The Tempest (10 page)

“If you mean more high-­profile cases, that's not why I do this,” Hunter said, fighting down a bubble of anger. “Homicide is homicide. ­People are ­people. The borders of the county are just an invisible fence around ­people.”

Hunter genuinely believed this, although it wasn't an idea that always translated well to conversation. Also, it seemed beside the point. She was lucky to have a supervisor—­Henry Moore—­who let her do what she wanted, within reason. Hunter had her own ways of running an investigation and a freedom she'd never have at the FBI.

“All right,” he said, sounding mildly amused. “Point taken. I just happen to think you'd make good Bureau material.”

Hunter sighed. There were ways to flatter her; this wasn't one of them.

“What do you say? Will you do it?”

“I think so,” Hunter said. Not right away, but she said it. They rode back in silence, through the marshlands of northern Tidewater County, past old farmhouses, grassy fields, horses, bedsheets flapping on clotheslines, Hunter's thoughts chewing up the scenery.

“I'll try to call you on Monday,” Randall said. “I'll be down in Virginia visiting my mother for a ­couple of days. In the meantime, just keep all this between us.”

They shook hands back at the shopping center, cordial like friends.

On her way to the PSC, Hunter stopped at Kent's Crab House to pick up a carry-­out sandwich. The air smelled of fries and steamed crabs, sun-­scorched dock boards. Large blues were going for $45 a dozen today, according to the chalk board. The summer waitress's face was blistered from an afternoon in the sun.

Travis Kent, the owner, came over to greet Hunter, draping his arm across her shoulders as she stood in the shade by the carry-­out window.

“So how
you
been? Can I get you some iced tea, a soda, birch beer?”

“No thanks. I'm just here for carryout.”

“Keeping everybody in line?” He winked. Kent was a good-­hearted soul who knew how to make most ­people feel welcome. Hunter bantered with him for a few minutes, as she always did. Then she noticed that Sheriff Clay Calvert was across the deck, watching her, having lunch with two of his fishing cronies. For a tense few moments, it was like two nervous dogs eyeing each other.

Finally, the sheriff got up and walked over with his limping gait, pretending to be on his way to the men's room.

“Hey! How's your
investigation
?” he said with false bravado. He never wore his uniform except for official events, so Hunter had no idea if he was working or not. It was clear he'd been drinking.

“I feel bad for him,” the sheriff said, coming closer, staring her down accusingly. “The man's lost his wife, now he's got Homicide on his ass acting like he was
responsible
. Jesus Christ!” He spit over the rail into the water to emphasize the point.

Hunter edged away from him. “Just doing my job,” she said.

“Your
job
?” The sheriff crowded her against the carry-­out window, smelling of beer and Old Bay seasoning. “Leave the man alone. For Christ's sake.”

Fortunately, a server came out with her sandwich before things got any worse.

Calvert gave her his usual parting line as he walked away, “Tuck in your shirt!” grinning as if it had all been a joke. Once he'd pushed on into the men's room, Hunter felt her shirt just to make sure it
was
all tucked in. The first time he'd said this to her, a ­couple of years ago, it hadn't been. She still hadn't figured the perfect comeback, mostly because it wasn't a priority. Someday, she would.

F
IVE DAYS TO
go, and Walter Kepler was grocery shopping at Food Lion, stocking his condo for the weekend: cheeses, wine, bread, salad stuff, the makings for white clam linguine and tomato-­broth shellfish stew. All was good, except for the news that Belasco had just delivered by phone: the predator appeared to be recruiting someone new, a female homicide investigator this time. He'd just met with her, they'd gone for a drive. It was Belasco's problem, of course, to watch her and determine if she was a threat. Kepler trusted Belasco. But it gave him pause, just the idea that Randall would be introducing a new complication so late in the game.

