BURKE WAS STILL TIRED when he awoke the next day. He told himself he had to get in shape. If he was in better condition, he’d have more endurance, and his mind would work better.

Of course, less pastis would help, too.

After his newspapers and breakfast, Burke sat down at his computer and wrote his blog about the Ventoux stage, which the Colombian Alvarez had won by the length of a wheel. When he was done, he reread it. He smiled to himself. It wasn’t bad at all. He’d been lucky to meet some colorful people lining the side of the road, but he still felt pleased with himself. He hoped Lemaire would like it.

He thought back to the three Americans who had tossed out the idea about the link between the deaths of McManus and Den Weent. It was silly, of course, but he wondered if it was possible that something could have caused McManus’s heart to stop without being noticed.

Burke went to his computer and typed “drugs causing a heart attack” into Google, even though the doctors at the news conference had said McManus’s death was due to sudden cardiac arrest. He figured “heart attack” was close enough. A half second later, he had more than twenty-three million results. He groaned.

A shortcut occurred to him, and he punched in “Hotel l’Empereur.” He got the number and called the reception desk, asking for Ron Henderson, the wayward pharmacist from Montana who had collided with him on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice. If Burke remembered correctly, Henderson was still around for another day or two. If he wasn’t, nothing lost.

To his surprise, the receptionist put him through. And to his greater surprise, Henderson answered the phone on the second ring.

Burke introduced himself again and instantly detected reluctance from Henderson.

“I’m not calling about the bike,” Burke assured him. “I have a question totally unrelated to what happened, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

A small sigh of relief sounded on the other end.

“OK, that’s good,” Henderson said, his voice more lively. “How can I help you?”

Burke explained why he had called.

“Well, that’s not an easy question to answer,” Henderson said, sounding like a college professor at the head of a lecture. “For example, antibiotics such as erythromycin and clarithromycin can really increase the chance of a heart attack for someone who has a heart issue.”

Henderson cleared his throat. He was just getting started, or so it seemed to Burke. He went on about antifungal drugs and antidiabetic drugs and appetite suppressants. He mentioned anthracyclines and talked about cardiotoxicity.

Burke’s head was spinning.

“Did your person have cancer?” Henderson asked. “There can be a connection between some anticancer drugs and a heart attack.”

“I don’t think so,” Burke replied.

“Well, I’m not a doctor, but an autopsy should indicate if the subject had drugs in his system at the time of death. Of course, some drugs can disappear in the system quickly and might not be noticed at all if the pathologist isn’t looking for them and doesn’t conduct the right tests.”

Burke was done. He couldn’t handle any more information. Moreover, he didn’t know what to do with anything Henderson had provided.

“Thanks for your help,” Burke finally said.

“The bill’s in the mail.”

Burke paused.

“Just a joke,” Henderson added.

Burke thanked him again and rang off.

He wondered if the autopsy done on McManus had been basic or more extensive with specialized testing. And if drugs were in McManus’s system, what kind of drugs? Recreational ones? Something for a medical condition?

Burke’s cell rang. It was Lemaire.

“Good job, your best blog yet,” he told Burke. “Take a breather. Float me some ideas in the next day or so for your next blog.”

End of conversation.

Burke figured he’d take a break and go for a ride. It would clear his head and certainly help his fitness. He changed quickly into his cycling clothes, grabbed his bike and left. Outside, he wondered about a route. Nothing too substantial, but still testing enough.

He had it—he’d take the back route to Grasse, a nice twenty-kilometer-long climb that ended just above the old town. The ascent would be easy by pro standards, but he wasn’t a pro anymore so it would get his legs and lungs going. He might try pushing the pace a bit.

With a small change purse holding his ID and fifty euros in a back pocket of his cycling jersey, Burke jumped on his bike, pedaled quickly to the main road and turned right. The incline was gentle, and his legs worked the pedals with ease. The more you rode, the easier it got—or so he still believed.

The bike was beautifully engineered and took the corners smoothly. When he put some muscle into his riding, the machine snapped forward. He told himself he’d treat it to a cleanup when he got home. If this was how it responded when it had been neglected for a while, it would be spectacular when completely cleaned and tuned.

As he rode, his mind once more drifted back to the events of the last few days: McManus, Den Weent, the old woman outside Roxie’s, blogs, Lemaire, news conferences. He hadn’t been this busy in at least three years.

He was halfway up the climb when he decided to clear everything from his mind by pushing as hard as he could. He stood on the pedals and increased his cadence until he was hitting thirty kilometers per hour. He couldn’t hold it for long, but it felt good. After a kilometer, he slowed to give his heart a break.

