The Tempest (7 page)

She finished her sandwich, crumpled the wrapper and tossed it in the trash bin. A minute later, Gerry Tanner was sitting on a corner of her worktable, his leather notebook opened on his left knee, several printouts in his right hand.

“Well, the husband's left the building,” he said. “Just confirmed.”

It took Hunter a moment. “As in Elvis has left the building?”

“Yep.” Tanner's long expressionless face reminded her of a mask. “His business manager just called me back. The man's on the road, back to Philly. His assistant's alone in the house.”

“Elena Rodgers?”

“No, I meant Joey Sands. Joseph Sanders. That's what they call him, Joey Sands.” Tanner glanced at his notes. “He did say that Champlain will fully cooperate and answer any questions we have.”

“Didn't Dunn ask him to stay put?”

“He should have. His business manager said he cleared it with the sheriff and the state's attorney.”

Hunter felt a prickle of anger. The state's attorney was making a point, as he sometimes did.

“What's a business manager, exactly?”

“That's what he calls him. John McCoy is his name.”

Hunter nodded, instructing herself to stay cool. “Anything else?”

“The man's grieving, he said. Champlain. He, uh, asked if I had any reason to think it
wasn't
an accident.” He looked at his notebook—­lines of minute, carefully printed writing. “
Evidence
, rather. To think it wasn't an accident. Not reason.” His dark eyes lingered on hers.

“Anything more on the alibi?” she asked.

“Yeah, video confirmation. Champlain was on the road last night when she was killed. Didn't return until after nine.”

He leaned across the desk and laid out three printouts. This was what he'd really come in to show her. She felt him breathing on her arms. “That looks like him,” he said: Nick Champlain driving his dark Mercedes sedan through a toll plaza on Delaware Route 1, and then at a four-­way intersection entering Tidewater County from the north, at a few minutes before nine.

“So, time frame,” Tanner said, flipping another page. Hunter leaned back in her chair. “The victim rides her bicycle over to Widow's Point, we think, about seven
P.M
., give or take a half hour. No one sees her. Joe Sanders—­Joey Sands—­is supposedly drinking beer at the Harbor Loon, from about seven oh five to nine thirty. The husband returns to town around nine, drives straight to Kent's Crab House for dinner, where he meets Elena Rodgers, his assistant. Mr. Kent, the owner, joins them. And, I'm told, the sheriff may have been there, as well.”

Hunter scribbled a note about the sheriff on her desk calendar. “And police weren't able to reach him right away,” she said. “What was the delay about?”

“No one had his cell phone number. But I've confirmed he was there—­he came in the restaurant at nine fourteen. They first left a message with his office, then they tried the landline in the house he was renting. No one had his cell.” He glanced at his notebook again. “So. And then he comes in for the interview, voluntarily, at eleven oh seven.”

“After being notified by who? Dunn?”

“Dunn, that's right. Found him at Kent's, they rode together to the M.E.'s office, where she'd just come in. So that added to the delay.”

“Oh.” Hunter should've asked about this before. “So he'd seen her when I talked to him last night.”

“Yes. He'd just ID'd her.”

Hunter thought about that. “What was his demeanor when he was notified? Any idea?”

“Cool,” Tanner said. “He's a cool customer.”

“Yes, I know,” Hunter said. “Who did the transfer, then?”

“Byers Funeral Home. Police rented a hearse, took her to Baltimore.”

Tanner stared at Hunter, his wide mouth shut tight. ­“People are saying it was a fall.”

“I know,” she said. “It wasn't.”

“Okay.” His eyes glanced at Fischer in his office, working with earbuds in. To his credit, Tanner never said anything negative about Fischer. “When's your meeting?”

“Four o'clock,” Hunter said. “If you get anything else, let me know.”

“Ten–four.”

It always freaked her out a little when Gerry Tanner said “Ten–four.” Those had always been Ben Shipman's parting words. Had someone told him that, or was it just coincidence?

Tanner didn't leave immediately, though. He turned a ­couple of pages in his notebook, as if they were in a reading room at the library.

He glanced up finally when her cell phone rang.

Area code 202. It was the FBI.

“I'll need to take this,” Hunter said.

“Okay. Hasta la vista.” Tanner stood and marched out.

“Hunter,” she answered.

“Well, you've done it again.”

It wasn't the call Hunter had expected, from John Marcino, her contact at the FBI. It was Dave Crowe, an FBI special agent and Hunter's onetime mentor. Crowe had reappeared in her life during the Psalmist case.

