The Tempest (15 page)

“And is there anything else you'd like to tell me?”

“About?”

“Anything.”

Linden made a face.

“No?” she said.

“No.”

“Okay.” Hunter kept her eyes on his. “I'll be back in touch with you, then.”

She stood.

“You will?”

This seemed to bother him as much as anything.

“Or you with me,” she said. “Whichever comes first.”

 

Chapter Twenty-one

H
unter went home to spend some quality time with Winston before visiting Luke and Charlotte Bowers for dinner. Winston didn't know it (or perhaps he did), but she was going to be away overnight on Monday and he would be tended to by Grace Pappas, a crotchety older neighbor whose voice scared Winston something awful. The quality time was more for her than for Winston, of course, although he didn't mind. They communed on the back porch, watching the marina activity, Hunter stroking the sides of his face and beneath his chin.

Then she showered again and got dressed.
Nothing fancy, just crab cakes
, he'd said. Still, she'd ironed a dress shirt and pulled out her gray slacks. Somehow, she'd forgotten that the slacks fit funny, a little too tight at the waist and sort of bunchy around her thighs. But her usual selection of well-­worn jeans didn't seem appropriate tonight. She had never been to the Bowerses' house, which was more of a cottage, a “parish house,” he called it, whatever that meant.

As soon as Luke opened the door that evening, the Bowerses' dog Sneakers was all over her. Hunter went with it, getting down on one knee as he rolled onto his back and turned to jelly, his tail thumping wildly on the hardwood floor.

“Looks like we've got some competition,” Charlotte said to Luke as she came in, holding a glass of wine.

“That's actually quite unusual,” Luke said. “He doesn't often act that way.”

“Tell her what happened when the FBI man came by.”

“Well, it wasn't pretty,” Luke said. “Sneakers isn't used to being ignored.”

Hunter straightened up.

“FBI man?” She felt a shiver race through her. “Was Scott Randall here?”

“Yes. I probably should have told you that.”

“He ignored Sneakers,” Charlotte said. “Can I show you the house?”

“Sure,” she said. Then added, “Yes.”

There wasn't a lot to show. The house was small and neat, with antique wooden furniture, nautical knickknacks, little embroidered pillows, photos. Hunter's place was neat, too, but she didn't go in for knickknacks. Sneakers followed, sniffing at her ill-­fitting pants each time they stopped. It was starting to make her self-­conscious.

Back in the living room, she sat across the sofa from Luke. A baseball game was on television, the sound off. Charlotte came out, leaning in the doorway. Hunter told them about John Linden and some of what Randall had shared with her about Walter Kepler. Both Bowerses listened with great interest, not moving, as if any undue motion would interrupt her story.

“I guess it goes without saying, this is all just between us,” she said in conclusion.

“Yes.”

Luke said, “Charlotte was saying before you came over that we're kind of a secret society now.”

“Yes.”

“We might even need to come up with a secret handshake,” Charlotte suggested.

“We'd probably have to include Sneakers in that,” Luke said.

“Of course,” Hunter replied.
And Winston
, she thought, but didn't say.

“He
has
learned to shake,” Luke explained.

“I'm not surprised.” Hunter smiled. She hadn't really expected this degree of banter, which seemed to be the natural way they communicated.

“So you're going to see Nick Champlain tomorrow?” Luke asked, once Charlotte had brought out the salads and Luke had said grace. “Will you press him about the photo?”

“I think so. It's one of my topics, yes.”

“Is Randall feeding you any questions?” he asked.

“No. He gave me a few suggestions.” Hunter took a drink of wine. “I keep having to remind myself why I'm doing this.”

“Which is?” Luke said.

“Susan Champlain. Not stolen art.”

“Right.”

“But you're going to ask about the Gardner art?” Charlotte said.

“I think so, yes.” Hunter picked up a cherry tomato and popped it in her mouth. “Although it's a sensitive area, obviously,” she said. “I mean, if it has something to do with what happened, then, it's part of the . . . Oh, my God! . . . Whoops!”

