The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  He thought back to the three Americans who had tossed out the idea about the link between the deaths of McManus and Den Weent. It was silly, of course, but he wondered if it was possible that something could have caused McManus’s heart to stop without being noticed.

  Burke went to his computer and typed “drugs causing a heart attack” into Google, even though the doctors at the news conference had said McManus’s death was due to sudden cardiac arrest. He figured “heart attack” was close enough. A half second later, he had more than twenty-three million results. He groaned.

  A shortcut occurred to him, and he punched in “Hotel l’Empereur.” He got the number and called the reception desk, asking for Ron Henderson, the wayward pharmacist from Montana who had collided with him on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice. If Burke remembered correctly, Henderson was still around for another day or two. If he wasn’t, nothing lost.

  To his surprise, the receptionist put him through. And to his greater surprise, Henderson answered the phone on the second ring.

  Burke introduced himself again and instantly detected reluctance from Henderson.

  “I’m not calling about the bike,” Burke assured him. “I have a question totally unrelated to what happened, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

  A small sigh of relief sounded on the other end.

  “OK, that’s good,” Henderson said, his voice more lively. “How can I help you?”

  Burke explained why he had called.

  “Well, that’s not an easy question to answer,” Henderson said, sounding like a college professor at the head of a lecture. “For example, antibiotics such as erythromycin and clarithromycin can really increase the chance of a heart attack for someone who has a heart issue.”

  Henderson cleared his throat. He was just getting started, or so it seemed to Burke. He went on about antifungal drugs and antidiabetic drugs and appetite suppressants. He mentioned anthracyclines and talked about cardiotoxicity.

  Burke’s head was spinning.

  “Did your person have cancer?” Henderson asked. “There can be a connection between some anticancer drugs and a heart attack.”

  “I don’t think so,” Burke replied.

  “Well, I’m not a doctor, but an autopsy should indicate if the subject had drugs in his system at the time of death. Of course, some drugs can disappear in the system quickly and might not be noticed at all if the pathologist isn’t looking for them and doesn’t conduct the right tests.”

  Burke was done. He couldn’t handle any more information. Moreover, he didn’t know what to do with anything Henderson had provided.

  “Thanks for your help,” Burke finally said.

  “The bill’s in the mail.”

  Burke paused.

  “Just a joke,” Henderson added.

  Burke thanked him again and rang off.

  He wondered if the autopsy done on McManus had been basic or more extensive with specialized testing. And if drugs were in McManus’s system, what kind of drugs? Recreational ones? Something for a medical condition?

  Burke’s cell rang. It was Lemaire.

  “Good job, your best blog yet,” he told Burke. “Take a breather. Float me some ideas in the next day or so for your next blog.”

  End of conversation.

  Burke figured he’d take a break and go for a ride. It would clear his head and certainly help his fitness. He changed quickly into his cycling clothes, grabbed his bike and left. Outside, he wondered about a route. Nothing too substantial, but still testing enough.

  He had it—he’d take the back route to Grasse, a nice twenty-kilometer-long climb that ended just above the old town. The ascent would be easy by pro standards, but he wasn’t a pro anymore so it would get his legs and lungs going. He might try pushing the pace a bit.

  With a small change purse holding his ID and fifty euros in a back pocket of his cycling jersey, Burke jumped on his bike, pedaled quickly to the main road and turned right. The incline was gentle, and his legs worked the pedals with ease. The more you rode, the easier it got—or so he still believed.

  The bike was beautifully engineered and took the corners smoothly. When he put some muscle into his riding, the machine snapped forward. He told himself he’d treat it to a cleanup when he got home. If this was how it responded when it had been neglected for a while, it would be spectacular when completely cleaned and tuned.

  As he rode, his mind once more drifted back to the events of the last few days: McManus, Den Weent, the old woman outside Roxie’s, blogs, Lemaire, news conferences. He hadn’t been this busy in at least three years.

