“If there was something in Yablonski’s past, you’d think it would have been found by now,” Jean said. “There are certainly enough journalists out there who love to check into the background of the rich and famous. And I expect Yablonski has made enough enemies in business that one of them would leak some information that could damage him.”
“I agree,” Burke said.
“You seem to think more of these pranks will follow, Paul.”
Burke nodded. “I do although I’m not entirely sure why,” he said.
“Like at the next race in Nice?” Jean wondered.
“That would be my bet,” Burke said. “I think someone – or some people – have targeted Bosco Yablonski and are serious about disgracing his name.”
“Have you ever met Yablonski?” Jean said. “My understanding is he keeps a low profile although he hasn’t been doing that with these vintage bike races.”
“I talked to him briefly in Saint-Raphaël,” Burke said.
“And?”
“Yablonski seems like someone you don’t want to get angry,” Burke said.
“Did you do that?”
“I think so,” Burke said. “He’s an intense guy and I have to say I ended our little chat feeling a little bit unnerved.”
They moved onto other topics and then it was time for Burke to get back home. He wanted to have a coffee with Hélène when she got up. And he thought he might bounce his Yablonski theory off her.
As Burke walked back from the newsagent’s, he wondered if the police – or the organizers of the series of vintage races – had the same thoughts he had about the next race in Nice. And if so, did they have anything planned to combat another “prank”?
Burke thought he’d make a phone call when he got back home.
Chapter 8
Hélène was still sleeping so Burke closed the bedroom door and made his call from the living room while looking through the open window at the beautiful morning that was getting started.
“Inspector Fortin,” snapped the voice at the other end.
Burke told Fortin who was calling.
“Monsieur Burke, it has been a long time,” Fortin said, alluding to their joint efforts involving the Vachon murder the previous summer and the deaths of two individuals connected to the Tour de France. “I hope you’ve returned to good health.”
“Better than ever,” Burke said.
“But a few extra aches and pains, I think,” Fortin said.
“Yes, there are a few,” Burke said. “I’m sorry to bother you … .”
“That never stopped you before,” interrupted Fortin.
Burke ignored the gentle jibe.
“Are the Nice police planning any extra security as a result of the skeletons placed by the roadside during last weekend’s vintage bike race in Saint-Raphaël?” Burke said.
Burke had learned over the last year that sometimes a leading question saved time. In this case, Fortin could answer one question while providing two answers: Did the Nice police know and, if so, what were they planning?
“Ah, I see you are on the trail once more,” said Fortin.
“I’m still doing the same stuff for the same people,” Burke said.
There was a pause. Burke had learned that a good pause could sometimes produce a good response.
“I see you’re using all your interviewing tricks with me, Monsieur,” Fortin said.
“Sorry,” Burke said, feeling sheepish for being so obvious to an old pro like Fortin. “I’m just looking for some basic information.”
“For old time’s sake, I’ll tell you that we are aware of what happened last weekend in that Saint-Raphaël race,” Fortin said.
Burke sensed Fortin had been smirking when he’d said “for old time’s sake”, but Burke didn’t care. He knew if he could get the information, he’d tell Lemaire – if Lemaire didn’t already know from one of his reporters. Burke figured he could also use the information in the next panel show he had to do.
“And are you doing anything special in Nice as a result?” Burke said.
“You should get the official position from our press officer,” Fortin said. “In fact, I expect there will be a news conference in a day or two about the race. Maybe she’ll address the topic then.”
“You could save me some time,” Burke said.
“Well, that’s different then,” Fortin said. “How can I resist when it would mean saving you time?”
Burke ignored the sarcasm and waited.
“I am not centrally involved,” Fortin said. “Now, if you don’t quote me … .”
“I won’t use your name,” Burke said.
“Then I’ll suggest some extra security measures have been added,” Fortin said.
“And what are those ‘extra security measures’?” Burke said.
“If I tell you that, they won’t be so secure and not so effective,” Fortin said.
Burke tried another approach and asked if Fortin knew where the two skeletons had come from.
“Not my territory,” Fortin said.
Burke knew he was finished. He wasn’t going to get anything more. He thanked Fortin for his time.
“By the way, I see your friend Claude Brière is getting released earlier than expected,” Fortin said, surprising Burke that he both knew and cared enough to mention it.
“Yes, we just learned about it,” Burke said.
“He got lucky thanks to all those recent convictions dealing with the drug cartel,” Fortin said. “Without that happening, Brière would still be sitting in his cell for a couple of more months.”
Now Burke understood why Claude’s lawyer had been told on the weekend – it was a rush job to get the cartel criminals into prison. The government wanted to look like it was serious about fighting crime.
And the cartel case had been huge. Burke – and most everyone in France - knew about the 75 members of an international cartel who had been convicted of a variety of serious crimes. They had been pushed through the judicial system with remarkable speed despite the efforts of their high-priced lawyers. They were ready to be incarcerated except the prison system was strapped for space. Hence, Claude’s good fortune.
