllic image stirred up an uncomfortable shadow. Then I remembered why: I still hadn’t responded to Bernard’s messages. I checked my cell’s signal strength and called his phone directly. I supposed he wanted to talk about the graphics his father had spread out on my bed, so I lowered my voice and pressed the device to my ear against the window. Fonar knew Lombard and son were advising me personally, but they had no idea the two men were secretly accessing the team’s database, much less preparing an attack on its leader.

  Bernard and I spoke briefly about the results of the stage, and he told me the data confirmed that my physical state and competitive level were the best they’d been in my entire career. Unlike his father, Bernard said so with little enthusiasm, in spite of the many hours he’d invested in the matter. I soon understood why.

  “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you,” he said finally, his voice trembling. “I’m worried about my father.” I remembered Fiona’s comment and the feeling in my hand when I squeezed Lombard’s shrinking stature. A sense of suffocation rose in my throat, not unlike the one a medieval farmer might have felt when he heard the rumbling gallop of horsemen approaching. I feared the worst.

  “What’s wrong? Is he sick?”

  “Something’s wrong, but we’re not sure what. He only lets himself be seen at the military hospital by his friends, who won’t tell me anything. But that’s not what worries me most. I think he’s losing his mind.”

  “I’ve noticed he seems distracted, but he’s seventy-eight, right?”

  “It’s much more than that. He’s doing ridiculous things,” he said, impatiently trying to make himself understood. “He sold the Ramoneda.”

  “When? Why?” The revelation hit me hard. The beautiful estate, twenty kilometers from Jurançon, near Pau, had been in the hands of the Lombard family for many generations. A huge chalet, almost a castle, surrounded by famous vineyards.

  “At the end of last year, it seems. I found out by chance a few days ago, when I spoke to the family notary. He mentioned it because he thought I already knew.”

  “I don’t understand; he always talks about the Ramoneda like something that will pass down from generation to generation. That’s why he bugs you so much about grandchildren.”

  “But that’s not all. The notary didn’t want to tell me how much he sold it for when he realized I didn’t know what had happened. Which made me nervous. The market value for that kind of estate is over two million euros. I’m afraid the buyers tricked him into accepting less.”

  “Why would he sell in the first place?”

  “He’s always talked about how great it would be to find sponsors to finance a team built around you. I think my analysis of your performance set things in motion. For months, he’s talked about all the huge races you’d win if you were a leader. Two or three million euros wouldn’t be enough to start a team, but maybe he thinks he could lay the first stone and incentivize others to join in. Hasn’t he said anything to you?”

  “Absolutely not. All he’s worried about now is me getting my hands on the jersey in tomorrow’s race,” I said, almost whispering, looking around. No one seemed to be paying attention.

  “My father knows nothing about business. He would be easy prey for the sharks that circle the circuit.”

  “And you haven’t talked to him about this?”

  “I wanted to do it in person, but I couldn’t get away from work. I’ll be able to see him when you get to Paris this weekend. Can we talk to him together? It’d be easier to face him and find out what’s happening.”

  I agreed, he wished me good luck on the Alpe d’Huez, and we hung up. I could never forgive myself for being the cause of such a loss for a family, all because an old man believed in me too much. We would have to talk to him and stop this madness; with a little luck, maybe we could reverse the sale.

  I’d thought the only thing on my to-do list for Sunday night was melting into Fiona’s body. That distracted me, and I entertained myself for the next few minutes with the memory of her sweet taste, the glaze that fell over her eyes at the moment her pleasure peaked. I got out of the bus still wrapped in her arms and bumped into Sancho at the foot of the steps. The rush of lust flew off me like birds from a violently shaken tree.

  I followed the bodyguard to my room, marveling at the unexpected agility with which he trotted along, quite an achievement considering the mass he was moving with every step. I was surprised not to see the Protex goon in the hallway. His usual place outside my room had been taken by Sancho’s companion, Quixote. I shut the door and left them exchanging words and laughter in some strange jargon.

  A little later, Favre knocked on my door. If I’d known what he was coming to tell me, I wouldn’t have opened it. I assumed, excitedly, that he was bringing an update about the Giraud investigation, some incriminating new evidence or testimony. But, instead, the commissioner brought a cadaver.

  He told me that morning, they’d found Schrader, the German sarcophagus who had been my shadow for several days. His head was stuffed in a plastic bag inside a car registered to Protex, in an abandoned lot outside Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne. The slashes and scratches on his skin indicated the huge man had fought until the last moment. Remembering the table he had for a back and the tree trunks he had for legs, anyone who’d sent him to the other world demanded respect.

  Favre could tell I had expected different news. “If Giraud and Protex are behind the crimes, as you say, then Schrader’s death is absurd,” he said. As on many other occasions, I had the impression the commissioner wasn’t there to problem-solve with me, but rather to sound out my reactions.

