The Tempest (23 page)

“I guess I better get my notebook . . . unless . . .”

“Unless?”

“You wanted to work on our project.”

“You're a devil,” Charlotte said.

“No, I'm not. Unless you want me to be . . .”

“Figure of speech. Okay,” she said. “Actually, that's an interesting idea. Except you're supposed to be at work, aren't you?”

“It's been a while since I've played hooky, though.”

“Let's play hooky, then.”

Charlotte stood and they kissed, and then walked into the bedroom holding hands. “I do want this,” she said.

They'd just gotten started when Luke's cell phone rang. He didn't have to look to see who was calling, but he did.

“Aren't you going to answer?” Charlotte asked.

“No,” he said. “I'll let it ring.”

 

Chapter Thirty-four

F
ischer came into Hunter's office that afternoon with a vinyl zip-­satchel full of papers. He had what he promised would be “all kinds” of new information. Moore had authorized the department to gather ISP records, and Fischer, acting as an intermediary with the state police computer forensics lab, had collected and evaluated all they'd turned over so far and produced a two-­page summary.

The original access points had been Sally Markos's and Beth Sanders's cell phones, from which the state computer forensics lab had produced records of hundreds of phone calls and e-­mail exchanges. More was coming. The most relevant information so far, according to Fischer's summary, was an exchange of eight e-­mails back and forth between [email protected], who had also e-­mailed with Markos once, and someone using the handle [email protected] They were the only e-­mails that had turned up on the vanrijn account.

“E-­R Bela,” Hunter said, getting it right away. “ER as in Elena Rodgers. Bela as in Belasco.”

Fischer's face seemed to tighten. He didn't yet know that Elena Rodgers and Belasco might be the same person. This seemed a pretty strong corroboration.

“There's also an old number for Kepler that still works,” Fischer said, just as Hunter was about to gently scold him for missing the morning meeting. Administration didn't come to her naturally.

“It ‘still works.' Meaning—­you called it?”

He nodded.

“Left a message?”

“Just called, to see if it worked.”

“And hung up?”

“It's there,” he said, pointing at a line on the summary.

Hunter read through the whole summary as he sat there. Then she filled him in on what had happened at the meeting. If he'd attended, he would have written a different memo, she said. He would have known that Elena Rodgers was now the prime suspect in Susan Champlain's murder. Fischer's face held a blank look.

“The last message is interesting,” he said, interrupting her.

The last e-­mail from erbela to vanrijn1633, he meant.

Sent yesterday at 3:37 in the afternoon. Fisch had bolded it in the memo:
Onward, then. Thursday end of day, at Half Past Three. B.

vanrijn1633 had written back a one-­word response:
Yes.

vanrijn had to be Kepler, Hunter thought. As in Rembrandt van Rijn.

“This is good,” she said, wanting some time alone with the raw data. “Great work.”

Fischer's face darkened slightly. Hunter knew him well enough to know that he appreciated compliments but that, like many ­people, he wasn't good at accepting them.

“We're all meeting this afternoon at two thirty, by the way,” she said, as he began to leave. “I need you to attend.”

“M'kay.”

“Okay?”

He nodded once; he wasn't going to say it again. Hunter stayed at her desk until the meeting, going through the e-­mail and phone records, feeling a rising excitement for a while, followed by a sense of letdown: most of the intercepted information was unrevealing. The phone records contained a few interesting patterns—­several calls back and forth between Sally Markos and Joe Sanders, for instance—­but not much that was actionable, and nothing offering valuable information about Sanders's or Susan's last hours. Joey Sanders's only calls, besides those to Sally Markos, had been to his wife, Beth, in Pennsylvania.

Hunter called the number Fisch had given her for Kepler, which Delaware police had traced to a cell phone registered to a Jacob Weber almost five years earlier. She got a robotlike automated voice.

Shortly before the afternoon meeting, she sent her own messages—­to erbela and vanrijn1633. The same message to each: “This is Amy Hunter of the Maryland State Police. I'd like to talk with you ASAP regarding a case I'm investigating.” With the subject line: “Request from Amy Hunter, Maryland State Police.” She left both her cell phone and office numbers.

erbela.

