The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  That was exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t sure if Petit was truly involved, but there was something about the mechanic and his mother that made him uneasy. If Petit ever learned that Burke was implicating him to the police, Petit would be livid and maybe dangerous. Burke realized at that moment that he thought Petit was capable of violence—real, serious violence. He shuddered.

  “I’m only asking questions for my blog,” Burke said. “Are you considering Petit a suspect?”

  “I can’t tell you if we have any suspects,” Fortin said.

  “But you believe the deaths of McManus and Den Weent are connected,” Burke said.

  Fortin said nothing.

  “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said you’re investigating ‘the case.’”

  “I am not confirming anything about the death of Pierre McManus, or Mark Den Weent, for that matter.”

  Burke was out of questions and scrambled for something to say.

  “When did you last talk to Mark Den Weent?” Fortin asked.

  Burke told him. Fortin nodded.

  “At that time, did Den Weent seem to think McManus had died of anything other than a heart attack?”

  “No.”

  “Den Weent, it seems, had a reputation as someone who didn’t miss much,” Fortin said. “Is that how you would describe him?”

  Burke agreed.

  “You’ve had some conversations recently with Petit,” Fortin said. It was a statement, not a question, and Burke wondered how the detective knew that.

  Burke confirmed that he had talked with the bike mechanic recently.

  Fortin asked what Burke had talked to Petit about. Burke gave him a condensed version, leaving out Petit’s volatility when Burke had persisted about Petit’s mother and McManus.

  “Would you describe him as angry during those conversations?” Fortin said.

  “At times, he was upset,” Burke said.

  “Is he an angry man normally?”

  Burke said he didn’t know Petit well enough to make that judgment.

  “Why did you mention masking agents in connection with McManus’s death?” Fortin asked.

  “Given McManus’s fitness level, it just seems improbable he would die from his heart suddenly stopping, despite what that doctor said back at the news conference,” Burke said. “But then, I’m not a doctor, and I could have the whole thing totally wrong.”

  “I understand you and Petit’s mother had an interesting discussion during a public forum on drugs in sport,” Fortin said.

  “We talked,” Burke said.

  “She was angry about McManus,” Fortin said. “In fact, it seems she might have hated him.”

  Burke was hearing more statements from Fortin than questions.

  He nodded at Fortin.

  The door opened, and Fortin’s shadow, Côté, walked in. Fortin gave the briefest of nods. Côté stood in a corner.

  “When a mechanic is working on the Tour, does he get much free time?” Fortin asked, rapidly changing the subject, which he was making a habit of.

  “Only to sleep a few hours,” Burke said.

  “Does a mechanic come and go on his own, or does someone need to know where he is at all times during a big race like the Tour?”

  Burke didn’t have a clue why Fortin was going in this direction.

  “During the Tour, a mechanic is on call virtually all the time,” Burke said. “He is at the beck and call of riders, the directeur sportif, other management, other mechanics.”

  “It sounds tiring,” Fortin said.

  “It’s an exhausting, stressful job. I wouldn’t want to do it.”

  “And the pay?” Fortin asked.

  Burke figured Fortin knew the answer to that as well.

  “Enough to pay the bills and probably not much more,” he told the detective. “They do it for love of the work, for the most part.”

  “Indeed,” Fortin said.

  For a brief moment, Fortin appeared deep in thought.

  “I have a couple of final questions for you, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said.

  “About what?” Burke asked.

  “You’re an ex-pro cyclist, and you cover the sport to some degree these days. When a cycling team dopes, who dispenses the drugs? The team doctor? A trainer? Someone else?”

  Burke said nothing. Fortin could find the answers elsewhere.

  “I understand your reluctance to say anything, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said. “If you answer my question and save me some time, I might be able to help you with whatever story you’re working on that involves Yves Vachon.”

  Fortin was using the Vachon matter—and Claude’s possible involvement—as a hook. Burke was still reluctant to talk much about drugs, but he expected Fortin would keep prying.

  Fortin leaned toward Burke.

  “I will tell you right now,” Fortin said, “that your friend, the café owner, is off the hook for the Vachon death, but there are people who are pushing for his rearrest and conviction for conspiracy in helping create a riot that led to the willful destruction of private property. They also want him to be charged with premeditated attacks against police officers. And they want him for tax fraud.”

  “Claude, a conspirator and a tax fraud?” Burke blurted out.

  “A conviction on any of those charges could lead to some serious time in prison. A conviction on all three would lead to several years.”

  Burke didn’t know what to say. Claude really was in a mess and didn’t know it. Claude, and his lawyer, thought he was free.

  “As I said, there are people pushing for action against him,” continued Fortin. “But there’s some counterevidence that suggests those charges could be a little weak.”

  Burke finally saw the game.

  “A few minutes ago, you gave me some information about Léon Petit,” Fortin said. “Now, I’m asking for information that’s more general. I’m asking for you to help save my time, and these days, time is even more valuable, especially when your friends in the media are putting a spotlight on us.”

  It was a trade. If Burke was a journalist, he would probably protest—hard. But he wasn’t. And Claude was his friend.