Hunter stared in horror at the table. She'd bitten on the cherry tomato and squirted juice all the way across the table and onto Charlotte's salad plate. For a moment, there was silence, all of them staring at the line of tomato juice and seeds.

“No worries,” Luke said, bounding up. “We do that all the time, Charlotte in particular.”

She punched him in the arm as he passed by.

“Luke taught me,” she said. “He used to be quite good at it.”

Hunter did the usual “Let me help” and “I'm so sorry” as Luke sponged away the juice, impressed how deftly they were able to leapfrog her faux pas.

“No harm,” Charlotte said, in a tone that was reassuring but also seemed to be asking her to cool it with apologies. These Bowerses are full of surprises, Hunter thought.

Charlotte commandeered the conversation as Luke prepped the crab cakes. Telling her about something called the Coriolis Force, which she said caused the saltier water in the Chesapeake Bay to move toward the Eastern Shore rather than the Western Shore, particularly in late summer. “That's why the breeze this time of year feels like sea air,” she said.

“I didn't realize that.”

“No, most ­people don't.”

“Coriolis was a French engineer,” Luke added, bringing in the dinners on expensive-­looking china plates. “He's one of the seventy-­two names inscribed on the Eiffel Tower. Scientists, engineers, mathematicians.”

“Really,” Hunter said. “This is becoming quite an education.”

“Aren't you going to tell her the names of the other seventy-­one?” Charlotte asked.

“I was saving it. Maybe during dessert?”

They ate in silence for a while, Hunter careful not to make any mistakes. The crab cakes were delicious, crisply cooked with lump fin crabmeat and no detectable filling. Hunter praised them to Luke, who smiled quickly and shifted the subject back to Susan Champlain. “You know, I've sort of been rethinking a few things that Susan told me,” he said. “I'm not sure I believe the circumstances under which she took those pictures, for instance.”

“Oh?”

“Having had some time to reflect.”

“Which circumstances?” Hunter asked.

“The story about stopping off at that house on the way to the airport, where the painting was. I'm not sure I quite believe that.”

“Why?”

“Because the way she told it was funny.” He glanced at Charlotte, then back at Hunter. “I realize, from an investigative standpoint, that may not be the soundest reason—­”

“Although it surprised me a little, too,” Hunter said, “that he'd take her so close to the painting. To something that valuable.”

“Or that such a great painting would just be sitting out there in the open like that,” he said.

“Well, it was in a side room,” Charlotte said. “And anyway, ­people who deal with stolen art are notorious for not exactly caring for it the way a museum would.”

Hunter nodded. “Stolen masterpieces have been recovered in storage sheds and behind Dumpsters.”

“That's right.”

“One other thing I heard,” Luke said, “is that Susan may have left a note behind. That's not true, is it?”

Hunter frowned. “Where'd you hear that?” she asked, suspecting Aggie, the receptionist.

“J. Michael Bunting.”

“The newspaper guy?” Even better. They shared a quick smile around the table. “No,” Hunter said, “no note yet. Although she did have a book in the pouch on her bicycle and there was a receipt inside that she'd scribbled on.”

Hunter saw something change in Luke's face as she told them what Susan had written.
Kairos48.
“Does that mean anything?”

“Well, yes, maybe,” he said.

“Kairos and Chronos,” Charlotte said.

“I gave a sermon on Kairos and Chronos early in the summer,” Luke explained. “Chronos is man's time, Kairos is God's time.”

“Well, that's interesting.”

“Yes.”

“I wonder how much Susan actually knew,” Charlotte said. “Do you think she knew what was in that photo—­that she may have inadvertently taken a picture of the stolen Rembrandt?”

“From what John Linden said, no,” Hunter said.

“I'd vote no, also,” Luke added. “I think she would have said something if she did.”

“It's interesting what John Linden said, though,” Hunter said. “He made it sound like she was afraid
for
her husband rather than
of
him.”

