The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  A couple of minutes later, the door to the restricted area opened, and a smartly dressed young woman of thirty-five marched out. She had a computer tablet with her.

  She introduced herself as Annette Remus and said she handled media inquiries.

  Remus led them to a side area away from the flow of people coming into the station. Burke figured she wasn’t going to say much, since she hadn’t brought them back beyond the restricted doors.

  Boutillier asked if the police were in any way investigating McManus’s death.

  Remus looked at her tablet. Burke tried to peek over her shoulder, but she was as tall as he was, and he couldn’t see anything without being too obvious. Remus screwed up her eyes as she studied the tablet.

  “We just have a record of the vehicle he was driving striking another vehicle at the end of the race,” she said. “We have the damages. No one has been charged—obviously. Just a sad occurrence.”

  “Did the police talk to the medical staff about McManus’s heart condition or look into the autopsy findings?” Burke asked, surprising himself again at his newfound willingness to ask questions.

  “We followed the usual procedures to ensure nothing unusual was involved—and it wasn’t,” Remus said. “End of story as far as we are concerned.”

  “No more investigation then?” Burke persisted.

  “We have acted according to the evidence,” Remus said. “Thanks for coming.”

  She spun and marched off.

  Boutillier nudged Burke in the side. “Do you think something illegal happened to McManus?”

  Burke pondered that for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No, not really. I just don’t get how that bastard could pop off driving a car,” he said.

  “Like someone earlier said, it happens—a lot.”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, I’ve got a story to write and probably a follow-up after that to start working on,” Boutillier said as they started toward the exit.

  “What angle will you take?”

  “How the team will replace him for the long term,” Boutillier told him. “Maybe a sidebar on how teams examine the physical well-being of their training staff.”

  Burke wondered what he’d write about in the next day or two.

  “Do a piece on the organizers’ sensitivity to doping questions,” said Boutillier, who had obviously picked up on Burke struggling to plot his next piece.

  “That might work,” Burke said with a nod.

  It was time for lunch.

  A seaside meal seemed like a delightful idea, so he drove just outside the new area of Villeneuve-Loubet to Roxie’s, a restaurant by the boardwalk that overlooked both the beach and the entire bay, which stretched out to encompass Nice. It was one of his favorite restaurants on the Med.

  He turned off the main street onto the side track where Roxie’s was. Usually, parking was a problem, but he spotted an open space and pulled into it, considering himself lucky.

  Burke thought about what he’d have for lunch. Maybe one of Roxie’s fantastic seafood dishes or their specialty—tagliatelle with a black clam sauce. Then, from his right, came the sickening crunch of metal on metal as an old blue sedan drove into an idling van that was parked facing outward.

  He stopped to watch. The driver’s side door of the blue sedan opened, and an elderly woman eased herself out, one hand over her mouth, her face frozen in shock. Meanwhile, the van’s engine was cut and the driver—a swarthy, balding man in his mid-forties—was quickly outside to inspect the damage. He then approached the woman.

  Burke walked toward the fender bender, anticipating a problem. Then the man spoke to the old woman in a comforting tone, easing Burke’s fear of a confrontation. “It’s all right. Just a minor accident,” he reassured her.

  She responded by bursting into tears and collapsing against the side of her car.

  The van driver opened the back door of her car and eased her down.

  “Can I help?” offered Burke as he stood behind the man.

  “She’s very shaken,” the driver said. “I told her it’s nothing, but she’s not listening.”

  The old woman looked up at Burke. Her eyes darted about, seemingly unable to focus on one subject.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “Are you the police? Are you going to take away my license?”

  Burke and the van driver exchanged worried glances.

  “I’m just a bystander, madame,” Burke replied, bending down onto his haunches and patting her hand. “I just want to make sure you’re OK.”

  The van driver leaned down and smiled. “There’s no real damage to your car and just a small dent in my old van, madame,” he said. “It happens. Please do not worry yourself.”

  The old woman nodded to herself, but her eyes continued to flutter about.

  “Where am I?” she asked, not looking at either of them.

  “Just near the Hippodrome and by the beach,” the van driver said. “Where were you going?”

  She frowned. “I can’t remember. I’m sorry, but I just can’t remember where I was going.”

  “Do you have family nearby?” asked Burke.

  “I have a daughter, Thérèse, who lives near the beach,” she mumbled.

  “Mama!” came an approaching voice.

  Burke turned. A woman of about fifty came rushing toward them, her long, curly red hair trailing behind as she jogged.

  “She’s my mother,” the woman said when she reached them.

  The van driver explained what had happened. The daughter nodded and, seeming to note his gentleness toward her mother, thanked him for his efforts.

  “I’ve been telling her it’s a bad idea to drive, but she doesn’t listen,” she said, rubbing her mother’s arm and then patting her hand. “She is forgetting things, and her sense of balance is not so good anymore. Maybe she’ll understand this is the last time she should drive.”

  She checked out the damage and apologized. The van driver shrugged off the small nick by the front right light and said dents were part of his job as a delivery man. They agreed it wasn’t worthwhile to involve the insurance companies, and so they shook hands, and the driver left.