Kepler opened the door of a frozen food case and reached in for a loaf of bread. The cold vapor rose to his face and he suddenly had a very strange sensation, the air like fog, transporting him to another place, two years earlier:
Oslo
. Kepler and Belasco, on vacation, hands and ears numb as they hurried through the run-­down Toyen district to the Munch Museum. Standing in the dusty gallery air, observing
Madonna
and
The Scream
, two paintings that had been easily stolen from the walls in 2004 and remained missing for two years. He was reminded of the 1994 theft of another version of
The Scream
from the National Museum across town, the thieves leaving behind a note reading, “Thanks for the poor security.” It was Kepler who had secretly negotiated the recovery of the Munch Museum paintings in 2006, on condition that museum security be improved so that their theft could never happen again. A condition that had been met. The paintings were today as secure as the
Mona Lisa
. But did Scott Randall even know about that? Did he know the good that Kepler had done?

He closed the door, shutting the memory. But he carried a lingering unease as he pushed his cart down the aisle—­that Randall still thought he could stop him; not that he could, but just that he
thought
he could.

By the time Kepler cleared the store checkout, the feeling had passed. Walking to his car, carrying three sacks of groceries, Kepler recalled one of his favorite sayings:
A wise man gets more use from his enemies than a fool from his friends.
Five days to go.

 

Chapter Sixteen

I
guess there's no news?” Luke said, reaching Charlotte.

“About—­?”

“Our daughter? Sneakers's little sister?”

“Funny,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“You're the one who always preaches patience.”

“I know.”

“But I did speak with my doctor. I'll tell you all about it.”

“Good. I'm leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“We'll be waiting.”

Luke left the church at 1:15 for what he told Aggie would be “a late lunch with Charlotte,” which was in fact an excuse to work on their “project,” as they were calling efforts to enlarge the Bowers family. He wondered how long it would be before Aggie figured out what was going on.

“I'm home!” he called coming in, reminding himself of Ward Cleaver or Howard Cunningham.
Was he already beginning to play the role of father?
Sneakers came trotting down the hallway, as usual, his toenails clicking on the hardwood floor. But his head hung in a peculiar way, as if he disapproved of what Luke and Charlotte were about to do and yet didn't want to make a fuss over it.

“What's the matter, boy?” He sat for his usual neck rub, his ears pulled back, although there was a halfhearted quality to this, too. He wouldn't look at Luke.

“Char?”

Sneakers stood up and led him into the kitchen, where Luke saw the real issue: there was a strange man seated at the kitchen table with Charlotte, tall, balding, with a long, narrow face, sunglasses on top of his head.

“Oh,” Luke said. “Hello.”

“This is—­” Charlotte began.

“Scott Randall,” he said, standing and giving Luke a meaty handshake. “Special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Oh, okay. Hi.”

Luke squinted out the window.
Where had he parked?

“You're Luke Bowers.”

“So I'm told.”

Randall sat back at the kitchen table, and Luke joined him. Charlotte had set three bowls. They were all going to have soup, it looked like.

“I called the church and the woman said you'd left for home some time earlier.”

The woman
, Charlotte mouthed, giving Luke a sly glance.

“Yes,” he said. “That's true. Where did you park?”

“I took a cab, actually.”

“Ah.”

“Hungry?” Charlotte said. She was up getting the lunch.

“A little.”

She brought them bowls of wild rice soup, along with buttered raisin toast.

“I think I picked up a nail in my tire,” Randall explained. “They're fixing it in town. I thought, I have some time, I'll come out and visit you for a few minutes.”

“Where'd you take it?”

“The car? I think it's called Lenny's?”

“Lonny's,” Luke said. “Yes, he'll take care of you.”

He exchanged a smile with Charlotte. Sneakers got up, turned in a circle readying to lie down. But then he seemed to lose interest and scratched his side instead. He looked at Randall, then, as if waiting to be noticed, and finally walked out of the room.

“So, how can I help?”

“I just wanted to ask you about the photo Susan Champlain e-­mailed you. Get your impressions.” He paused to taste the soup. “I can't go into a lot of specifics but the photo does seem to dovetail with an active case we're working on. I was just talking with your wife about it—­”

His eyes turned to Charlotte's. Sneakers, in the next room now, whimpered.

“Go ahead and eat,” Charlotte said.

“I understand the photo was sent to you on Wednesday afternoon,” he said, to Luke, who noticed that he was slightly cross-­eyed.

“Sent to me, that's right. I didn't discover it, though, until late that night. After she'd died.”