Hunter stared at the last of the e-­mails from Elena Rodgers's account. If there was anything here that offered a good clue, this seemed to be it:
Onward, then. Thursday end of day, at Half Past Three. B
. It seemed like an invitation. Did it mean the deal was going to happen on Thursday, tomorrow? Was it unrelated? Or was it a bluff?

She decided to forward the e-­mail to Pastor Luke. And, though her instincts were telling her not to, she also forwarded a copy to Scott Randall at the FBI.

At 2:30, Hunter sat down in the conference room and shared the phone and e-­mail evidence with Moore and Tanner. Fischer was there, his eyes lowered, eight fingertips on the edge of the table, as if he were playing piano.

“Vanrijn1633,” Moore said, getting it right away. “Kepler?”

“Yes, I think so.” Tanner frowned. “Sixteen thirty-­three was the year that Rembrandt painted
Storm on the Sea of Galilee
. We're still sifting through the rest of it,” Hunter said, nodding at Fischer, who didn't look up. “So we should have some other connections later.”

Moore read through Fischer's summary carefully, even though she'd made it available to him a half hour ago. Unlike some ­people, he was comfortable processing information with others in the room. Not surprisingly, he zeroed in on the last e-­mail from erbela.

“What's this mean?”

Hunter shook her head. “No idea. The time frame is very specific, though. Thursday being tomorrow, we could construe it as meaning that whatever's happening will happen within the next day.”

“We're talking about the painting?” Tanner said.

“That's what I'm thinking,” Hunter said. “Which, if so, is a lot sooner than the FBI thinks.”

Moore glanced at Fischer, who was fidgeting, his fingertips still touching the table, his eyes lowered. “I suppose we're obligated to pass this along to the FBI?”

“Already have,” Hunter said. “Although they may have it, anyway. As we discussed earlier, this isn't our case. Our case is Susan Champlain. And I think we've wrapped that up.”

Hunter's phone chirped. She glanced at the screen, then up at Henry Moore. It was not what she expected.

“That was quick,” she said.

“What is it?”

The message was from the erbela address.

Belasco, evidently, had replied to her e-­mail.

E
LENA WAS DRIV
ING
west through the Pennsylvania countryside when the incoming e-­mail dinged her phone. Her thoughts, though, were in a different country. Belasco was an idea again at that point, separate from the person who was driving this white van; who took 23,000 breaths every day. The
idea
was what she breathed now: The idea that would carry her to another life in just 24 hours.

Belasco pulled over on the shoulder-­less road and read the message on her phone:

This is Amy Hunter of the Maryland State Police. I'd like to talk with you ASAP regarding a case I'm investigating.

It was the ASAP that was a little concerning.
Why ASAP?
Threat or obstacle? How had she acquired this e-­mail address?

She lowered her window and let her thoughts run out for a while. Insects hummed in the still summer air. She thought of Salvador Dali's fascinatingly grotesque dual figure, fighting with itself.

What case?

she keyed on her phone.

Why me?

Two minutes ticked by, the warm air causing her eyes to water and her throat to itch; ragweed.

Finally, a reply:

Routine investigation—­death of S. Champlain last Wed.

She had not answered the second question.

Elena looked out at the rolling Pennsylvania country and recalled the rush she had felt after killing Susan Champlain, the certainty that she had gotten away with it. She recalled the taste of the cooling air that night, as she'd sat on the porch at the Old Shore Inn, smiling at the well-­dressed guests, watching the wind play in those great oak leaves.

Why me? Why ASAP?

Hunter came right back this time. Again ignoring her second question.

You worked for her husband.

So?

I'm talking with thse who knew her or husband.

Didn't know her.

You knew the husband, tho.

So?

Can we talk briefly?

Her nose was beginning to run. She didn't like any of this. Eleventh hour is what Kepler called this. And then she suddenly imagined a way of heading it off. Of dealing with Hunter before the sun went down, without bringing Walter into it—­unless he wanted to be brought in.

After a minute of soul-­searching, she e-­mailed back:

This evening?

Yes. Where are you?

Hunter typed.

In Pa. Come here?

Yes. Where and when?

Will call you. I have your #.

