The Tempest

by James Lilliefors

  “And there’s one other problem, which goes even beyond that,” Randall said. “Many of the deals Kepler’s been involved in? Have been dirty, in a different way. The man has a problem, and his wealth and success have only exacerbated it: He doesn’t care about human life. He always values the art over ­people. ­People’s lives aren’t going to last; these masterpieces will. That’s one of his sayings.” Randall’s voice had a bitter edge again. “In each deal that we know about, there has been some collateral, human damage. ‘Collateral’ is his term.”

  “As in ­people who’ve been killed,” she said, sensing that this was what the conversation had been turning toward.

  “At least four,” he said. “Although there’s some disagreement over this within the Bureau. But—­we know of three cases, unsolved, that have his fingerprints: one missing person, two homicides. And another accidental death that I’d put in the same category. That’s four. This Susan Champlain may be number five.” There was a sudden catch in his voice. “As I say, he’s a man without a moral compass.”

  “Hmm.” Had he said this? Hunter wondered.

  “We’ve tried twice before to make cases against the man. Put good time and manpower into it. But we couldn’t bring charges. And right now, some in the Bureau are a little reluctant to go up against him a third time, even though we’re building a case.”

  Hunter waited, then realized he wasn’t going to say any more. “So he hasn’t been charged with anything, you’re saying, not even in relation to stolen art?”

  “Not yet. Right now, Kepler has a perfectly legal presence in the world. He pays his taxes, owns property, keeps a primary residence near Dover, Delaware, and owns some beach property. Although he’s not there right now. Whenever Kepler’s working a deal, he goes mobile, he rents rooms in various places, for himself and the ­people working for him. When Kepler’s not home, it usually means something’s happening.”

  “So something’s happening now, you’re saying,” Hunter said.

  “That’s what we think. But we’re limited in what we can do. It’s a little bit of Catch-22: we don’t have the resources to go after him properly because we haven’t been able to make the case; and we can’t make the case without the resources. You say the words ‘stolen art’ and some ­people in the Bureau roll their eyes; it’s not a high priority, never has been. Stolen art is the Bureau’s orphan child. And that situation’s only made him bolder. This deal, in particular, worries me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the terrorist connection, first. And because of the painting itself. Walter Kepler loves this painting, he’s made remarks about it over the years. He told one of our ­people last year this is not only the greatest stolen work of art in the world, it’s also the greatest painting in the world.”

  Randall went silent, then. They were coming back to the highway.

  “And so you want me involved why? Because I can talk with Nicholas Champlain?” she said.

  “In part,” he said. “You’re in an unusual position. You have a legitimate pretense to approach him and ask questions.”

  “Homicide isn’t a pretense, though.”

  “No. Sorry, you have a reason to approach him. And he’s not going to think that you have any interest in the larger case.”

  “I don’t know that I do.”

  “Or knowledge of it, let’s say.”

  This confirmed what Randall was up to, anyway: he was recruiting her. Hunter needed to know more about him, even if it meant getting in touch with Dave Crowe again. “So? What do you have in mind?” Hunter said.

  Scott Randall told her his idea, then, his real reason for contacting her. He wanted Hunter to meet with Nicholas Champlain—­which she already planned to do on Monday afternoon—­and to talk with him while wearing an electronic transmitter. He wanted them to discuss the death of his wife, Susan Champlain—­which she planned to do anyway—­and, also, to ask him about the stolen painting and about Walter Kepler.

  Hunter watched the scenery. She wondered how much there was here that he wasn’t saying. She’d worked with the FBI several times before and found that mistrust and misdirection were institutional. The feds had a little attitude toward state and local cops; their investigations tended to become unnecessarily convoluted and bureaucratic, she’d found. Still, Hunter had learned from them, and her instinct was to say yes, even though this Randall worried her a little. She couldn’t quite figure him out.

  “I’ve already talked with Henry Moore,” he added, as if hearing her doubts. “He’s on board with me.”

  “Is he?” Hunter was surprised. “When did you talk with him?”

  “Right before I came to see you.”