“Can you give me the time frame on all that?”

“Sure.” Luke went through it all, as they ate their soups and toast. Randall's eyes kept turning to Charlotte; he was a little charmed by her, Luke could see, as ­people sometimes were, but a little bit more than seemed appropriate.

“So you must have reason to think it's the real thing?” Luke said. “The Rembrandt, I mean.”

“Oh, I have no idea,” he said, and smiled disingenuously. “As I told your wife, it's an ongoing investigation. And I'm going to ask that anything we've discussed today remain in confidence.”

“Sure.” Luke spooned the last of his soup. “So you talked with Amy Hunter, I gather?”

“Just finished, yeah. Sharp kid.”

Charlotte's eyes lifted and locked with Luke's briefly; she silently mouthed the words
sharp kid
.

“Yes, she's very good. Very bright.”

“Kind of a firecracker.”

“That, too,” Luke said.

Randall was stingy in telling Luke what
he
knew, though. There was a subtle aggressiveness about him that was unsettling, as he tried to get Luke to tell him more about Susan Champlain.

After finishing lunch, Randall crumpled his mostly shredded paper napkin into a ball and set it on his plate. Luke offered to drive him back into town.

“Thanks. Appreciate it,” he said. “Could I use your facilities?”

“Of course,” Charlotte said. “It's just down the hall there.”

Luke sighed as Randall disappeared in the facilities. “I guess that constituted today's lunch date,” he said.

“Not quite what I expected, either. Nor did Sneakers.”

“Sneakers actually seemed to have a little attitude,” Luke said.

“I noticed. He's not used to being ignored.”

“Anyway: we'll make up for it.”

She leaned across the table and kissed him.

Randall came out looking recharged, smelling of hand soap.

“Ready,” he said, rubbing his hands.

A
FTER LETTING HIM
off, Luke drove back to Widow's Point. He parked in the shade on the access road and walked out onto the beach below the bluff, to the spot where Susan Champlain had died. It was low tide again. There were no signs anymore of what had happened here. Susan's phone had never been found; her second sandal hadn't washed ashore. Luke spent a half hour walking the beach, barefoot, searching the sand and looking out at the sails on the glittering Bay. Then he closed his eyes for a few minutes and felt the sun warm his face, the tide coming in around his ankles, his feet sinking into the sand. He expressed gratitude for all that he had and then drove back to work, feeling uneasy and a little guilty.

 

Chapter Seventeen

H
unter fought the urge to call Dave Crowe for much of the day. She ran data searches on Walter Kepler instead and did a background check on Scott Randall. Kepler was an enigmatic character who'd grown up in New York City and seemed to have moved among residences in Delaware, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, France, and Switzerland over the past twenty-­five years. He still owned at least two properties in Delaware, one a house in the country with an assessed value of $895,000, the other a beach condo worth about half that. There were several records of lucrative art deals, including the $16.3 million sale in 1995 of a Picasso painting called Femme et de Fleurs and a 2001 sale of a late Picasso for $7.1 million. In 2012, the New York Times ran a story about the return of six Impressionist paintings stolen in Zurich four years earlier. The article quoted sources claiming that “Walter Kepler, an elusive figure in the world of high-­end art, reportedly helped negotiate the return of the paintings . . . Kepler is reputed to have recovered—­and traded in—­high-­end art (including, by some accounts, stolen art) for more than fifteen years. He declined, through a spokesman, to be interviewed.”

Early in the afternoon, Hunter paid a visit to the Empress Gallery on Main Street, where Susan Champlain had supposedly displayed her photographic art for several days earlier in the summer.

A trim man with floppy black hair and arresting blue eyes emerged from a cubicle space. “Good afternoon,” he said, bouncing out to greet her. “Welcome to the Empress Gallery. Can I help you find anything—­Eastern Shore landscapes? Photography?” he said, guessing at her taste.

“I'm on business, actually.” Hunter showed her badge. “I understand this gallery represented Susan Champlain?”