  “When I was racing, I took drugs twice, and then I quit because I hated how they made me feel—not physically, but emotionally,” Burke began. “When I refused to dope, I got into deep trouble with the team.”

  “And most teams doped back then, right?” Fortin said.

  “Not now, but back then, it happened a fair amount,” Burke admitted.

  “So who would have known?” Côté interjected.

  “Just about everybody,” Burke said. “The doctor would likely have been the person who would supervise the doping. He would probably do most of the actual doping, too. But sometimes, he’d have someone else do it.”

  “Like a masseur or…” Fortin began.

  “Soigneur is the actual title. It refers to someone who handles several tasks to help a rider recover and then prepare for the next day’s race or training,” Burke said.

  “And a mechanic? Would a mechanic know?”

  Burke saw Fortin was thinking Petit. What the hell, he thought. Tell Fortin the truth and let Petit fend for himself.

  “Like I said, virtually everyone would know,” Burke said. “I expect that a mechanic ran a doping errand here or there. But a mechanic who is also skilled in massage and nutrition might have a little extra understanding of how to help a rider cope.”

  “And it’s possible no one would ever check a mechanic’s private toolbox for any, say, drugs?” Fortin wondered aloud.

  “Mechanics share some tools, but mostly, they use their own, and no one dares to borrow anything without permission,” Burke told him.

  Fortin nodded. He looked at Côté, who nodded back. Fortin stood.

  “You gave us nothing that was earth-shattering, but it has been helpful, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said. “If you think of anything else, please tell us. It would help us—and maybe we could do even more for Mon
sieur Brière.”

  Burke sensed Claude had just about wriggled free but not quite.

  “Here’s a small observation, Inspector,” Burke said. “A truly good bike mechanic on the pro circuit has to work quickly and efficiently. Speed is everything. So is quality of work.”

  Fortin looked a little puzzled but remained patient.

  “He completes tasks he has done hundreds, maybe thousands of times before, but the mechanic is always focused. He has to be. One mistake could cost a racer a win, or result in some terrible injury. When the mechanic completes the work, his hands are usually clean—maybe cleaner than yours are now. He is so good that he doesn’t get dirty. He’s so good…” Burke paused for effect, “that he doesn’t get cuts or nicks on his fingers or knuckles.”

  Fortin was seeing the light.

  “Monsieur Petit’s hands are a little chewed up,” Burke said.

  “And Petit is good?”

  “A friend who knows about such matters tells me he’s as good as it gets.”

  Fortin nodded. He looked at Côté, then back at Burke.

  “Your friend, Monsieur Brière, could be all right after all, with the right influence,” Fortin said. “Inspector Jardine is in charge of the Vachon matter, but I might be able to have a word with him.”

  Burke didn’t know exactly what “have a word” meant, but he figured it couldn’t hurt Claude’s situation.

  “Thank you,” Burke said.

  Fortin pointed a finger at Burke. “You’re more than what I thought you were, Monsieur Burke.”

  Burke left the office under the guidance of a uniformed officer. He glanced back and saw Fortin talking animatedly with Sylvie Côté. He wondered what Fortin had learned from him—and what he had learned from Fortin.

  Burke exited the building and went to the closest bench. He pulled out his notepad from his shoulder bag and jotted down some of what Fortin had said. Then he scribbled a couple of sentences for his blog. He reread them and saw they weren’t anything special.

  “Shit,” he mumbled to himself.

  He looked up.

  Fortin and Côté were walking quickly down the street like they were late for an appointment. Burke could only speculate where they were heading in such a rush.

  AFTER BUMBLING HIS WAY through a video blog with the police station in the background, Burke drove home. He wasn’t sure Lemaire would be impressed with the product, but he had other matters he needed to handle.

  He had to talk to Claude, and he had to convince him to keep a low profile. No more protests, no more confrontations with police.

  After parking his car, Burke jogged to the café, hoping Claude would be there.

  And he was.

  “We need to talk, and we need to talk now,” Burke said.

  Claude looked like he was going to make a joke, but Burke’s face must have convinced him otherwise, because he said nothing instead. He got a server to handle his tables, and then he led Burke to his tiny, windowless office just off the kitchen.

  “You look like something bad has happened, my friend,” said Claude, dropping into an ancient swivel chair that squeaked under his bulk.

  Burke sat opposite and related what Fortin had said about possible charges. Claude’s face lost color at the mention of prison.

  When he was finished, Burke waited for Claude to say something, but the older man didn’t say a word. A minute passed. Burke still waited.

  “We supposedly live in a free society, but this justice system of ours is corrupt,” Claude said. “They want to put me in prison? I’m not the one ruining our little world here. I’m not the one who’s trying to drive away the common people. I’m not the one—”

  “Claude, this is goddamn serious!” Burke said, angry. “You need to understand that you could end up in prison for a long time if you get into any more trouble. Forget your right to protest. Look after yourself. You’ve said some stupid things, and people have noticed.”

  “Stupid things?” Claude exclaimed.

  “You heard me, Claude,” Burke said. “You’re in trouble because you decided to provoke people. Now you could pay the price.”

