Burke wondered how he could “contaminate” the investigation, but he didn’t say that. A bit calmer now, Burke nodded.
“I hear you,” he said.
“No more questions then?” Fortin said.
Burke nodded. It wasn’t his business anyway. Besides, he had other matters to deal with. Behind Fortin, the cyclists were on the Alpe, coming up on the point where his race had exploded.
“Now, tell me, what did you talk to Karin Petit about?” Fortin said.
Burke sighed. Feeling he had little choice, he told Fortin what Karin Petit had told him. Côté jotted a couple of notes during his retelling of their meeting.
“Was she still angry in your estimation?” Fortin asked.
Burke thought about it. She had seemed angry at McManus at the start of their brief chat and clearly loathed the directeur sportif, but she had calmed down by the end of their conversation. Burke told that to Fortin.
“Does Léon Petit know you talked to his mother?” Fortin said.
“I don’t know,” Burke said.
“And what’s your sense of their relationship beyond being mother and son?”
Burke didn’t know exactly what Fortin was looking for, but he managed a response: “I’d say they’re close and very protective of each other, maybe a little more than many mothers and sons. But as I said, I don’t really know.”
Fortin asked a couple more harmless questions, which Burke answered, and then he stood and nodded to Côté, who closed her notebook.
“Thank you for your time, monsieur, and don’t forget my advice,” Fortin said. “I don’t want to visit you again on this same matter, because if I do, it won’t be pleasant for you.”
“I got it,” Burke said, standing as well. He decided to be bold. “Now I have a request for you.”
“I didn’t make a request of you, monsieur, but go ahead and ask,” Fortin said.
“If you find out what happened, will you let me know?”
Fortin shook his head. “That’s what the media are for, monsieur.”
And then they left.
Burke went to his window and watched the two officers walk toward their car. He sensed Fortin was getting close to some answers. Or maybe all of them.
SEVERAL HEADLINES ON DISPLAY at Jean’s newsagent’s shop suggested eco-terrorists might have been responsible for the death of Yves Vachon.
“What do you think, Paul? Do you think eco-terrorists killed Vachon?” asked Jean.
“It seems a little odd,” Burke said. He scanned the first paragraph of one story. “Two days after the national media criticize the police for lack of progress in the investigation of Vachon’s death, we hear that eco-terrorists might be behind what happened to him. That hardly seems coincidental to me.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Jean agreed. “I read a couple of the stories, and the spokesperson for the police said they aren’t ruling out eco-terrorists.”
“Did they identify any particular group?” Burke asked.
“No,” Jean told him. “The spokesperson said it could be a group that is known or some radical group that no one knows anything about. Or it could be neither.”
“You know, Jean, I’m not even sure I know what an eco-terrorist is.”
Jean laughed. “Me neither. It sounds like something you would hear about in a movie. But maybe I’m not keeping up with the latest news.”
“I doubt that,” Burke said. “You read more papers than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Anyway, besides selling more papers, I bet this eco-terrorist thing takes a little heat off the flics,” Jean added.
The story worked well for both the police and the media—for the moment.
But was it possible that eco-terrorists—whatever that label meant—were really behind Vachon’s death? Lemaire had said protest groups often alerted the media when they took action, and with that in mind, Burke thought it was unlikely that eco-terrorists were responsible for Vachon’s death. There had been no public statement from any such group, and mention of them seemed too coincidental. It seemed clumsy to bring eco-terrorists into the discussion about Vachon’s demise.
His head swam with various plots, but before he could get carried away, Burke decided to postpone further analysis—for a couple of hours, at least. He bought his usual three papers and added a couple of extras to read later when his mind had cleared. As he bid adieu to Jean, Madame Marois drove by, Plato propped against the dashboard for a good view, as usual. Burke waved, but she didn’t seem to spot him.
“Two days in a row,” Jean said. “The old lady must be feeling better. She isn’t the most sociable person, but it’s good to see her getting out more regularly.”
Back home, Burke put aside his papers and turned on his computer. He couldn’t take a break from whatever was happening; his mind wouldn’t let him. He typed, “eco-terrorism” into Google. There were almost 675,000 results. He tried “eco-terrorism and Yves Vachon,” and links to recent news stories appeared.
He spent the next hour reading Vachon-related stories, but they didn’t contain much new information, just speculation about some group potentially being responsible.
During his research, Burke noticed an Irishman had won l’Alpe d’Huez the previous day. He’d forgotten all about the finish in the wake of Fortin’s visit.
It was time for a training ride. Maybe his mind would allow him to enjoy it.
He’d told himself he’d work on a blog later, and following that, he would do a little research for the upcoming panel scheduled right after the finish of the Tour de France.
Burke rode for almost three hours, covering just over one hundred kilometers along the coast and in the hills behind. He liked how he felt as he rode back into his village—a little tired but energized. He could have gone longer, but there were things to do.
He dismounted by the little park, figuring the short walk home would be good for his legs. He turned a corner and almost bumped into Claude, who was clutching a couple of newspapers, the headlines of which read, “eco-terrorists.”