One side of his mouth made a funny downward wiggle, as if a worm were inside his lips. “Susan Wilkins,” he said, correcting her. “She wasn't represented here, no. Although I believe she may have had one piece for sale.” His blue eyes had an attentive, otherworldly quality that reminded her of a husky dog's. “May I ask where you heard that she was represented here?” he said.

“You may,” Hunter said. “But, unfortunately, I'm not able to answer.”

This caused him to smile, in a quick, passive-­aggressive way. “It was just up for a few days, as I recall,” he said, his tone turning more businesslike. “We routinely rotate the selections.”

“Did it sell?”

“I couldn't give out that sort of information.”

“Okay.” She snuck a glance at his shoulders; not bad, but she wouldn't call them elegant. “Did you know her?”

“Did I know—­?”

“Susan Champlain. Wilkins.”

“I believe I
met
Miss Champlain, yes. But, no, I didn't know her. May I ask what this is regarding?”

“Just part of a routine investigation.”

He gave Hunter a curt smile and she suddenly recognized something—­this was the man she'd seen walking behind Susan Champlain that hot afternoon several weeks ago, in the parking lot outside Kent's, her sandals making a clip-­clop sound, oil stains glowing in the sun. The only time Susan Champlain had spoken to her.

“How did it happen that her work was on sale here?”

“I couldn't comment on that. You'd have to talk with the owner. Excuse me,” he said. He pivoted and walked back to his cubicle. Hunter waited, glancing around the gallery. He came out again with two business cards, one in each hand. One for the owner, Darian Empress; the other, him: Marc Devlin, manager, Empress Gallery.

“Let me know if there's anything else I can help you with,” he said, meaning the art.

Hunter gave him
her
card, which he looked at as if it were filled with a paragraph of text. “Would you have Ms. Empress call me?” she said.

“I will leave Mrs. Empress a message, certainly.”

“Thank you.”

Hunter browsed for a ­couple minutes before leaving. She could see quickly that Susan Champlain's art wouldn't have fit here. The paintings on the walls were mostly oils of Eastern Shore landscapes and sailing scenes. There were also waterfowl carvings and small colored-­glass sculptures.

Devlin gave her space, pretending to be checking a wall text across the room, but keeping an eye on her. Hunter noted the prices, which were mostly in the $2,000 to $6,000 range. She saw one for $24,000, and stepped back to study it more carefully. She didn't get it. Was it really worth $21,000 more than the landscape next to it?

Hunter enjoyed going through the Philadelphia Museum of Art, seeing the Impressionists, some of the Hudson River School paintings; she liked the ancient Greek and Roman art at the Penn Museum. Things that lasted: she was a sucker for that. But the world of art galleries was a mystery to her.

She turned to say goodbye to Marc Devlin, who immediately raised his right hand.

Hunter stood under the awning on the sidewalk and was surprised when the door creaked open behind her. Devlin stepped out, squinting at the light.

“Your ID said Homicide,” he said, in a quieter voice.

“That's right.”

He glanced both ways up and down Main Street. “I thought Miss Champlain's death was an accident.”

There was a note of compassion in his question that made Hunter suddenly like him.

“It may have been. We don't know yet.”

Her card was still in his hand, and he pretended to read it again.

“Could I call you later?” he said.

“Sure, if you'd like.”

“Good. I will.” Devlin looked at her with those blue eyes, then made a pivot and went back inside.

F
ISCHER AND
T
ANNER
were in their offices at the PSC, heads down. But Tanner's eyes lifted subtly as Hunter walked into her office.

He gave her a minute to settle before coming in. Hunter knew she'd eventually have to tell them about the photo, and the Rembrandt painting, but for now she was going to honor Scott Randall's request not to talk about it with anyone, other than Henry Moore, her boss, and Pastor Luke. At least until Moore told her different.

“Anything?”

“Not a lot. You?”

“Possible witness.”

“Oh?” Hunter nodded him in. “To Susan's fall?”

“I wish. No. But someone saw a pickup driving away from the bluff road Wednesday night. Where it forks off onto, I guess, Route 11?”

“12.”

“12. The woman came forward after the fact, talked to one of Dunn's investigators. She got a partial on the license plate. The interesting thing is, it matches three of the numbers on Joey Sands's truck.”

“Joe Sanders.”