  Claude opened his mouth to speak, but then pressed his lips back together. Burke watched as he calmed down. His friend sunk deeper into his chair and nodded. His energy was gone, and he looked exhausted.

  “I know you’re helping me, Paul, and I’m grateful,” he said. “All of this makes me angry, but mostly, it makes me sad. I promise to stay out of trouble. I’ll look after my little café here and keep my nose clean.”

  “You’ve promised that before,” Burke said.

  Claude nodded. “That’s true, I have,” he said. “But this time, I won’t break my word.”

  Burke studied his friend and believed him. Claude looked beaten—and a little scared. Burke decided not to include how Fortin suggested Claude could be off the hook in return for Burke providing information.

  “I should get back to my customers,” Claude said, getting slowly to his feet. He offered his hand to Burke, who shook it. “You’re a good friend, Paul. So much more than a regular customer. I won’t forget.”

  Claude went back outside, Burke in his wake. They nodded to each other, and then Burke went home.

  There, he packaged his video blog and sent it off to Lemaire. He figured the editor wouldn’t be happy with the product, but at least it was something.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, Lemaire was on the phone telling Burke that the blog was rough, but would be usable with some extra editing.

  “You can do better, and you need to do better, Paul,” Lemaire said. “Were you rushing?”

  “I was. Sorry. I figured I had to get it to you as fast as possible,” said Burke. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it would work.

  “Apology accepted,” Lemaire said. “Now, I have the sense you believe the Nice police might actually produce a result involving McManus and maybe even Den Weent.”

  “I didn’t want to mention in my blog anything that might not happen, but I think we’re going to hear something soon from the police,” Burke said.

  “Are you holding back some information, Paul?”

  “No, I’m just saying the police sound a little more optimistic about finding out who might have killed McManus and Den Weent. I think they now believe the two deaths are linked.”

  Burke considered giving Lemaire all the details of his conversation with Fortin about Petit but, in the end, opted not to. It was still too early.

  “If you hear anything, you must alert me, Paul,” Lemaire said. “Understand?”

  “I understand,” Burke replied. “Since we’re talking about crime, is there anything new on the Vachon murder? I read the nationals this morning.”

  “My reporter didn’t get much different, and he’s good,” Lemaire said. “But with all the pressure on the police, I think they’ll produce some result very soon.”

  “It’s all a little odd that the police have nothing,” Burke commented. “I mean, isn’t this the age of video surveillance and satellite imagery and all that stuff?”

  “Yes, well, video surveillance is slowly getting bigger along the Riviera, especially in Nice, but there are some politicians down here who oppose its use,” Lemaire said. “They don’t want us to be like the Brits, who seem to have a camera or two on every street corner.”

  “Does your reporter know if there’s any video of Vachon and his minder getting hit by the vehicle?” Burke asked.

  “He said the police aren’t making any comment whatsoever about what they have.”

  That wasn’t a surprise. He asked if the reporter knew if there were any street cameras in the area where Vachon and his bodyguard were killed. If there weren’t, then the matter of video would be irrelevant, unless some bystander happened to catch the accident with a smartphone.

  “He said there are a couple of video cameras, but they’re a fair distance away,” Lemaire replied.

  Burke wondered if the hit-and-run driver knew
the position of video cameras before running over Vachon and his bodyguard.

  They ended the call a few moments later, with Burke again promising to let Lemaire know if he learned anything new about the McManus and Den Weent deaths.

  For the next hour, Burke relaxed on his couch. Once more, he was mentally exhausted, and yet he couldn’t stop his mind from spinning from thought to thought.

  The phone rang. It was the sports anchor at a Nice TV station.

  “Next Sunday, we’re doing a weekend show about the cycling season, especially the Tour de France, since it ends then. We would like you on the panel, if you’re available,” said the anchor.

  “Me? Why me?” Burke asked.

  “Your performance at that Secrets of the Pro Cycling World forum made the news, and lots of people liked what they heard. They want to hear more from you. We’ll pay you to do the show.”

  Burke could hardly believe it, but he agreed, especially when he heard what he’d be paid. The anchor seemed pleased. They made the arrangements.

  Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

  “It’s Matthieu Martin.”

  Burke didn’t recognize the name, but the accent was definitely from Québec.

  “We met a few days ago in Avignon at the police station,” said the voice. “I’m a reporter with a Montréal newspaper.”

  Now Burke remembered. “I’m surprised to hear from you,” he said. “And I’m curious how you got my number.”

  “I’m a reporter. I can get someone’s number without too much trouble,” Martin said with a laugh. “Anyway, my editor wants me to do a profile of you—an updated version. Your comments at the recent forum made the wire service, and I pitched the idea you’d be worth a follow-up piece.”

  “Are you here in the Nice area?” Burke asked.

  “No, I’m still following the Tour, but we can do it by Skype, if you’re OK with that,” Martin said.

  “I don’t have Skype,” Burke said.

  He’d heard about the software but had never had a need for it.

  “It’s easy enough to set up, especially if you have a laptop with a camera built in,” Martin said.