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 expect 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.”

That was exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t sure if Petit was truly involved, but there was something about the mechanic and his mother that made him uneasy. If Petit ever learned that Burke was implicating him to the police, Petit would be livid and maybe dangerous. Burke realized at that moment that he thought Petit was capable of violence—real, serious violence. He shuddered.

“I’m only asking questions for my blog,” Burke said. “Are you considering Petit a suspect?”

“I can’t tell you if we have any suspects,” Fortin said.

“But you believe the deaths of McManus and Den Weent are connected,” Burke said.

Fortin said nothing.

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said you’re investigating ‘the case.’”

“I am not confirming anything about the death of Pierre McManus, or Mark Den Weent, for that matter.”

Burke was out of questions and scrambled for something to say.

“When did you last talk to Mark Den Weent?” Fortin asked.

Burke told him. Fortin nodded.

“At that time, did Den Weent seem to think McManus had died of anything other than a heart attack?”

“No.”

“Den Weent, it seems, had a reputation as someone who didn’t miss much,” Fortin said. “Is that how you would describe him?”

Burke agreed.

“You’ve had some conversations recently with Petit,” Fortin said. It was a statement, not a question, and Burke wondered how the detective knew that.

Burke confirmed that he had talked with the bike mechanic recently.

Fortin asked what Burke had talked to Petit about. Burke gave him a condensed version, leaving out Petit’s volatility when Burke had persisted about Petit’s mother and McManus.

“Would you describe him as angry during those conversations?” Fortin said.

“At times, he was upset,” Burke said.

“Is he an angry man normally?”

Burke said he didn’t know Petit well enough to make that judgment.

“Why did you mention masking agents in connection with McManus’s death?” Fortin asked.

“Given McManus’s fitness level, it just seems improbable he would die from his heart suddenly stopping, despite what that doctor said back at the news conference,” Burke said. “But then, I’m not a doctor, and I could have the whole thing totally wrong.”

“I understand you and Petit’s mother had an interesting discussion during a public forum on drugs in sport,” Fortin said.

“We talked,” Burke said.

“She was angry about McManus,” Fortin said. “In fact, it seems she might have hated him.”

Burke was hearing more statements from Fortin than questions.

He nodded at Fortin.

The door opened, and Fortin’s shadow, Côté, walked in. Fortin gave the briefest of nods. Côté stood in a corner.

“When a mechanic is working on the Tour, does he get much free time?” Fortin asked, rapidly changing the subject, which he was making a habit of.

“Only to sleep a few hours,” Burke said.

“Does a mechanic come and go on his own, or does someone need to know where he is at all times during a big race like the Tour?”

Burke didn’t have a clue why Fortin was going in this direction.

“During the Tour, a mechanic is on call virtually all the time,” Burke said. “He is at the beck and call of riders, the directeur sportif, other management, other mechanics.”

“It sounds tiring,” Fortin said.

“It’s an exhausting, stressful job. I wouldn’t want to do it.”

“And the pay?” Fortin asked.

Burke figured Fortin knew the answer to that as well.

“Enough to pay the bills and probably not much more,” he told the detective. “They do it for love of the work, for the most part.”

“Indeed,” Fortin said.

For a brief moment, Fortin appeared deep in thought.

“I have a couple of final questions for you, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said.

“About what?” Burke asked.

“You’re an ex-pro cyclist, and you cover the sport to some degree these days. When a cycling team dopes, who dispenses the drugs? The team doctor? A trainer? Someone else?”

Burke said nothing. Fortin could find the answers elsewhere.

“I understand your reluctance to say anything, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said. “If you answer my question and save me some time, I might be able to help you with whatever story you’re working on that involves Yves Vachon.”

Fortin was using the Vachon matter—and Claude’s possible involvement—as a hook. Burke was still reluctant to talk much about drugs, but he expected Fortin would keep prying.

Fortin leaned toward Burke.

“I will tell you right now,” Fortin said, “that your friend, the café owner, is off the hook for the Vachon death, but there are people who are pushing for his rearrest and conviction for conspiracy in helping create a riot that led to the willful destruction of private property. They also want him to be charged with premeditated attacks against police officers. And they want him for tax fraud.”