“Right. The lifeguard—­I mean, the bodyguard.”

“Right.”

“And where is
he
?”

“Sanders? I'm still following up. He may have left town already.”

He studied her with his dark, liquid eyes.

“Nothing more on the footprints, either? Cell phone, computer, sandal?”

“None of it, no.”

“Strange.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Joey Sanders was becoming more interesting to this case, Hunter thought. She made a mental note to ask Randall about him.

“Let me get this,” she said, as her phone began to ring again.

But there was no one there. So she thought. Then she realized that someone was breathing on the other end.

“Amy
Huuun
-­ter?”

“Yes? Hello?”

A deep, splintery breathing sound, in and out, in and out. Then nothing. The caller had hung up.

Hunter sighed. She closed the door and called Dave Crowe, at the FBI building in Washington. 4:02. It was almost two days now since Susan Champlain's body had been found on the beach at Widow's Point. There was too much still that she didn't know about what had happened; and too much she wasn't supposed to talk about. If Susan had been killed because of a stolen painting, then it probably wasn't Hunter's business to solve the case. But she kept thinking back to what Randall had said:
what if solving one case solves the other?

“How was your meeting?” Crowe asked, in a tone suggesting he already knew.

“Have you talked with him?”

“Randall? Just briefly, yeah. He asked me a few questions about you.”

“Great. What did he want to know?”

“I, eh, need to be careful. Talking on this phone.”

Hunter sighed. “Let's meet, then.”

I
T WAS EASY
by then for Belasco to get close to Joey Sanders. He was an open book with some ­people, closed up with others. But there was a lot about him that was predictable. He was like Belasco's brothers. There was a cocksure steadiness in the way that Sanders looked at you, chin up, an entitled quality to his smile. He was a man who counted on things going his way; and if they didn't, no biggie. He didn't wrestle a lot with angst. He worked hard, he played by the rules (those he had to). He liked to drink at night, beer and vodka. He was seducible, but thought he was doing the seducing. A lot of ­people were raised that way; it was an attitude that they never really shed, not completely.

But he was also smart, in a deceptive way, and that worried Belasco. That's why they were doing this, before Belasco left for good at the beginning of the week. They were headed now to pick up Belasco's car; but taking a circuitous drive first, down through the protected marshlands. Sanders had something he wanted Belasco to see.

Sanders was driving, only too pleased to help, windows lowered a third, cool air streaming from the vents. It was a hot afternoon, the outdoors making their clothes stick. Sanders's face eager like that of a much younger man; like he was pretty sure something was going to happen. That was the game, the anticipation: shared desire. Just let it sit there, and simmer a little in the summer heat.

Sanders turned onto a rural route, which would take them to Virginia eventually if they kept going. He picked up speed again, laying rubber at one point, but doing it responsibly, like a forty-­something-­year-­old man. The marshlands were sparkling in the distance all around. There was a motel ten or maybe fifteen miles up ahead.

“A beer'd sure taste good,” Sanders said.

“Okay.”

“Want one?”

“I could have one.”

Sanders slowed. He eased off onto the shoulder of the road in the shade, by a narrow creek. He had a cooler of Budweiser in the truck bed. Belasco opened the passenger door. The air was still under the leaves, buzzing with insects. A small plane flew toward the beaches, towing a banner.

As Sanders let down the tailgate, Belasco stuck the needle in his neck. Sanders had no time to do anything but look surprised. Then he tried to swat at it for a moment like a mosquito had bit him. Belasco always enjoyed seeing that transformation, that instant when someone you know turns out to be someone you don't know.

Eventually Sanders's eyes and his arms stopped moving. He was fully paralyzed as Belasco heaved him up into the bed of the truck. Sanders should have known better than to let things get personal. In that instant before the tarp went over his face, Joey Sanders's open eyes reflected the blue sky, and it reminded Belasco of Kepler's eyes the first time they'd met, at the museum in Philadelphia: It had been like peering into a magnificent house full of elegant furnishings where nobody actually lived. That's how it had seemed. Now Belasco knew better. It
was
a vast house with many rooms still unknown. But it wasn't uninhabited. It was now the place where Belasco lived.