She cut it off there, and felt a tingle of adrenaline. She'd be seeing Kepler in another hour and a half. Which meant Elena had that much drive time to think, to figure out the details of what she wanted to do about this Amy Hunter. She hadn't thought there would need to be any more collateral damage. You send out bait, false stories, and see who takes it. Randall had bitten down hard. Not Hunter, though. Hunter was smart. Too smart evidently to survive.

B
Y THE TIME
she arrived at Kepler's farm property, Elena had worked out Amy Hunter's fate in her head: a way to make her disappear, a place to take her, follow-­up contingencies. Killing is an art form when you don't see the artist's hand. She was that kind of artist.

Weber and Champlain were already there, waiting for her. The sun was still bright over the western countryside.

She parked in the barn next to Champlain: two white vans side by side. Walter would be arriving in a third.
Three-­card monte
, he had called it. Just in case.

Elena watched Nick Champlain pretending not to be surprised by her presence. He gave her a hug and a quick awkward kiss on the cheek. He was a primitive man, in most ways. She'd grown up with men like that, in Philly and in New Jersey. Her brothers had been that way; Joey Sanders had been like that. Champlain had flirted with Elena ineffectually all summer, trying to break through her defenses. So he'd probably see this as just another chance. He'd be ecstatic when he learned they were going to drive off together; that Elena was going to literally drive him away from all this.

Weber nodded an obligatory hello and then turned his narrow shoulders back to the job at hand. Strange little man. The Ant Man, she called him in her head.

Elena led Champlain to the duffel bag on the floor of her van. She unzipped it to flash a taste: five hundred thousand dollars in cash; five thousand Ben Franklins, eleven pounds of paper currency. The rest to come. He nodded at her nonchalantly, knowing not to smile, but almost doing it anyway. His eyes sweeping over her, coming back to her neck and chest.

Together, they carried the five-­foot by four-­foot painting from the back of Champlain's van to the sturdy wooden easel that Walter Kepler had set up there for its afternoon showing. Then Elena and Champlain began to uncrate it as the attorney watched. She couldn't help but be entranced by what lay beneath the protective crating and wrapping paper—­the stunning, layered, glazelike effects of the paint, the under-­glows, the transparent darks and opaque lights dancing with one another. The elemental contrasts. No one knew exactly how Rembrandt had achieved those startling optical effects; they were not something that could ever be duplicated.

Champlain pretended to be interested, too, although his eyes traveled up and down her body again, not just over the painting.

“That's amazing,” he said as she told him how Rembrandt had built his paintings, how he may have even mixed chalk and ground glass to achieve the glaze effects. Weber had walked off to the entrance of the barn where he was waiting now, rubbing at his neck, occasionally watching them. He
knew
what was going on. He was too smart not to, even if he didn't approve of her.

The possible number of things that could go wrong had diminished by several orders now, with the Rosas' part of the deal complete. If there'd been a sabotage at that level, it would be known by now.

“So where are we going after here?” Champlain asked her, making his voice whispery.

“Where do you want to go?”

Nick Champlain shrugged. “Celebrate.” He said it half as a question.

“Yeah, all right,” she said, knowing that saying it without emotion would only stir him further.

Elena eventually walked to the barn entrance, Champlain falling in step beside her.

The third white van had appeared, snaking over the late afternoon hillsides. Kepler. After months of planning, working out the minutiae of the negotiations, it was going to happen overnight. A week ago, they'd gone over all the possible ways this could fail, all the things that could go wrong, and addressed them one at a time. None of those things could stop them now. Of course, Amy Hunter hadn't been on that list. She'd barely existed then.

Kepler parked outside the barn. He walked toward the painting. Seeing nothing else until Elena touched his hand and stopped him. He kissed her cheek and then she told him. He listened, nodding distractedly, his eyes with the painting.

“Do what you need to do, then. It's late in the game to be dealing with this.”

“I know it is.”

“Do what you have to do.”

Champlain was watching her as Elena walked back to the van. She shrugged instead of explaining, like a ditzy woman might shrug. Champlain let it go, a version of chivalry, perhaps. Elena understood that.

Several minutes later, they were driving back through the rolling countryside, Elena at the wheel, a half million dollars right behind them, on the floor in the backseat. Traveling, eventually, to Philadelphia, but with a promised “celebration” somewhere in between. It would be a circuitous ride.