The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “And if the police come back?” Burke asked.

  Claude checked out the audience around him. He went for bold and brave.

  “I would tell them to fuck off!” he said, thumping his chest theatrically with a fist.

  Burke wondered if Claude told Hélène where he was going when he skipped out from the café. He doubted it. Hélène would be livid if she knew her uncle was back protesting at the site.

  “And what would you tell Hélène if she discovered you were doing this and could get into more trouble?”

  “I’m not in trouble, and if I was, I would tell her that this protest is important to me, to her, to all of us,” Claude said.

  His little speech got some support from his fellow protestors, who were starting to look at Burke like he was the enemy.

  “It’s your life, Claude,” Burke said, starting to move away.

  “It is, and I will use it to fight the good fight.”

  It seemed Claude was now playing to the others around them. His comment worked though, because they gave him a small round of applause for his last statement.

  Burke walked back to his car, wondering if Claude would really stand up to the police again if they showed up. With the other protestors watching him, Claude probably would, and that could lead to more trouble with Fortin.

  He decided not to tell Hélène he had seen Claude. She didn’t need more frustration.

  And he wouldn’t visit the café for an evening drink. He had had quite enough of his friend.

  BURKE SLEPT WELL, BUT when he got up just after seven, his mind immediately went to Claude, and his anger was renewed. It was one thing to protest, but another to potentially put oneself back into the spotlight in a murder investigation. The police were still trying to pin Vachon’s death on someone, and Burke was not sure Claude was entirely free of suspicion.

  He drank a coffee, but that only seemed to make his mood worse. Grabbing his bike and a banana for energy, he set out for a short ride to take off the edge. He didn’t want to be in a bad mood when he got together with Hélène in a few hours.

  Burke loved early Sunday mornings in summer on the Côte d’Azur. Since almost everyone got up late, there was little traffic and noise, making it a great time to go for a bike ride. A cyclist had fewer vehicles to worry about and more time to catch the splendid views of the fabled coastline and beautiful hillsides that cascaded to the sea.

  Of course, that would change in late morning when the family-oriented French and hordes of tourists took to the beaches and parks for hours of play and relaxation.

  Burke charged down to the sea and then turned toward Antibes. The traffic, by Côte d’Azur standards, was almost nonexistent. Within fifteen minutes, he was in Antibes. He stayed on the main road and took his favorite route into the Old Town and up to the Bastion. From there, he kept close to the sea and powered his way onto the road that led around Cap d’Antibes.

  Burke figured he had probably lost two kilos in the last several days, and he felt significantly faster than the last time he’d ridden the route. That was the day he’d seen Claude’s photo in the paper after the protest that had turned violent.

  He went up the kilometer-long spine of the Cap, reaching the top at almost thirty kilometers per hour. He was sweating heavily but enjoying it. He was becoming fitter, not professional cyclist fit, but much better than before.

  When he hit Juan-les-Pins, he stopped and gobbled his banana.

  Bunches of tourists crossed the street ahead to get to the beach. With the forecast predicting a temperature high of thirty-three degrees Celsius, the beaches along the coast would soon be packed.

  He turned and headed for home.

  As he got close, he detoured to the FP Developments site. It wasn’t as busy as the day before, with only a half dozen construction personnel working, but it was a Sunday, and a handful of other workers were walking onto the site. Not for the first time, Burke wondered if FP Developments knew something others didn’t about its chances of getting those final permits approved—and soon.

  He saw no protestors or any damage. He wondered how long Claude had stayed.

  Back home, he showered and shaved. The ride had worked, and his mood was brighter, although his mind was still partly occupied by Claude, Vachon, McManus and Léon Petit. He had somehow become a different man over these two weeks. Before, he would have been only thinking about when he’d have his first pastis of the evening, or if he should take a siesta after lunch.

  He called Hélène at eleven. Her voice sounded thick from having just gotten up.

  “Busy evening,” she mumbled. “And Uncle disappeared for a couple of hours, which didn’t help.”

  “Where did he go?” Burke asked, trying to sound only mildly curious.

  “He said he had to run a couple of errands for the café. He was back by seven, so he was there for the main crowd, but it meant we had to delay some chores.”

  Hélène clearly didn’t know about the protest. And evidently, Claude had not had any issue with the police. All was good.

  They agreed Burke would collect her in forty-five minutes and they’d go for lunch someplace.

  When he arrived to pick her up, Burke noticed once again how stunning Hélène was, this time dressed in a white linen, sleeveless blouse and an orange linen skirt that flowed just below her knees. How could a regular guy like him find himself with a woman as vibrant and beautiful as Hélène?

  For lunch, they decided they’d try a small café in Èze Village. The café was a little expensive and usually busy, but it always provided wonderful food and spectacular views of the coastline far below. The drive took just minutes, even though traffic was starting to get heavy. From their lofty perch on the café terrace, they watched a giant cruise ship sail toward the bay by Villefranche-sur-Mer, where it would anchor and then shuttle passengers in on small launches. It was all very impressive—and a little scary. How much more could the Côte d’Azur handle? Burke figured the answer would be “lots” if there was enough money to be made.

