The Tempest

by James Lilliefors

  Belasco waited in the dark, feeling invisible, enjoying the breeze over the water, thinking about what would happen in a few days: Kepler’s “miracle.” Not wanting to be here. Wanting to be back in Philadelphia.

  This was Belasco’s self-­appointed role, however: to watch, to make sure that nothing threatened what Walter Kepler planned to do. In Belasco’s world, obstacles were to be avoided; threats to be eliminated. All of a sudden, Amy Hunter was becoming an obstacle. Not yet a threat. But that could change fast.

  PART 2

  A Good Bad Man

  I am now as a tramp who has the Sun all to himself.

  —­Isabella Stewart Gardner, 1898, to art dealer Bernard Berenson, after purchasing Rembrandt’s painting The Storm on the Sea of Galilee

  Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to never was there and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it.

  —­Flannery O’Connor, Wise Blood

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The notion of getting away for a ­couple of days gave Amy Hunter an anxious pause, which was enhanced by the fact that it was Monday, the beginning of the work week for everyone else. Her plan was to meet Helen Bradbury at 8:30 at Bradbury’s home near Easton, and then drive up to Philadelphia to interview Nicholas Champlain at 1 P.M. After that, she was going to visit with her mother overnight in the Philly suburbs and attempt to relax for a few hours: have dinner with her mom, maybe walk the hiking trail near her childhood home, drink a little wine, watch a true crime show on television. It was Henry Moore’s idea that she do this, take a day or two off after interviewing Champlain to “recharge the batteries,” although taking time “off” had never been one of Hunter’s strong suits. Especially not in the early stages of an investigation.

  Helen Bradbury lived in an old, two-­story clapboard colonial, isolated on a large creek-­front property, with a decrepit, falling-­down barn out back. The exterior paint of the house was peeling and the gutters drooped from years of neglect. But there were stunning views of water and wetlands in all directions.

  Four dogs of various sizes rushed in a tangle down the driveway to greet her. They were followed by Bradbury, a large woman who wore a long green muumuu-­style dress and rubber flip-­flops.

  “Come on in,” she said, stopping halfway down, waving her up the drive.

  The house looked and smelled like a historic site inside, with creaky wood plank floors, cracked ceiling beams, dusty heat registers. The rooms were cluttered and musty; 1960s jazz played in her study, which was lined with ceiling-­to-­floor bookshelves.

  “We’ll just go in here,” she said, leading Hunter to the kitchen, where a teakettle was steaming on a white porcelain gas stove. A warm stewy smell filled the room. “So,” she said, motioning for her to sit, “did Dave Crowe send you to me?”

  “Kind of.”

  She grinned broadly, revealing gums, as she poured tea into delicate old china cups. Bradbury was a round-­faced woman with a silvery bowl haircut and large, watchful brown eyes. “Always looking for new ways to cover his ass, isn’t he? And so,” she said, sitting, her knees spread out, “what’s your particular interest?”

  “I’m investigating an unattended death in Tidewater County,” Hunter said. She sipped the tea, which was hot, strong, and slightly disagreeable in taste. “A woman named Susan Champlain.”

  “That’s not what I asked you, honey,” she said. “What’s your interest in the Stolen Art Division? And in me?”

  “Well. I believe that Susan Champlain’s death may have had something to do with stolen art,” Hunter said. “A stolen painting.” In fact, Hunter was hoping that Helen Bradbury could help fill in some of the blanks in the story Dave Crowe had told her Friday, two blanks in particular: Who was the man who “got involved” with Randall last year, in a deal that “didn’t end up so well”? and who was Kepler’s so-­called partner?

  “You think her husband’s doing some work for Walter Kepler, in other words?” Helen Bradbury said, peering over the top of her teacup. She was sharp, Hunter could tell, and not one to suffer fools.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve talked with Scott Randall.”

  “I have.”

  “Bootsie!” She clapped her hands twice, startling Hunter. Bootsie, a black mixed Scottie, who’d been tentatively sniffing Hunter’s shoe, scooted out of the room.