  Oh. He shifted, then, to a more companionable tone: “It’s a wonder they’ve got you out here in the bean fields of Tidewater County, anyway,” he said.

  “Is it?” Hunter said, a little defensively. “Homicides happen everywhere, though,” she said. “It doesn’t matter a lot where you are, does it?”

  “Well, you proved that last year,” he said, alluding to the Psalmist case. “I’d’ve thought you could’ve written your own ticket after that.”

  “If you mean more high-­profile cases, that’s not why I do this,” Hunter said, fighting down a bubble of anger. “Homicide is homicide. ­People are ­people. The borders of the county are just an invisible fence around ­people.”

  Hunter genuinely believed this, although it wasn’t an idea that always translated well to conversation. Also, it seemed beside the point. She was lucky to have a supervisor—­Henry Moore—­who let her do what she wanted, within reason. Hunter had her own ways of running an investigation and a freedom she’d never have at the FBI.

  “All right,” he said, sounding mildly amused. “Point taken. I just happen to think you’d make good Bureau material.”

  Hunter sighed. There were ways to flatter her; this wasn’t one of them.

  “What do you say? Will you do it?”

  “I think so,” Hunter said. Not right away, but she said it. They rode back in silence, through the marshlands of northern Tidewater County, past old farmhouses, grassy fields, horses, bedsheets flapping on clotheslines, Hunter’s thoughts chewing up the scenery.

  “I’ll try to call you on Monday,” Randall said. “I’ll be down in Virginia visiting my mother for a ­couple of days. In the meantime, just keep all this between us.”

  They shook hands back at the shopping center, cordial like friends.

  On her way to the PSC, Hunter stopped at Kent’s Crab House to pick up a carry-­out sandwich. The air smelled of fries and steamed crabs, sun-­scorched dock boards. Large blues were going for $45 a dozen today, according to the chalk board. The summer waitress’s face was blistered from an afternoon in the sun.

  Travis Kent, the owner, came over to greet Hunter, draping his arm across her shoulders as she stood in the shade by the carry-­out window.

  “So how you been? Can I get you some iced tea, a soda, birch beer?”

  “No thanks. I’m just here for carryout.”

  “Keeping everybody in line?” He winked. Kent was a good-­hearted soul who knew how to make most ­people feel welcome. Hunter bantered with him for a few minutes, as she always did. Then she noticed that Sheriff Clay Calvert was across the deck, watching her, having lunch with two of his fishing cronies. For a tense few moments, it was like two nervous dogs eyeing each other.

  Finally, the sheriff got up and walked over with his limping gait, pretending to be on his way to the men’s room.

  “Hey! How’s your investigation?” he said with false bravado. He never wore his uniform except for official events, so Hunter had no idea if he was working or not. It was clear he’d been drinking.

  “I feel bad for him,” the sheriff said, coming closer, staring her down accusingly. “The man’s lost his wife, now he’s got Homicide
on his ass acting like he was responsible. Jesus Christ!” He spit over the rail into the water to emphasize the point.

  Hunter edged away from him. “Just doing my job,” she said.

  “Your job?” The sheriff crowded her against the carry-­out window, smelling of beer and Old Bay seasoning. “Leave the man alone. For Christ’s sake.”

  Fortunately, a server came out with her sandwich before things got any worse.

  Calvert gave her his usual parting line as he walked away, “Tuck in your shirt!” grinning as if it had all been a joke. Once he’d pushed on into the men’s room, Hunter felt her shirt just to make sure it was all tucked in. The first time he’d said this to her, a ­couple of years ago, it hadn’t been. She still hadn’t figured the perfect comeback, mostly because it wasn’t a priority. Someday, she would.

  FIVE DAYS TO go, and Walter Kepler was grocery shopping at Food Lion, stocking his condo for the weekend: cheeses, wine, bread, salad stuff, the makings for white clam linguine and tomato-­broth shellfish stew. All was good, except for the news that Belasco had just delivered by phone: the predator appeared to be recruiting someone new, a female homicide investigator this time. He’d just met with her, they’d gone for a drive. It was Belasco’s problem, of course, to watch her and determine if she was a threat. Kepler trusted Belasco. But it gave him pause, just the idea that Randall would be introducing a new complication so late in the game.