  When he moved into the region several years earlier, he’d needed a few months to adjust to the frenetic action along the coast. He had made the move because the area was popular with a number of pro cyclists, thanks to its climate and varied landscapes, and it was a strategy that definitely helped his career. By the time he retired, he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. Now, it was all about being able to afford to stay.

  “You’re thinking of something far away,” Hélène said.

  Burke had been caught drifting. “You’re right,” he said. “I was thinking how much I like living here.”

  “I’m glad you like it here,” Hélène said, “because I love this area, too.”

  “The trouble is, it’s becoming so expensive,” Burke added. “I wonder if there will come a day when people like you and me can’t afford to stay here.”

  “You sound a little like Uncle Claude, but I think you’re right to worry,” she said. “I’m afraid as well. What happens when my salary can’t pay for food or the rent?”

  Burke felt slightly depressed at that thought. He didn’t want to have the lunch spoiled by such matters, even though he’d brought up the subject, and so he gave her his best smile and said they’d have lots of time before any serious changes occurred—if at all.

  “Maybe,” Hélène said.

  “Time for dessert, I think,” Burke said, deciding an entirely new topic was needed. “We’re both so slender, we can afford something rich.”

  “You might be able to have such treats because you’re a cyclist, but it’s different for me,” Hélène said, smiling.

  “Well, we could both have dessert and wear it off later,” he said slyly.

  “Yes, there is that possibility,” Hélène said. She paused thoughtfully, touching her chin with a finger. “In fact, I believe, chéri, it’s more than a possibility. Let’s order dessert.”

  And they did.

  After spending an hour at the Villefr
anche beach, until it became overrun with tourists, they went to her place, where they wore off the rest of their dessert calories—and a lot more.

  That night, with Hélène sleeping inside the crook of his arm, Burke found himself wondering about the changes facing his little world. The FP Developments project would drive up land prices and taxes. The next major development—and Burke knew there would be one sooner than later—would spike them even more. More ships, more hotels, more condos, more people.

  More money.

  And then what would happen?

  Burke studied the woman sleeping beside him.

  Some tough decisions lay ahead.

  BURKE GOT UP EARLY, made himself a coffee and then showered and dressed. By then, it was 8 a.m. He returned to the bedroom, kissed Hélène gently on the forehead and whispered, “Bonne journée.” She smiled in response before drifting back to sleep.

  He drove back to his village, then went to Jean’s to pick up a couple of newspapers, wondering if he’d find anything about Vachon and FP Developments.

  He didn’t have to wonder. The company had done the unusual and held a Sunday news conference, emphasizing how it intended to do business as usual, even without the charismatic Vachon at the helm. The FP Developments vice president, who served as spokesperson for the company, praised the police for their efforts and then managed to criticize them in the next breath for not having arrested anyone. Consequently, several papers, including most of the big nationals, featured major pieces about the news conference and about the progress—or lack of it—in finding Vachon’s killer.

  “The flics are in the fire with that Vachon death,” said Jean, noticing Burke reading a story in Le Monde.

  “Not really surprising,” Burke said. “It’s been several days and nothing.”

  “There’s a comment somewhere from the justice minister that the investigation has to find who was responsible,” Jean said. “If nothing happens in a couple of days, I expect the president will add his displeasure as well. I wouldn’t want to be the police officer who’s handling the Vachon investigation. It’s going to get ugly.”

  “I might know the detective who’s in charge,” Burke told Jean. “He’s tough. Smart, too. At least I think he’s smart.”

  Jean’s eyebrows lifted. “Did he arrest you, Paul, for one of your many crimes?” he asked.

  Burke laughed. “I was lucky—he let me go. My good looks, I think.”

  “Ah, yes, those.”

  Burke liked how Jean usually made him smile and often made him laugh.

  He wished the newsagent a good day and was about to head back home when he spotted Madame Marois walking Plato. They were moving quickly, in perfect harmony.

  “She looks good now, with Plato, but I worry about Madame,” Jean said to Burke.

  “For good reason,” Burke said.

  “She’s doing more walking,” Jean added. “In fact, I see her almost every morning going for a walk. They go up to the end of the road and then come back. Then they spend a few minutes in the park just sitting. I’m not sure she drives much anymore. I think she might be afraid to go out in her car. Sometimes, we have a brief word, but she’s usually distracted.”

  “Too bad,” Burke said. “But it may be good she’s not driving much these days.”

  Back home, Burke had just started reading the papers when his cell phone rang. It was Lemaire, and he got right to the point, saying the Vachon case was so big that the McManus-Den Weent story was getting lost.

  “I want you to do a blog on how the police have nothing after two weeks and have probably given up to concentrate on the Vachon case,” Lemaire said. “Put some anger into it. Piss someone off.”

  “What about the Vachon story and the FP Developments news conference?”

  “I have someone doing a local angle about the news conference, so that part is covered. Just get yourself down to the Nice police and make them uncomfortable. They’re dropping the ball on this, and as the new wise man of cycling after your forum performance, you’re the one to tell the world about such incompetence.”

