THAT EVENING, BURKE SENT in a blog and posted his video version for Lemaire’s perusal. He thought his efforts were reasonably good, thanks to the observations of the Dutch bunch and the excitement surrounding the next day’s final stage of the race.
Fifteen minutes after sending in his stuff, Burke’s phone rang.
“I received both your written and video blogs, Paul,” said François Lemaire. “Some good work, although you still need to work on your spelling.”
Burke, who was exhausted, thanked him.
“I have some good news for you,” Lemaire said. “I had Antoine check up on followers for your blog.”
“Oh, yes?” Burke replied, trying to sound interested.
“Your written blog has 21,575 followers and is growing by the day,” Lemaire said.
“Is 21,575 good?”
“It’s not bad at all. In fact, it’s better than I had expected. The way it’s going, you might get up to fifty thousand one day.”
“That sounds good,” Burke said.
“And that’s just followers. A couple of your blogs had thirty-five thousand hits.”
That seemed impressive to Burke, though he wasn’t entirely sure he understood the difference between followers and hits. He was too tired to ask.
“And your video blog has gone from 250 followers to, the last time I looked, just over ten thousand,” Lemaire continued.
“Good.”
“Antoine dug into the analytics and discovered some other interesting facts,” Lemaire said.
“Analytics? What are those?” Burke asked.
“It’s a way to see who your readers or viewers are—or at least where they’re from—and how much time they spend on a site or a page. Want to know where most of your followers come from?”
Burke didn’t really care but told Lemaire he wanted to know.
“A third of your followers come from France. Another third come from elsewhere in Europe, especially Italy and Spain. About one-sixth come from the United States, and the rest come from around the world, including your homeland and a bunch in South America. A lot of people like what you’re doing.”
Burke was now interested. Besides the French, people in other European countries, the U.S. and even South America were interested in his viewpoints? He wondered who was reading him back home in Canada.
“And when they check out your blogs, both written and video, they’re staying on several minutes, long enough to go through all of your material,” Lemaire added.
“Good,” Burke said, finally meaning it.
“But don’t let it go to your head, and don’t expect a raise,” Lemaire added quickly.
Burke laughed. “OK, I won’t. At least for the moment.”
“Good. Talk to you when you’re back here,” Lemaire said and then hung up.
Burke ran the numbers through his head again. There were indeed a lot of people checking out his work. He’d have to polish his writing with that many following every word he wrote or said.
And down the line, he would talk to Lemaire about a raise. If taxes went up, as it looked like they would, he’d need extra money.
Burke went to bed, but it took a couple of hours before he slipped into sleep. Too many thoughts, starting with Lemaire’s information and then going back to Claude and Hélène—and even Inspector Fortin.
On Sunday, Burke got up early, had a quick breakfast, checked out and then headed to the Champs-Elysées, his small overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He figured he’d mingle with people and then find a good spot close to the finish.
He eschewed the metro to walk there and was soon glad that he did. Even though the racers wouldn’t be showing up for another four or five hours, the party atmosphere had already settled in as people of all ages and in all kinds of garb made their way toward the loop the riders would be doing. The good feelings were infectious, and Burke found himself putting aside thoughts of Nice, Claude and Hélène to eagerly chat with other spectators. It felt good to escape reality, if only for a while.
The day was perfect for racing. Warm, generally sunny and only a slight breeze. When he had ridden his final stage in the TDF, it had been unseasonably cool and wet.
He found a spot about two hundred meters from the finish line. He wouldn’t be in the front row, or even the third or fourth, but he could still manage to see because he had a small mound to stand on.
When the riders finally flew onto the Champs, the spectators, who probably totaled more than a million, erupted into a deafening cheer that rumbled along the route. Burke wondered if it was like that every year. When he raced, he hadn’t noticed much noise. He’d been focused on getting through the laps without crashing or getting left behind by the peloton.
Even though they were racing uphill and over cobblestones, the racers had to be pushing sixty kilometers per hour. Surely exhausted in every bone and muscle, they were feeling the adrenaline rush that came from riding in the finale of the biggest bike race in the world.
Burke found himself cheering and clapping along with everyone else as the peloton charged by.
Burke wished everything back home was different and that Hélène could be there with him, drinking in the energy of a million people and the pageantry of the final kilometers.
It was magnificent.
And then it was over, with a stocky Brit winning the stage and a whip-thin Spaniard winning the overall event.
Burke scribbled some notes and shot some video of the final ceremonies, and then it was time to leave. He had a plane leaving for Nice in two hours.
He considered himself fortunate to catch a cab two blocks away. If he’d had more time, he would have gone by the metro and then the RER to the airport, but he was in a rush, and besides, Lemaire would cover the expense.
When his plane landed, Burke sped to his car and drove quickly to the Nice TV station where he was going to be on the panel. He looked rumpled and tired, but he didn’t care. Maybe the makeup people would freshen him up.
But they didn’t. One woman crooked an eyebrow in disdain when he arrived, asking if this appearance was his usual state of affairs.
“I know,” Burke said with a shrug. “I just got in from Paris and haven’t had time to clean up.”
