The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Lemaire paused. “Do the team hotel thing again,” he suggested. “Then file something, no more than three hundred words. After that, check with me. We’ll go from there.”

  Burke hadn’t signed up to chat about the recently deceased, but he didn’t want to anger Lemaire, so he agreed to follow the plan. After he ended the call, Burke wondered if there was another way to make some money without having to rush about talking to police and team officials about dead guys. He promised himself he’d do a little research when he got home and away from this TDF chaos.

  Burke had a few ideas where Global might be staying. He suspected that if he phoned, he wouldn’t get anything from a receptionist, so he got in his car and started driving. He went to his first two choices, and from outside, it was clear no bike team was staying there. Outside the Hotel du Ciel was a Global Projects car, three police cars and several TV crews and other media people crowding the entrance.

  He parked a block away and hurried back to the hotel. When he got there, he noticed a couple of familiar faces among the press pack, but he decided to keep to himself.

  And saying nothing seemed to be the theme of the moment, because a team rep who Burke didn’t recognize was telling the scrum of journalists that the team was saddened by the death but would say nothing more.

  That, of course, didn’t stop the reporters from asking all kinds of questions, but the team rep remained in control, repeating his message and then excusing himself.

  Burke shook his head. It had been a waste of time coming here.

  “Hey, you’re Paul Burke, aren’t you?”

  The voice belonged to a thin, lanky, curly-haired fellow in his mid-twenties. He was unfamiliar to Burke.

  The young man stuck out a hand. “I’m Matthieu Martin,” he said. “I’m a reporter with Le Journal in Montréal. We did a piece a few years ago on your retirement. ‘Local Cyclist Calls It a Career’ or something like that.”

  Burke shook hands. “I remember talking to someone from your paper,” he said. It was one of the last interviews he ever did.

  “I’m here to cover some of the Tour,” Martin explained. “Since there are a couple of big pro cycling races in the fall in Québec, my editors sent me here to do some color. The races are very popular, so they figured it’s smart to get some extra buzz going.”

  “Makes sense,” Burke said.

  “But they didn’t figure on all this shit happening,” Martin added. “I mean, a top directeur sportif pops off driving the team car one day, and then another trainer dies, this time stabbed to death? Shit!”

  “Know anything about what happened to Den Weent?”

  “Nothing more than what the cops are saying, which is virtually nothing,” Martin said. “The team reps aren’t talking either.” He paused. “Why are you here, Paul?”

  Burke gave a short spiel about his blog and helping his editor out with some work for the print paper.

  “So, you’re a reporter now.” Martin grinned.

  Burke laughed at that one. “Not a chance. I’m just floating around, trying to get something that’ll keep my editor happy enough that I can keep doing a blog,” he said. “It’s about paying the bills.”

  Martin smiled and then flicked back a couple of pages in his notepad. “Well, maybe I can toss something your way that might help you with your blog,” he said.

  When he saw Burke’s surprised expression, Martin grinned and said, “I’m a good guy, and you helped our paper a few years ago.”

  “Thanks,” Burke said, pleased about the younger man’s generosity but doubtful he would get much that he could use.

  “The only interesting aspect—besides the fact that Den Weent got himself killed—is that he was in his room one minute, and apparently the next time anyone saw him, he was dead in an alley not far from the hotel,” Martin said, jabbing a finger at something he had scribbled.

  “How’d you learn that?”

  “I overheard a couple of cops back at the station. It’s not much, but it’s something,” Martin said. He shook his head. “I’ve written seven pieces since I got here—four about the actual race and three about McManus’s death. I didn’t figure I’d be mixing it up like that.”

  “Three stories about McManus?”

  “He was in Québec the last two years for our races, so he’s fairly well known within the cycling community of the province. I interviewed him a couple of times. When he wasn’t chasing women, he was working the media, although he seemed a bit of a jerk.”