“Yes, I picked up on that, too,” Luke said.

“So maybe she
was
starting to figure it out.”

“Whatever
it
is,” Luke said.

“Yes.”

They all smiled at that. By the time Charlotte brought in dessert, they'd finished up with secret society business. Hunter was feeling good after a ­couple of glasses of wine; the tomato incident was ancient history.

“How'd you get into this, anyway?” she said, slicing a fork through her apple pie. “I don't know that I've ever asked you.” With Luke, it seemed, any question was fair game.

“I want to hear, too,” Charlotte said, pretending to be a little girl.

Luke smiled. “Not much of a story.”

“You were working as a paramedic, right?” Charlotte prompted.

“Yes, out West, some years ago. Taking a ­couple of graduate courses. It's rewarding work, paramedics, but with a high attrition rate. We were the first responders to emergencies. Let's you see how fragile life is.”

“How we're all one step from death,” Charlotte said.

“Well, yes.”

“To be honest, I related more to the story you told about the parking space,” Hunter said. “That's me, at times.”

“It's most of us at times,” Charlotte said.

“It was me before I was called to do this,” Luke said.

“A long distance call if ever there was one,” Charlotte said.

“Ha-ha.”

“What did your parents raise you to be?” Hunter asked.

“Independent.”

“Did you have brothers and sisters?”

Luke shook his head. “Still don't.”

“I liked Susan Champlain's family,” Charlotte said, to Hunter. “Her brother and sister.”

“Me, too.”

“I think Susan saw herself as having a calling, and a gift,” Luke said, “and she really wanted to make the most of that.”

“Her art.”

“Yes. I think so.”

“We all have our own unique gift,” Charlotte said, “and we need to find what it is.”

“Yes. Paul says that,” Luke said.

“Paul—­?”

“St. Paul. The apostle.”

“Oh.” Hunter was thinking for some reason of Paul McCartney.

“In Romans and again in First Corinthians.”

“Does he say just one gift?” Hunter asked.

“One above others,” Luke said. “And I think, with that, we have two obligations: to find what it is. And then, more important: figure out how best to use it.”

Hunter was gazing at the darkened Bay, thinking about Susan Champlain's final hours, feeling extremely comfortable now. Pleased that neither of them had asked much about
her
past and confident that neither of them would.

“Anyone ready for more wine?” Charlotte asked.

B
ELA
SCO WATCHED
A
MY
Hunter's window from a bench in the shadows on the Bay end of the marina. Her bedroom lights went out at 11:45. Came on again at 11:52. Then went out at 12:01, for good.
Amy Hunter.
Belasco had identified her now as a potential obstacle. She had spent her Sunday evening with the pastor and the pastor's wife. Susan Champlain had gone to the pastor, too, on Tuesday afternoon; the day she should have had her fall. Then on Friday morning, Hunter had met with Scott Randall. They'd taken a drive. All of those were reasons for concern.

Belasco waited in the dark, feeling invisible, enjoying the breeze over the water, thinking about what would happen in a few days: Kepler's “miracle.” Not wanting to be here. Wanting to be back in Philadelphia.

This was Belasco's self-­appointed role, however: to watch, to make sure that nothing threatened what Walter Kepler planned to do. In Belasco's world, obstacles were to be avoided; threats to be eliminated. All of a sudden, Amy Hunter was becoming an obstacle. Not yet a threat. But that could change fast.

 

PART 2

A Good Bad Man

I am now as a tramp who has the Sun all to himself.

—­Isabella Stewart Gardner, 1898, to art dealer Bernard Berenson, after purchasing Rembrandt's painting
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee

Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to never was there and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it.