Claude looked startled. “Sorry, Paul,” he said. “I was lost in reading this crap.”
“Yes, I saw them earlier,” Burke said. “A new development in the Vachon case, it seems.”
“It’s all shit!” Claude snarled. “This is all about the police and the politicos trying to make a statement.”
“What’s the statement?”
“That they’re working hard and the only people who would kill a good man like Vachon are the terrible, murderous eco-terrorists,” Claude said. “I can’t believe the papers ran this garbage.”
Burke shrugged. He didn’t disagree.
“You know, it was probably some drunk teenager who hit him and his bodyguard, got scared and drove off, probably in Daddy’s car,” Claude said. “But the police can’t find him, so they’ve come up with other ideas to take the heat, because, after all, Vachon was a big shot, and his death needs to be solved.”
It seemed plausible. Burke had his own doubts about what the police were chasing.
“This whole eco-terrorist crap is going to get in the way of any protests against the FP Developments project, and that’s the worst part,” Claude said.
“Claude, are you getting involved in more protests?” Burke asked. “You know you have to stay away from that stuff. The police are watching you. I’ve told you that. And you promised to keep out of trouble.”
Claude waved away Burke’s concern.
“I’m not planning to get arrested again,” he said. “I got your message before. But others will continue the fight, and it’s a fight worth waging.”
“Well, be careful, Claude,” Burke said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
Claude broke into a smile. “Yes, Father, I’ll obey,” he said.
Claude exhausted him. “Forget the jokes,” he said. “Just be smart.”
“And treat my customers better, too, right?” Claude added, still smiling.
Burke rel
ented. “Yes, and treat your customers better.”
“Of course, if anyone gives me a difficult time about my soufflé or cassoulet, I can’t be held responsible for my actions,” Claude said.
“That’s a different matter, Claude,” Burke said. “When it comes to food in France, all crimes of passion are forgiven.”
“As they should be.”
They parted, Claude off to prepare for his lunch crowd and Burke to shower and start working on his next blog.
In his apartment, as he put away his bike and stripped off his sweat-stained cycling clothes, Burke questioned if Claude really would stay out of trouble.
He had doubts.
FIVE HOURS LATER, BURKE knew the answer.
Claude had been arrested yet again and, according to a very upset Hélène, faced several charges, the most serious being conspiracy to commit murder.
“When did this happen?” Burke asked Hélène over the phone.
“Two hours ago,” she said, her voice cracking. “Didn’t you see the police cars? Two police detectives came right to the café terrace, along with another four officers who had their guns drawn. It was so frightening. They grabbed Uncle. The two detectives—”
“Were the two detectives the ones we met the other day at the station?”
“They were,” she said. “I knew I recognized them. They were calm, but the police in uniform were very rough as they dragged Uncle away.”
Fortin and Côté. And others.
Burke pictured Claude being dragged away, the customers scattering and Fortin looking more than a little smug as he watched the action. Côté might have appeared calm but probably wanted to either kick or punch his friend.
But why were Fortin and Côté working on the Vachon death? Had they been transferred from the McManus and Den Weent case? Burke shook his head. It didn’t matter why Fortin and Côté were involved in the Vachon investigation, at least not at the moment. His friend was once again in police custody and in the most serious trouble yet, this time facing charges that could earn him a long prison term. As for Fortin’s earlier comments about Claude being off the hook, they had been either lies or something had happened after the detective had made them.
“Where are you now?” Burke asked Hélène.
“The police station, but no one will talk to me,” she said, starting to cry. “What do I do now? This is horrible! Uncle Claude promised he wouldn’t get in any more trouble.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Burke said. “Call his lawyer in the meantime.”
He thought about telling Hélène it would all work out, but he didn’t really believe that, so he said nothing and hung up.
For the first time, Burke questioned Claude’s innocence.
When he arrived outside the police station, he spotted Hélène talking animatedly with a short, slender, middle-aged man. Burke guessed he was Claude’s lawyer.
He was. Olivier Richard.
“It’s OK to talk to Paul,” Hélène told the lawyer. “He’s a friend of Uncle’s, and he knows most of what has happened recently.” She took Burke’s hand. “He’s also with me.”
Richard nodded.
“I can provide only basic information,” Richard explained. “It’s a matter of confidentiality with a client.”
“I understand,” Burke said.
“The police apparently developed some suspicions about another man who had been involved in the same protests as Claude,” Richard said. “So, they got legal permission to check this individual’s emails and texts. Some of those emails recommended more dramatic action.”
“Dramatic action?” Burke said.
“They advocated for violence beyond a confrontation with police,” Richard said. “There was mention of personal intimidation against some of the executives of FP Developments. There was also mention of explosive devices.”
“Bombs?” Burke said in a voice loud enough that a couple of passersby swiveled their heads to look at them.
Richard gestured for Burke to calm down.
“Sorry, sorry,” Burke said. “Was Claude involved in any of those emails or texts?”
He feared the answer.
