The Tempest (3 page)

Kepler had hired Nick Champlain as his bridge to Rosa. Champlain had done business with Rosa and his brother Frank on half a dozen projects in the Philly area. And Champlain was a reliable and reputable developer who flew under the feds' radar, making him a perfect intermediary. The only concern Kepler had with Champlain was women; the man had a little issue with women.

“So let me tell you what we need to do,” Kepler said at last, as they dug in to their blueberry cobblers. “And let me give you the time frame.”

 

Chapter Four

W
eird morning,
Amy Hunter thought, watching heavy fog float through the pine woods outside the Public Safety Complex.

Hunter's first thought that morning had been to text her partner, Ben Shipman. Suggest they meet up for breakfast at McDonald's to talk about Marlena Eden, a twelve-­year-­old cold case from the next county: a thirty-­six-­year-­old mother of two found hanging by an electrical cord from an oak tree in the woods by Pike Creek. It was a case with a good suspect but still no good evidence. Hunter had been wanting to turn up the heat on it for several weeks, wanting to figure something out before the end of the year, although she hadn't yet said that to anyone.

It'd been a long time since she and Ship had talked about Marlena Eden. Too long. And then, lying in bed, watching the boat masts outside her marina apartment, the idea of calling Ben Shipman dissolved. She remembered: Ship was gone. There were still times when Hunter reached for her phone to call him, to get his advice or to bounce an idea off him, even though he'd been dead more than a year. Ben Shipman had lost his life helping to solve the most notorious murder case in Tidewater history, involving a man named August Trumble. The Psalmist. A man now serving multiple life sentences at Allenwood Penitentiary for murder and racketeering.

Ship's funeral had drawn hundreds of cops and ser­vice ­people from all over the region, who'd formed a mile-­long procession of official vehicles on the two-­lane roads to Tidewater Cemetery. It had been an apt tribute to a good man. But his death, and nearly everything else about the case, troubled her. None of it had ended in Hunter's comfort zone. Or her frame of reference. There were still times when she heard the bizarre timbre of Trumble's voice in her head, like some sinister music from earlier times.

Hunter never forgot the faces of homicide victims, but the perpetrators didn't usually stay with her like that. Most were variations of the same person, anyway; not monsters, as the media liked to make them, but self-­absorbed misfits who'd traded their lives for a few dumb—­and usually cowardly—­choices, which had also ruined the lives of others.

Hunter headed the Maryland State Police Homicide Unit for Tidewater County. She was thirty-­one years old, although most ­people thought she was younger. Some in Tidewater's tradition-­rich old guard had problems that an outsider—­who also happened to be young and female—­had been put in charge of Homicide. But she didn't particularly care and that was one of Hunter's secret weapons. She was paid a salary by the Maryland State Police, but liked to think that she really worked for the victims of the crimes that she investigated. It was a way of keeping her priorities straight, and steering herself around local politics. So far, it hadn't gotten her into too much trouble.

She was still thinking about Marlena Eden on Wednesday morning when Pastor Luke Bowers called. Always a pleasant surprise.

“I wonder,” he said, “if we could meet for a ­couple minutes today? Whenever you're free.”

“Okay,” she said. “How about now?”

It'd been several weeks since she'd talked with Luke Bowers and something about his voice gave her a lift. Hunter liked the way he had of seeing things from several perspectives at once—­close up and from a distance—­an instinct she was trying to hone, and she liked his irreverence. Bowers had a cop's curiosity, she'd always thought, but without the jaded skin that many in law enforcement grew. And there was something else—­an unusual capacity to listen, to make other ­people feel comfortable by taking interest in what they were saying. Hunter had been planning for a while to ask for Luke's input on Marlena Eden. She hadn't expected for him to seek
her
out.

She closed the file on her screen a few minutes later and walked down the long corridor to meet him in the lobby of the Public Safety Complex. The PSC, opened two years ago, consolidated municipal, county, and state police departments; fire companies; EMS; and district and circuit courts.

“Hey, what happened?” Hunter folded her left arm into an air sling.

“Nothing serious,” Luke said. “I was cleaning the gutter on the roof drain and slipped. Well, one leg of the ladder went into a sinkhole, I toppled over.”

“Oww.”

“It's okay. It only hurts when I breathe.”

She smiled and got him a visitor's badge and they walked back to Homicide. Luke was tall and thin, with slightly unruly dark-­and-­light blond hair, ten years older than she was.

Gerry Tanner looked up from his desk in the next office as they came in—­Ben Shipman's old office. Tanner was the newest member of the state police homicide unit and one of three investigators based in Tidewater County. The other was Sonny Fischer. Tanner had transferred to Maryland from New Mexico two months ago, and was still trying to fit in. He was an old-­school cop who believed in collecting information through face-­to-­face interviews; Fischer was the opposite, a skilled assimilator of electronic data who didn't especially care for ­people.

