“Léon often doesn’t have the best people skills,” whispered André, noticing the exchange.
Burke wasn’t bothered. It seemed talking to people was a stretch for the mechanic, although Petit had been almost chatty the other day. He seemed much more comfortable alone, working on bikes. Or with his mother.
Burke talked a few minutes with André and then left him so he could attend to two young cyclists who had just walked in. Burke returned his attention to Léon, who was putting the wheel back onto the bike. In the background, a radio played some pop music.
“I saw you outside the forum yesterday with your mother,” Burke said.
Léon shrugged.
“Were you in the crowd at the forum?” Burke said.
“I was.”
“What did you think about it?”
“I didn’t think much about it at all,” Léon said, putting aside the restored bike and grabbing a top-end racing machine and hoisting it onto the bike stand.
“Boring?”
“A little.”
That gave Burke his opening. “Your mother added some spice, though,” he said.
Léon looked up at him. He didn’t say anything.
“If she hadn’t spoken, I don’t think the forum would have been interesting at all,” Burke said.
“She speaks her mind,” Léon said as he applied a small screwdriver to the front derailleur, which played a major part in switching gears.
“So she knew McManus?” Burke asked.
“A little.”
“Enough to think he was a bastard,” Burke said. “When did she meet him?”
Léon stopped working on the racing bike and stared at Burke.
“Why are you interested?” he asked.
“Well, it was clear at the forum that she knew him and that she didn’t like him,” Burke said. “And I did agree with her about McManus. He was a bastard.”
Léon shrugged again.
“She seemed very upset afterward,” Burke said. “I saw you both sitting outside the theater.”
“She has trouble speaking in front of people, and it took a lot out of her to go to the microphone.”
“Why did she go up and speak if she gets so nervous?” Burke asked.
“You’d have to ask her.”
“When did she first encounter McManus, Léon?” Burke asked, hoping he sounded friendly and not like a flic.
“I’m not sure. Years ago, I believe,” Léon said. He paused. “I don’t know. It isn’t important.”
“It was important enough that she told everyone what she thought of him.”
Léon said nothing.
“Are you from around here, Léon?” Burke asked.
“Nice.”
“So you grew up on the Côte d’Azur? Lucky guy,” Burke said.
Léon ignored the comment and kept his attention on the front derailleur. Something was slightly off-kilter with the mechanism.
The time was now for him to pursue what had been truly bugging him.
“Is your father dead, Léon?” Burke ventured.
Léon turned and stared at Burke. “Yes,” he finally said.
“My dad just died recently,” Burke said. It was a lie, since both his parents had been killed in a car crash when he was a teenager, but Burke hoped it might free Petit to talk a little bit about his father, whoever he was. “Did yours pass away a long time ago?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just curious,” Burke said. “I miss my father, so sometimes I search for ways to deal with that. Asking people how they’ve coped with losing their own father sometimes helps me.”
“If you’re so sad, maybe you should talk to a professional,” Léon suggested.
Burke waited. Then he asked what Léon’s dad’s name was.
“My business,” Léon said.
Another pause. He had to ask. “You know, it’s strange, but you look a lot like Pierre McManus,” he said.
And it was certainly true. In fact, the more Burke looked at Léon, the more he saw McManus’s rough, squat features and the piercing brown eyes and arched eyebrows. They also had the same stocky, muscular build.
Léon was rigid. Not a muscle moved—not even his eyes, which were locked onto Burke’s.
“I’m working, so maybe you can stop with the questions and just fuck off,” he said in a low, threatening voice.
Burke nodded. “It’s just that you could be his younger brother—or even his son. You have the same look.”
Léon moved toward him, his hand now grasping a heavy wrench. His face was flushed, and his eyes blazed.
“I told you to fuck off,” he said, stopping a foot away from Burke.
“What’s going on here?” Rousseau stood just inside the shop.
“He’s distracting me from my work,” Léon replied, moving back to the bike stand.
Burke looked at André and shrugged. “I know when to leave,” he said and walked through the door and into the main shop.
Rousseau followed, looking annoyed at having to stop a disagreement between his mechanic and his friend.
“What the hell was all that about?” Rousseau asked in a low voice, even though the back-shop radio probably drowned out what was being said.
“I was asking Léon about his mother,” Burke said.
“Why do you care?”
Burke told him how she’d appeared at the forum in such an angry state and had asked questions that changed the entire tone of the gathering.
“I understand Léon is close to his mother, but there had to be more than that for Léon to get so pissed at you,” Rousseau said, his voice still low. “He looked like he was going to clobber you with that wrench.”
“I also told him he looked a lot like Pierre McManus. He didn’t seem to like that.”
Rousseau paused. He took a step back, glanced into the back shop and then returned his attention to Burke.
“Now that you say it, Léon does look like McManus a fair amount,” he said. “Maybe the cat got into the milk a long time ago. McManus always was one for the ladies.”
“My thoughts, too.”