Richard nodded. “He wrote several to this person. In a couple,” the lawyer said, “he critiqued the strategy being suggested.”
“And what did Claude say in those emails?”
“That is where I must stop discussing the case,” Richard said, but his face and his shrug told Burke that Claude had likely supported some violent action against the now-dead boss of FP Developments.
“What a mess,” Burke said.
“It will not be an easy case,” Richard said, looking at Hélène.
She nodded.
“I don’t think he’ll be released this time,” the lawyer added. “I expect he’ll be considered a flight risk, if not a threat to offend again.”
Richard excused himself, saying he had to make some arrangements for Claude’s initial court appearance. Looking glum, he marched off.
This was worse than Burke had thought. He glanced at Hélène. She was distraught, struggling to find any words.
“Let’s go to your place, away from here,” he said, draping an arm over her shoulders. “Monsieur Richard seems to be doing all he can. You need to trust him.”
Burke kept his worries that Richard would be able to get Claude off the hook to himself. Emails and texts discussing violence against someone who then showed up dead? Not good.
Once in her place, Hélène seemed to unwind, dropping onto her ancient couch. She closed her eyes, as if trying to block out everything that had happened in the last few hours. It was apparent how much she loved her uncle.
Burke got two glasses of wine, but Hélène hardly touched hers. He tried to get her to talk about non-Claude-related events, but she barely answered. At supper time, he made a salade Niçoise. Hélène ate a few bites and discarded the remainder.
It seemed there was nothing he could do to lighten her mood.
He stayed the night, holding her in his arms while she slept, wondering how his world had been turned upside down.
BURKE WOKE JUST AFTER six, having finally drifted off to sleep at 2 a.m. He was becoming an early bird, whether he liked it or not.
Hélène stayed in bed, snoring slightly as she slept. Burke hoped she’d keep sleeping for a few more hours. Her dream world had to be better than the reality that awaited her.
After gently shutting her bedroom door, Burke made himself some coffee and turned on the TV to catch the morning news.
That’s when he learned Léon Petit was in custody and had been charged with the murders of both Pierre McManus and Mark Den Weent. A clip showed him being bundled into the police station by uniformed officers. Unlike so many others, Petit walked stiffly upright, his face open to the world without any coat draped over his head to hide his features. He looked both proud and defiant as he went up the station stairs.
For just a second, Fortin and Côté appeared in the background. They were watching Petit intently.
The reporter at the station stated that recent evidence had led to the arrest. Burke wondered if “recent evidence” meant some of the information he had provided Fortin and Côté.
The story then went to a clip of Fortin commenting that the complexity of the case had made it difficult to make the link between McManus’s death and Den Weent’s murder, but that recent information indicated Léon Petit had been involved in both cases.
When asked how McManus had died, Fortin turned to the camera and said, “The accused has skills few knew about.”
Then he left, his statement leaving the reporter and viewers confused.
Burke shook his head. Fortin had used whatever—and whomever—he needed to get a result. Burke guessed the inspector hadn’t gotten his rank by just luck or politics.
A while later, as he sipped his fourth cup of coffee, Burke’s cell phone rang.
It was François Lemaire, breaking the news about Petit.
�
��I’ve heard,” Burke told him.
“Well, you’re plugged into the news,” Lemaire said with some admiration in his voice. “And I expect you have also heard about Claude Brière, your friend?”
Burke said he had.
“Everything is before the French courts, and that’s a system that doesn’t move quickly,” Lemaire said.
Burke remained silent.
“What are you doing Saturday and Sunday?” asked Lemaire.
“I don’t know, François,” Burke replied with some exasperation. “I’m sort of busy right now, especially with Claude.”
“Like I said, nothing will happen quickly now,” Lemaire said.
“I didn’t know you were a lawyer,” Burke snapped.
“Easy, Paul. I’m not, but I know the French judicial system. It only moves at one speed—glacial.”
“So?”
“So I want you to go to Paris on Saturday and come back Sunday. I want you to blog about the final stage of the most controversial edition of the Tour de France in decades, maybe ever. I mean, besides the racing, we’ve had two murders and a team mechanic charged with those deaths—and you’ve somehow been in the middle of it. After Petit’s arrest, I ran the idea by my boss this morning, and he totally supports you going. Expenses paid, of course.”
Normally, Burke would have enjoyed a trip to Paris on someone else’s coin, but not this time. He told Lemaire that. He added he wanted to help his friend and be there for Claude’s niece who, he admitted officially for the first time, was his girlfriend.
“I know you’re worried about your friend and your girlfriend,” Lemaire said, dropping his voice to sound sympathetic. Burke wasn’t buying it, though. “Take your girlfriend. It would probably do her a world of good to get away for a couple of days.”
Burke figured there was no way Hélène would leave Nice when her beloved uncle was in jail and facing serious charges.
“Well, I really need you to go, Paul,” Lemaire said. “You can fly up Saturday morning, come back after the race on Sunday afternoon. You need to do this for me—and for yourself. It will be great exposure.”
The Bastard is Dead Page 20