“We are going to collect him in Lyon when he’s free,” Burke said.
“You mean you and the industrious Hélène Rappaneau, I expect?” Fortin said.
Burke shook his head. Fortin rarely missed or forgot anything.
“Hélène, yes,” Burke replied.
“Well, I hope your friend survived his prison stay without too much grief,” Fortin said. “I also hope he never repeats any criminal behaviour.”
“He won’t,” Burke said.
“I hope so because if there is a next time, he will not be getting an early release,” Fortin said and then ended the call.
Burke sat back and thought about Fortin’s last remark. He hoped Claude had learned his lesson and would avoid any ill-advised behaviour. His friend was a good man, but he was also emotional and had a righteous sense of right and wrong. That’s what had got him into trouble the previous year.
Burke also hoped Claude had survived prison without too much damage, but he had doubts. He had visited his friend three times during his nine-month stay, the last time about two months earlier. On each visit, Claude had been outgoing and friendly, but Burke sensed it had been an effort for Claude to muster those positive traits. Claude’s eyes had looked tired each time. When Burke had reported to Hélène about his visits since Claude had asked Hélène to stay away because it would have been too hard to see her, he had downplayed his sense that Claude wasn’t doing quite as well as he was suggesting.
In two weeks, he and Hélène would get a better sense of how Claude really was.
Then Burke pondered the rest of his brief conversation with Fortin.
And he knew the skeleton scene in the initial vintage bike race was indeed being taken seriously by the police.
If it wasn’t, Fortin wouldn’t have known about it. But Fortin,
who was a top investigator for the Nice police, was clearly aware of the case. That meant someone up high was worried. Did Yablonski have that much influence? It seemed so.
And, to Burke, that seemed to indicate Yablonski might have something to hide. Or was Yablonski someone who hated any slight directed at him?
Burke’s cellphone rang.
It was François Lemaire.
The editor told Burke he liked the blogs Burke had done on the Saint-Raphaël race and the upcoming Nice event. Then Lemaire said he wanted Burke to ride the Nice race.
Burke told him he had his entry confirmed.
“I think you should enter the third and fourth races as well,” Lemaire said. “Where are they again?”
“The third is in Arles and the fourth is in Vaison-la-Romaine,” Burke said. “But why do you want me in those races?”
“Just a hunch,” Lemaire said.
“What’s your hunch?” Burke asked.
“I expect it’s the same as yours – that something will happen this weekend at the Nice race and maybe at one or both of the races after that,” Lemaire. “I’m assigning a reporter and videographer to the Nice event. I don’t know yet about staffing Arles and Vaison beyond having you there.”
“Why do you think something will happen?” Burke asked.
“I think what happened in the Saint-Raphaël race was the result of some sophisticated planning – and I think you believe that, too,” Lemaire said.
“I do,” Burke said.
Lemaire then told Burke he wanted another two blogs, both in written and video versions, before the Nice race on Saturday. Burke didn’t object; he had increased his writing and filming speed considerably in the last few months and Lemaire’s request could be easily handled.
“And when you do that sports panel show tonight, maybe you can highlight the Nice event and the possibility of another skeleton scene happening or something like it,” Lemaire said.
There it was, pumping up the Nice race in hopes of building up an audience for how the newspaper group, including its websites, would cover events.
“I’ll do what I can,” Burke said, knowing he might mention the skeleton scene in passing but wouldn’t go into full-promotion mode.
They ended the call.
Burke decided it was time for another coffee. Then he would prepare for his TV show that evening. After, he’d look into the details of Oradour-sur-Glane and follow it up with some research into Bosco Yablonski.
The bedroom door opened.
Hélène, wearing one of Burke’s shirts that stretched to mid thigh, shuffled into the open area, rubbing her eyes.
“Good morning, chéri,” she said. “Have I missed anything?”
Chapter 9
“You will get into trouble again, Paul,” Hélène said after hearing his recount of the morning’s activity.
“No, I’ll be fine. I’m just doing what François wants,” he said, tossing the responsibility back onto his editor but still suspecting Hélène might have a point.
He studied her face. She was definitely awake now. She was also frowning and equally intent on examining his face for telltale signs of plotting.
“You got too close last time and look what happened,” she said, alluding to the Yves Vachon matter. “You are not a flic or some private investigator, so stop trying to act like one.”
He had heard that viewpoint before. It was a good one. He was just an ex-pro cyclist who had stumbled into blogging and doing columns for a small group of newspapers, and then been given a chance to be a regular contributor on a sports program in Nice. But he also knew that if he hadn’t poked his nose into two suspicious deaths connected to the Tour de France and, at the same time, the hit-and-run killing of businessman Yves Vachon and his bodyguard, he wouldn’t be doing much at all these days except watching his bank account approach zero. His involvement in those cases had given him a public profile that had earned him those media gigs.
Besides, he knew his involvement in the Vachon and McGuire cases had been the most exciting and fulfilling time of his life and, despite a near-fatal outcome, Burke had discovered his brain welcomed such puzzles.