“Claude, a conspirator and a tax fraud?” Burke blurted out.

“A conviction on any of those charges could lead to some serious time in prison. A conviction on all three would lead to several years.”

Burke didn’t know what to say. Claude really was in a mess and didn’t know it. Claude, and his lawyer, thought he was free.

“As I said, there are people pushing for action against him,” continued Fortin. “But there’s some counterevidence that suggests those charges could be a little weak.”

Burke finally saw the game.

“A few minutes ago, you gave me some information about Léon Petit,” Fortin said. “Now, I’m asking for information that’s more general. I’m asking for you to help save my time, and these days, time is even more valuable, especially when your friends in the media are putting a spotlight on us.”

It was a trade. If Burke was a journalist, he would probably protest—hard. But he wasn’t. And Claude was his friend.

“When I was racing, I took drugs twice, and then I quit because I hated how they made me feel—not physically, but emotionally,” Burke began. “When I refused to dope, I got into deep trouble with the team.”

“And most teams doped back then, right?” Fortin said.

“Not now, but back then, it happened a fair amount,” Burke admitted.

“So who would have known?” Côté interjected.

“Just about everybody,” Burke said. “The doctor would likely have been the person who would supervise the doping. He would probably do most of the actual doping, too. But sometimes, he’d have someone else do it.”

“Like a masseur or…” Fortin began.

“Soigneur is the actual title. It refers to someone who handles several tasks to help a rider recover and then prepare for the next day’s race or training,” Burke said.

“And a mechanic? Would a mechanic know?”

Burke saw Fortin was thinking Petit. What the hell, he thought. Tell Fortin the truth and let Petit fend for himself.

“Like I said, virtually everyone would know,” Burke said. “I expect that a mechanic ran a doping errand here or there. But a mechanic who is also skilled in massage and nutrition might have a little extra understanding of how to help a rider cope.”

“And it’s possible no one would ever check a mechanic’s private toolbox for any, say, drugs?” Fortin wondered aloud.

“Mechanics share some tools, but mostly, they use their own, and no one dares to borrow anything without permission,” Burke told him.

Fortin nodded. He looked at Côté, who nodded back. Fortin stood.

“You gave us nothing that was earth-shattering, but it has been helpful, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said. “If you think of anything else, please tell us. It would help us—and maybe we could do even more for Monsieur Brière.”

Burke sensed Claude had just about wriggled free but not quite.

“Here’s a small observation, Inspector,” Burke said. “A truly good bike mechanic on the pro circuit has to work quickly and efficiently. Speed is everything. So is quality of work.”

Fortin looked a little puzzled but remained patient.

“He completes tasks he has done hundreds, maybe thousands of times before, but the mechanic is always focused. He has to be. One mistake could cost a racer a win, or result in some terrible injury. When the mechanic completes the work, his hands are usually clean—maybe cleaner than yours are now. He is so good that he doesn’t get dirty. He’s so good…” Burke paused for effect, “that he doesn’t get cuts or nicks on his fingers or knuckles.”

Fortin was seeing the light.

“Monsieur Petit’s hands are a little chewed up,” Burke said.

“And Petit is good?”

“A friend who knows about such matters tells me he’s as good as it gets.”

Fortin nodded. He looked at Côté, then back at Burke.

“Your friend, Monsieur Brière, could be all right after all, with the right influence,” Fortin said. “Inspector Jardine is in charge of the Vachon matter, but I might be able to have a word with him.”

Burke didn’t know exactly what “have a word” meant, but he figured it couldn’t hurt Claude’s situation.

“Thank you,” Burke said.

Fortin pointed a finger at Burke. “You’re more than what I thought you were, Monsieur Burke.”

Burke left the office under the guidance of a uniformed officer. He glanced back and saw Fortin talking animatedly with Sylvie Côté. He wondered what Fortin had learned from him—and what he had learned from Fortin.

Burke exited the building and went to the closest bench. He pulled out his notepad from his shoulder bag and jotted down some of what Fortin had said. Then he scribbled a couple of sentences for his blog. He reread them and saw they weren’t anything special.

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself.

He looked up.

Fortin and Côté were walking quickly down the street like they were late for an appointment. Burke could only speculate where they were heading in such a rush.