When he glided into the top of Grasse, he checked his watch. He’d made the trip in forty minutes—hardly good for a pro racer, but not bad for an ex-pro trying to get into shape.

Riding past the bus depot, a couple of cafés and a few shops, Burke smiled. He loved Grasse for the way it stretched from down in a valley to way up on a hillside, where he was now. And his affection for the city’s Old Town, with its ancient, twisting lanes, continued to increase with every visit. As for the cafés, they were magnificent and could satisfy anyone’s tastes or wallet. He also didn’t mind the hordes of tourists who often descended on the city because Grasse was the world’s capital of perfume. His final reason for loving this special place involved the annual Fête du Jasmin in early August. He especially enjoyed the parade, during which young women on floats tossed flowers into the crowd. Everyone went home smelling of perfume. Burke had attended the last two festivals and could see no reason for missing the next one in a few weeks.

Dismounting his bike by the gardens that overlooked most of the city and, in the distance, Cannes, Burke walked down the main lane. There were a few tourists around, but most pedestrians looked like locals.

Burke spotted one of his favorite cafés. It was in a pastel-yellow building that had probably been there for three hundred years, and its terrace was one of the largest in the Old Town. He enjoyed stopping there for seafood pastas, which were the best he’d ever eaten, and for the owner’s two daughters—each in their thirties, tall, sassy and absolutely gorgeous.

He placed his bike against a giant flowerpot and then grabbed a small table. He had barely sat down when one of the daughters, Amélie, strolled over, offering him a dazzling smile.

“Ah, Paul, it is good to see you,” she said. “It has been a while.”

“Too long,” Paul said.

They chatted for a couple of minutes, and Paul enjoyed the conversation, although he knew Amélie was engaged and, despite some flirting, would never do anything more than talk to him.

He ended up ordering what she recommended—mussels with angel hair pasta, covered in a delicate tomato sauce. Since he had worked hard to get to Grasse, he added a glass of midrange cabernet sauvignon.

The wine came, and it was brilliant—smooth and round with just a hint of spice. Burke let his first sip curl around his tongue before it slipped down his throat. He shook his head. Since he had moved to Europe to pursue a cycling career, he had become something of a wine snob. If his childhood chums could see him now, they’d be shocked.

He watched the action along the lane.

Most of the people strolling by were local mothers with kids in tow. Some popped into a chocolate store directly opposite the café. They also visited a nearby shop that offered handcrafted glass jewelry.

Then he saw Madame Marois. Right on her heel was the loyal Plato, his little legs moving like pistons.

She was coming up the lane, holding something in her hand. As usual, she wore black, although she wasn’t as heavily dressed as usual. She glanced around, and her eyes fell on him. She stopped, a perplexed look on her face. Surprised by the sudden stop, Plato bumped into her legs. Burke smiled and waved.

To Burke’s surprise, she smiled back and came over. As smiles went, it wasn’t much—just a twist of the ends of her lips—but it was better than anything Burke had seen from her in two years.

“Good day, monsieur,” she said in her brittle voice.

She reached out and showed him what she was holding. It was a cameo pendant on a gold chain.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” she said. “I just purchased it down the way there. It reminds me of one I had as a young girl.”

Burke told her it was beautiful—and it was. He didn’t know how much it had cost, but he would have wagered well over three hundred euros.

Madame Marois pulled back the pendant and carefully put it in her small purse. Then she looked at Burke through her dark brown eyes.

“I believe I might have been rude to you recently, when I had some difficulties,” she said.

“I didn’t notice,” Burke lied.

“If I was, I must apologize. It is a matter of age. I regret if I said anything that might have offended you.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Madame,” Burke said.

He thought about inviting her to share his table, but she checked her watch and tilted her head as if trying to remember something.

“I believe I have to be somewhere,” she said, more to herself. “I’m just not sure where. Oh, well, maybe it will come to me.”

And without another word, Madame Marois and Plato turned and started up the lane toward the gardens. She was now glancing around in a jittery fashion. He hoped she’d make it back home—or wherever she was supposed to be—without incident.

Burke’s lunch soon came, and it was as good as Amélie had promised. They chatted a little more, and then a crowd of tourists arrived, taking over several tables. The noise level increased. Burke decided to skip dessert.

He took his bike back up to the gardens and climbed aboard. He had made a decision. He’d ride back home—it was almost all downhill—and then he’d drive to the police station in Nice and ask someone about McManus’s autopsy.