That didn’t seem to placate her.
The panel was made up of the TV sports anchor, the veteran sportswriter Burke had met at the forum, a long-retired former racer in his sixties and Burke.
They rehashed the day’s final stage and then went through the surprises of the race. Burke contributed his share of comments but was a long way from being engaging. A couple of times, he found his thoughts drifting to what was happening with Claude.
“After all this discussion, though, the real reason that this race will linger in many people’s memories long after today are the deaths of Pierre McManus and Mark Den Weent,” the sports anchor said. “The Tour de France went from the sports pages to the front pages, from race results to murder.”
Burke was back to paying attention.
“It was not the kind of publicity the Tour needed,” the sports anchor added.
“It wasn’t good for McManus or Den Weent either,” interjected the sportswriter in a frosty tone.
Clearly not happy with the interruption, the anchor glared at the sportswriter, who glared right back. Burke remained silent as he waited to see what would happen next. The program was virtually live, with only a delay of a few seconds, partly due to his own shenanigans a few years back.
“Well, there has never been a doubt about that,” the anchor replied. He turned to Burke. “Paul, my understanding is you’ve been close to the investigation of the two murders. In fact, a source told me you had some information that proved useful to the police.”
Burke wondered how the anchor could have learned that.
“Not really, Pierre,” he told the anchor. “I attended a news conference, talked to some police, but that was about it.”
“You’re being modest,” the anchor continued, seemingly glad to have eliminated the sportswriter from the discussion. “I believe you uncovered some connections no one else knew about.”
Who could have leaked the information? Fortin? Hardly. Côté? She seemed like she’d rather cut off her tongue than talk to the media. Someone else? Maybe another cop?
“I did learn a little bit about the case that didn’t come out in the media,” Burke admitted. “But it wasn’t much, and the police didn’t really seem to care much.”
He wasn’t sure if the last part was really true, but he had to distance himself from the investigation.
“I understand, but do you think the case against Léon Petit is strong, given your inside knowledge?” the anchor asked.
Everyone’s eyes burned into him.
“Well, my ‘inside knowledge’ isn’t much, and since I’m not a lawyer, I can’t say if the case is strong or not,” said Burke. “However, I don’t think the police would have arrested him if they didn’t believe they had a good case against him.”
“Ah, Paul, now you sound like a politician,” the anchor said with a smirk. “Come now, take on the detective’s role as you apparently did over the last two weeks and give us something more.”
“I’m not a detective, and I’m not a politician,” Burke said, his anger threatening to ignite. “I’m just an ex-racer who didn’t do well and now writes a blog. I only know what you know.”
“Why do the police think Petit murdered Pierre McManus and Mark Den Weent?” the anchor continued.
“I don’t know.”
“Or won’t say?”
“No, I don’t know.”
The anchor finally backed off, and the panel wrapped up with a few predictions for the following year’s race.
When the show ended, the anchor and the director thanked Burke and the other participants.
The anchor then pulled Burke aside.
“You know why Petit murdered McManus, and I think you have some idea why he killed Den Weent as well,” the anchor told Burke. “You could have shared that with the audience. It would have made for good TV.”
“As I told you on air, I don’t know. I might have some ideas, but I’m not sure about any of them,” Burke said.
The anchor smiled. “No matter,” he said, clapping Burke on the arm. “It was a good show. A lot more people know about you now. I expect you’ll get noticed on the street from now on.”
“I hope not.”
“Really? Oh well, fame isn’t for everyone,” the anchor said. “Today’s show is part of a new weekly segment I’m producing. It has a panel format and deals with the week’s issues in sports. I’d like you to be on it.”
“Every week?” Burke asked, stunned at the offer.
“Every week,” the anchor said. “I’ve taken the liberty to talk to your editor, François Lemaire, and he has no issue with you appearing on the program in the future.”
Burke wondered when Lemaire had known about the offer—and why he hadn’t said anything to Burke.
“I’ll think about it,” Burke said.
The anchor smiled. “It would not be for free,” he said. “You would be paid—and paid quite well.”
A moment earlier, Burke had been ready to reject the offer. He wasn’t interested in being on a regular panel; he didn’t know a lot about other sports. Plus, he wasn’t comfortable in front of a camera. He also wasn’t sure about being tied down to a Sunday telecast every week. But the offer of being “paid quite well” changed his attitude; he could use the money.
“I’ll think about it,” Burke repeated, although he would probably accept. He just didn’t want to seem too eager for the extra income.
The anchor could obviously see a change in Burke’s thinking, because he smiled. “That’s fine,” he said. “I’ll contact you tomorrow to talk about it. I think you’ll find it’s good for you, good for us and good for the viewers.”
Burke wasn’t entirely sure who would profit from his regular participation in the show, but he agreed to provide the anchor with an answer the next day. In return, the anchor told Burke what the pay would be. It was a nice amount—more than Burke expected.
And that’s when he knew he’d definitely say yes.
On his way home, feeling tired and yet exhilarated from this latest development, Burke wondered what would happen next.