  He was halfway up the climb when he decided to clear everything from his mind by pushing as hard as he could. He stood on the pedals and increased his cadence until he was hitting thirty kilometers per hour. He couldn’t hold it for long, but it felt good. After a kilometer, he slowed to give his heart a break.

  When he glided into the top of Grasse, he checked his watch. He’d made the trip in forty minutes—hardly good for a pro racer, but not bad for an ex-pro trying to get into shape.

  Riding past the bus depot, a couple of cafés and a few shops, Burke smiled. He loved Grasse for the way it stretched from down in a valley to way up on a hillside, where he was now. And his affection for the city’s Old Town, with its ancient, twisting lanes, continued to increase with every visit. As for the cafés, they were magnificent and could satisfy anyone’s tastes or wallet. He also didn’t mind the hordes of tourists who often descended on the city because Grasse was the world’s capital of perfume. His final reason for loving this special place involved the annual Fête du Jasmin in early August. He especially enjoyed the parade, during which young women on floats tossed flowers into the crowd. Everyone went home smelling of perfume. Burke had attended the last two festivals and could see no reason for missing the next one in a few weeks.

  Dismounting his bike by the gardens that overlooked most of the city and, in the distance, Cannes, Burke walked down the main lane. There were a few tourists around, but most pedestrians looked like locals.

  Burke spotted one of his favorite cafés. It was in a pastel-yellow building that had probably been there for three hundred years, and its terrace was one of the largest in the Old Town. He enjoyed stopping there for seafood pastas, which were the best he’d ever eaten, and for the owner’s two daughters—each in their thirties, tall, sassy and absolutely gorgeous.

  He placed his bike against a giant flowerpot and then grabbed a small table. He had barely sat down when one of the daughters, Amélie, strolled over, offering him a dazzling smile.

  “Ah, Paul, it is good to see you,” she said. “It has been a while.”

  “Too long,” Paul said.

  They chatted for a couple of minutes, and Paul enjoyed the conversation, although he knew Amélie was engaged and, despite some flirting, would never do anything more than talk to him.

  He ended up ordering what she recommended—mussels with angel hair pasta, covered in a delicate tomato sauce. Since he had worked hard to get to Grasse, he added a glass of midrange cabernet sauvignon.

  The wine came, and it was brilliant—smooth and round with just a hint of spice. Burke let his first sip curl around his tongue before it slipped down his throat. He shook his head. Since he had moved to Europe to pursue a cycling career, he had become something of a wine snob. If his childhood chums could see him now, they’d be shocked.

  He watched the action along the lane.

  Most of the people strolling by were local mothers with kids in tow. Some popped into a chocolate store directly opposite the café. They also visited a nearby shop that offered handcrafted glass jewelry.

  Then he saw Madame Marois. Right on her heel was the loyal Plato, his little legs moving like pistons.

  She was coming up the lane, holding something in her hand. As usual, she wore black, although she wasn’t as heavily dressed as usual. She glanced around, and her eyes fell on him. She stopped, a perplexed look on her face. Surprised
by the sudden stop, Plato bumped into her legs. Burke smiled and waved.

  To Burke’s surprise, she smiled back and came over. As smiles went, it wasn’t much—just a twist of the ends of her lips—but it was better than anything Burke had seen from her in two years.

  “Good day, monsieur,” she said in her brittle voice.

  She reached out and showed him what she was holding. It was a cameo pendant on a gold chain.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” she said. “I just purchased it down the way there. It reminds me of one I had as a young girl.”

  Burke told her it was beautiful—and it was. He didn’t know how much it had cost, but he would have wagered well over three hundred euros.

  Madame Marois pulled back the pendant and carefully put it in her small purse. Then she looked at Burke through her dark brown eyes.

  “I believe I might have been rude to you recently, when I had some difficulties,” she said.

  “I didn’t notice,” Burke lied.