  Burke considered McManus again. The trainer had been something of a womanizer. He remembered a handful of times when McManus had literally abandoned a conversation to chase down some attractive female who had strolled by—and how a couple of those women had responded not with a scream for the police, but with an unexpected coquettishness.

  “He was a jerk for sure, but I forgot about him and women,” Burke said.

  “I don’t think he was ever married,” Martin said. “A wife would probably have gotten in the way.”

  Burke nodded.

  “Well, I have to file soon, so I better get writing,” Martin said, reaching to shake hands.

  Burke took Martin’s hand, thanked the reporter and wished him well.

  “Thanks,” Martin replied. “I’m here until the end of the race, so maybe I’ll bump into you again. Where are you off to next?”

  “I’m hanging around here for another day. Going to the Ventoux, then home,” Burke said.

  “I’m at the Ventoux tomorrow. It’ll be a helluva stage. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  Burke nodded. He figured the chances of seeing Martin on the Ventoux would be next to zero, given there would be hundreds of thousands of people lining the route.

  Back in his car, Burke called Lemaire, who grumbled about the lack of new findings but took Burke’s info so he could write something up. Then he told Burke to do something with the nutty fans already lining the Ventoux route the next day.

  “But come back tomorrow,” Lemaire said. “We’re not paying for another night in a hotel.”

  Burke ended the call and, relieved he didn’t have to write a newspaper story about Den Weent’s sudden death, drove back to his Carpentras bed-and-breakfast. The closer he got to his digs, the more tired he became. His mind was active though, floating from images of McManus chasing a woman to the last time he had seen Den Weent.

  AFTER AN EARLY BREAKFAST, Burke jumped into his car and drove hard toward Mont Ventoux. His chances of getting anywhere near the mountain would be nil because there would probably be at least a quarter million people lining the route on the flat parts of the stage with at least the same number perched by the roadside of the famous climb. He’d do what he could and then leave.

  Still, he knew a Tour de France stage featuring the Ventoux would be special, and he felt himself getting excited to see some of the stage. It wasn’t the highest mountain in France by any stretch, but, for Burke’s money, it represented the toughest climb at twenty-two kilometers, with a 7.1 percent average gradient and winds that usually blew with ferocity. By the time the riders made it to the top, they’d be physically and mentally exhausted. Burke certainly had been when he’d done the Ventoux.

  After two hours of speeding and then having to slow down to a pedestrian pace as traffic increased, Burke approached the small town of Bédoin, where the race to the Ventoux would really launch. He decided to try a country road north of the town. It would probably be jammed by fans by this time, but it was worth a try.

  The road wasn’t as busy as he expected, and he managed to get a few kilometers closer to the actual base of the mountain. He parked by the side of the road and near a farm that looked like it needed some attention. He had a kilometer to walk to get to the road where the cyclists would go by.

  Walking along a potholed dirt path, Burke was still five hundred meters from the main road when all kinds of parked vehicles and then the outlines of thousands of people came into view. He cursed at having to do all this for
a silly-assed blog or maybe a few words in someone else’s newspaper article.

  When he got within one hundred meters, sounds of merriment reached his ears. There had obviously been some serious partying going on.

  He approached a group of eight middle-aged fans, who were each decked out in a red-and-white, polka dot replica cycling jersey that honored the leading rider in the mountains. They seemed sober, and that probably put them in the minority.

  He introduced himself as a blogger for a newspaper. No one seemed impressed by that. He asked where they were from.

  “Holland,” said a bespectacled man.

  Burke wondered why they weren’t wearing jerseys featuring the Dutch national color of orange, but didn’t ask. The quicker he got his information, the quicker he could leave.

  A short, plump man in the group pointed a finger at Burke. The man’s face was scrunched up in concentration. Then he broke into a grin, and Burke knew what was coming next.

  “You’re the Paul Burke who used to be a rider and who was on TV, yes?” the man said in English.

  Burke nodded.