  “Well, you got one side of the story, then, didn’t you?” she said. “I just caution you, be careful. He can be a very duplicitous man.”

  “Kepler, you mean.”

  She tossed back her head and let out a quick, bawdy laugh. “No,” she said. “Randall. Well, both of them, if you want to get technical. There’s a big divide in the Bureau over Walter Kepler right now, as you may know. Randall’s put himself in the middle of it. Crowe probably told you that.”

  “A little. What’s the divide about, exactly?”

  “In plain English?” Hunter nodded. “Scott Randall wants to bring down Kepler, any way he can. And he’s in a position now to do it, being in charge of the division. My side—­the other side of the argument—­thinks he’s too willing to cut corners, and maybe hurt a few ­people along the way, to get that done. We think he’s puffed up this current case against Kepler to make sure that he gets the funding. Stolen Art Division, as you may have heard, is the redheaded stepchild of the FBI.”

  “Yes,” Hunter said. “Randall said something like that.”

  “So . . . Let’s cut to the chase, then,” she said. “My view—­and it’s shared by others—­is that if we’re going to put our resources into pursuing someone, we’d better make damn sure we’re pursuing the right man. And for the right reasons.”

  “And you don’t think Kepler is the right man?”

  “I’m not convinced of it. I certainly don’t think he’s responsible for the things that Randall says he’s responsible for, no. That’s where we finally parted ways, the Bureau and me. And that’s why I’m talking to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think it’s clear, if you take an honest look at the evidence, that there’s nothing tying Walter Kepler directly to any killings. That’s all been puffed up. So has this story that he’s dealing now with terrorists or terrorist financiers. The man’s a high-­end art trader, that’s all. I think he may have dealt occasionally in stolen art, but he’s not what Randall says he is. And so you have to wonder why Randall’s doing what he’s doing.”

  Bootsie was back in the room, lying on the floor in the doorway, his eyes gazing up at Hunter’s. When she smiled, his tail flicked once. Hunter tried the tea again, and then set her cup on the kitchen table.

  “I was told Kepler has a partner,” Hunter said. “Could the partner be responsible for these things? The killings?”

  “He does have a partner, yes,” she said, eyeing Hunter soberly. “Randall didn’t tell you that, did he?”

  “No.”

  “Crowe.”

  Hunter shrugged. “Was the divide over this partner?”

  “No,” Helen Bradbury said, “the divide is over Kepler. But, in part, yes, it involves his partner. The Bureau could have gone after the partner, and probably could have made a strong case against him. But there were strategic differences. Randall didn’t want to do that. Categorically. Randall thought that if we went after the partner—­or anyone else at a lower level—­we’d lose the big prize. Making Kepler the bull’s-­eye—­linking him to murder and, now, terrorism—­made the case simpler and stronger. And easier to sell to Randall’s higher-­ups. It, also, became part of his own ascendency within the Bureau.”

  “Do you know who this partner is?”

  “I do.” Her big eyes watched Hunter as she sipped her tea; momentarily, they seemed to twinkle.

  “You know the partner’s name? His back story?” Hunter asked. “I mean, if we’re cutting t
o the chase.”

  “His name is Belasco,” she said. “I can’t tell you a lot about him. We’re not even sure about his first name: Edward or Edwin. The name came up last summer. There’s a file on him, which Randall did all he could to suppress. We think Belasco may have some loose connections with an organized crime family in Philadelphia. The Patellos.” She sipped again and set her cup down. “To be candid? I think it’s quite possible Belasco was the person who killed your Susan Champlain.”

  Hunter felt a chill race through her. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I do.”

  “Killed her for what reason?”

  “To help Walter Kepler. Because they’re ‘partners,’ as you say. And also, possibly, from what little we know about Belasco, I think that he probably also enjoys killing, and finds it easy to do. That’s what we’re told. He may be someone who has gotten away with it for years and just assumes he’ll never be caught. You’d be surprised how many of those there are out there.”

  Not really, Hunter thought. “But what specifically makes you think Belasco might have killed Susan Champlain?”