  “If I was, I must apologize. It is a matter of age. I regret if I said anything that might have offended you.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Madame,” Burke said.

  He thought about inviting her to share his table, but she checked her watch and tilted her head as if trying to remember something.

  “I believe I have to be somewhere,” she said, more to herself. “I’m just not sure where. Oh, well, maybe it will come to me.”

  And without another word, Madame Marois and Plato turned and started up the lane toward the gardens. She was now glancing around in a jittery fashion. He hoped she’d make it back home—or wherever she was supposed to be—without incident.

  Burke’s lunch soon came, and it was as good as Amélie had promised. They chatted a little more, and then a crowd of tourists arrived, taking over several tables. The noise level increased. Burke decided to skip dessert.

  He took his bike back up to the gardens and climbed aboard. He had made a decision. He’d ride back home—it was almost all downhill—and then he’d drive to the police station in Nice and ask someone about McManus’s autopsy.

  THREE HOURS LATER, BURKE made his request to a police officer at the front desk. She frowned and asked that he provide identification. He pulled out his beaten-up press pass from Lemaire. The police officer studied it. Then, without a word, she turned and disappeared behind a door. The power of the press.

  As he waited, Burke wondered if he wasn’t being profoundly stupid.

  A minute later, the desk cop was back, accompanied by a fifty-something man wearing a gray suit that was more than slightly wrinkled. The desk cop introduced the man as Inspector Jean-Pierre Fortin.

  Burke went through his routine again for the new man.

  “We had a news conference just the other day,” Fortin said. “Weren’t you there?”

  Burke nodded sheepishly. “I was there, but I’ve been wondering ever since if there have been more findings about the autopsy.”

  “There aren’t,” the cop said.

  Burke didn’t know what to say. Neither officer volunteered anything. The three of them just stood there, not moving, not saying anything.

  “Can you tell me if the doctor who did the autopsy tested for any specific medications that might have contributed to McManus’s death?” Burke said.

  He figured he’d try to make an impression, so he tossed out some of Henderson’s drug terms—erythromycin and clarithromycin—that he had practiced on the way over. To his surprise, Fortin told Burke to follow him and then led him through the heavy door into a restricted area.

  Burke followed Fortin down a windowless, institutional hallway to an office at the end. The office was airless and hot. There was nothing in the room that suggested a personal touch. Fortin sat behind a desk and motioned for Burke to take the metal chair facing him.

  “I’ve been looking into the McManus matter,” Fortin said.

  Burke nodded. He didn’t know what to say next, so he said nothing.

  “Why are you wondering about specialized medications like erythromycin and clarithromycin?” Fortin asked, his hands clasped across his stomach.

  Fortin seemed familiar with the medical terms. Burke explained he was struggling to accept that McManus had suddenly died and added that he understood there were a variety of drugs that could be legally ingested but lethal.

  Fortin stared at Burke. “You heard what we told you press people at the news conference?” he finally said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you somehow suspect something else?”

  “I’m not sure what I suspect,” Burke said.

  “Are you suggesting the autopsy was flawed?” Fortin asked, sounding slightly belligerent to Burke.

  “No. I’m just wondering how detailed the autopsy was,” Burke replied.

  “You’re a former pro cyclist, aren’t you? And aren’t you the guy who fucked up on TV, too?”

  There it was again, his television screwup. It was like everyone wanted to remind him of it. As if he could ever forget it.

  “That’s me,” he said.

  “And now you’re some kind of journalist or blogger or something, and you think we’re doing something wrong in how we’re handling the McManus death,” Fortin said.

  Fortin was making a statement, not asking a question. Burke was ready to leave.

  “No, I’m just a blogger for a website, and I’m only doing some follow-up,” he said, starting to stand. He’d had enough. “No insult intended.”

  “Your accent is Québec, right?” Fortin asked.

  That stopped Burke mid-movement. “Yes. I’m from Montréal.”

  “I know it,” Fortin said. “I’ve been there twice on holidays.”

