Burke’s computer was indeed a laptop, and it had a camera.
“So, Paul, do you want to do the interview?” Martin asked. “I have to file today’s story soon. I could Skype you tonight, and we could do the interview then.”
Since he seemed to be in the habit of agreeing to proposals that came his way, Burke said he would. Martin quickly took him through the Skype download, step by step. Then came the sending of emails to establish a connection between them on Skype. Finally, they set a time for the interview.
“This will be good exposure for you,” Martin said and then rang off.
Burke felt energized, his lethargy shaken off by the two phone calls. He had to admit that it was somewhat exciting to have media people want his opinions after years of being mocked or ignored.
BURKE AWOKE EARLY, RESTED and in a better mood than the day before. He made a coffee and, with all his windows wide open, listened to the early morning birdsong outside. He’d come to enjoy all the different sounds. One day, he planned to get a book to figure out which bird was producing which sound. He wondered if appreciating birdsong was a sign he was getting old.
Burke then recalled his interview the previous evening with Matthieu Martin who had said his editor was very interested in Burke serving as some kind of “special European cycling correspondent” starting in August.
“We have those big pro races in Québec in September, and he thinks a column every two weeks from you might help build excitement around the events beyond what I’m doing and what others are doing,” Martin had told him. “Our paper has become a sponsor now, so my boss thinks it’s a big deal.”
Martin added that the editor would be contacting Burke in the next few days to see if Burke was interested and to talk payment.
Burke told Martin he’d be open to any offers.
And he would. Money was always good.
Burke finished his coffee and drifted down to Jean’s newsagent shop, where he picked up his usual newspapers. As was their custom, the two men engaged in a conversation about overnight news events and what might happen today. Burke figured Jean knew more about world events, as well as French affairs, than anyone he had ever met, even journalists.
“Ah, look, Paul, Madame Marois is heading out in that old car of hers,” Jean said, pointing and then waving at the old woman as she slowly eased her way down the lane near them, Plato perched against the dashboard. Madame Marois gave a half-wave in return and slowly turned the corner. She was obviously aiming for the main road.
“That Plato is a lucky dog, although I don’t think he knows it,” Jean said. “He goes almost everywhere with Madame. Walks, restaurants, rides. I expect he has his own side of the bed, too. And his own plate at the dinner table.”
Burke laughed and agreed. Madame Marois definitely loved her dog.
Back home, Burke’s mind drifted to Karin Petit. He wasn’t sure why, but these days, his mind seemed to be a lot more active and definitely more curious than ever before. Maybe it was like exercise in that the more you worked a muscle, the stronger it got. And with that thought, he realized he’d probably wasted the years after his pro cycling career by largely doing as little as possible. He promised himself he wouldn’t go back to that state.
He called André Rousseau at his shop, hoping it wasn’t too early, since the shop would not open for another hour.
But he was.
“Is Petit there yet?” Burke asked.
“We’re back to Léon, are we?” Rousseau said. “Well, he isn’t here yet. He won’t be in until ten.”
“OK, I have another request to make,” Burke said.
“I’m not surprised,” Rousseau said, adding a theatrical sigh for emphasis. “Go ahead.”
“Do you know where Léon’s mother works? Léon must have mentioned it at one time or another.”
Rousseau took a moment and then said, “I do remember him saying she looks after plants for hotels and government offices.”
“On a full-time basis?” Burke asked.
“I think so, because I remember Léon saying the work is hard and that she’s usually very tired at the end of a day. In fact, I think he’d like it if she didn’t have to work at all.”
Burke asked if Karin Petit was self-employed or worked for someone else.
“She works for a small company,” Rousseau said. “Léon says the company pushes her to work longer than she wants.”
It took a few moments, but Rousseau recalled the name of the business.
“Thanks for the information, André,” Burke said. “I owe you.”
“The bill is getting long, Paul,” Rousseau replied. “Before you go—you aren’t going to do anything dumb, right? If she thinks you’re harassing her, she could tell Léon, and I don’t think you want him coming after you. He can be a little intense, as you know.”
“I’m just going to accidently bump into her on her break and ask her a simple question or two.”
“About what?”
“Why it meant so much for her to talk at that forum, for one.”
“And that’s important to you?” Rousseau said.
“Let’s just say I’m curious,” Burke told him.
“That seems to be your usual state of mind these days,” Rousseau said.
“I have an evolving personality.”
“OK, but you know our arrangement—you have to tell me what you learn, Paul,” Rousseau said.
“Agreed,” Burke said and then hung up.
Burke knew it was silly, maybe even stupid, for him to find Karin Petit and to try to talk with her. If he learned anything, what would he do with it? Still, he sensed there was something beyond the normal mother-son relationship between the Petits, and he truly wanted to know what that was. Of course, if Léon found out about his inquiries, it might be a different matter.
Burke punched in the number of the plant business, hoping Karin Petit would be there. If she was out on a job, he didn’t think they’d tell him where. But it was worth a try.
When the receptionist answered, Burke said he’d received a recommendation from a friend for a certain gardener with the company—Karin Petit. Was she around?