  “You saw it?” the daughter asked Burke.

  “I saw the result,” Burke said.

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid her mind is getting cloudier. She has good days, but she has bad ones. This is a bad one. Old age isn’t kind, I think.”

  Burke agreed, wished her well and then left for Roxie’s.

  Glancing back, Burke watched the woman help her mother stand. Then she embraced her.

  Yesterday, it had been Madame Marois. Today, it was this old woman. Life could come to collect its tax at any time, and Burke told himself he had to enjoy it while he could. So, as he turned onto Roxie’s outdoor terrace, he decided he would enjoy the moment and order the best seafood meal on the menu and wash it down with a good bottle of rosé.

  He exchanged greetings with the owner and a couple of servers who recognized him, then took a small table under the shade of a palm tree. The view of the bay, with the Maritime Alps behind, was majestic and as beautiful as it got in Burke’s estimation.

  Burke started with his usual pastis and then moved on to a glass of excellent rosé with an opener of crab-stuffed tomatoes that were remarkably succulent. As he waited for the entrée of Greek shrimp saganaki, his phone rang.

  It was Lemaire.

  “Marc told me about the news conference,” he began. “I think you should get me that blog by noon tomorrow, and it would be a good idea to do a race update after catching the stage to Mont Ventoux in a couple of days. Drop by here for your press pass.”

  “The Ventoux?” Burke said, echoing the name of the famous—and dreaded—climb in Provence.

  “See how the teams are coping after McManus’s loss,” Lemaire instructed. “Or see if they even care. The setting couldn’t be better. The Ventoux will be epic.”

  Burke had to ask. “Expenses covered?”

&
nbsp; Lemaire sighed. “Yes, but within reason. One night’s accommodation, mileage, a meal or two. No pastis, though. And, Paul, we’ll probably get you to do a print piece as well as a blog, so take some photos, OK?”

  The shrimp dish showed up just as Burke was trying to recall where the charger for his camera was back at his apartment.

  “I’ll get that blog to you today, François, and I’ll leave tomorrow for the Ventoux,” Burke said. “The crowds will already be lining up. I’ll have to hurry.”

  Lemaire agreed, and they ended the call.

  Burke sat back, sipped his rosé and, in his mind, saw the lunar landscape of the top half of the Ventoux. He had ridden the mountain twice as a pro, and both occasions had been miserable, pulverizing climbs made worse by brutal crosswinds that had almost blown away some fans on the roadside.

  He smiled to himself.

  He wouldn’t be riding the Ventoux this time, and he’d be on an expense account.

  THE NEXT DAY, AFTER a couple of extra strength coffees and reading the Nice-Matin newspaper, Burke packed a small overnight bag and left his apartment.

  His car was parked in the public lot a couple of hundred meters away. As he approached his Citroën, he saw Madame Marois sitting on a bench that overlooked the stream that ran by the old village. He was surprised. He had never seen her before noon, and here it was, not even nine in the morning.

  Burke approached the old woman, who was staring at the slow-moving stream. A few meters away, Plato was sniffing the grass, stretching his leash to the maximum.

  He figured he’d try the casual approach. “Bonjour, Madame.”

  No reaction.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, bending toward her.

  She didn’t twitch.

  “Madame Marois, are you all right?”

  Asking this of her was becoming a habit.

  This time, she jerked as if she’d been awoken. Without blinking, she turned toward Burke.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Bonjour,” Burke said again, noticing that Plato had given up on the grass and come over for a visit.

  “Bonjour,” she said and then turned back to staring blankly at the stream.

  “Are you feeling well today?” Burke asked.

  Her body snapped once more, and then she turned sharply toward him. “Young man, I’m old, which means I’m never feeling very well, but I am otherwise fine. Why are you bothering me with such trivialities?”

  It was like a light had turned on inside her.

  “I just saw you sitting alone out here, and I wanted to make sure you were OK,” Burke said.

  “I am fine,” Madame Marois said as she leaned down and scratched Plato’s ears. “I will be better when I’m left to my own thoughts without being bothered.”

  Burke apologized, wished her Bonne journée and then left.

  Old age is a bugger, he thought as he walked to his car.

  Although his Citroën was more than ten years old, it still had guts, and Burke enjoyed driving it. With the latest CD from Bruce Springsteen keeping him company, he passed by Antibes and then Cannes, groaning at the idea of spending any time in that overexposed movie town. Soon, he was on the national highway, charging along at 120 kilometers per hour. Burke thought it a little odd that the older he got, the more he enjoyed driving.

  Burke figured he’d end up finding accommodation a long way from Ventoux, given that as many as a half million people would be visiting the mountain for the stage race. His preference was to stay in the small town of Bédoin, which served as the unofficial start to the southern climb of Ventoux, but that would be impossible. All of the rooms in the community had likely been booked within a day of the Tour’s route being announced the previous year.

  After three hours of hard driving, Burke spotted the turnoff for the small city of Carpentras and, in a snap decision, took it. He’d try the first hotel or bed-and-breakfast he found. As he approached the outskirts of the city, he saw a “Chambre D’Hote” sign and turned off. His luck was good. The owner—a plump woman in her early sixties—had one available room in her B and B. He took it.