  “Unless they’re covering their tracks. Let’s suppose Schrader was the one who killed Fleming, following Giraud’s instructions. If Giraud panicked once he realized the police were starting to investigate, it’s possible he wanted to eliminate the actual perpetrator, the only one who could really incriminate him.”

  “Could be,” he conceded, “but there’s a problem with your logic. I’m sure it took at least two people to do in Schrader, if not more. In that case, Giraud is now dealing not just with the actual perpetrator but with two or three more killers who could squeal.”

  “He could have brought on hired killers from outside for that. Schrader was already in full view of the police: The Italians had pointed him out as the man who tried to sabotage the brakes on their bus.”

  “But how could Giraud have known that?” Favre obje
cted, fixing his eyes on me, fully transformed into his bloodhound alter ego.

  I paused before saying, “Protex has an informant in the police.”

  We shared a moment of silence. Then: “That would make sense,” said the commissioner, in a tone of real anxiety. For the first time I felt he was no longer playing the role of heroic detective he had in his head.

  “Steve told me. They send him a report every night, supposedly for his eyes only. But if Giraud is colluding with Protex behind Steve’s back, I’m sure he gets a copy too.” I don’t know why I felt the need to tell Favre everything. Perhaps it was an act of generosity on seeing him so stricken by the betrayal of a fellow police agent. Or perhaps it was an act of vengeance on my part, a little payback for the way he had played with me over the past three weeks.

  “We can’t count out the Italians either,” he said, trying to pull himself together. It was clear he wasn’t going to argue with me about a leak within the police corps. It must have fit with the information he already had. “Ferrara was furious with the German for the attempt on the bus.”

  “Ferrara is under arrest, and from what I’ve seen of Matosas, it looks like he just wants to get away from this mess. Killing Schrader after talking trash about him during his interrogation wouldn’t be so smart, would it?”

  The commissioner took another long pause. We were both out of arguments. Fatigue and disappointment turned the silence stony and cold.

  “Or maybe we’re wrong about the murderer and it’s neither of those two,” he said finally. The commissioner was talking to me, maybe for the first time, as if I were a true colleague. I tried to live up to it.

  “In which case we’re screwed; the Tour ends in a day and a half. It’ll be harder to find the killer once the platform comes down and everyone in this circus disperses.”

  “I have to agree with you there, Sergeant Moreau.”

  We parted ways in the hall with our spirits down by our feet. I felt a little bit sorry for the commissioner. After all, I had a podium to climb on Sunday; he would have to crawl back to Paris with his tail between his legs. A tough blow for his pride, surely. Nevertheless, when we said goodbye he told me with an unexpected sparkle in his eyes that all of France would be climbing the Alpe d’Huez with me the next day. I gulped down my ambition and anxiety.

  When I was finally left alone, I saw two messages from Steve on my cellphone. I called him at once. He asked me if I knew what had happened, and when I started telling him about the German, he asked me not to give him any details over the phone, that we’d have to talk at dinner. We agreed to meet in the dining room fifteen minutes later.

  I assumed Steve’s insistence that we be discreet over the phone confirmed that my phone was tapped and that he knew it. It had probably been at his instruction. For some reason, I didn’t care. It could even be interpreted as a measure taken in order to protect me.

  I got a message from Fiona and forgot about Steve for a moment. “I need to see you.” As always, her words registered in my crotch. I started writing a response that would live up to her provocation, but with her next text, a bucket of ice water fell over me: “Ray and I will come up after dinner.”

  Down in the dining room, I counted six guards posted around the perimeter, although none were inside, out of respect for the other teams, I supposed.

  “I just spoke with Protex’s lead investigator, bro,” Steve told me anxiously as soon as I took a seat by his side. “They’ve reached the conclusion that the Italians didn’t kill Schrader.”

  Of course it wasn’t the Italians, it was them, it was Protex, I thought.

  Steve continued: “The thing is, this opens up all the possibilities. Schrader’s the first victim who isn’t part of the circuit; up to now they’ve all been cyclists.”

  “I can’t make heads or tails of it,” I said. “Does Protex have a hypothesis? A suspect?”

  “Nothing, just one strange piece of info. They talked to Lampar.” Lampar was the star Australian climber who was hit by a car on a training route before the Tour had even begun. “He says he didn’t usually ride where he was run over. He was there because he’d agreed to meet up with someone from the Tour organization at a restaurant down that way. They made the date over the phone. Protex thinks someone deliberately lured him into the accident.”

  “Anyone could have passed as a member of the Tour organization on the phone.”

  “The meeting was about a personal issue for Lampar. He wanted to race wearing the Australian national colors, as national champion, but there was controversy for some reason. He petitioned in a very reserved way because he wanted to avoid public embarrassment in case they turned him down. It seems only his wife and the organizers knew.”