  Burke sat back down. He didn’t have a clue what to do next.

  “Anyway, I can only tell you we’re still examining McManus’s death,” Fortin said.

  Fortin had just given him a hint that something was amiss with McManus’s death. What were the police checking up on? Burke wondered.

  “For what?”

  Fortin sighed. “It’s just standard practice,” he added.

  But Burke sensed it wasn’t “standard practice” in this case.

  He tried to go a step further. “Do you suspect someone was involved in McManus’s death?” he asked.

  Fortin shook his head. “As I said, it’s a procedural matter. We want to ensure we have examined everything we need to,” he said.

  Somehow, Burke didn’t think this was the way an interview was usually conducted. He sensed that Fortin was leading him somewhere.

  “Have you found any links between McManus’s death and the murder of Den Weent in Avignon?” Burke asked.

  Fortin stared at Burke, as if evaluating him somehow. “We’re working with investigators there. I believe the media have been told we have nothing definite yet.”

  “But you suspect something, don’t you?” Burke said, figuring he had nothing to lose by getting a little more aggressive.

  “As I said, we’re examining the evidence,” Fortin said. “Right now, we have a man who died when his heart suddenly stopped and another who was killed by an unknown assailant. Did you know either man personally?”

  Burke nodded. “I knew McManus a little and Den Weent better. I hope you catch his killer. He was a good man.”

  “Tell me about him,” Fortin said.

  It was more a demand than a request. Burke figured a journalist wouldn’t comply, but he wasn’t a journalist, so he related how Den Weent had been a smart, strong rider who understood cycling tactics and, as a result, had become a good strategist in races. Burke paused. It felt odd to talk about Den Weent in the past tense.

  “He wasn’t married,” Fortin said.

  Once again, it wasn’t a question, just a statement to probe for a response. Fortin’s interviewing strategy made Burke feel uncomfortable, but maybe that was his intent.

  “He was married several years ago, but he got divorced,” Burke sai
d after a short pause.

  “Was he one for the ladies?”

  “I don’t know,” Burke said. “Why are you asking me about his love life?”

  “Just curious,” Fortin said. He pointed at Burke. “There’s a lot of doping in the sport, isn’t there?”

  Burke bristled. “It’s gotten a lot better with the biological passport,” he said. “It’s a lot cleaner. Other sports should pay attention to what’s happening in cycling.”

  “But it’s a fair bet that some staff on pro cycling teams would know their way around a needle,” Fortin said.

  “Most of those individuals have been weeded out these last few years,” Burke told him.

  “Did you dope?”

  “Why do you care?” Burke was getting annoyed.

  “I take that as a yes.”

  Burke had doped for a small part of a single season and hated how he felt emotionally, so he stopped. Instead, he became fanatical about diet, although he certainly didn’t practice good eating habits anymore.

  “You take it whatever way you want,” Burke said. “I think I’m done here.”

  He stood, and Fortin did, too.

  As Burke was about to step into the hallway, Fortin added, “If you think of any connection between McManus and Den Weent beyond the obvious ones, let me know.”

  He handed Burke his card.

  Burke walked down the hallway with Fortin trailing behind him. He had the feeling the police in Nice and Avignon suspected the deaths of McManus and Den Weent were both murders—and were connected.

  Burke tried to decide if there was a blog there. Screw it, he told himself. His brain was on overload. He’d decide later if he would blog about McManus and Den Weent.

  It was time for Claude’s café.

  AFTER CHANGING INTO BEIGE linens, Burke strolled down to Claude’s café. He didn’t want to think about Fortin, McManus or Den Weent, so he focused on the beautiful flower pots positioned by the stairs as he went down toward the café.

  It wasn’t working. His mind was still spinning with Fortin’s comments. This was getting a bit silly. He wasn’t a journalist, nor was he a private investigator, yet he was now consumed by two deaths associated with the Tour de France and chasing a link between the two.