“I promise to only do what François wants and to stay safe,” he told Hélène. “Besides, maybe what happened last weekend won’t be repeated and the rest of the races will go off without any problem.”
“But you really don’t believe that,” Hélène said.
Burke shrugged. “No, I don’t, but I also know the police are being pro-active in this matter so they won’t need or want any outsiders getting in the way,” he said.
He saw Hélène still looked skeptical, but she gave up and smiled, adding a quick peck on his lips. It was time to switch topics.
“Chéri, I can’t do anything with you today,” she said. “With the changes to our menu, we have some specialty items being delivered late this morning and I have to work with the chefs to make sure we get what we paid for.”
Burke was only mildly disappointed. He had considered getting Hélène to go to the beach for a couple of hours, but he was fine with postponing that plan. He wanted to do a little research for his TV show and he wanted to get better acquainted with Yablonski’s career. If he had time, he also wanted to read more about Oradour-sur-Glane.
Hélène excused herself and went to shower. Burke made himself another coffee and then dug into the latest sports headlines for the sports show. He liked to be somewhat prepared, especially since the host, an arrogant TV sports personality, seemed to get some pleasure from showing up the other panellists. Once, Burke had thought the old-time sportswriter on the panel would punch the host in the nose after being ridiculed for not being aware of some new development involving the national rugby side. The host had apologized to the sportswriter after the show, but had returned to his old tricks the following week.
Despite the host’s theatrics though, Burke enjoyed doing the show. The discussions were usually lively and often involved exchanges that went beyond the obvious.
The show was also proving a hit. Originally shown on a Sunday night, it had been moved to Monday nights which had produced a bump in the ratings. The change had been made to avoid conflicting with the traditional Sunday family gathering; the French were more TV-oriented on a Monday. Burke had always wondered why the show hadn’t originated on a Monday, but he never said anything. He liked the money and didn’t want to appear churlish.
After two hours and three coffees, Burke sat back and relaxed. He felt briefed on almost anything the host might toss his way.
Next up was some research into Yablonski and Oradour-sur-Glane. But Burke was feeling a little restless and so he decided to postpone those tasks so he could go for a quick bike ride.
Fifteen minutes later, he was rolling toward Antibes. He planned to keep the ride fairly short, just around the Cap d’Antibes – one of his favourite routes – before coming back. The whole trip might take an hour at most, but it would be good to feel the wind in his face and to get his muscles moving.
While the traffic was heavy, Burke managed to keep a crisp pace, thanks to the bike lane that led into the beautiful, narrow-street Old Town of Antibes. He kept a decent speed by the Bastion and past the beaches. Then he was onto the Cap which offered world-class views of Nice in the distance with the Maritime Alps providing a snow-tipped background. The Cap was one of his favourite sections of this part of the world although he knew he would never be able to afford to live on the Cap which was home to the wealthy and a popular destination for mega-movie stars.
As he climbed the kilometre-long hill to the top of the Cap, Burke felt like he was indeed getting back into cycling form. And due to his decision to keep his pastis and beer intake down to one drink every third day, he was lean without the expanded tummy he had built over several years.
Then his mind drifted back to the skeleton scene and he wondered about the following weekend’s race. Another disruptive scene? Burke would bet something would occur.
But what
?
Burke had no idea, but expected it would target Bosco Yablonski again.
One hour later, having finished his ride and showered, Burke was sitting at his computer searching for information about Yablonski. Hélène was at work at her café and Burke likely wouldn’t see her until midnight.
Many of the online articles dealt with Yablonski’s extensive business holdings. He had made his first fortune in swapping small tech companies that soon became powerhouses; he wasn’t a computer genius, just someone who could detect trends in various marketplaces. He added to his fortune by predicting a growth in specialized travel services aimed at the aging North American population.
In the last decade, he had concentrated his efforts on takeovers and, as a result, he had his hand in a dozen different industries in 10 different countries including France, Germany, Italy, Switzerland and the United States. As for his net worth, Burke couldn’t see anything definitive, but it seemed Yablonski could be a billionaire.
Personal information about Yablonski was scarcer. A few stories discussed how private Yablonski was although it was known he had grown up in Switzerland and had moved to France as a young man. He had attended university in Paris and then started into the business world. He was something of a linguist, too, speaking French, Italian, German, English and even Japanese. He was married with three teenage children, and had residences in France, Italy and two in North America, one in in Los Angeles and the other in Toronto.
Burke wondered about Yablonski’s first name. After all, who named their kid “Bosco”? It turned out it was given to him by his parents in honour of John Bosco, an Italian priest, founder of the Salesian Society and a celebrated educator who had worked extensively to improve the lives of street children.
By most accounts, though, Yablonski was hardly the charitable kind, pursuing only his own interests and doing so with a certain ruthlessness.
One recent article also mentioned Yablonski, who would be 50 in the summer, kept to a strict fitness regime and was a cycling aficionado which, Burke realized, explained his sponsorship of the vintage races.
A Vintage End Page 4