The Tempest

by James Lilliefors

“Possible. What’s it mean, though? The message?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s the part I don’t get. Maybe Hunter will know.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The Rembrandt, propped on a giant wooden easel in the Pennsylvania countryside, glowed in warm shafts of sunlight through the barn rafters. The natural light accentuated the wrath of the storm, the explosive waves smashing the ship’s bow and port side, the hard green rain, the conflicted sky. The dramatic power of Rembrandt’s subject—­light battling dark, the allegory of nature’s power and man’s limits—­and the artist’s distinctive, otherworldly interpretation made this the perfect painting, Walter Kepler had often thought; and the real thing was infinitely more riveting than the reproductions. He felt a profound love for what he was seeing, a sensation beyond words.

  Kepler used a jeweler’s loupe to examine the paint, the mysterious layered amalgam of substances and colors that Rembrandt used to conjure his magic, pleased to see that it was still in moderately good shape. He noted each of the identifying characteristics, although all Kepler needed to see was Rembrandt’s paint, the mixture of oil and impasto and various pigments that created effects never found in the work of any other artist.

  “It’s still a magnificent painting, isn’t it?” he said, as he stepped back. And it’s ours. He didn’t say this.

  “Rembrandt painted himself into it, did you know that?” he asked Jacob Weber. “See that fellow there, holding his hat?” He pointed to one of the fourteen men, whose other hand held onto the rigging. It actually reminded him for a moment of Jacob Weber. “That’s Rembrandt,” he said. “He often painted himself into his paintings. He was the precursor to Alfred Hitchcock, in that respect.”

  Weber seemed to appreciate this, although he was nervous, his eyes going to the doorway of the barn, to the glare of light on the rolling countryside. “But he was really making a point,” Kepler continued. “We’re all in that boat together. Aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” Weber said. Kepler took several minutes more to drink in the painting, imagining as he did the sounds of the sea crashing the bow, the sting of the slanting rain, the looks of desperation, fear and supplication in the other men’s faces. He stood slightly to the right, entering the scene from the safest position on the boat, and took another, final, minute, to live inside the parable.

  Then he helped Weber crate the nearly four-­hundred-­year-­old canvas and load it into the back of Weber’s van, a custom-­designed compartment set at 70 degrees, 50 percent humidity.

  The painting’s destination was six and a half hours to the northeast, meaning it would arrive around midnight, although the transfer—­part three of his plan—­wasn’t scheduled to begin until 2:30 in the morning. That was Jacob Weber’s part of the deal.

  “Let’s proceed, then.”

  HUNTER DID A short, fast run around the harbor, and then she showered, fed Winston and drove back in to the office. ­People were still leaving the PSC as Hunter walked in; Tanner and Fischer were both gone, although Tanner had e-­mailed her some more information on Linda Elena Fiorille.

  She called Hank Moore on his cell, relaying the details of her conversation with Scott Randall. He was at the fish market, he said, picking up some fillets for dinner. He sounded distracted.

  Hunter read through what Gerry Tanner had sent her, then stared at Susan Champlain’s picture for a while. Hunter was still missing something, she knew: something that was very close, probably sitting right in front of her. Something to do with Elena. With “Belasco.” With Scott Randall’s reaction to that name. Something she should have been able to recognize by now.

  Her office phone rang, startling her. She hoped that it was Tanner, wanting to trade opinions. But what came up was “Unknown Caller.” Maybe it was her heavy breather. Sheriff Calvert.

  “Hunter,” she said.

  “Ms. Hunter?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Walter Kepler. I understand you were trying to reach me? You left a message?”

  “Yes,” she said. Hunter scrambled to open her notebook, paging back for an open space. “I was. I am. I’d like to talk with you, yes, sir. I would.”

  “This is in regards—­”

  “An ongoing investigation.”

  He waited, much calmer than she was. “You’re Homicide.”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh-­huh.” He made a throat-­clearing sound. “Unfortunately, I’m preparing to go out of town at the moment. But if it could wait a week—”

  “Are you free to talk now?”

  “Well, I could talk for a few minutes, I suppose. You mean by phone. Although, naturally, I prefer to see who it is I’m talking with.”

  “I do, too,” Hunter said. “Where are you now, sir?”

  “Where am I now? I’m in Pennsylvania.” There was a crisp precision to his diction, and a cultured quality that made him sound like a stage actor. “I imagine I’m about an hour north of you, or an hour and a half. Unfortunately, I’m waiting on a delivery right now, so . . .”

  “How about if I drive up there?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. Right now.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You mean, in an hour and a half, then?”

  “Yes, whatever it takes.”

  His pause felt so dramatic it was almost as if he’d spoken it. “Well, all right,” he said. “Let me give you directions.”

  Hunter looked at the clock: 6:42.

  She turned out the light and walked back down the corridor. He hadn’t asked what it was about. He hadn’t asked why she wanted to talk with him. He hadn’t asked anything. He knew.

  She called Henry Moore as she neared the Delaware line to tell him what she was doing and give him the address where she was going. Moore answered her first with silence; then, much as she’d expected, he said, “I don’t want you going alone, Hunter. Can you take Tanner with you?”

