Hunter enlarged the image, to just the shoulders and head; the pixels blurred, but it was clear enough. Hunter compared the shape, the texture, the number of diamonds. There was no question: On Monday morning, Elena Rodgers had been wearing the same pendant that was now sitting on Hunter’s desk in Homicide.
It was 9:24. She made a printout of the image and saved it to her desktop. Then she got up and walked to the conference room two doors down.
Hank Moore was at the head of the table, studying a single-page report, something unrelated to the case. His transistor radio was on top of a pile of folders, turned off. He wasn’t big on greetings. Tanner was there with his leather notebook opened to blank facing pages, his right hand wrapped around a coffee mug. His dark eyes glistened, watching her as she came in. Hunter sat across from him and nodded hello.
Finally, Moore looked up.
“Morning, Hunter,” he said. “Want to get the door?”
“Sorry,” she said, standing. “Where’s Fisch?”
“Sonny’s working on something at home,” he said, “for you.”
“Okay.” Hunter closed the door and sat. She’d hoped the peace pipe might be passed between Fisch and Tanner this morning. But it would have to wait.
“We’ve got the footage, Hunter,” Moore said. His eyes narrowed and he nodded grimly at his computer. “Your crank caller.”
“Crank” was an interesting word choice, Hunter thought. “You know who it is?”
His eyes nodded. “Not what we expected. It’s probably going to flip your wig a little when you see it.”
Tanner lowered his eyes; she could see that he didn’t know yet. Hunter had begun to think the caller might just be a disturbed prankster, nothing to do with the Champlain killing; she kept thinking of Marc Devlin, the art gallery manager, whom she liked; or John Linden, the uptight ex of Susan Champlain, whom she didn’t. Or the sheriff’s deputy, Barry Stilfork, who always reminded her of a cat under a chair, thinking that if he couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see him. At this point, though, she realized that she no longer particularly cared who it was.
“I’ve got something, too,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Let me go first?”
Moore squinted his eyes. He shifted in his chair so his left shoulder was more prominent. He coughed once, then he nodded.
NICHOLAS CHAMPLAIN GOT on the road at 8:30 that morning, driving the white Chevy van he’d purchased a month earlier and kept stored in a garage seven blocks from his downtown office. He followed Vincent Rosa’s instructions on the cell phone that Rosa had delivered to his mailbox that morning. The directions took him on a convoluted route that threaded through the Philadelphia suburbs, looped way out toward Amish country and returned through the suburbs to downtown Philly.
The first stage was an elaborate series of detours, meant to reassure Rosa that Champlain wasn’t setting him up, or being followed. There was no rulebook for this sort of thing; Champlain and Kepler had to abide by whatever Vincent Rosa gave them.
When Rosa was satisfied that Champlain wasn’t being followed, he directed him to a metered parking lot near Torresdale Station. Nick parked, leaving his keys under the passenger seat, and fed the meter for two hours. Minutes later, Vincent Rosa pulled up, in a Lexus SUV. Champlain stepped out of the van and got into Rosa’s passenger seat.
Rosa drove another circuitous route, the radio playing classical music. Kepler, listening in, was amused to hear that it was Mozart’s final symphony, of all things. He doubted that Champlain had any idea what he was hearing. Twice, Rosa stopped in a parking lot and waited; each time, nothing happened.
He eventually pulled into a small parking lane above the Schuylkill River, two slots from the other parked vehicle, a white van. It was the same van that Champlain had left in the city two hours earlier. Frank Rosa, Vincent’s younger brother, was sitting behind the steering wheel.
The masterpiece was now in the back of Champlain’s van. Nick had five minutes to go inside, close the door and examine it. It was unlikely the Rosas would try to sell him a forgery; but it was possible they wouldn’t know the difference.
Five minutes later, Champlain emerged out the front passenger door and returned to Vincent Rosa’s car. Vincent waited for the van to pull out, Frank driving, and followed behind at a reasonable distance. Then Vincent handed Nick Champlain a phone.
Jacob Weber, sitting with Kepler at his condo in Delaware, took Champlain’s call.
“I’m clear,” Champlain said.
“All right.”
Kepler’s attorney digitally authorized the payment transfer, four million dollars to the account Rosa had set up in Bermuda. They all waited again, monitoring the transmission by computer. Ten minutes later, the money had been drained. Five million dollars gone now, with the down payment.
Kepler listened to the thin droning of the car engine. This was the unnerving part, the part where the Rosas could take the money and make the painting disappear, if they wanted; where Kepler could lose the whole deal. Five million dollars and the painting.
But he didn’t.
Maybe it was the shared knowledge that there was an even bigger deal waiting after this one. Maybe it was Nick Champlain. Or maybe it was just the principle of honor among thieves.
Vincent Rosa called ahead to signal Frank in the van. Kepler listened. Twenty minutes later, Frank pulled the van into a remote bend of a public park and stopped. The Lexus followed, parking beside it. Doors opened and closed: Frank Rosa and Champlain trading places, Nick back behind the wheel of his van.
“Be safe,” Kepler heard Vincent Rosa say.