  “Strange.” The more I thought about it, the less sense it made. “If there are hired killers, poisoners, and saboteurs, that means we’re talking about a big operation, with resources; they could have easily paid off a Tour employee, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, of course,” he responded, distracted again. “But I’m sick of this. I told Giraud this is the last night we’re spending in a Tour hotel. Benny booked a private flight from Grenoble to Paris tomorrow afternoon. We can go straight from the Alpe d’Huez finish line. Adidas has offered me an apartment in Paris with security. They maintain it for celebrities. Stevlana will wait for me there. There’s a room for you too…and Fiona,” he added. “What matters is that we don’t give the culprit the slightest opportunity to hit us, because now we have no fucking clue where the attacks are coming from.”

  “I’m assuming the rules don’t allow it, right? Staying anywhere other than the Tour hotels.” I already knew the answer, but a luxury suite after three weeks of rustic hotels was an irresistible proposal.

  “Benny says we shouldn’t worry about that. They killed Fleming in a Tour hotel, so he’s sure he can persuade the organizers to be flexible. They just want this to be over too. Imagine the scandal if something happens to the yellow jersey. We just have to let the WADA people know for the anti-doping test.”

  “It’ll be a relief to leave all this behind,” I said, casting my eyes over the dining room packed with cyclists. I generally enjoyed the living conditions of long races; they reminded me of the barracks. But I’d never experienced them so full of traps and betrayals. “I’ll tell Fiona,” I added, although I already took her negative response for granted. Being a guest of the Stivys might be one of her top ten worst nightmares.

  Satisfied with my response, Steve looked down the table, clinked a glass with his spoon, and made himself heard. “A toast to tomorrow’s victory, my fifth yellow jersey. I’ll never forget what I owe you all,” he declared, raising a glass of milk; the rest of us followed suit with juice, coffee, water, and bowls of cereal, but without much enthusiasm. Unlike Steve, we were uncomfortable celebrating while among colleagues we hadn’t yet beaten. Many of them would see it as disrespectful, or even a taunt. But I knew my bro had done it in good faith, blind to his surroundings, caught up in his own generosity toward the members of his team.

  I went up to the room followed by Sancho and Quixote, my remaining guards; they chatted happily in a French so slang-laden it was barely recognizable—the prison variety, I guessed.

  Minutes later, Ray and Fiona arrived. I let them know about Schrader’s death and the role of the supposed Tour official in Lampar’s accident. Ray took notes and nodded. Then he offered a piece of revealing information.

  “The Lampar thing adds a twist to something I thought was unimportant until now. Remember the hotel where Fleming died?” We nodded in silence; we were both familiar with the Blue Galleon, where the Batesman team had been put up. Fonar had stayed there two or three years before.

  The journalist took out his road book, the thick PR packet that press members receive at the start of the Tour. He looked for the section on Stage 6 and paused on the page listing the hotel
s designated by the organization and the teams assigned to them for the night, according to the results of the raffle that had taken place weeks before. The Blue Galleon wasn’t on the list. According to the program, Batesman was meant to spend that night at the Madelaine, along with four other teams.

  “I don’t understand. Batesman wouldn’t have been able to stay there if the hotel wasn’t on the official list,” I said.

  “I thought the same thing,” said Ray, “so I asked the Brits. Their press guy told me that, at the last minute, someone from the organization informed them the Madelaine had problems with the electrical equipment in one wing of the building and they’d have to move them to the Blue Galleon. Since Batesman has the most employees, the organization decided letting them all stay there was more practical for everyone.”

  “If someone wanted to attack Fleming, the Blue Galleon was the perfect place. Small, modest, and isolated; practically no staff at night,” Fiona mused.

  “Did you ask which official made them change hotels?” I asked. “And do you know if it’s true the Madelaine had electrical problems?”

  “I didn’t ask, no,” said Ray. “The explanation seemed reasonable, until you mentioned what happened to Lampar.”

  “But it’s absurd. Neither Jitrik nor the organization would ever do anything against the Tour,” said Fiona, confused.

  “True,” said Ray, “but whoever put this whole circus together has already shown they have the resources to pay off whomever they want, especially a small-time official.”

  “That doesn’t let Giraud off, although I’m starting to think this is way out of his league,” said Fiona.

  “So the commissioner doesn’t know anything about this?” Ray asked me.

  “About Lampar, and now the hotel? No, at least, I don’t think so. He seems like he’s at a dead end. I’ll have to tell him. If the police find out the official’s identity, we could follow the trail of whoever was buying them off. It’s the first real clue we’ve had since this whole thing started.” I couldn’t ignore the fact that I’d felt equally confident about Giraud and the Italians, but a little self-deception never hurt anyone.