  After dropping his stuff in the small bedroom, Burke figured he’d drive the forty kilometers to Ventoux and see what was happening.

  He stopped in his tracks as a radio blared. There had been another unexpected death associated with the Tour de France.

  “…The Global Projects team trainer was found dead this morning near the team hotel just outside Avignon. Police have not released details but say the circumstances surrounding the death of Mark Den Weent are being investigated. Neither the team nor race organizers have commented.”

  Burke was stunned—Den Weent was dead? What the hell was happening?

  The announcer continued: “The death follows on the heels of the sudden passing of the team’s directeur sportif, Pierre McManus. It is unclear if the team will continue in the race. The sixth stage starts this afternoon at 1:30.”

  “Monsieur?” came a voice close to Burke.

  He turned. The landlady was watching him, puzzled at his mid-stride stance.

  He explained he had just been listening to the radio report.

  “Terrible, terrible,” she said. “I heard it last hour. Two men dead in such a short period. Very sad.”

  Burke, feeling shocked, agreed. His cell phone rang. He excused himself and took the call. It was Lemaire, who asked if Burke had heard the news.

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but you’re close to Avignon, so we can have a local voice if you hurry over,” Lemaire said.

  After Lemaire fired off instructions, Burke dashed for the car and was soon belting along a secondary highway to Avignon, which was just over twenty kilometers away. He didn’t know exactly where the police station was, but he had a good idea. He also thought he knew where the Global Projects team hotel was.

  As he flew along well above the speed limit, Burke tried to process what was happening. A few days ago, he had been sitting at home, not doing much except relaxing and pondering a topic for his next blog. Everything had been moving at a relaxed pace. Now, he was chasing the Tour de France and trying to find out why two men—men he knew personally—were dead.

  BURKE MADE IT TO the police station in thirty minutes, but parking was a problem. The streets leading to the station were completely congested. There were several TV trucks parked and scores of media people milling about with cameras, microphones and notebooks. It was bedlam.

  He found a parking spot three blocks away and ran to the station while trying to sort out what he needed to learn. Lemaire had told him that the news services would provide the basics of the story. Burke’s job was to get a different angle for a blog and a couple of quotes from someone the news agency people wouldn’t think to approach. What the hell did that mean? Burke wondered. He was no journalist.

  But Den Weent was dead, and he wanted to know what happened.

  He elbowed his way through the media and into the station entrance, which was small and packed with more reporters and camera people. Four burly cops were ensuring that no media personnel got into areas where they didn’t belong.

  “Anything new?” Burke asked a pleasant-looking blonde.

  She threw him a scowl in return. “What do you think?” she snapped.

  He tried a fifty-something man who was scribbling on a notepad despite being bumped every second or two.

  “Nothing yet,” the reporter said. “The cops aren’t saying much.”

  The reporter studied Burke for a moment. “Who are you with?”

  Burke needed a second. “I, uh, do blogs,” he finally said.

  The man snorted and shook his head in disgust. “Are you fucking for real?”

  “It’s a living,” Burke said, feeling a little prickly at the man’s sudden hostility.

  “You look slightly familiar,” the reporter said.

  “Ex-pro racer,” Burke replied.

  “You’re Burke, Paul Burke. Right?”

 
; “Yes.”

  “I remember your bit on TV. Fucking unreal!” the reporter said, chuckling. “Now you’re a blogger?”

  “Yeah,” Burke said.

  “Well, hang around for a few minutes, Burke, because I have an idea the cops will give us something a little fresher.”

  The veteran journalist was right. Five minutes later, two men in suits came out from the restricted area, introduced themselves to the horde—Burke didn’t get their names, which he figured wasn’t good—and then began a short briefing.

  To his disgust, Burke discovered he’d forgotten his recorder in his car. He pulled out his small notepad and tried to scribble down some main points, but he knew that was a lost cause since he was painfully slow at note-taking. He hoped his memory was working.

  The two men in suits were detectives. The police were investigating the death as a homicide. Burke heard reporters near him mutter that it was time for some real information.

  Then someone in the scrum asked how Den Weent had been killed.

  The older detective said a knife had been used. He wouldn’t expand.

  “When was Den Weent’s body found?” shouted another voice.

  “Between midnight and 6 a.m.,” replied the other suit.

  The grumpy journo next to him muttered, “That’s fucking helpful.”

  The Q and A went on for another five minutes, but the police were making it clear they weren’t going to give any in-depth info. The reporters were clearly frustrated, and when the detectives left, most could be heard complaining or cursing.

  Burke figured the TDF might have some official comment but then reminded himself that he wasn’t a reporter, just a blogger getting paid a few euros for offering some snappy opinions about bicycling.

  So, he phoned Lemaire and told him about the police station news conference.

  “Yeah, no surprise they didn’t want to give out anything good,” Lemaire said.

  Burke told him he was considering contacting the TDF for a quote.

  “We already have something from them,” Lemaire said.

  “So, what should I do?” Burke asked, feeling a little stupid.