  Kepler opened the door of a frozen food case and reached in for a loaf of bread. The cold vapor rose to his face and he suddenly had a very strange sensation, the air like fog, transporting him to another place, two years earlier: Oslo. Kepler and Belasco, on vacation, hands and ears numb as they hurried through the run-­down Toyen district to the Munch Museum. Standing in the dusty gallery air, observing Madonna and The Scream, two paintings that had been easily stolen from the walls in 2004 and remained missing for two years. He was reminded of the 1994 theft of another version of The Scream from the National Museum across town, the thieves leaving behind a note reading, “Thanks for the poor security.” It was Kepler who had secretly negotiated the recovery of the Munch Museum paintings in 2006, on condition that museum security be improved so that their theft could never happen again. A condition that had been met. The paintings were today as secure as the Mona Lisa. But did Scott Randall even know about that? Did he know the good that Kepler had done?

  He closed the door, shutting the memory. But he carried a lingering unease as he pushed his cart down the aisle—­that Randall still thought he could stop him; not that he could, but just that he thought he could.

  By the time Kepler cleared the store checkout, the feeling had passed. Walking to his car, carrying three sacks of groceries, Kepler recalled one of his favorite sayings: A wise man gets more use from his enemies than a fool from his friends. Five days to go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I guess there’s no news?” Luke said, reaching Charlotte.

  “About—­?”

  “Our daughter? Sneakers’s little sister?”

  “Funny,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re the one who always preaches patience.”

  “I know.”

  “But I did speak with my doctor. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Good. I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  Luke left the church at 1:15 for what he told Aggie would be “a late lunch with Charlotte,” which was in fact an excuse to work on their “project,” as they were calling efforts to enlarge the Bowers family. He wondered how long it would be before Aggie figured out what was going on.

  “I’m home!” he called coming in, reminding himself of Ward Cleaver or Howard Cunningham. Was he already beginning to play the role of father? Sneakers came trotting down the hallway, as usual, his toenails clicking on the hardwood floor. But his head hung in a peculiar way, as if he disapproved of what Luke and Charlotte were about to do and yet didn’t want to make a fuss over it.

  “What’s the matter, boy?” He sat for his usual neck rub, his ears pulled back, although there was a halfhearted quality to this, too. He wouldn’t look at Luke.

  “Char?”

  Sneakers stood up and led him into the kitchen, where Luke saw the real issue: there was a strange man seated at the kitchen table with Charlotte, tall, balding, with a long, narrow face, sunglasses on top of his head.

  “Oh,” Luke said. “Hello.”

  “This is—­” Charlotte began.

  “Scott Randall,” he said, standing and giving Luke a meaty handshake. “Special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Oh, okay. Hi.”

  Luke squinted out the window. Where had he parked?

  “You’re Luke Bowers.”

  “So I’m told.”

  Randall sat back at the kitchen table, and Luke joined him. Charlotte had set three bowls. They were all going to have soup, it looked like.

  “I called the church and the woman said you’d left for home some time earlier.”

  The woman, Charlotte mouthed, giving Luke a sly glance.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s true. Where did you park?”

  “I took a cab, actually.”

  “Ah.”

  “Hungry?” Charlotte said. She was up getting the lunch.

  “A little.”

  She brought them bowls of wild rice soup, along with buttered raisin toast.

  “I think I picked up a nail in my tire,” Randall explained. “They’re fixing it in town. I thought, I have some time, I’ll come out and visit you for a few minutes.”

  “Where’d you take it?”

  “The car? I think it’s called Lenny’s?”

  “Lonny’s,” Luke said. “Yes, he’ll take care of you.”

  He exchanged a smile with Charlotte. Sneakers got up, turned in a circle readying to lie down. But then he seemed to lose interest and scratched his side instead. He looked at Randall, then, as if waiting to be noticed, and finally walked out of the room.

  “So, how can I help?”