As soon as Luke sat, Tanner was standing in the doorway, asking Hunter if he could borrow a highlighter.

“Highlighter?”

“If you have one.”

Tanner took the opportunity to introduce himself, energetically shaking Luke's hand. Some locals considered Tanner's eager manner a little strange, an impression accentuated no doubt by his appearance—­long, lanky, dour-­faced. But there was a hard-­edged intelligence under the surface, which was what Hunter liked about him.

She waited a moment after he left, seeming to have forgotten all about the highlighter, then she got up to close the door.

“Highlighter,” Hunter said to Luke.

They shared a quick smile. Then Luke drew a deep breath and sighed.

“We have a woman at church,” he began. “Her name is Susan Champlain.”

“Okay.”

“You know her?”

“I know who she is.”

“She came to see me yesterday afternoon. Seemed scared to death about something. She said that her husband had threatened her, but no one would believe her if she told them. She asked me not to go to the police, so I'm not reporting her here, I'm just talking. Seeking a professional opinion.”

“Okay.”

The story he relayed to her was one that Amy Hunter had heard before: young woman, older man; control, repression; two ­people who probably shouldn't have married, constantly making adjustments. In a selfish way, hearing it made Hunter glad that she wasn't in a relationship herself at the moment.

Then Luke got to the part about Nick Champlain threatening to make his wife disappear. And Hunter had a bad feeling. This was a story she'd heard before, too, one that didn't end well.

“And the argument was over a photo?”

“Well, I'm sure there was more to it. But that's what she said.”

“It would be interesting to see the photo.”

“Yes. I did, actually,” Luke said. “She showed it to me.”

“Oh.” Hunter frowned. “So she still has it.”

“Yeah. That's what worries me.”

Luke described the photo she had showed him—­the faded elegance of an empty room, two men talking.

“Did she say who these men were?”

“Her husband's clients evidently. She didn't particularly want to talk about it beyond that.”

“Except she made a point of bringing it to your attention.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Hunter leaned back and let her eyes drift, out at the woods. “I worked on a case several years ago,” she said, “in rural Pennsylvania. Roxie Hadley. The man said almost exactly the same thing—­told his wife that he could make her disappear, and no one would ever find her body.”

“And—­?”

“He made good on it. No one ever did. They finally convicted him without a body. But it wasn't easy.”

Luke's face tightened, watching.

“I'm thinking I'd like to talk with her,” Hunter said. “Maybe we can figure a way to do it so it doesn't seem like an actual meeting.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe she comes in to talk with you about volunteering, and I stop by.”

“That might work.” Luke's blue eyes brightened. “This afternoon? Tomorrow?”

“Whatever you want,” Hunter said. “I'm pretty open right now.” She thought of Marlena Eden again, hanging from an oak tree in the woods. “Just let me know.”

“I will. I'll try to reach her this morning.”

“Good.”

“Maybe it's just a phase they're going through,” Luke added, as he stood, sounding pastor-­ish all of a sudden. Hunter didn't believe it, nor did he. He wouldn't be here if he did.

“One other thing she mentioned: She says her husband maybe has some connection with the sheriff here and the state's attorney. I don't know if he knew them before or just became friendly since coming down.”

“Okay.” Hunter felt her neck bristle. Sheriff Clay Calvert had worked against her throughout the Psalmist case, and held a nasty grudge because she'd gotten most of the credit for solving it. Calvert was a fourth-­generation Tidewater Countian who stubbornly refused to take Hunter seriously.

“Anyway, let me know,” she said, willing herself not to think about the sheriff. “I'll do some checking in the meantime.”

Luke smiled. It was a warm, selfless smile. If Hunter had to wake up to someone, that would be a nice face to see in the morning. Although Winston, her longhaired tuxedo cat, wasn't so bad, either.

“What's your sermon going to be Sunday?” she asked as they stood in the lobby.

“Falling.” He held up his sling.

“Of course.”

 

Chapter Five

L
uke drove the scenic route back, over the snaking creeks and tributaries of the south county, the rising sun shimmering through the loblolly pines. Even in this most picturesque corner of Tidewater, the human signs of summer were on full display beside the road. Luke stopped on the oyster-­shell lane at Crawford's Neck, where nine empty Bud Light cans had been dropped in a sequence. He kept a litterbag in the back of his car and got out to pick them up.

About a half mile farther on, near Man Ray Point, he spotted what looked like a woman's one-­piece bathing suit. Over the next mile, various items appeared—­an athletic sock, an old pillow, more beer cans, a single deck shoe in the center of the road, jockey shorts, pieces of a Styrofoam cooler, a green rubber glove. When he stopped at the flashing light intersection by Bayfront Drive, he caught a faint whiff of throw-­up in the breeze.

Ah, summer.