  The others broke into smiles. They may not have recognized his face, but they knew something about the name. Burke silently cursed YouTube.

  He went through a short list of questions he’d prepped.

  How long they had been there? Two nights. Had they come for the entire Tour de France? Just for the Ventoux. Was it their first time watching the TDF live? No, they’d seen stages when the race had gone outside French borders into the Low Countries of the Netherlands and Belgium. Did they have a camper? Yes, two. How did they pass the time while waiting for the race to show up? They played cards. Why did they drive so far for one day’s stage? Because the legendary “Giant of Provence” is not on the TDF course except every few years. Were they having a good time? Absolutely. What would they do after the Ventoux stage? Drive home, maybe stop outside Paris for a night.

  He got their names, thanked them and then moved on to three young, happy-looking men draped in American flags. He went through the same routine. The answers weren’t as thoughtful as the responses from the Dutch, but that was likely due to the beer the men had obviously been drinking.

  Just as he thanked them for their comments, one of them piped out in a Texan accent: “What’s the deal with these cycling coaches suddenly dying?”

  “You mean Den Weent and McManus?” Burke asked.

  “Yeah, those guys,” he said. “I mean, that’s pretty fucking strange, don’t you think?”

  Burke agreed.

  “Gotta wonder if they’re connected,” the Texan suggested.

  One of his friends scoffed at that idea. “One died of a heart attack, and the other guy, Den Weent, croaked from being knifed,” he said. “You can’t orchestrate a heart attack, dummy.”

  “Maybe not,” he replied.

  Burke nodded. The deaths had to be coincidence, but it was strange nevertheless.

  He thanked them and was set to move on when the Texan blurted out, “Aren’t you going to ask us who’s going to win today?”

  Burke had been surprised that the three were familiar with the deaths of the two men and that one of them at least knew Den Weent’s name. Now they were willing to provide the names of the Ventoux winner?

  “OK, tell me,” Burke said, figuring these three might end up being the focus of his blog. They might be a little drunk and somewhat rowdy, but maybe they knew their stuff, cycling-wise.

  The Texan went first. “Pieterangelo is my guy,” he said, naming a tiny Italian climber who was useless on the flats and in time trials but went up the side of a mountain at an astonishing speed.

  “He’ll be close, but Alvarez will win,” said another.

  “Which Alvarez?” the Texan asked, impressing Burke even more with his knowledge. There were at least two riders named Alvarez in the race.

  “The Colombian. The leaders will let him go because he’s no threat to the overall title.”

  The third man offered his perspective. “Good picks, but the winner will be—drum roll, please—Pavel Kladinsky. He’ll do it on a small breakaway.”

  Burke thanked them once again.

  “Hey, dude, I bet you’ll find a link between McManus and Den Weent if you try hard enough,” the Texan said. “It would make a great fucking blog if you could get it.”

  Burke smiled at that as he left. The three had been impressive with their selections for the stage winner. As for finding a link between the deaths of the two trainers, Burke knew it was absurd to think the police hadn’t double-checked that possibility, however improbable it seemed.

  But he still had a niggling feeling that somehow, he might know something about McManus and Den Weent that could be valuable.

  BURKE MADE IT BACK home by 10 p.m. that night. It had been an exhausting day, and having to drive hours in sweltering weather without air conditioning did not help. He dropped his bag onto the couch and then washed up. He thought about going to bed, but his mind was still busy. If he tried to go to sleep now, his brain wouldn’t permit it, and he’d be up most of the night.

  As for his blog about the Ventoux, he had to have it done by ten the next morning. He told himself he’d do it after breakfast.

  He went to Claude’s café for a soothing nightcap.

  “You look tired, my friend,” Claude said when he spotted Burke sitting in his usual spot on the terrace.

  “Exhausted, Claude,” Burke replied.

  “I’ll come back, and you’ll tell me why you’re so tired,” said the café owner.