  “I’m no one’s wise man,” Burke said.

  “Not true,” Lemaire said. “There are a lot of people out there who think you have something important to say. I’m not sure I’m one of them, but let’s capitalize on your new celebrity while we can.”

  “OK,” said Burke, feeling more than a little uncomfortable with his new assignment.

  “And I’d like your blog by the end of the day. It would be ideal, Paul, if you also did a video version. Same deadline.”

  “I understand,” Burke said. “I better get busy then.”

  He rang off, not entirely sure about how to approach his blog. He scanned the papers to see if there was any mention of McManus or Den Weent. There wasn’t. But Vachon got plenty of ink. And by connection, FP Developments did, too.

  Burke figured his only option was to track down Fortin. He doubted the Nice detective would give him the time of day, but he had to start somewhere.

  A half hour later, Burke walked into the Nice police headquarters. It was quiet except for a couple of officers talking to a man in plain clothes. Burke approached the front desk and asked for Fortin, adding he was there to get some information for his newspaper.

  “You’re a reporter?” asked the officer at the desk—a burly veteran who looked skeptically at Burke.

  “I do a blog for them,” Burke replied, pulling out the ID Lemaire had given him when he started the job.

  “A blog? Well, that makes it special,” said the flic with a significant dose of sarcasm.

  Before Burke could reply, the officer went to another desk and used the phone. Burke couldn’t hear what he said, but he expected he was calling Fortin. Or at least Burke hoped that was what he was doing.

  “He’ll be out in a minute,” the desk cop said when he came back.

  Sure enough, Fortin soon appeared, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.

  “What are you looking for?” Fortin said, getting right to the point.

  “My editor thinks the Vachon case has taken over your department’s priority and that the McManus and Den Weent deaths have been forgotten,” Burke said.

  Fortin grimaced and shook his head. If he was looking to portray disgust, Fortin deserved a ten out of ten.

  “Come with me,” Fortin said.

  To Burke’s surprise, Fortin led him through the security door, down the corridor and back to his small office. The main room in the station was at the end of the corridor; it was bustling with both uniformed and plainclothes police officers.

  Fortin motioned for Burke to sit in the beaten-up old chair facing his cluttered desk. Fortin took his seat behind the desk and leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. Burke waited, thinking Fortin wanted to tell him something; otherwise, why would he have asked Burke back to his office?

  “First, we have not forgotten Monsieur McManus or Monsieur Den Weent,” Fortin said. “I’ve just been given full control of the case by the investigating judge and I’m telling you we’re being active in pursuing leads.”

  “Why you?” Burke asked, noticing how Fortin had lumped McManus and Den Weent into a single case.

  “Because the detective who was working the case has been assigned to other matters,” Fortin said.

  “Who’s the investigating judge?” Burke asked.

  Fortin shook his head. “That’s not for public notice.”

  Burke thought this information was hardly a reason for Fortin to bring him back to his office; the detective could have told him that in the foyer by the front desk. Burke wondered if he was trying to diffuse a potentially awkward story, but he rejected that notion because, more and more, Fortin seemed clever and manipulative. Fortin probably didn’t give a damn about some blog or news story—he had something else on his mind.

  Figuring he had little to lose, since so far, he was getting nothing substantial, Burke asked if there were any new toxicology reports on McManus. He didn’t exp
ect any real answer.

  Fortin nodded. “We’re examining some new results,” he said.

  So they were looking for something different. They were no longer satisfied with the initial results.

  “Can you say without any doubt if McManus’s death was natural? Or was it a case of murder?” Burke asked, once again surprising himself by asking such direct questions.

  “I can’t tell you the results, but I will say we are reviewing them closely,” Fortin said.

  It seemed Fortin was leading him somewhere, but Burke didn’t know where.

  “Did someone check to see if masking agents were used?” he asked.

  “The report takes into account several matters,” Fortin said, and Burke thought that meant the answer to his question was “yes.”

  “Did the Nice police, and whoever is working on Den Weent’s death, interview all members of the Global Projects cycling team?” Burke asked.

  “That would have been routine, for both us and the Avignon police,” Fortin said.

  “So you did?” Burke persisted.

  Fortin didn’t say a word or even move.

  “Do you know that Pierre McManus was the father of one of the team’s mechanics?” Burke said, firing his biggest shot at Fortin.

  Fortin showed no change of expression, but, to Burke, his gaze seemed to intensify.

  “How do you know that?” Fortin asked.

  “I just did a little research,” Burke said. “Did you know about the connection?”

  Fortin ignored the question. “What else do you know about Léon Petit?” he asked.

  Burke wondered if this was the point where, if he were a regular journalist, he would reply that his job was to ask questions and not provide police with information.

  He’d try answering by asking another question. If Fortin could do it, he could too.

  “Did you also know Petit is a skilled masseur and a knowledgeable nutritionist?” Burke asked.

  Fortin was leaning forward now, staring hard at Burke.

  “We have information about his skills,” Fortin replied. He paused, then pointed at Burke and said, “You seem to be implicating Léon Petit in the death of Pierre McManus, Monsieur Burke.”