—­Flannery O'Connor,
Wise Blood

 

Chapter Twenty-two

T
he notion of getting away for a ­couple of days gave Amy Hunter an anxious pause, which was enhanced by the fact that it was Monday, the beginning of the work week for everyone else. Her plan was to meet Helen Bradbury at 8:30 at Bradbury's home near Easton, and then drive up to Philadelphia to interview Nicholas Champlain at 1
P.M.
After that, she was going to visit with her mother overnight in the Philly suburbs and attempt to relax for a few hours: have dinner with her mom, maybe walk the hiking trail near her childhood home, drink a little wine, watch a true crime show on television. It was Henry Moore's idea that she do this, take a day or two off after interviewing Champlain to “recharge the batteries,” although taking time “off” had never been one of Hunter's strong suits. Especially not in the early stages of an investigation.

Helen Bradbury lived in an old, two-­story clapboard colonial, isolated on a large creek-­front property, with a decrepit, falling-­down barn out back. The exterior paint of the house was peeling and the gutters drooped from years of neglect. But there were stunning views of water and wetlands in all directions.

Four dogs of various sizes rushed in a tangle down the driveway to greet her. They were followed by Bradbury, a large woman who wore a long green muumuu-­style dress and rubber flip-­flops.

“Come on in,” she said, stopping halfway down, waving her up the drive.

The house looked and smelled like a historic site inside, with creaky wood plank floors, cracked ceiling beams, dusty heat registers. The rooms were cluttered and musty; 1960s jazz played in her study, which was lined with ceiling-­to-­floor bookshelves.

“We'll just go in here,” she said, leading Hunter to the kitchen, where a teakettle was steaming on a white porcelain gas stove. A warm stewy smell filled the room. “So,” she said, motioning for her to sit, “did Dave Crowe send you to me?”

“Kind of.”

She grinned broadly, revealing gums, as she poured tea into delicate old china cups. Bradbury was a round-­faced woman with a silvery bowl haircut and large, watchful brown eyes. “Always looking for new ways to cover his ass, isn't he? And so,” she said, sitting, her knees spread out, “what's your particular interest?”

“I'm investigating an unattended death in Tidewater County,” Hunter said. She sipped the tea, which was hot, strong, and slightly disagreeable in taste. “A woman named Susan Champlain.”

“That's not what I asked you, honey,” she said. “What's your interest in the Stolen Art Division? And in me?”

“Well. I believe that Susan Champlain's death may have had something to do with stolen art,” Hunter said. “A stolen painting.” In fact, Hunter was hoping that Helen Bradbury could help fill in some of the blanks in the story Dave Crowe had told her Friday, two blanks in particular: Who was the man who “got involved” with Randall last year, in a deal that “didn't end up so well”? and who was Kepler's so-­called partner?

“You think her husband's doing some work for Walter Kepler, in other words?” Helen Bradbury said, peering over the top of her teacup. She was sharp, Hunter could tell, and not one to suffer fools.

“Yes.”

“And you've talked with Scott Randall.”

“I have.”

“Bootsie!” She clapped her hands twice, startling Hunter. Bootsie, a black mixed Scottie, who'd been tentatively sniffing Hunter's shoe, scooted out of the room.

“Well, you got one side of the story, then, didn't you?” she said. “I just caution you, be careful. He can be a very duplicitous man.”

“Kepler, you mean.”

She tossed back her head and let out a quick, bawdy laugh. “No,” she said. “Randall. Well, both of them, if you want to get technical. There's a big divide in the Bureau over Walter Kepler right now, as you may know. Randall's put himself in the middle of it. Crowe probably told you that.”

“A little. What's the divide about, exactly?”

“In plain English?” Hunter nodded. “Scott Randall wants to bring down Kepler, any way he can. And he's in a position now to do it, being in charge of the division. My side—­the other side of the argument—­thinks he's too willing to cut corners, and maybe hurt a few ­people along the way, to get that done. We think he's puffed up this current case against Kepler to make sure that he gets the funding. Stolen Art Division, as you may have heard, is the redheaded stepchild of the FBI.”

“Yes,” Hunter said. “Randall said something like that.”

