WHEN BURKE AWOKE, NURSE Peplinski was gone. So was Côté.

But Fortin was still there, slumped in one of the chairs and dozing. With his suit rumpled, he looked like he’d been there for a while.

Burke wondered how long he’d slept. He twisted his head to look at the clock on the far wall. It was almost seven. Since the room wasn’t very dark, he figured it was morning. He thought it might be Monday.

As he readjusted slightly on the pillow, jolts of pain shot through his shoulder, hip and leg.

He fumbled for the remote and pushed the button. He hoped Nurse Peplinski or whoever might show up quickly. He didn’t feel great.

“You’re finally awake,” Fortin said, rubbing his eyes.

Burke managed a nod.

“Do you remember what we were talking about before you fell asleep last night?”

Burke tried to assemble his memories of their previous conversation. It took a moment, and then he recalled where he’d left off.

He nodded.

“Why did you suggest it was a dog?” Fortin asked.

“Because I think I know the driver, and I know how her dog, who is small and white, usually stands against the dashboard when she’s driving,” Burke said.

The door opened, and Nurse Peplinski came in. She smiled wearily when she saw Burke awake. She asked what he needed.

Burke told her about the pain, and she made a couple of adjustments to one of the bags hooked up to his wrist.

“That should help you,” she said. “If it gets worse, you know what to do. It’ll be another nurse coming, though, since I’m done in a few minutes.” She glanced at Fortin and then back to Burke. “Don’t try to do too much,” she warned him.

Burke nodded, thanked her and watched her leave.

“So who was the driver?” Fortin asked.

“One of my neighbors, Madame Marois,” Burke said.

He knew he’d have to explain his reasons, and slowly, he began. As he spoke, Fortin took an occasional note.

“It’s because of the dog, Plato, that I know about the car and Madame Marois,” Burke said.

He thought that might confuse Fortin, but the detective’s face showed nothing.

“I’m a dog person,” Burke said. “I love dogs, grew up with them. If I hadn’t been a pro cyclist and hadn’t been forced to travel so much for work, I’d have had one.”

“I have a dog,” Fortin interjected.

Burke was surprised. Fortin didn’t seem a dog person. He seemed more an anti-pet guy.

“The first few times I met Madame Marois, Plato greeted me with affection,” Burke said. “He’s an excellent dog—very smart, nice manners. He doesn’t want to hump your leg or piss on your shoes. I think Madame Marois saw how much I liked him.”

“And Madame is devoted to this Plato?” Fortin said.

“Totally. She told me once that he knew her moods better than anyone. If she was upset, he’d be upset. I never gave that any more thought because that’s the way with a lot of dogs and their owners. Then, in recent days, Madame became agitated. She lost her keys, forgot other things and generally was in a very emotional state. I thought it was a case of an old woman starting to show her age. I felt sorry for her. And then just a short time ago, I remembered one thing—Plato had remained calm throughout all those occasions. That struck me as odd.”

“That is interesting,” Fortin said. “Like that Sherlock Holmes story about being aware of the dog that didn’t bark.”

Burke didn’t have a clue about Sherlock Holmes and a dog.

“That told me,” Burke carried on, “that if she was telling the truth about Plato reflecting her real moods, then she was acting on those occasions when she seemed upset, because Plato remained calm. And if that was the case, I asked myself why she would fake her emotions or mental state.”

“If you’re correct in your assumption, why do you think she did that, Monsieur Burke?” Fortin asked.

“Because I think she was planning to do something that, if caught, she could claim she was suffering from dementia and wasn’t in total control of her mind,” Burke said.

Fortin sat back, obviously digesting Burke’s theory.

“That wouldn’t be the first time someone has used a mental disorder as an excuse to kill someone,” he said.

“Before the hit-and-run, she started to act scattered, and I think that’s because she had this planned,” Burke said. “After Vachon and his minder were killed, she kept it up, maybe even increased how often she seemed out of her mind.”