The Chevy van was still running. Kepler heard Nick shift and back up. He listened as the van’s engine accelerated. Another several unnerving minutes. But nothing happened. “All right,” he heard Nick Champlain say, cheering himself. “All right.”
He was on his own now, driving away toward the Delaware Expressway with Rembrandt’s 1633 masterpiece in the back. It was 2:37. Champlain was headed toward a farmhouse in the Pennsylvania countryside. The painting now belonged to him. Three hours later, it would be Kepler’s.
Chapter Thirty-three
You know who killed her,” Tanner said.
“I think I do.”
“I thought so when we talked last night.”
Tanner turned his eyes to their boss, Hank Moore. Moore’s left hand was bouncing absently above the table, as if his transistor radio were playing. Tanner always lost a little of his self-assurance around Moore.
“I didn’t know it then,” Hunter said. “I have evidence now.”
She showed them the printout of Elena Rodgers, Champlain’s personal assistant, walking through the lobby of the Old Shore Inn Monday morning. Then she opened her left hand to display the diamond pendant. They all stared, expectantly. Tanner’s mouth was open like a coin slot.
“Pastor Luke’s wife discovered it in the surf this morning,” she said. “Twenty-five yards from where Susan Champlain died.
“I didn’t realize for sure until a half hour ago what the necklace was,” Hunter continued. “I’d been assuming the necklace had been worn by Susan Champlain.”
“We all had,” Moore said.
“This makes it clear it wasn’t.”
Tanner pulled the image of Elena Rodgers to the center of the table and they all looked at it—Elena walking with a confident air through the lobby at the Old Shore Inn, her head turned to one side, the diamond heart pendant visible on top of her dress.
“So you’re saying Elena Rodgers did this,” Moore said.
“I think so.”
“She killed Susan Champlain?” Tanner said. Both men trying to put it together.
“I think they must’ve struggled on the bluff,” Hunter said. “Susan grabbed at Elena, she tore off her necklace. The pendant fell from the necklace o
n the way down. It would also explain the cuts on Susan’s right arm.”
She glanced up at Moore.
“There were skin flakes under Susan’s fingernails. Right?” Moore asked.
“Yes. And you remember Elena Rodgers wore a windbreaker jacket Wednesday night when she came in for her interview. May have been to cover scratches Susan made on her arms.”
“That’s right,” Tanner said.
Funny how things fit together when you have the correct solution, Hunter thought.
“There were also bare footprints in the sand below the point, which, from the length of the stride and the size of the foot, forensics believe were a woman’s. It’s probable those were Elena Rodgers’.”
“Meaning what?” Moore said, watching her. “That she’d gone down there looking for the necklace? And couldn’t find it?”
“We’ll need to find her to prove that. But, yeah.”
“Why would she have done it, though?” Tanner said. “Jealousy? I guess that would go to the idea that she was having an affair with Champlain.”
“That’s one idea,” Hunter said. “Although I think the case might be more complicated than that. I think that Susan Champlain may have been killed because of what she may have known about a stolen painting,” she said, speaking to Tanner. “I don’t know that for sure, but that’s what I think. Which means it would have been premeditated, as we were discussing last night.”
“Painting?” Tanner said.
Hunter brought him in, then. She gave Tanner a summary of the case in five minutes—the photo of the stolen Rembrandt on Susan Champlain’s phone, the Gardner theft, the call from Scott Randall, Walter Kepler—feeling a surprising relief to finally unload these details. She left out only Pastor Luke’s role in the case.
Tanner listened, as still as a mannequin, surprised no doubt, maybe resentful that Hunter hadn’t brought him in earlier. He raised a finger at one point, as if to ask a question, but then lowered it without asking.
“Susan Champlain was involved because her husband was involved,” Hunter said. “Is involved. She heard odds and ends about this deal and probably didn’t know what they added up to, but she’d talked about it with a few people. She may have been considered a liability and was killed because of it.”
“By Elena Rodgers.”
“Yes.”
Moore nodded periodically, tracking with her.
“So you’re saying Elena Rodgers did this on someone’s orders?” Tanner said. “To keep her quiet?”
“I don’t know, something like that,” Hunter said. “Motive’s still an open question.”
“Never would have imagined,” Moore said, shaking his head. “I had a conversation with Miss Rodgers just a couple weeks ago over at the Inn. Kind of a chilly fish, but she had some style. Never would have imagined.”
“That was her leverage,” Hunter said. “No one suspected her.”
“So you’re saying Elena Rodgers was working for this Kepler,” Tanner said.
“I don’t know,” Hunter said. She really didn’t. There was still a big part of the case—the motive—that felt murky. “It may be that Elena Rodgers is a watcher for Kepler, and that’s the reason she was here in Tidewater.”
“Watching Nick Champlain, you mean,” Moore said.
“Yes. Maybe Kepler made him hire her as a personal assistant and he never realized who she was,” Hunter said. “I’ve also heard, several times now, that Kepler has a partner. And that the partner is the one who does the dirty work for him.”
“But you said the partner’s name was Belasco,” Moore said.
“I know,” Hunter said. “I did. That’s the name I heard.”
Moore scratched absently at his left hand. “So, what—? Are you saying Elena Rodgers is Belasco?”