“So . . . Let's cut to the chase, then,” she said. “My view—­and it's shared by others—­is that if we're going to put our resources into pursuing someone, we'd better make damn sure we're pursuing the right man. And for the right reasons.”

“And you don't think Kepler is the right man?”

“I'm not convinced of it. I certainly don't think he's responsible for the things that Randall
says
he's responsible for, no. That's where we finally parted ways, the Bureau and me. And that's why I'm talking to you.”

“Okay.”

“I think it's clear, if you take an honest look at the evidence, that there's nothing tying Walter Kepler directly to any killings. That's all been puffed up. So has this story that he's dealing now with terrorists or terrorist financiers. The man's a high-­end art trader, that's all. I think he may have dealt
occasionally
in stolen art, but he's not what Randall says he is. And so you have to wonder why Randall's doing what he's doing.”

Bootsie was back in the room, lying on the floor in the doorway, his eyes gazing up at Hunter's. When she smiled, his tail flicked once. Hunter tried the tea again, and then set her cup on the kitchen table.

“I was told Kepler has a partner,” Hunter said. “Could the partner be responsible for these things? The killings?”

“He does have a partner, yes,” she said, eyeing Hunter soberly. “Randall didn't tell you that, did he?”

“No.”

“Crowe.”

Hunter shrugged. “Was the divide over this partner?”

“No,” Helen Bradbury said, “the divide is over Kepler. But, in part, yes, it involves his partner. The Bureau could have gone after the partner, and probably could have made a strong case against him. But there were strategic differences. Randall didn't want to do that. Categorically. Randall thought that if we went after the partner—­or anyone else at a lower level—­we'd lose the big prize. Making Kepler the bull's-­eye—­linking him to murder and, now, terrorism—­made the case simpler and stronger. And easier to sell to Randall's higher-­ups. It, also, became part of his own ascendency within the Bureau.”

“Do you know who this partner is?”

“I do.” Her big eyes watched Hunter as she sipped her tea; momentarily, they seemed to twinkle.

“You know the partner's name? His back story?” Hunter asked. “I mean, if we're cutting to the chase.”

“His name is Belasco,” she said. “I can't tell you a lot about him. We're not even sure about his first name: Edward or Edwin. The name came up last summer. There's a file on him, which Randall did all he could to suppress. We think Belasco may have some loose connections with an organized crime family in Philadelphia. The Patellos.” She sipped again and set her cup down. “To be candid? I think it's quite possible Belasco was the person who killed your Susan Champlain.”

Hunter felt a chill race through her. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I do.”

“Killed her for what reason?”

“To help Walter Kepler. Because they're ‘partners,' as you say. And also, possibly, from what little we know about Belasco, I think that he probably also enjoys killing, and finds it easy to do. That's what we're told. He may be someone who has gotten away with it for years and just assumes he'll never be caught. You'd be surprised how many of those there are out there.”

Not really
, Hunter thought. “But what specifically makes you think Belasco might have killed Susan Champlain?”

“Nothing specifically. It's a hunch,” Bradbury said. “There's some evidence he's done it before, to protect Walter Kepler. It's all in the file. It was. You ought to get ahold of his file.”

“Any suggestions how I'd do that?”

“Well, no, honey, that's the problem: Randall's running the show now, and he's not interested in going after Belasco. He questions whether he even exists. Which I think is a big mistake.”

Hunter glanced out at the morning sun dazzling the wetlands. “He did it to
protect
Kepler? Why?”

“Well—­you have to delve deeper into the nature of the partnership, I guess, don't you? We never had the support within the Bureau to pursue that question adequately; Randall always tried to keep the focus on Kepler. Understand, Kepler
is
dirty in some ways,” she went on, echoing what Crowe had told her Friday night. “But he's not the bad guy Scott Randall says he is. The question you have to ask is: is he a good bad guy or a bad bad guy?”

“I didn't know the Bureau divided them that way,” Hunter said, still marveling a little at the turns this woman's mind was taking. Hunter decided she liked Helen Bradbury.