  “I just wanted to ask you about the photo Susan Champlain e-­mailed you. Get your impressions.” He paused to taste the soup. “I can’t go into a lot of specifics but the photo does seem to dovetail with an active case we’re working on. I was just talking with your wife about it—­”

  His eyes turned to Charlotte’s. Sneakers, in the next room now, whimpered.

  “Go ahead and eat,” Charlotte said.

  “I understand the photo was sent to you on Wednesday afternoon,” he said, to Luke, who noticed that he was slightly cross-­eyed.

  “Sent to me, that’s right. I didn’t discover it, though, until late that night. After she’d died.”

  “Can you give me the time frame on all that?”

  “Sure.” Luke went through it all, as they ate their soups and toast. Randall’s eyes kept turning to Charlotte; he was a little charmed by her, Luke could see, as ­people sometimes were, but a little bit more than seemed appropriate.

  “So you must have reason to think it’s the real thing?” Luke said. “The Rembrandt, I mean.”

  “Oh, I have no idea,” he said, and smiled disingenuously. “As I told your wife, it’s an ongoing investigation. And I’m going to ask that anything we’ve discussed today remain in confidence.”

  “Sure.” Luke spooned the last of his soup. “So you talked with Amy Hunter, I gather?”

  “Just finished, yeah. Sharp kid.”

  Charlotte’s eyes lifted and locked with Luke’s briefly; she silently mouthed the words sharp kid.

  “Yes, she’s very good. Very bright.”

  “Kind of a firecracker.”

  “That, too,” Luke said.

  Randall was stingy in telling Luke what he knew, though. There wa
s a subtle aggressiveness about him that was unsettling, as he tried to get Luke to tell him more about Susan Champlain.

  After finishing lunch, Randall crumpled his mostly shredded paper napkin into a ball and set it on his plate. Luke offered to drive him back into town.

  “Thanks. Appreciate it,” he said. “Could I use your facilities?”

  “Of course,” Charlotte said. “It’s just down the hall there.”

  Luke sighed as Randall disappeared in the facilities. “I guess that constituted today’s lunch date,” he said.

  “Not quite what I expected, either. Nor did Sneakers.”

  “Sneakers actually seemed to have a little attitude,” Luke said.

  “I noticed. He’s not used to being ignored.”

  “Anyway: we’ll make up for it.”

  She leaned across the table and kissed him.

  Randall came out looking recharged, smelling of hand soap.

  “Ready,” he said, rubbing his hands.

  AFTER LETTING HIM off, Luke drove back to Widow’s Point. He parked in the shade on the access road and walked out onto the beach below the bluff, to the spot where Susan Champlain had died. It was low tide again. There were no signs anymore of what had happened here. Susan’s phone had never been found; her second sandal hadn’t washed ashore. Luke spent a half hour walking the beach, barefoot, searching the sand and looking out at the sails on the glittering Bay. Then he closed his eyes for a few minutes and felt the sun warm his face, the tide coming in around his ankles, his feet sinking into the sand. He expressed gratitude for all that he had and then drove back to work, feeling uneasy and a little guilty.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hunter fought the urge to call Dave Crowe for much of the day. She ran data searches on Walter Kepler instead and did a background check on Scott Randall. Kepler was an enigmatic character who’d grown up in New York City and seemed to have moved among residences in Delaware, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, France, and Switzerland over the past twenty-­five years. He still owned at least two properties in Delaware, one a house in the country with an assessed value of $895,000, the other a beach condo worth about half that. There were several records of lucrative art deals, including the $16.3 million sale in 1995 of a Picasso painting called Femme et de Fleurs and a 2001 sale of a late Picasso for $7.1 million. In 2012, the New York Times ran a story about the return of six Impressionist paintings stolen in Zurich four years earlier. The article quoted sources claiming that “Walter Kepler, an elusive figure in the world of high-­end art, reportedly helped negotiate the return of the paintings . . . Kepler is reputed to have recovered—­and traded in—­high-­end art (including, by some accounts, stolen art) for more than fifteen years. He declined, through a spokesman, to be interviewed.”