The Tempest (24 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-five

S
ometimes, competition brings out the best in ­people. But it depends on the ­people, Hunter had found. Gerry Tanner and Sonny Fischer had been in competition ever since Tanner started working for the Maryland State Police in late May—­it's just that Fisch wasn't aware of it. Fischer was a self-­motivator; he seemed to work better without competition.

After reading Fischer's report at the afternoon meeting, Tanner had retreated a few paces, Hunter noticed; then he'd disappeared for a ­couple hours.

When he showed up in Hunter's office at half past four, his voice reminded her of a nervous teenager's. “I think I may finally have it,” he said, sitting on the front edge of the chair.

“Okay.”

“Elena Rodgers?”

“All right.”

“That's who we're looking at, right? That's who you believe did this.”

“Right.”

“Well, I think I've got her real name. And a little more on who she is. Background, etcetera.” He paused, flipping pages in his notebook, then turning back the other way. “Okay. Her name, I'm told, is Linda Elena Fiorille.”

“How'd you get that?” Hunter said.

“I worked some police sources. There's a detective with PA State Police who knows about her. He didn't really want to talk, but he's one of these guys who fills in silences.”

“Okay,” Hunter said, not sure what he was saying.

“If this is her—­and I'm pretty sure it is—­she evidently comes by it honestly.”

“Okay. How so?”

“Her father and her uncle, for starters. Both were quote unquote goombahs—­that's the detective's term. In Philadelphia.”

“What's goombah? Mobster?”

“Mobster. Her brother, Donald Fiorille, has done time for drugs and extortion. Pennsylvania on the drugs, Florida on the extortion. Five years total. There are still some missing links, but Fiorille—­Elena—­definitely knows Kepler.”

“How?”

“Common interests, I'm told. Meaning art, stolen art. Elena was involved in an attempt two or three years ago to fence a long-­lost Picasso painting for about a million dollars. She comes by the art honestly, too. She never finished college, but most of the classes she took, I'm told—­this was at University of Delaware—­were art history.” Tanner's voice kept shifting to a higher register, lifted by the excitement of what he was saying; but his face remained virtually expressionless.

“Why do you say she knows Kepler, though?”

“This detective thinks they were romantically involved.
Are
romantically involved.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head to one side, a shrug.

So partner means
romantic
partner.
Why hadn't I thought of that before?

“Did this deal with the Picasso involve Kepler, then?”

“That's what he said. This was in Upstate New York but involved PA tangentially.” Tanner flipped a page. “Kepler was an interested party for a while, evidently, and then backed out. The painting in question turned out to be a forgery. The wife of an art dealer was killed not long afterward, in what this detective tells me was an execution-­style hit. Quote unquote. For a while, she was considered a suspect.”

“
Elena
was considered a suspect?”

“That's right.”

“Wow. Too bad we didn't know any of this before.”

Tanner sighed. “We probably should have,” he said, closing his notebook, possibly a shot at Fischer. “We didn't go deep enough into it, I guess. This guy—­my source—­was reluctant to say
any
thing at first. But me mentioning Kepler and then the name Elena—­anyway, there's probably a lot more there.”

No doubt,
Hunter thought. “Okay.” So this
was
something that Fischer had missed, focused as he was on the electronic traffic. “Anything else?”

“Kind of, yeah. There was one other thing he told me—­about an incident from eight or ten years ago. Before she met Kepler, presumably. This was in Trenton, New Jersey. A woman walked out of a bar one night and opened fire on the street, getting off six or seven shots. No rhyme or reason. A nutcase, police thought, or else she was high on something. No one was hurt, just some property damage. Broken windows. But they never made an arrest. I understand Elena was under investigation for that, too. This detective, who says he knows her, believes she did it and that her family covered for her and protected her.”

“Wow,” Hunter said. “This all puts the Susan Champlain case in a different light.”

“I know.”

“Any idea why she might've been using the name Belasco? What that's about?”