“It’s possible,” Hunter said. “There’s no reason Belasco couldn’t be a woman. Is there?”
Tanner raised his eyebrows, and kept them raised, not getting it.
“The thing that worries me—” Hunter went on. “There’s a term that Kepler supposedly uses: collateral damage. I’m concerned there may be more collateral damage as this thing unfolds.
“This deal for the painting, I mean,” she said. She glanced at Moore. “Although, on the other hand, that’s not our case, is it?”
“Our case is finding the person who killed Susan Champlain,” he said.
“Yes. And I think we just have.” She nodded at the pendant. “I think we’ve solved the case.”
Moore allowed a smile on the right side of his mouth.
Tanner said, “Do we have any leads on where Elena Rodgers is right now?”
“Not yet. As you told me last night, she seems to have disappeared. But there may be an electronic trail that we can trace. I’m sure she’s in touch with Kepler, and maybe with Champlain. Computer forensics is running phone and e-mail. Fisch is monitoring that. In the meantime, maybe we can do some more data-mining on her background.”
They sat silently looking at the diamond pendant that Elena Rodgers had been wearing the night of Susan Champlain’s death, now resting near the center of the conference table.
“What was it you wanted to show me?” she said finally. “My caller.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Moore sat up straight and cleared his throat. “I don’t know if I want to show you anymore.”
“Go ahead.” Hunter braced, lacing her fingers on the table. It surprised her all of a sudden how much she hoped it wasn’t Marc Devlin, the gallery manager. She liked him, she’d decided; if it turned out he’d been stalking her, it would only further Hunter’s idea that she was a terrible judge of men.
“Fischer brought this in,” Moore said.
“You ID’d the cell phone.”
“ID’d the cell phone, that’s right. The woman is from Records. She had her phone at Kent’s. A bunch of folks from the cop shop were out, doing crabs and pitchers on Friday night. She left her phone sitting on a chair, someone picked it up. We have video.”
“This was before the call came to me.”
“Six minutes before, uh-huh.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this,” Moore said.
Just play it, she thought.
Moore exhaled. He turned his laptop to her. Tanner leaned over, extending his elbows on the table, to see. It was a short sequence, dark and fuzzy: bulky man in a cloth jacket, walking around a table full of crab shells and beer pitchers, his arm swooping down, lifting the phone from a chair, walking with it cupped behind his hand. The high contrast blurred his features, and he was out of the picture in a second. But Hunter could see from the halting walk who it was. Not Devlin, who moved with a light, distinctive rhythm. Or Deputy Stilfork, whose legs chopped like stilts.
None of them said anything the first time through. Then Moore ran it again.
Nothing the second time, either.
“Holy crap,” Hunter said.
Tanner said, “Who is it?”
“Are we sure he made the call, though?”
“Here we go, look at this.” Moore called up a second sequence and played it. This one showed the man walking past the table again, front-on now.
“That looks like the sheriff,” Tanner said.
Moore closed his eyes briefly. The emotions it stirred in Hunter were slow: surprise, sadness and worry, in approximately that order. She could imagine how ugly things would get confronting the sheriff, even with this evidence. Calvert was a stubborn, prideful man who held fast to Tidewater’s traditions; but this showed him as someone else—angry, resentful, petty, probably in the deep end of a drinking problem. “At least we know the calls weren’t connected with Susan’s death,” she said.
“Yep.”
“What are we going to do about it?” she asked Moore.
“What do you think?”
“Can we do nothing?”
Tanner’s eyes were back with the pendant.
“I can’t really do nothing.”
“For now, I mean. Until we’re on the other side of this case,” she said. “I don’t think it matters for now. Does it? Now that we know?”
Moore fidgeted; he tilted his head, meaning Maybe. I don’t know. Then he gave Hunter his agreeable, squinty-eyed look, and leaned back. “For now,” he said.
“I THINK A little Bowers will go a long way,” Charlotte told Luke when he returned home.
“I do, too.” He smiled at her. “Did you just think of that?”
“A minute ago. Yeah. Are you back home to work on our project or—?”
“I left my sermon notebook, actually. Although, now that you mention it . . .”
Sneakers lifted his head from the Indian rug below Charlotte, his tail thumping three times, stopping, and then thumping again. Confused: Luke hadn’t been gone long enough to warrant a full-press greeting; but it wasn’t like he’d just gone to the other room, either. Sneakers lowered his chin to the floor and closed his eyes. A moment later, his tail thumped once more.
“So?” she asked, turning her chair from the computer. “What did Hunter say?”
“She wasn’t able to talk. She was going into a meeting and seemed quite harried.”
“I worry about her a little.”
“You told me,” he said. “She seemed very interested in the pendant, though, but didn’t have time to get into it.”
“I don’t think it belongs to Susan,” Charlotte said.
“You don’t. Why?”
“Because she didn’t wear necklaces. And I don’t think she’d wear a heart-shaped diamond one if she did.”
“So you think it’s unrelated?”
“Yes. Unless Susan was fighting with someone on the bluff, and in the process the necklace was torn off—but it was the other person who was wearing it.”
The Tempest Page 25