“So she’s very methodical, according to you,” Fortin said.

“I believe Madame is a very calculating individual with a very long memory,” Burke said.

“You’re talking motive now,” Fortin said.

“I think if you check into her past and Vachon’s past, you’ll see there is a crossover. They knew each other years ago from business, and it did not end well at all for Madame and her husband. I don’t know the exact details, but I believe she blamed Vachon for a number of things. I think she held a grudge.”

“I’ll accept that for the moment. You talk about this Madame Marois as if she is elderly.”

“She’s in her eighties, I think,” Burke said. The increase in pain medication was helping, but he felt a stab in his ribs once again. “But I think she has as much dementia as you or I have. I think it’s all an act. That brings me to the howling Plato.”

“The what?”

His mouth dry from all the talking, Burke gestured toward a cup of water with a straw in it. Fortin grabbed it and gently put the straw into Burke’s mouth. A few sips later, Burke felt ready to continue.

“On the morning of my accident, I talked to one of Madame’s neighbors, and he told me Plato had been howling one evening.”

“And when exactly did Plato howl?” asked Fortin.

“I believe it was on the same evening when a certain black sedan struck and killed Yves Vachon and his bodyguard,” Burke said.

Fortin nodded. “But what about the white blotch in the city’s videos from the days before the hit-and-run?” he asked.

“She knew Vachon was a creature of habit because she knew him in the past. Plus, the newspapers always talked about how he was a person who liked order and discipline. She wanted to know where he ate and when. So, she followed him. She took Plato with her, and, as usual, he propped himself up against the dashboard. I’ve seen him do that. Once she established Vachon’s routine, she left Plato back home and went out alone with the intention of running him over and killing him.”

“But why leave Plato behind?”

“She didn’t want him to get hurt if something went wrong,” Burke said, hearing his words start to slur as the increased pain medication began to get a firm hold of him. “That dog is her life.”

Fortin scribbled something in his notepad.

“And then there was Madame’s accident the other day,” Burke said.

“Accident?”

“She turned a corner in the village and crashed into a stone wall,” Burke said. “She damaged the front right of the hood of her car.”

“The same part of the car that would have struck Vachon and his man,” Fortin said. “We naturally checked the body shops after the accident, but no car matching the description showed up anywhere.”

“After Vachon’s death, I think she put her car in the garage to hide the damage,” Burke said. “I don’t think anyone saw her drive during that period. Then she took it out and crashed it into a stone wall to disguise the real damage.”

“And her car is a dark sedan,” Fortin said.

“Four doors, black with the same grill as the car that drove me off the road,” Burke said, feeling a powerful urge to sleep.

“Stay with me just a little longer, monsieur,” Fortin urged. “So maybe it was the same car that tried to run you over on your ride in the hills. But why do you think she tried to run you over?”

“Before my accident, I mentioned to Madame Marois that a neighbor told me he’d heard Plato howling. I asked if Plato was OK. She said he hadn’t howled and the neighbor was just being stupid. She was agitated and quickly switched the subject. A minute later, she left, but she still seemed bothered.”

“By what?”

“Madame told me Plato didn’t howl, but it was clear I didn’t believe her and that made me a threat although I didn’t recognize that at the time. She was worried I’d keep poking around and find out what she’d been up to on the night Plato howled. The person behind the deaths of Vachon and his minder wasn’t Claude Brière or one of his friends. It was her.”

Fortin rubbed his chin. He wrote a few words in his notebook and then shut it.

Burke had nothing left. He was mentally and physically exhausted. He closed his eyes.

“What did you mean about Sherlock Holmes and the dog that didn’t bark?” he whispered, his eyes still shut, seconds from finding peace.

“It was in a Sherlock Holmes story,” Fortin said. “Holmes was investigating a case and heard about a dog that didn’t bark when it should have and that…”

Burke heard no more.