  Claude dropped off two glasses of red wine for a couple in their sixties dressed in white linen. Burke wondered if they were from one of the new developments. It didn’t matter. They seemed quiet and polite, smiling at Claude when he made a small joke about the heat serving as an excellent weight-loss program.

  Back at Burke’s table with a pastis, Claude collapsed into the opposite chair like a sack of potatoes. He was probably more tired than Burke.

  In a few sentences, Burke explained where he had been.

  “Yes, I heard all about the murder,” Claude said. “This has been a very strange Tour.”

  “Today, a person I interviewed suggested there could be a connection between Den Weent’s murder and McManus’s death. Stupid, really, but who knows what’s going on? If I worked for Global Projects, I’d be writing out my will.”

  Claude chuckled at the dark joke. “I expect you have not heard about our little activity here,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “Our poor Madame Marois went for lunch alone—although Plato was with her as usual—at one of those upscale cafés by the marina. She parked her car and then ate. When she returned to her car, she couldn’t find her car keys. She had her house keys in her purse, but not the ones for her car. They weren’t in her purse. They weren’t in the ignition or on the floor or on the driver’s seat. She apparently became very upset. Some strangers tried to help her find her keys. They retraced her steps back to the restaurant. No luck. Madame Marois was in tears.”

  Burke was surprised to hear the old woman had reacted so emotionally. He would have wagered she had no tear ducts.

  “Madame Marois wanted her daughter to come and help, but she couldn’t remember the daughter’s cell phone number,” Claude continued.

  “That’s not good,” Burke said.

  “What is worse is that her daughter lives in Canada,” Claude said with a shrug.

  “Canada?”

  “Yes. Vancouver, apparently. Do you know it?” Claude asked.

  “It’s almost four thousand kilometers from Montréal to Vancouver,” Burke said, “but I know it. Very beautiful. By the way, how do you know all this?”

  “Patience, my friend,” Claude admonished, glancing around to ensure no one needed his attention. “The people helping Madame figured out that her daughter lives abroad. When they heard she also has a son, they asked where he lives. Well, he lives in Vienna, but she told them that ev
en if he could be reached, he wouldn’t help.”

  “This is getting sad, Claude,” Burke said.

  “Madame then said she knew where her car keys were.”

  “Where?”

  “In her shoe,” Claude said, arching his eyebrows.

  “Were they?”

  Claude nodded. “She had tucked the car keys into the side of her shoe. Madame explained she used to hide keys in her shoe when she was young. She didn’t know why she had put them there this time.”

  “Bizarre.”

  “She then calmed down and seemed back to her normal self, but she did ask these strangers if they would follow her home in their vehicle because she was still a little upset.”

  “Did they?”

  “They did,” Claude said. “They were very good people. Not many like that these days. They watched her park and then go to her apartment. Since they were here, they decided to have an aperitif and a little something to eat, and so they came to my café. We chatted a little, and they told me about Madame Marois. They were very concerned for her welfare, although she was apparently fine when she got back up to the village.”

  “It’s lucky they were around to help,” said Burke as he finished his pastis. “I just hope what happened isn’t the start of a trend for Madame Marois. Anyway, I’m tired, Claude, and need to get some sleep. So, good night, my friend.”

  When he was stretched out in bed in his apartment, Burke thought about Madame Marois. She wasn’t a friend, just a familiar face, but he felt sorry for her. It was tough getting old. He told himself to use his time better, before the decay set in.

  BURKE WAS STILL TIRED when he awoke the next day. He told himself he had to get in shape. If he was in better condition, he’d have more endurance, and his mind would work better.

  Of course, less pastis would help, too.

  After his newspapers and breakfast, Burke sat down at his computer and wrote his blog about the Ventoux stage, which the Colombian Alvarez had won by the length of a wheel. When he was done, he reread it. He smiled to himself. It wasn’t bad at all. He’d been lucky to meet some colorful people lining the side of the road, but he still felt pleased with himself. He hoped Lemaire would like it.