She took a breath. “Well, hel
lo
,” she said, forcing a greeting.

“How are you?” he said. “What's the deal with this photo?”

“I didn't know there was a deal.”

“Techs here are taking unusual interest.”

“Why?”

“I thought you were going to tell
me
.”

“No,” Hunter said. She got up and closed the door. Tanner was in his office with his head tilted back, trying to listen. “I can't,” she told Crowe, calling up on her computer the images Susan Champlain had sent Luke. “Why are they taking interest?”

“It's complicated,” he said. Crowe often did this with her, talking with a slightly heightened sense of drama. Eight years earlier, they'd gone out on a date together, followed by a ­couple of near-­dates. Hunter wasn't as good in personal relationships as she was in her work.

She studied Susan Champlain's three images, which she'd forwarded to the FBI that morning, as they talked.
Why would the Bureau have any interest in these cell-­phone pictures?

“Between us?” Crowe said. “You'll probably be hearing from a guy named Scott Randall in another day or two. Okay? He's been asking about you.”

“Has he? Why?”

“And frankly? You may regret it if you become involved with this guy. Okay? Just a friendly warning,” he said, only stoking her interest further. “Call me once you've heard from him, if you want to talk about it.”

It was Crowe who hung up first, skipping the goodbyes.

Eleven minutes until the Police Commission meeting.

Hunter called up an FBI directory. Scott Randall, she discovered, was the new director of the FBI's Stolen Art Division based out of D.C.

Now things were getting really weird.

 

Chapter Ten

W
hen she arrived at Conference Room B, Hunter found a sheet of computer paper taped to the door:
Police Com. mtg moved to State Aty's Office. 4
P.M.
The peculiar left-­slanted felt-­penmanship she recognized as the work of Connie Elgar, the state's attorney's executive assistant.

“Scheduling conflict,” Wendell Stamps explained as Hunter took a seat in front of his immaculate glass-­covered desk. The others crossed legs and shuffled papers, giving the impression that the meeting was already under way, although Hunter was in fact a minute early.

“I thought it might be more useful if we just went ahead with the four of us.”

“That's fine,” Hunter said. At this point, she didn't have anything, anyway; she wasn't ready to talk about the photos.

Stamps was a big, shrewd man with thin blond hair and a wide, impassive face. He was dressed, as always, in pinstripes. In many ways, Stamps ran the justice system in Tidewater County; it wasn't uncommon for ­people from one or more agencies to gather unofficially in his office to chart out some slightly clandestine course of action.

The other two in the room this afternoon were the sheriff's public information officer, Kirsten Sparks, and Stamps's investigator, Clinton Fogg, who was doodling arrows onto a yellow legal pad.

“I understand from Gary Martin that you have information the husband may have made a verbal threat of some kind in the days preceding the incident?”

“It came up in an interview,” Hunter said. “I wrote a report and submitted it this morning.”

“We've got it.” It was on top of his small, neat stack of papers. “Are you going anywhere with it?”

“Not at this point, no.”

“Champlain has an airtight alibi, supposedly,” Stamps said. “Right?”

“That's what we're hearing,” she said. “Although time of death is not an exact science, sir. As you know.”

“No, it isn't.”

Stamps showed his perfect poker face. Fogg continued to doodle, turning an arrow into a triangle.

“The preliminary autopsy,” Sparks said, “I'm told, is leaning toward accidental?”

“Yes,” the state's attorney said. Sparks sat forward, making it clear that she was asking him this, not Hunter. Then sat back again, watching Hunter with a small smile, emboldened slightly by the state's attorney's affirmative answer. Sparks was blond and attractive, with a hard outer shell and lots of insecurities. She became defensive whenever Hunter spoke to her forcefully, compensating at other times by either ignoring her or looking at Hunter with a silent, slightly superior expression, as she was doing now.

“Well, no,” Hunter said. “Inconclusive or undetermined.”

The state's attorney half shrugged, meaning
same difference
. “Inconclusive” meant they could sell it as accidental if they wanted. They were really here just to see if she had anything they didn't.

“But you have no reason to think this was homicide?” Stamps said. “That's the issue.”

“No, sir, not at this time.”

He slanted his eyes very slightly as if he didn't understand. “But—­you have something you're looking at?”

“Not at this time, sir,” she lied.

“Understood. But at a later time?”

“No, sir. Not that I'm aware of.”