“I’m afraid she’s not here,” said the receptionist. “But she’s not far. She’s across the street on a job, and I expect she should be back in about an hour.”
Burke thanked her and rang off. He jumped into his car and drove to the plant business. He studied the buildings in the area. Most were single-story retail shops, but he did spot a two-story office building. He thought that would be his best chance to find her.
His plan was simple—if she came out, he’d get out of the car, casually bump into her on the street and strike up a conversation about the forum and how she’d made it so much more interesting. Burke recognized the whole plan might be in vain. She might be somewhere else in the area. And if he did spot her, she could easily ignore him when he tried to strike up a conversation. But he had time to waste, and so he waited.
Just past noon, Karin came out of the two-story building with two other women, both much younger. All three were in clean blue overalls, unique attire for the Riviera. The two younger women watched as Petit applied some kind of bandage to the palm of her right hand. One of the young women flinched as Petit attended to her injury, whatever it was. Otherwise, it looked like they might have just been having a nice chat.
The two younger women stopped a few steps later and lit cigarettes. They leaned against the wall of the building. Karin Petit gave them a small wave and started strolling down the street on the opposite side of where Burke was parked. She wasn’t in any rush and was definitely not heading to the office. She looked like she wanted to stretch her legs for a while.
Burke hopped out, then scanned the sidewalk for a good spot to “accidently” bump into her.
Karin Petit was coming up to the corner. He could cross and catch her right there if he hustled.
“Madame Petit?” he said when he got close, adding a surprised look for eff
ect.
She stopped and looked at him. Burke could see that his face registered in her memory.
“I’m Paul Burke,” he replied, sticking out his hand to shake. She took it gingerly because of her injury. “I was at that forum the other day, the one where you got up and really got everything going.”
“Yes, monsieur, I recognize you,” she said.
“You made a strong impression,” Burke said. “I think the organizers were pleased at what happened because of you.”
Karin Petit didn’t say anything, and Burke thought she was done with him. He decided against filling the pause, hoping silence would prompt her to talk. He didn’t actually mind looking at her while he waited. She was likely in her early fifties, average height and maybe a few kilos too heavy, but on her tired face, there were indications she’d once been an attractive woman. She had large, beautiful green eyes—Léon’s eyes were green too—strong cheekbones, smooth skin, a long nose and wide mouth. If she dropped five kilos, got some rest and added some makeup and a decent dress, she could still command attention.
“I had things I wanted to say,” she finally remarked.
“Mostly about Pierre McManus,” Burke said. “You called him a ‘bastard.’ I thought that was a good word.”
Karin Petit nodded.
“How long ago did you know him?” Burke asked. “I got to know him when I was racing professionally.”
He hoped sharing his opinion of McManus might prompt her to say more.
“I knew him when I was much younger,” she replied. “I thought he was nice, but he wasn’t. He was a—”
Burke filled in the word: “Bastard.”
Karin Petit nodded, looking off into the distance, almost like she was seeing herself and McManus so many years before.
“Was he a boyfriend?” Burke asked, knowing this question might end the conversation.
Karin Petit looked at Burke and smirked. “Boyfriend? What a strange word that is,” she said. “I don’t think he was anything. Not in the end.”
Burke softened his approach. “Did you occasionally bump into him over the years? I sometimes did and never liked it when it happened. He was the same bastard every time I had to deal with him.”
Karin’s gaze lingered on Burke’s face, and he realized she was evaluating his sincerity.
“Not really,” she finally said. “I didn’t see him at all for a very long time.”
“Did you see him recently?”
She shrugged. “It’s not important. He’s dead.”
Her face had tightened with her last remark.
“Are you happy he’s dead?” Burke asked, figuring this would definitely end the conversation.
Karin Petit glowered at Burke. Then, slowly, her face softened.
“No, I’m not,” she said. “He was a very unpleasant man, but I don’t wish anyone to die.”
“You were very angry at that forum,” Burke said.
“I should not have gone and said what I said,” she replied. “It was very unwise. My comments ended up on television and in the newspapers. I didn’t want that.”
“What did you want, madame?” Burke asked.
“I’m sorry, monsieur, but I should get back,” she said.
Burke expected she still had plenty of time on her break, but chose not to push her any further.
“Nice to meet you again, madame,” he said, once more putting his hand out to shake. She took it again without saying a word and then turned back toward the building where she’d been working.
Burke dodged a couple of cars and got back into his vehicle. He wasn’t sure what to make of Karin’s comments, but he sensed there was something interesting just beneath the surface.
And he wondered how she’d hurt her hand.
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON, AND Burke forced himself to put aside all thoughts of Karin Petit and Léon Petit. He didn’t know what to make of it all and figured if he was distracted by something else, his mind might work away on its own and produce some kind of epiphany. Or not.
Tucked up on his couch, he decided to watch the day’s Tour de France stage. He hadn’t been diligent in following the race the last few days, even though he was supposed to be providing some blogs about it from time to time. Today would give him a good sense of the overall winner. There was less than a week to go, and today’s stage was going to be, in cycling terms, “epic.”