“No,” Tanner said. “Not yet. I asked.”

“Does he have any idea where we might find her? Any suggestions?”

“No.” His eyes turned to her wall clock. “I'm still working on that.”

Tanner tucked the book under his arm and sat up straighter. “That's pretty strange about the sheriff,” he said.

“I know. Trying not to think about it much.”

The receptionist buzzed her. Hunter waved to Tanner and mouthed the word “Thanks” as he stood. “Great work, Gerry.”

“I'll catch up with you later,” he said. Hunter liked this version of Gerry Tanner a lot.

She picked up her desk phone. “Hunter.”

“Sergeant Hunter, there's a Scott Randall here to see you,” the receptionist said.

What?
“Here?” she said. “Or on the phone?”

“He's here.” She lowered her voice: “Right here. I'm looking at him.”

“Oh, my,” Hunter muttered. She nonsensically began to straighten her desk. What would Randall be doing coming here to Tidewater County unannounced? She thought of Eddie Charles's daughter, the deep hurt in her eyes, as she told Hunter about “the FBI man.” “Okay,” she said, “I'll be right out.”

She stopped at Tanner's doorway first. “This is a little crazy,” she said, “but that guy I mentioned yesterday, Scott Randall? FBI? He's here. Have a good look at him if you'd like, but don't interrupt us.”

“Ten–four. Sorry, I haven't had time to look into it yet.”

“No, it's fine. That's great work on Elena Rodgers,” Hunter said. “Thank you.”

His face brightened. Hunter made a leisurely stop in the restroom before going out to meet Randall. It was okay to make him wait a few minutes when he'd shown up without warning, she decided.

“Sorry, Amy, for coming unannounced,” he told her, extending his hand. He was dressed in crisp khakis and a dark polo shirt, sunglasses hanging from a neck strap. “I'm headed up to Philly,” he said. “Just wanted to see what you were finding. Anything more on Nick Champlain?”

He sounded short of breath, she thought, as they walked to her office.

“No. He hasn't returned my call.”

“How about his business manager?”

“No, we're not getting anywhere there, either.”

“ 'kay.”

Once he was seated in front of her desk, his crooked eyes took a quick inventory of the office. Hunter had no idea what he was up to or why he'd come here.

“Is that Susan Champlain?”

Hunter turned: the photo on her corkboard. “That's her,” she said.

“So. Nothing more on her husband?”

“Nothing. As I said: I've left messages.”

“Can you try him now?”

He nodded at her phone.

“He's out at the funeral, isn't he?” Hunter said.

“I don't know, is he? I don't think he is.”

He tilted his head, as if trying to see more clearly what she was thinking.

“You still think this is a buyer with terrorist interests, right?” Hunter said. “Or was that just a story concocted to draw more attention to Kepler? Something like that happened before, didn't it? In Miami?”

He pulled his head back in mock surprise.

“What?”

Hunter said nothing, and he began to smile. She felt her dislike for him growing.

“Listen,” he said, “there's a lot about this case that you don't know, Amy. Okay? And a lot that I can't get into.”

Oh, come off it
, Hunter wanted to say.

Instead, she said, “Why are you here, then?”

“With all due respect?” Hunter smiled. “I need you to let this alone for a while. We've got a track on Kepler now and—­” He breathed out. “I've also spoken to the state police commander, Hamilton. And to your boss. Moore.”

Oh.
Hunter felt her face flush. She hadn't expected that. In other words, he'd come out to shut her down. For whatever reason.

“You're the one who said your case was just a local homicide.”

“Not
just.”

“Okay, whatever. My concern is that we end up tripping over each other. And frankly, we can't afford that at this point, I'm sorry. I'm here as a courtesy,” he said. Hunter looked away, letting him go on: “We have some new information on Kepler that's sensitive, and I'd like to ask that you stay on the sidelines for the next ­couple of days.
If
you hear from Nick Champlain, though, I'd like to know about it. Otherwise, we need you to step back.”