“No, honey,
I
divide them that way. What I'm saying is—­” She stopped to drink her tea. “He
has
dealt with terrorists, but only in the process of recovering stolen art. And only once that I know of. He helped negotiate the return of a Degas and a Cézanne in 2012 that were in the possession of Serbian terrorists. He and his attorney, a man named Jacob Weber, set up a straw buyer, we think, who contacted the art thieves and then trapped them. I'm told he was remunerated quite well by the insurance companies for what he did.

“To me, it's really a moral question that's dividing the Bureau,” Bradbury continued. “Because morally, I think Kepler's closer to being on the side of right than Randall is. Which can be a big problem when Randall's heading the division. It's complicated. But I can simplify it for you. I can boil it down to one man—­a man named Eddie Charles.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Eddie Charles was tangentially involved in Kepler's last deal. The one that fell apart.”

“The Manet.”

“Yes. That's right.” This, Hunter realized, must be the man Crowe had been referring to when he'd warned her about Randall; the man who “got involved” last year. Bradbury smiled at how much Crowe had shared; it was a feeble smile, showing small gray teeth and pink gums. “Eddie Charles was an innocent man who happened to have done business with someone the Bureau was watching. No more than that. He came to Scott Randall's attention last year, and Randall went out and tried to recruit him, to be an informant, to help make Randall's case against Kepler. This man didn't want to do that, which stuck in Randall's craw.”

“This was the government sting?”

“Yes.” She grinned. “And then, after the deal broke down, after the Bureau showed its cards and Kepler backed away, Scott Randall blamed this guy. He thought this guy had given him up. And a ­couple weeks later, Eddie Charles turns up dead on a Philadelphia street corner, with crack cocaine in his pockets.”

“What happened?”

“That's the moral tale,” she said. “It's something that Randall caused but he will never have to pay for.” She drank the last of her tea and set the cup down. “Sometimes,” she said, “you can do things that are legal but not moral. Randall understands that. There's a man in Pennsylvania, in a little town called Scattersville. He can tell you Eddie's story. You need to set up an appointment to see him. Mention me if you want.

“He's a sentimental cop,” she added, showing her gums, “but he has a deep-­rooted sense of right and wrong. You'll like him.”

Hunter took down the name: Calvin Walters. Chief of Detectives.

Hunter wondered what Henry Moore would think about her driving out to Scattersville to pursue a “moral tale” on her day “off.”

“Just be careful.”

“I've been told that several times now,” Hunter said, smiling, thinking she might elicit a smile in return from Bradbury; but the former FBI agent looked at her stone-­faced.

“The trouble is, once Randall has you in his orbit, it's not so easy to get out.”

“Well. I don't think I'm in his orbit,” Hunter said, feeling suddenly defensive, remembering how he'd drawn her into this:
What if solving one case solves the other?

“No. I didn't say you were.”

“Sorry,” Hunter said.

“But just keep in mind,” Bradbury told her, walking with some effort back toward Hunter's car, the four dogs in tow. “There's always a tiny possibility that Randall's right.”

“Okay,” Hunter said. “What do you mean? Right about what?”

“About Belasco.”

She stopped walking and looked at Hunter.

“I'm not following. What do you mean?”

“Randall claims that Belasco doesn't really exist. That's why Randall says he doesn't want to pursue a case against him. He thinks that Kepler's made him up, as a diversion. Belasco
is
his partner, yes. But he's not real. He's simply the darker side of Walter Kepler's personality, his alter ego, which Kepler would prefer to keep hidden.”

Hunter squinted at her in the glare of the morning light. “That's kind of creepy,” she said.

“Yeah, I know. It is, isn't it?” Bradbury smiled.

S
HE CALLED
S
ONNY
Fischer on his private line as she drove Route 301 north to Philadelphia. “I need to find everything you can get me about someone named Belasco.”

“Spelling?” She heard him writing it down. Hunter loved this about Fischer. “First name?”