The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Burke didn’t care about more exposure. Then he recalled his involvement with the Nice TV show on Sunday after the final stage of the race.

  “What time is the show in Nice?” Lemaire asked.

  “9 p.m.”

  “You should have no trouble getting back in time,” Lemaire persisted.

  It was apparent that Lemaire had gone out on a limb with the Paris idea and couldn’t go back to his boss now and say his blogger refused to go. After more discussion, Burke finally relented. They sorted out a few details and then ended the call.

  A few minutes later, Hélène shuffled into the room. She had slept for ten hours, but still looked exhausted. Burke got her a coffee.

  “That’s better,” Hélène said after a couple of sips.

  Burke told her about Léon Petit, but Hélène didn’t seem interested. He expected her mind remained occupied with her uncle’s plight. Then he told her about his Paris assignment for Lemaire.

  “You have to go?” she said.

  “François made it difficult to say no,” Burke told her. “You know, you could come with me. I’d pay. It might be good to get away, although it’s just an overnight trip. I know you’re thinking about Claude, but there’s nothing that can be done for a while. His lawyer is the one who’s in charge now.”

  She shook her head and looked at him. She seemed a little disappointed.

  “I can’t go, not just because Uncle is in jail, but because he’ll need me to help out at the café,” she said.

  Burke had forgotten about the café. He nodded. She would be busy. Paris was unthinkable.

  He made Hélène an omelet for breakfast, but she only toyed with the food. Then they showered separately and dressed in silence.

  Hélène’s phone rang. It was Olivier Richard, and he wanted to meet with Hélène within the hour if possible. She agreed, asking what he wanted to discuss. She listened for a few moments and then rang off.

  “What’s happening with Claude?” Burke asked.

  “You’re interested?” Hélène asked icily.

  Burke bit back a sharp response and smiled. “Of course, I am,” he said in a soft voice. “He’s my friend.”

  Hélène smiled sadly back at him. “I’m sorry, chéri,” she said. “You didn’t deserve that. You’ve been good to Uncle and good to me. I know you care.”

  Burke just nodded.

  “Monsieur Richard says he has some instructions after meeting with Uncle early this morning,” Hélène said.

  “Then let’s get down there—if I’m invited?”

  That sparked Hélène, and she grabbed her purse. “I would like you there,” she said. “Four ears might be better than two.”

  They left the apartment and drove to within a block of the Old Harbor, fortunate to find a parking spot about fifty meters away from the building where Richard’s office was located.

  Richard worked in a small firm of five lawyers, but clearly, they did well, because the company’s furnishings were elegant. Burke expected Richard charged a lot and wondered how Claude could afford the fees. Maybe his friend’s café was doing much better than he thought.

  The receptionist—a middle-aged, well-dressed woman who looked like she didn’t miss a thing—took Hélène’s name and then disappeared for a moment. When she returned, Olivier Richard was with her. He looked surprised to see Burke there, but shook his hand after kissing Hélène three times on the cheek.

  “I’d like Paul here, Monsieur Richard,” Hélène explained. “As I said before, he’s a good friend of Claude’s and of mine.”

  “As you wish, Mademoiselle,” Richard said, bowing slightly and then leading them back along a hallway to his office, which had a spectacular view of the Old Harbor.

  While the outer office was elegant, Richard’s personal office was severe. The desk, which had a huge computer monitor sitting in the middle of it, along with two stacks of folders, was large and gunmetal gray. Behind Richard’s black swivel chair were two gray filing cabinets. Richard’s university diplomas hung between the filing cabinets. They were in his guests’ line of sight but hardly given much prominence.

  Burke’s attention was drawn to one element in the room—well, two actually. The lawyer had two prints by Henri Matisse. One was identified as Dishes and Fruit. The other was titled Open Window, Collioure. Somehow, facing each other on opposite walls, the two prints gave the impression of color exploding in the room.

  There was money here. Burke wondered if it came from defending café owners or from other sources.

  “Your uncle will not be released anytime soon,” the lawyer began. “In fact, he has limited privileges to contact the outside world other than through me. We’re living in a time when authorities are extremely concerned about potential acts of terrorism, and they’re taking a variety of stern measures. Your uncle is trapped by those concerns.”

  “They think Uncle Claude is a terrorist?” exclaimed Hélène.

  “Unfortunately, the police have linked him to an activist group that takes environmental protests beyond the occasional demonstration,” Richard said. “I believe his role in that group hasn’t involved any criminal activities, but the police clearly believe otherwise.”

  Hélène was leaning forward, and her mouth was open.

  “I will be working with your uncle to have the charges against him rejected by the court, but that isn’t why I asked you to this meeting,” the lawyer said. “Your uncle wants you to take over running his café.”

  “I was planning to help out as much as possible,” Hélène said.

  “I’m not talking about ‘helping out.’ I’m saying your uncle wants to transfer ownership of the café to you as soon as possible—this morning, if you accept. You might call it a precaution, although there are no guarantees about it.”

  “Me? Why? What’s happening?” Hélène asked.