That was because the stage was going to end on the legendary Alpe d’Huez—a 13.8-kilometer ascent around twenty-one hairpin bends that climb to a ski resort. It was the most famous climb in all of professional cycling. If it wasn’t the toughest, it somehow always turned out to be the most dramatic.
The last time he raced it as a pro, he had somehow found himself with the lead group as it approached the mountain. Usually relegated to bringing up water bottles to more talented members on his team or shielding those same riders from the wind on flat stages, Burke was pacing his team leader to the base of the climb. He had “good legs” that day and had caught expressions of surprise from the contenders when they’d glanced across and seen him there. He had been an intruder among the elite, and it had been thrilling.
Until the Alpe’s start—a leg-crushing first five hundred meters.
As soon as the road turned upward, almost everyone stood on their pedals. Then one of the main contenders put in an attack. The other team leaders followed. Burke’s team captain yelled at him to go faster, and to his shock, he’d managed to comply.
The crowd that day was estimated at 750,000, but Burke believed it had to have been more than a million people. Whatever the true number, it had been bedlam with everyone screaming at the top of their lungs. The noise had been deafening.
And Burke had kept up with the leaders, riding with more strength than he had in his entire career. It had felt almost magical as he stomped out a fierce cadence.
Eventually, a lithe Spanish climber decided it was time to go for the win and quickly distanced himself from the other contenders, going faster and faster. Burke clearly remembered watching the Spanish rider begin to disappear and then hearing his team leader yelling, “Follow him, follow him!” in panic.
So Burke had. For about another 750 meters. Then his legs had called it a day.
Now, sitting on his couch years later and waiting for a new generation of riders to attack the mountain, Burke thought it must have looked funny on TV when his body had decided to surrender. He probably slowed from almost thirty kilometers an hour to ten within seconds, as if he’d tossed out an anchor. His team captain had been alert enough to avoid his rear wheel, and when he passed Burke, he’d yelled, “Shithead!” which was the least of Burke’s problems at the time.
That’s when l’Alpe d’Huez became the worst day of cycling Burke had known as a pro.
His legs barely functioned, and he just couldn’t get enough air. All his energy had disappeared—a result of skipping food at the last feeding station so he could keep up with the leaders to the Alpe.
The leaders, of course, quickly vanished ahead of him. Burke focused only on turning the pedals, hoping he wouldn’t slow so much that he’d fall off. He had twelve more kilometers to go, all of it ferociously uphill.
It had only gotten worse as the kilometers passed.
His legs cramped, and his lungs ached. Little black spots clouded his eyes, and his temples throbbed. At the infamous Dutch Corner, where long-partying Dutch fans had set up shop three days earlier, he’d taken a bad line and had to be pushed to avoid falling sideways. A few kilometers later, he threw up on himself, bile staining the front of his blue-and-white jersey.
When Burke crossed the finish line, he turned the pedals one final time and then lost control of his bike. Fortunately, a team mechanic had caught him. He hadn’t cared that he finished forty minutes behind the Spaniard who won the stage and would go on to win the entire Tour de France. The next day, barely able to get out of bed, Burke had withdrawn from the race, much to the annoyance of his team’s management.
Now the racers of a new era were flying toward l’Alpe d’Huez. Burke wished them well, or at least hoped they would avoid a total collapse like he had suffered.
His phone rang, disturbing his focus as the riders neared the start of the climb.
It was Jean-Pierre Fortin. Burke wondered how many other people had his number.
“Are you home?” the detective asked.
“Yes, I’m just watching today’s stage of the Tour,” Burke told him.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Fortin said. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Why?” asked Burke.
“We have to talk,” Fortin said and then hung up.
Burke was puzzled and a little worried. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but a visit from the police was rarely good.
Fifteen minutes later, Fortin—with the inevitable Côté by his side—was in Burke’s living room.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Burke asked.
“Sit down,” Fortin told him.
Burke didn’t like being told what to do in his own home, but he did as ordered.
Fortin sat opposite him. Côté remained standing. Burke wondered if she ever relaxed.
“You had a conversation this morning with Karin Petit,” Fortin stated.
“How do you know that?” Burke asked, surprised. “Are you following me? Or her?”
“That’s not your business,” Fortin said. “What is important is that you stop going around and asking questions of people linked to the McManus and Den Weent investigation.”
Burke was angry. “It’s a free country,” he said, feeling instantly foolish for uttering such a cliché.
“Really?” Fortin said with a smirk. “Just listen. We don’t want you talking to people linked to this case. If you do so again, we’ll charge you with obstruction.”
“For asking questions?” Burke said, still feeling ticked off. He needed to get control of his emotions.
“I’m telling you this in person because it’s important you understand my warning,” Fortin replied.
Burke glanced at Côté, who looked a little more intense than usual.
Fortin continued. “I will admit, you have helped us with our inquiries, but it’s time for you to desist,” he said. “We’re working a case, and we can’t have you contaminate it. Understand?”
The Bastard is Dead Page 19