Fogg kept his head down, as if not listening, doodling arrows again. Hunter knew he was hearing every word. The S.A.'s office didn't want to pursue this; but they also didn't want to be caught flat-­footed.

Wendell Stamps tried again. When he couldn't get Hunter to say anything, he closed the meeting, and the other two left the room. Hunter stood too, but didn't leave.

“Why do I get the feeling you're holding something back?” Stamps asked.

“I'm not, sir. My only issue, if you want to call it that, is I'm concerned that Nicholas Champlain was allowed to leave town when there were still questions to be answered.”

“Questions.”

Hunter cleared her throat, realizing she shouldn't have used that word. “Yes. Questions of timing,” she said. “Even if he's not involved, he could help clarify time frames. Help us determine whether or not this was an accident.”

He looked at her with a trace of frown or, maybe, smile. It was hard to tell. He glanced at the antique German wall clock. Hunter was thinking about the photos on Susan's phone, about the necklace in the sand, about what Dave Crowe had just said about the case being “complicated.” But she wasn't ready to share any of that. She had a strong feeling about Susan's death, but no good explanation yet.

“I did speak with his business manager thirty-­five minutes ago,” Stamps said. “Who told me that Mr. Champlain wants to cooperate fully.”

“I've left a message with him.”

“He'll talk with you I'm sure, whenever you want. Just give him a day or two. He's dealing with the funeral arrangements right now. I also spoke with Hank Moore, this morning.”

Hunter's supervisor.
Making it clear he'd covered all the bases. Hunter watched him.

“But nothing else I need know about?” Stamps tried again. Hunter shook her head, deciding to act dumb. With Stamps, he assumed it anyway. In fact, Hunter wanted to keep her own investigation separate until she had a clearer idea what had really happened to Susan Champlain.

“No,” she said, showing a smile. “Nothing at this point.”

“Are you recommending we hold off saying anything on this preliminary, then?” Stamps, to his credit, was a diplomat, if a self-­serving one.

“No, sir. Although, if you're asking me, I'd say it might be smart to wait a ­couple of days. And maybe have a moratorium on saying it was an accident. But that's only a suggestion.”

“You know I can't control what ­people are
say
ing.”

If only that were true
. Hunter decided to leave it there. He knew what she meant.

The FBI's number had come up again on her phone during the Police Commission meeting. Crowe. She tried him as she walked down the corridor to her office but had to leave a message.

Tanner had placed a note on her desk:
Out doing interviews.

Hunter also had an e-­mail from attorney John McCoy. Nick Champlain's “business manager.”

Mr. Champlain is currently making arrangements for his wife's funeral. He will be able to meet with you on Monday at 1
P.M.
at his office in Philadelphia. If this is acceptable, please confirm.

It was an odd, impersonal way to tell her, but Hunter wrote back, accepting.

Minutes later, Sonny Fischer came out. He leaned in her doorway, to give her an update on what he'd found. For some reason, he didn't like sitting in other ­people's offices.

“Not a lot yet. Problem with two: Markos and Rodgers,” he said, speaking in his quirky verbal shorthand.

“What's the problem?”

“Basically, don't exist.”

“Okay,” Hunter said. That could be a problem. “Meaning—­?”

“No DMV, birth, property records. I can dip into tax reports if we need to.”

“How about the necklace?”

“Not yet. Security tapes to go through.”

“Maybe work on that a little first?”

He nodded. Fischer was good, thorough to a fault sometimes. Hunter didn't want him data-­mining into places that could potentially be legally challenged. Not yet, anyway.

She worked in her office until several minutes past six, when she realized she needed to feed Winston, her eccentric tuxedo cat. Winston let Hunter know immediately—­with his sashaying walk and bizarre howling—­that she was half an hour late.

She fixed a frozen enchilada dinner for herself and poured a tall glass of red wine. Then she settled in to review what she had, starting with the notes Fischer had prepared. One detail led to another and she lost the thread of time on several occasions, pausing only to commune with Winston and, once, to listen to a song by the Pogues through earbuds, dancing in her living room to let off steam. Winston sat on the sofa arm, watching as she did, a perplexed and not very happy expression on his face.

It was a misty night and the wind made a loud sound through the trees that resembled human breathing. Hunter fell asleep with her windows and deck doors open. She'd made a list of three things to follow up on in the morning: ask Luke about Kairos; ask Champlain's business manager about the necklace; determine who Joey Sanders was and what sort of relationship he might've had with Susan Champlain.

But by morning, the list wouldn't matter.