“Paul, you are becoming quite the troublemaker,” Rousseau said.
“Have you ever heard Léon say anything about his father?”
“Never.”
“Interesting,” Burke said.
“OK, enough of the detective work. If you aren’t going to buy anything, maybe you should go investigate elsewhere,” Rousseau said with a smile, gently leading Burke and his bike to the front door.
Burke nodded at his friend and then stepped outside. Rousseau wasn’t angry. On the contrary, he seemed almost equally curious about Petit, his mother and a possible connection to Pierre McManus.
Burke wondered if there was any way he could learn who was listed as “father” on Léon Petit’s birth certificate.
THERE WAS.
A quick Google search told Burke that the French had been registering births, deaths and marriages for more than two hundred years. Of course, some areas of the country were better than others at doing so, and there had been issues during various wartimes, but the French were a bureaucratic people and had done an exhaustive job with their record keeping.
He tried to find a website that would provide what he was searching for, but it soon became a struggle. One site turned him over to another. He began bumping into unfamiliar terms. Then there were sites that provided all kinds of methods for obtaining the desired results, but not the actual information he wanted. More than a few sites were subscription based.
After two hours, he decided he needed help.
François Lemaire’s tech staffer, Antoine, came to mind. He called the Antibes office, hoping some staff would still be working Saturday afternoon, and luckily was put through to Antoine. Burke apologized for disturbing him and was happy to hear Antoine wasn’t busy. Then Burke explained what he was trying to do.
“Do you have the person’s full name, date of birth and place of birth?” Antoine ask
ed.
Burke felt stupid. He didn’t.
“You’ll need it,” Antoine said.
Burke rang off and then called André Rousseau. He told his friend he needed information about Léon Petit without Petit knowing it.
“What are you up to, Paul?” Rousseau asked. “Does this have something to do with your argument in the shop today?”
“It does, André,” Burke admitted. “You know I’ve been involved with the coverage of Pierre McManus’s death, and I have this funny feeling that your man Petit is somehow mixed up in what happened.”
“And you want me to provide you some information?”
“Yes, without letting Petit know I want it.”
Rousseau paused for a few moments. “All right, I’ll do what I can, but you owe me,” he said.
Burke told him he needed Petit’s full name and date of birth. He hoped Petit had filled in the usual employment form.
“Give me five minutes, Paul,” Rousseau said. “By the way, the reason I’m helping you is that I have some strange feelings about Petit, too.”
Burke was surprised but chose not to explore Rousseau’s comment. He wanted the information fast so he could get back to Antoine.
Rousseau was good to his word, providing the information Burke had requested within five minutes. Then Burke got back to Antoine, who suggested Burke pop down to the newspaper office.
“It relates to a video blog, right?” Antoine said, giving Burke a clue that their efforts had to be work related, if only for official purposes. “It isn’t good to hack into computers for personal reasons.”
Burke understood the nuance and agreed.
Fifteen minutes later, Burke was sitting in a small, cramped office with Antoine, whose bulk seemed even greater in the tiny room.
“Were the parents of this person—Petit—married?” Antoine asked. “I did a little legwork waiting for you and learned that for generations, if a woman had a child out of wedlock, it was common for the mother’s parents to be listed instead of the father or father’s parents.”
“I don’t know,” Burke said. “If I was a betting man, I would say they were not.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do.”
For a huge man, Antoine’s oversized hands and thick fingers danced over the keyboard at an astonishing speed, so quickly that Burke could hardly keep up with what was happening on the screen.
Burke asked a couple of questions, but soon sensed his queries only served to distract the other man. He kept quiet and tried to follow along.
Once, Lemaire popped his head into the office and asked what was happening. Without turning, Antoine said he was helping Burke with his video blog. The suggestion was they should not be disturbed. Lemaire said, “OK” and left.
“François thinks he knows tech stuff, but he’s essentially clueless,” Antoine told Burke with a sly grin. “He doesn’t appreciate what can really be done with all the new software, and he definitely doesn’t find any joy in a good hack.”
“And you do?”
“I don’t hack for the pleasure of it or to create chaos, which is what too many self-important idiots do,” Antoine said, his fingers still dancing on the keyboard. “If I do a hack, it’s for a good cause.”
“But you’re good at it, right?” Burke said.
“Maybe,” Antoine said.
After twenty minutes, Antoine exclaimed, “Success!” and jabbed a meaty finger at the screen.
“I found a way into the statistics site for Nice, where your man was born,” he said. “Now, we will see.”
Fifteen more minutes passed. Burke didn’t know why, but he felt tense.
“Voilà! I have it,” Antoine said.
Burke moved closer to the screen.
There was the information about Léon Petit’s parentage that he had been seeking. Mother: Karin Petit. He looked for the identity of the father, expecting to see her parents’ names, whatever they were. Instead, he saw: Pierre McManus.
Burke’s wild guess was true. McManus was Léon Petit’s father.