  “For a variety of reasons, some legal and some not, it’s possible the future of the café could be in jeopardy, and any potential future sale could be ruined by the current investigation. I know this sounds sudden, but you need to recognize how quickly matters can change, at least when it comes to dealing with business operations owned by people who find themselves involved in the criminal justice system.”

  “Why is it different if I take it over?” Hélène asked.

  “You’re family. You would ‘inherit’ the café from your uncle. It would be different than if he tried to sell out. French law can be complex on such matters, but there’s no doubt a transfer of deed would provide some protection.”

  “But what happens if he’s released?” Hélène said.

  “You could deed it back to him after a certain time,” Richard said.

  “I don’t know,” Hélène said.

  It was obvious she had never expected this twist. The café was her uncle’s pride and joy. For him to give it to her came as a surprise even to Burke, and it seemed to suggest Claude didn’t think he’d win his case.

  “I don’t have any money to pay taxes or anything like that,” she said.

  Richard waved aside her concerns, explaining Claude had financial resources elsewhere that would handle all related costs.

  Burke wondered if those resources would also cover Richard’s bill.

  They discussed the transfer, and then Hélène agreed, signing a series of documents that had obviously been drafted that morning.

  “Now, we need to discuss the charges against Claude, and I need to ask some questions of you both—but privately,” Richard said. “It’s possible you’ll both have to testify in court.”

  Burke hadn’t considered that, but it made sense.

  Richard then asked Burke to leave the room so he could talk with Hélène alone. Fifteen minutes later, Hélène came out, and Richard ushered Burke back into his office.

  The lawyer asked Burke whether he had heard Claude mention any specific group or individual connected to protests against FP Developments. Burke told him he had not. The lawyer probed to see if B
urke had ever heard Claude discuss a “plot” to stop the company’s new project. Burke said he hadn’t. Then he asked Burke to describe Claude’s mood over the last few weeks, and Burke did his best to recount a couple of situations. He hoped he got across that his friend had been angry about FP Developments but was hardly the type to do anything beyond complain.

  “Good, very good,” Richard finally said, standing and reaching out to shake Burke’s hand. “Your responses have been both instructive and helpful. Thank you.”

  The lawyer led Burke back to the reception area and said that he would keep them up to date on Claude’s situation.

  “I anticipate I’ll meet with him again this afternoon and definitely tomorrow,” Richard said. “I’ll let you know how we’re proceeding. You must hope for the best, although it may seem difficult to do so at this moment.”

  Once outside, Burke and Hélène compared notes about their private sessions with Richard. They agreed they had said nothing to shake the lawyer.

  “It doesn’t sound good, Paul,” Hélène said.

  Burke took her hand. “We know your uncle, and we know he wouldn’t do this,” he said. “He has a good lawyer. Monsieur Richard seems very capable. We need to do what he said—hope for the best.”

  OLIVIER RICHARD DID MEET with Claude that day and the following morning, but nothing had changed. He told Hélène that her uncle was holding up well in detention and had even joked to a couple of other inmates that they needed to try his latest specialty at his café when they were all released.

  Still, Burke could see Hélène wasn’t convinced her uncle was managing well at all. More than once, he spotted her brushing away tears.

  Burke tried to contact Fortin but got nowhere. He left messages, but they weren’t returned.

  Meanwhile, the media seemed to have stopped howling, given that an arrest had been made in relation to the Vachon case. They were also busy examining the case against Léon Petit. Some facts were provided, but Burke felt most were missing in the reports. A spokesperson for the Nice police sounded positively puffed up on TV when she discussed how the two cases had been solved. Now it was all about what would happen in court.

  On Saturday morning, Burke kissed a sleeping Hélène goodbye and drove to the Nice airport for his early flight to Paris.

  Burke had been to Paris two dozen times before—maybe more—and he loved the city for its architecture, its museums and its cafés. He always spent hours walking around its various districts, up and down its narrow streets and along its magnificent boulevards. This time, without Hélène and with his thoughts clouded by Claude’s predicament, he doubted Paris could work its magic on him.

  He dropped his stuff off at his small hotel in the Marais district—it was too early to get into a room—and wandered about with his notepad and camera in his shoulder bag. Soon, he was caught in the horde of people marching toward the massive Les Halles shopping complex. They were like a mass of lemmings, and it took some effort for Burke to escape them. He was no fan of going underground to spend money in huge amounts.

  He went into the condensed Jewish area, which was historical, funky and one of his favorite spots in the city, and decided to have lunch at a café he always checked out when he was in town. As usual, it was busy, and Burke found himself sitting an elbow’s distance away from a middle-aged couple from Toronto who initiated a conversation by asking if he knew any English and, when he said he did, wondered if he could point them in the direction of the Luxembourg Gardens.

  “We’re tracking down some of the sites used in that Woody Allen movie, Midnight in Paris,” the woman explained. “It was a wonderful show, and we decided we had to see those places personally.”

  Burke told them they were on the wrong side of the Seine River and then provided details on how to get there.

  “You speak very good English,” the woman observed.

  Burke shrugged. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m actually from Montréal.”

  “That would explain your French,” she said.