  “Nothing specifically. It’s a hunch,” Bradbury said. “There’s some evidence he’s done it before, to protect Walter Kepler. It’s all in the file. It was. You ought to get ahold of his file.”

  “Any suggestions how I’d do that?”

  “Well, no, honey, that’s the problem: Randall’s running the show now, and he’s not interested in going after Belasco. He questions whether he even exists. Which I think is a big mistake.”

  Hunter glanced out at the morning sun dazzling the wetlands. “He did it to protect Kepler? Why?”

  “Well—­you have to delve deeper into the nature of the partnership, I guess, don’t you? We never had the support within the Bureau to pursue that question adequately; Randall always tried to keep the focus on Kepler. Understand, Kepler is dirty in some ways,” she went on, echoing what Crowe had told her Friday night. “But he’s not the bad guy Scott Randall says he is. The question you have to ask is: is he a good bad guy or a bad bad guy?”

  “I didn’t know the Bureau divided them that way,” Hunter said, still marveling a little at the turns this woman’s mind was taking. Hunter decided she liked Helen Bradbury.

  “No, honey, I divide them that way. What I’m saying is—­” She stopped to drink her tea. “He has dealt with terrorists, but only in the process of recovering stolen art. And only once that I know of. He helped negotiate the return of a Degas and a Cézanne in 2012 that were in the possession of Serbian terrorists. He and his attorney, a man named Jacob Weber, set up a straw buyer, we think, who contacted the art thieves and then trapped them. I’m told he was remunerated quite well by the insurance companies for what he did.

  “To me, it’s really a moral question that’s dividing the Bureau,” Bradbury continued. “Because morally, I think Kepler’s closer to being on the side of right than Randall is. Which can be a big problem when Randall’s heading the division. It’s complicated. But I can simplify it for you. I can boil it down to one man—­a man named Eddie Charles.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Eddie Charles was tangentially involved in Kepler’s last deal. The one that fell apart.”

  “The Manet.”

  “Yes. That’s right.” This, Hunter realized, must be the man Crowe had been referring to when he’d warned her about Randall; the man who “got involved” last year. Bradbury smiled at how much Crowe had shared; it was a feeble smile, showing small gray teeth and pink gums. “Eddie Charles was an innocent man who happened to have done business with someone the Bureau was watching. No more than that. He came to Scott Randall’s attention last year, and Randall went out and tried to recruit him, to be an informant, to help make Randall’s case against Kepler. This man didn’t want to do that, which stuck in Randall’s craw.”

  “This was the government sting?”

  “Yes.” She grinned. “And then, after the deal broke down, after the Bureau showed its cards and Kepler backed away, Scott Randall blamed this guy. He thought this guy had given him up. And a ­couple weeks later, Eddie Charles turns up dead on a Philadelphia street corner, with crack cocaine in his pockets.”

  “What happened?”

  “That’s the moral tale,” she said. “It’s something that Randall caused but he will never have to pay for.” She drank the last of her tea and set the cup down. “Sometimes,” she said, “you can do things that are legal but not moral. Randall understands that. There’s a man in Pennsylvania, in a little town called Scattersville. He can tell you Eddie’s story. You need to set up an appointment to see him. Mention me if you want.

  “He’s a sentimental cop,” she added, showing her gums, “but he has a deep-­rooted sense of right and wrong. You’ll like him.”

  Hunter took down the name: Calvin Walters. Chief of Detectives.

  Hunter wondered what Henry Moore would think about her driving out to Scattersville to pursue a “moral tale” on her day “off.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “I’ve been told that several times now,” Hunter said, smiling, thinking she might elicit a smile in return from Bradbury; but the former FBI agent looked at her stone-­faced.

  “The trouble is, once Randall has you in his orbit, it’s not so easy to get out.”

  “Well. I don’t think I’m in his orbit,” Hunter said, feeling suddenly defensive, remembering how he’d drawn her into this: What if solving one case solves the other?

  “No. I didn’t say you were.”