For whatever reason, Karin Petit had wanted McManus’s name on the record as being the father of her child. Had they been living together? Had they been engaged? More questions.
Burke expected this connection between Petit and McManus would be a giant surprise to Rousseau and many others in the pro cycling world.
But what did it mean beyond that?
Burke didn’t know, but he had to find out.
BURKE THANKED ANTOINE FOR his efforts. He told him he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the information—which was true—but that he would do something, and when he did, he’d tell Antoine. The big man nodded and said he had enjoyed the challenge.
“A successful hack can be a good thing,” Antoine said.
In his car, Burke called Rousseau as he had promised and related the information, asking him to keep quiet. He knew his friend would adhere to his request.
“This is getting a little strange,” Rousseau said. “In fact, this is getting a lot strange.”
“Can you talk?” Burke asked. “Is Petit still there?”
“I can,” Rousseau said. “Petit just left for the day, and there’s no one else in the shop.”
“You know Petit better than I do, André,” Burke said. “Has he ever talked about McManus?”
“No, not at all. The only conversation he’s had about McManus that I know of was that argument you had with him.”
“Did he seem sad after the funeral?”
“He acted just the way he usually does—quiet, focused on the job, hardworking,” Rousseau said. “He mentioned his mother once or twice, but not in any depth. He comes in, does what he has to and goes home—I think.”
“He’s a good mechanic, right?” Burke asked.
“He’s as good as I am, and I am very good,” Rousseau replied with no false modesty. “He can diagnose a problem in seconds and make the appropriate repairs in hardly any time. He may not be sociable, but he’s a smart man. Lots of skills.”
Burke recalled that Petit was qualified as a masseur and knowledgeable about nutrition.
“About the only time he talks is when he critiques my lunches which happens every second day,” Rousseau added. “But he’s great in the back shop and that allows me to work with the customers in the front.”
Burke paused. He wasn’t sure what the information added up to, if anything.
“What are you doing with this information, Paul?” asked Rousseau, interrupting Burke’s train of thought.
“I don’t know, André,” Burke said. “I’m just curious about some stuff. I’m not sure the police care much anymore about McManus—or about Den Weent’s death either. I haven’t read or seen anything recently in the media about them.”
“I haven’t either,” Rousseau said. “Maybe everybody is concentrating on the death of that Vachon guy. You know, the FP Developments bigwig. I saw more stories in the national papers today about the company and the developments that FP was involved with down here.”
Burke had missed those articles and asked for a condensed version.
“The papers just said FP Developments would continue to proceed with all projects as planned,” Rousseau said. “Full speed ahead. As for replacing Vachon, I guess the company expects to have someone appointed within two weeks.”
“That seems fast,” Burke observed. “I really don’t know anything about big business, but Vachon was the face of the company. He has to be hard to replace.”
Burke thanked his friend and was about to hang up when he had another thought.
“Does Petit have any scratches or cuts on his knuckles or at the base of his fingers?” he asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just being curious again,” Burke said. “I didn’t think to look before.”
“You really are becoming Chief Inspector Maigret, Paul,” Rousseau said with a chuckle. “Anyway, I did notice he has a couple of scrapes, but maybe he got careless on a jo
b.”
Burke knew that top-notch bike mechanics on the pro tour worked so efficiently that they rarely ended up with dirt on their hands, let alone any cuts. They were that good.
And Petit, according to Rousseau, was as good a mechanic as he was. That meant he was among the best.
Burke chose not to tell Rousseau that his question about Petit’s hands was prompted by an old TV crime show in which the lead investigator had commented how knife-wielding attackers often ended up with a cut finger or knuckle after stabbing someone. The power of TV.
He thanked his friend once more and hung up, but not before promising to keep him abreast of any developments.
Burke didn’t have a plan for the rest of the day, and so he decided to drive home by way of the new FP Developments project that had been the scene of the protest.
He was at the work site within ten minutes. Sure enough, the site was busy with at least two dozen workers doing a variety of tasks, even though the company was still awaiting final permits to be approved and it was a weekend. Burke’s sense of French construction staff was they did good work but at a leisurely pace. These people were almost jogging to get stuff done.
And then to his shock, he saw Claude at the corner, waving a placard. He was in a group of about a dozen protesters.
He cursed his friend.
Burke parked his car and marched to where Claude and the others were yelling, “FP—out!” to the construction crew.
“Claude, what are you doing?” he said when he was within earshot. “You said you were going to stay out of trouble. Besides, I thought you were working today.”
When he saw Burke, Claude’s face turned red, like a kid who’d been caught stealing a treat.
“I heard there was going to be a small protest, and I had some time to join them in showing opposition to the decision by FP Developments to continue this project,” Claude said.
“You promised you’d keep a low profile after your problem with the Nice police,” Burke reminded his friend.
“Well, I changed my mind,” Claude said. “This is a serious matter, and I still believe what I believe.”
Several of the other protesters were now paying more attention to their exchange than to the construction work.
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