  “I live in France, although not here,” Burke said, grateful for the distraction. “Down south, in a village just outside Nice.”

  “We’re going to Nice next week,” her husband said. “We hear it’s a beautiful area.”

  “I like it,” Burke said.

  “Sorry to be so inquisitive, but what brought you over to France to live?” the woman asked.

  Burke had time, so he told them how he’d been a pro cyclist, racing all over Europe and living in Spain and then the Netherlands before basing himself in Nice.

  “Those deaths linked to the Tour de France are terrible,” the woman said. “We’ve been reading all about them and seeing it on the news. Did you know anyone involved?”

  “Not really,” Burke lied. He had no interest in going further.

  “Do they have the death penalty in France?” she asked after another pause.

  “No,” Burke said.

  “Good,” she replied.

  After lunch, Burke decided it was time to do a little work, so he wished his new friends a good trip and walked to the rue de Rivoli. There, an army of workers was setting up barricades for the next day’s final stage of the Tour de France, when close to a million spectators would watch the riders go round and round on the concluding circuit. It would be a magical moment for the riders after more than three weeks of punishing racing. Burke had finished only once, and he had been thrilled, if exhausted, when he crossed the finish line. Then he had gotten incredibly drunk.

  Burke chatted with some of the workers and then got into a conversation in English with some Dutch fans who were staking out an area near the Place de la Concorde for the next day’s final stage.

  “It’s been a very unusual Tour de France,” said one of the Dutchmen—a towering man draped in an orange T-shirt, wearing an orange baseball cap. “I don’t think the organizers planned on people getting murdered.”

  The other three Dutchmen in his group nodded.

  “If you ask me, I think it’s because there’s too much pressure on the riders and their teams,” the tall man continued. More nods from his friends. “When the pressure gets too great, people break. Of course, I think the media are happy about what happened. It makes for more interest.”

  Burke asked if he could film them for his video blog, and the Dutchmen readily agreed. The tall man did most of the talking, reiterating what he’d said before, while his friends added a few similar comments.

  Burke thanked them and turned to leave.

  “You’re the Paul Burke who swore on television, yes?” called out the tall Dutchman, pointing a finger at Burke.

  “Too much alcohol,” Burke said with a shrug.

  The four Dutchmen laughed.

  “There’s nothing wrong with having drinks,” the Dutch leader said. “Tonight, we will have too much alcohol. We will hurt tomorrow for the final stage, but who cares? This is Paris, and this is the Tour de France. It’s a time to party. We just won’t get the chance to swear on TV.”

  Burke smiled politely and wondered if his lapse of judgment would end up on his tombstone: Here lies Paul Burke. He swore on French TV. Now he’s dead.

  Burke walked to the Champs-Elysées where several hundred more workers were busy preparing for the next day and where tens of thousands of people were strolling along, more than a few decked out in TDF clothing. He wondered how many people knew about the arrest of Léon Petit.

  He thought about Claude. And Hélène.

  He went to a nearby kiosk and got a panini and a can of Kronenbourg 1664. Then he found a bench, sat and texted Hélène, asking how she was doing and if she had talked to her uncle.

  Ten minutes later, his smartphone alerted him to a text. It was from Hélène. She said she was doing OK and, according to Olivier Richard, so was Claude, although he remained in custody. Then she asked how Burke was doing in Paris.

  He told her he was talking to lots of people and added that he missed her.

  “I mis
s you too, chéri,” she wrote back.

  Burke sensed that Hélène was struggling, and he wished he was back there with her.

  And that’s when Burke realized he was probably in love with Hélène.

  THAT EVENING, BURKE SENT in a blog and posted his video version for Lemaire’s perusal. He thought his efforts were reasonably good, thanks to the observations of the Dutch bunch and the excitement surrounding the next day’s final stage of the race.

  Fifteen minutes after sending in his stuff, Burke’s phone rang.

  “I received both your written and video blogs, Paul,” said François Lemaire. “Some good work, although you still need to work on your spelling.”

  Burke, who was exhausted, thanked him.

  “I have some good news for you,” Lemaire said. “I had Antoine check up on followers for your blog.”

  “Oh, yes?” Burke replied, trying to sound interested.

  “Your written blog has 21,575 followers and is growing by the day,” Lemaire said.

  “Is 21,575 good?”

  “It’s not bad at all. In fact, it’s better than I had expected. The way it’s going, you might get up to fifty thousand one day.”

  “That sounds good,” Burke said.

  “And that’s just followers. A couple of your blogs had thirty-five thousand hits.”

  That seemed impressive to Burke, though he wasn’t entirely sure he understood the difference between followers and hits. He was too tired to ask.

  “And your video blog has gone from 250 followers to, the last time I looked, just over ten thousand,” Lemaire continued.

  “Good.”

  “Antoine dug into the analytics and discovered some other interesting facts,” Lemaire said.

  “Analytics? What are those?” Burke asked.

  “It’s a way to see who your readers or viewers are—or at least where they’re from—and how much time they spend on a site or a page. Want to know where most of your followers come from?”

  Burke didn’t really care but told Lemaire he wanted to know.