Summer brought strangers to Tidewater County and sometimes strange crimes. This year, someone had supposedly been peering through apartment windows in the middle of the night, although for some reason nothing had been reported yet in the local media. The problem with a small town is that it's a small town, Luke sometimes thought—­similar to other small towns in the obvious ways, but at the same time thoroughly unique in ways that only a native could fully appreciate.

He turned left, onto a long gravel drive that dead-­ended at the old cedar-­shingle church where Luke had served as head pastor for the past six years. It was going to be a busy day, with an afternoon meeting of the Outreach Committee and a lengthy phone call with Mrs. Crowley, the church's major donor. And then in the evening, Luke and Charlotte were scheduled to have dinner with Charlotte's parents, always an interesting challenge.

He keyed in Susan Champlain's number as he sat in the parking lot, gazing out at the Bay, the runabouts and sailboats and, farther out, the freighter ships headed from Baltimore to the Atlantic Ocean. Seeing Hunter had given him a charge, reminding Luke a little of his own more idealistic inclinations before he'd gone into the seminary.

He wanted to ask Susan if she would come in at the end of the day, to talk with him about volunteering. But there was no answer, just an automated male voice, so Luke left a message.

“J. M
ICHAEL
B
UNTING
called,” Aggie announced as he came in. “And Mrs. Crowley. And a Dr. Edward Fengler.”

“
Dr.
Fengler?” Luke said. “No, I don't think he's a doctor.”

Aggie looked defensively at her notes. “That's what he said. Dr. Fengler.”

Eddie Fengler was a boat captain who for some reason wanted Luke to publicly endorse his eco-­tour back-­bay charters.

“Is everything all right?” Aggie said, suddenly looking ill herself.

“Yes, sorry, fine,” Luke said. He summoned a smile. “I think Sneakers is going to apply to be head pastor for the pet blessing ser­vice.”

“Is he qualified?” she deadpanned.

“Probably as much as I am. If not more so.”

Aggie nodded. Often she ignored, or missed, his attempts at humor. But occasionally she went with him. She was being playful today, he suspected, because she still didn't know why Susan Champlain had come in the day before and was hoping he'd tell her all about it.

Luke went in his office and closed the door three-­quarters of the way. He'd prepared a statement about the church's policy on pet worship, which he now polished and e-­mailed over to J. Michael Bunting at the
Tidewater Times
. Then he returned the call from Mrs. Crowley, who spoke for close to an hour, often without pause. She had a harsh, emphatic voice, which reminded some, including Luke, of Donald Trump.

At noon, Luke was beginning to edit through his sermon on Gratitude and Falling when Aggie knocked twice and poked her head around the door.

“Surprise,” she said. She had a crab-­cake sandwich she'd picked up for him at the Old Shore Inn, along with sides of Shore Slaw and curly fries in Styrofoam containers.

“You didn't need to do that,” Luke protested.

“Oh, no, no trouble,” she said. “I was there, anyway. My treat. I can tell it's a very busy day for you.”

“Yes.”

She hurried out to get him a bottled water from the refrigerator in the lunch room. Sometimes, Aggie did things like this out of a genuine kindness. This time, he knew, it had something to do with the three-­quarter closed door. But he was gracious, and didn't mention that the Old Shore was where they were going for dinner that night with Charlotte's parents.

“Oh, I saw Susan Champlain, by the way,” she said, as she returned. “Over at the inn. I was going to say hello, but she seemed deep in conversation with someone and didn't notice me. Let me get you some extra napkins.”

When she came in again, and set out his napkins, Luke said, “Who was it, I wonder?”

“Pardon?”

“The person she was talking with, I mean.”

“Oh
. You mean Susan Champlain? I don't know. A gentleman I'd never seen before. A nicely-­dressed man, with elegant shoulders. One of the guests, probably. They were in the club room there.” She stepped away. Luke felt his curiosity outwrestling his resolve.

“Anything else?”

“No, thanks,” Luke said.

Gratitude and Falling
, he told himself, gazing back at his sermon notebook.

T
HE AIR WAS
breezy on the bluff at Widow's Point that night, tossing the pine branches against the oily, dimming sky. Sixty feet below, two dozen gulls had gathered by the edge of the water, although much of the sand wharf had been covered by incoming tide.

By the time the 120-­pound object thudded on the beach—­several minutes past eight—­the birds were gone, flapping frantically to the north and to the west. Belasco was in flight, as well, walking through shadows down the sheltered access road, feeling a brief, unexpected giddiness. Killing was mostly a process now, a learned skill, which Belasco sometimes traced to childhood, to brothers and friends who'd thought it was funny to shoot at stray dogs with a .22 rifle and to douse the tails of cats with gasoline and light them on fire. Belasco regretted all that at times, because of the costs that came due later. But there was something different about tonight; tonight was lovely. The eastern sky was darkly majestic, bruised shades of backlit charcoal. It reminded Belasco of a painting, a seascape. But then, these days, what didn't?