“How soon is this deal going to happen?” she said, looking at him again.

“I can't get into it, Amy, I'm sorry.”

“Solving one case will solve the other,” she said, quoting him.

“Yeah, I know. I don't think that pertains anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't.”

They stared at each other, his weak eye drooping more than normal, it seemed, as if not able to hold up under his fakery any longer; Hunter felt his hidden agendas, his obsession with Walter Kepler, taking over the room.

“What
is
the status of your investigation?” he added. “Is there anything you haven't shared?”

“Well . . .” Hunter said nothing for a while. “Let's see: I think I know who killed Susan Champlain.”

Randall licked his lips once, as if he could taste something he wanted.

“You do.”

Hunter gestured affirmatively. “Someone named Belasco, maybe?”

“Belasco,” he replied.

“Yeah.”

He began to blink. There was no mistaking it, the name made him nervous. She'd noticed it before, too.

“You know the name Belasco,” Hunter said. “I can see by your reaction.”

“I know the name, yeah. I do. And I think it's another one of Kepler's diversions.”

“Maybe so. But here's the rest of it, since you asked,” Hunter said, deciding to go for it, to see his reaction: “I think Kepler's partner is a woman, who's been using the name Elena Rodgers. She was living here in Tidewater County for much of the summer, laying low. I understand her real name may be Linda Elena Fiorille, but I think she may also go by the name Belasco. Does any of that ring a bell?”

First he shrugged, then he shook his head. Then he cleared his throat.

“She's the one I think killed Susan Champlain.”

“Who did?”

Gerry Tanner suddenly stepped into her office, as if to ask a question. “Oh, sorry,” he said, “I didn't realize you had someone with you.” He gave Randall a good look, more obvious than she'd have liked, and turned away.

“No comment?” Hunter said.

“No, no comment,” he said.

“I was also talking with the family of someone named Eddie Charles,” Hunter went on. “Up in Philadelphia. He was involved in Kepler's last deal, evidently. The one that fell apart, in Miami. I've learned some details about what happened—­”

He showed his boy's smile and turned it into a laugh, cutting her off. “What, did you talk to that crazy cop up in Philly?”

“I talked with Calvin Walters.”

“My God.” He was shaking his head and grinning, but the color stayed on his skin and his eyes were blinking. He got up and closed the door. “You know what?” he said, scooting toward her. “I think you're being set up, Amy. I really do. I think you're being set up.” Then his voice turned harder: “I've been through this a few times with Kepler now. Three, four times. I know how the man operates. He's trying to draw your eye away from what's happening. It's the most basic trick in the book, but he still manages to get away with it. That's what he does. He has us looking at four or five different things and none of them are the thing that
he's
looking at. You see? I'm just giving you a heads-­up. A polite heads-­up. That's why I'm here.”

“I don't follow,” Hunter said. “What would Kepler's connection be to Calvin Walters?”

“I told you before, the first time we talked: Kepler's a bridge to both worlds. Okay? It's not just organized crime. This is blood money. The man who's purchasing this painting is funding Sunni terrorist groups in the Middle East. And who's to say they won't be funding terrorism closer to home.”

“I still don't follow,” Hunter said.

He made an exasperated sigh and tried again. “
He
was the cause of what happened to Eddie Charles. Okay? Kepler, not me.”

“But I didn't say you were.”

“No, but I'm sure that cop was set up to tell you that. Who else did you talk with up there?”

“Charles's children.”

His head pulled back again. “His son, you mean. What's his name, Cyril?”

“Children,” Hunter said. “Son and a daughter.”

“He had no daughter. Not that I know of.”

“Okay.” Scott Randall lowered his head over her desk, then, as if he was suddenly worn out from all this. Was he telling bigger lies to confuse her? Was this simply argument as a means of self-­assertion? The man might actually be mentally ill, Hunter thought for the first time, observing the deep frown on his brow as he lifted his eyes again.