  “Sorry,” Hunter said.

  “But just keep in mind,” Bradbury told her, walking with some effort back toward Hunter’s car, the four dogs in tow. “There’s always a tiny possibility that Randall’s right.”

  “Okay,” Hunter said. “What do you mean? Right about what?”

  “About Belasco.”

  She stopped walking and looked at Hunter.

  “I’m not following. What do you mean?”

  “Randall claims that Belasco doesn’t really exist. That’s why Randall says he doesn’t want to pursue a case against him. He thinks that Kepler’s made him up, as a diversion. Belasco is his partner, yes. But he’s not real. He’s simply the darker side of Walter Kepler’s personality, his alter ego, which Kepler would prefer to keep hidden.”

  Hunter squinted at her in the glare of the morning light. “That’s kind of creepy,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know. It is, isn’t it?” Bradbury smiled.

  SHE CALLED SONNY Fischer on his private line as she drove Route 301 north to Philadelphia. “I need to find everything you can get me about someone named Belasco.”

  “Spelling?” She heard him writing it down. Hunter loved this about Fischer. “First name?”

  “Not sure, Edward or Edwin. And I also need to know everything about a man named Walter Kepler. He’s a high-­end art dealer. And, in particular, any connection there may be between the two. Belasco and Kepler.”

  “Walter Kepler.”

  Hunter spelled it. “And, I’d like to see any security images we can get of Nick Champlain, Sally Markos, Joey Sanders, or Elena Rodgers. At Kent’s or at the Old Shore Inn.”

  “Going through them now.”

  “Okay, good.” Hunter realized that she probably sounded wound up. Probably she should take some time off. But not now. “Sorry,” she said. “Whatever you can get to. Belasco and Kepler first.”

  “No problem. I’m on it.”

  Twenty minutes later, a mile into Delaware, Hunter called the number Helen Bradbury had given her, in the little town of Scattersville, Pennsylvania.

  “Calvin Walters,” a friendly voice answered.

  Hunter explained who she was, mentioning Susan Champlain and telling him that Helen Bradbury had recommended she call. “I’d like to talk with you about Eddie Char
les, if you can spare a few minutes.”

  He seemed unsurprised. “Well, okay,” he told her. “I can’t guarantee I can tell you a lot. But, sure, I’ll talk with you.”

  “Are you free tomorrow?”

  He chortled. “Well, I expect to be free. What time you-­all want to stop by?”

  “Ten? Eleven?”

  “Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said, stretching out the syllables as he wrote it down.

  “I’ll see you at eleven, then.”

  “Don’t know that I can tell you a lot,” he said again, “but I’m glad to meet with you.”

  WALTER KEPLER WAS floating in the Atlantic Ocean on a clear plastic mattress, doing the numbers again in his head, his taut body undulating pleasantly with the pulse of the water, the sun warming his skin. He savored the freedom he had to just float for a ­couple of hours, disconnected from everyone. Much of Kepler’s work involved thinking—­and he especially liked doing so on the ocean, where he couldn’t be interrupted.

  “The cost of a miracle,” he said aloud, enjoying the sound, and the irony, of those words, the way his voice folded into the rise and fall of the waves.

  He cast his eyes back to shore. Kepler’s attorney, Jacob Weber, would be coming to visit tomorrow, with news from his trip north. If Weber brought good news, as he fully expected, then Kepler was going to push the schedule so that all three phases took place in a single twenty-­four-­hour period. Wednesday. Which had been his intention all along, although he had kept that detail to himself.

  There were reasons all around why this new time frame would be acceptable. The sale would make Vincent Rosa five million dollars wealthier and free him of an albatross. Champlain, too, was restless, wanting to take his profit in cash and return to Philadelphia, to his shopping center deals and his girlfriends, with the promise of an even bigger transaction down the road. Kepler was the only one who’d be losing anything financially. But making money wasn’t the point this time; the point was creating a “miracle.” Kepler had long ago set up accounts to comfortably finance the rest of his life. This time, money wasn’t an issue.