  “Tanner’s out. Fischer is, too. I’m already on the road.”

  Moore went silent again. It was a concerned and disapproving silence, probably an angry silence. Hunter heard easy listening music in the background.

  “It’s just a routine interview,” Hunter said. “Which I’m doing on my own time,” she added.

  Moore didn’t approve, but he wasn’t going to push it. “Call me when you get there,” he said.

  “I will.”

  Hunter returned Pastor Luke’s call as she drove into Delaware. He told her about an interesting theory he’d come up with: that the reference to “Half Past Three” in Elena Rodgers’s e-­mail may have had to do with a painting by Marc Chagall, which was at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

  “It’s an idea, anyway,” he said.

  Considering some of the other ideas that Luke, and Charlotte, had given her over the past several days, she filed this one away under “to take seriously.” It was something else she could ask Walter Kepler, perhaps. Hunter told Luke about the call from Kepler. She told him where she was going and promised to call him later. Then she tried Tanner and Fischer, leaving messages with both.

  The sun turned a warm orange-­yellow as it began to fall into the countryside. For a while, she listened to music, but that quickly became a distraction. Hunter wanted to be mentally clear and focused for this, to prepare herself as best as she could for Walter Kepler. Because it wasn’t a routine interview. She’d been disingenuous saying that. It was anything but routine. It was the big part of the Susan Champlain case she didn’t understand, she sensed. It was the entry to Belasco and the Rembrandt painting and Susan’s fears and everything else that she didn’t yet know. So why was this coming so easily? Why hadn’t he asked her what she wanted to talk about?

  Her GPS took her across the rolling country to the address that Kepler had provided, which was a small brick farmhouse, tucked into a hillside. There was a mailbox at the
top of the drive and then a long gravel road to the house, with an opened garage beside it. A Bentley was parked inside, with Delaware plates. Darkness was settling but there were no lights on in the house.

  Hunter parked. She called Moore to tell him she’d arrived and to give him the address once again; this time, she knew he was writing it down.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  “I will. I’ve got my phone and my gun.”

  “Call me as soon as you’re out.”

  “I will.”

  Before Moore hung up, Hunter heard his wife say “Who is it?” her voice sounding like a rusty hinge. Hunter smiled and clicked off.

  She was surprised as she got out to see that a man was standing on the stoop to the house, waiting for her, dressed in a tailored khaki suit with a white dress shirt. He opened his hands cordially as she approached.

  “You’re Amy Hunter.”

  “Yes.”

  He extended his hand.

  “Come in, please.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I’m not as hard to find as ­people think, am I?”

  Hunter shrugged. “I didn’t know ­people thought that,” she said.

  Walter Kepler led her into the wooden-­floored living room. He gestured for her to sit, in a French-­looking antique armchair. The windows were open, a pleasant breeze pushing out the curtains.

  “Are you renting this house?” was the first question that came from her mouth.

  “That’s right, yes,” he answered, giving her a warm smile. Kepler was an interesting-­looking man, with prominent cheekbones, light-­colored eyes, graying hair that wisped over his forehead. He looked to her like a museum director or an art teacher. “I’m doing some business on an estate collection in the area. My client’s attorney found me this rental. Just for a ­couple of weeks.

  “I understand you’ve been talking with Scott Randall,” he added quickly, as Hunter was about to ask a follow-­up. They were seated now, facing each other. “I’m sure he’s told you some stories about me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, I mean, why else would you be here?” He laughed easily at this, a way of saying that he wasn’t going to elaborate. It was a surprising laugh, which became a high giggle.

  There were no lights on in the room. The furniture was antique, but seemed mismatched and placed incongruously. Something wasn’t right about this, Hunter could see.

  Outside, lightning bugs blinked against the trees. It reminded Hunter of her mother’s living room at dusk. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed the paintings on the walls—­three dark European-­looking landscapes, along with one that seemed more familiar, a famous impressionist: Degas or Renoir, maybe.

  “Can we turn on a light?” she said, standing. Kepler said nothing at first. He watched as she walked to a table lamp and clicked the switch, one notch and then two. Nothing happened. She lifted the switch on the wall.

  “I’m afraid the power is still out,” Kepler said, speaking with that clear diction she’d heard over the phone. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  Hunter sat in a straight-­backed chair by the front door, feeling the .22 holstered under her jacket. She glanced out at the farmland behind her, the sky still losing its color.

  “You’re a homicide investigator, you said. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, naturally, I’m surprised that you would want to talk with me. You’re investigating a homicide?”

  “I am. Susan Champlain. She died in a fall from a bluff in Tidewater County last Wednesday night. There’s evidence now indicating that her death may have been a homicide.”

  Kepler lifted his eyebrows attentively. “And so—­how would that involve me?”

  “Because there’s some evidence tying her death to a business deal her husband was in,” Hunter said. “A deal that may have also involved you.”

  “I see.” He waited a moment, and smiled, a wide smile that seemed to have no emotion behind it.

  “No comment?”

  “No.”

  “You aren’t doing business with her husband?”

  “Is that what Mr. Randall told you?”

  Hunter said nothing.

  “Collateral damages,” he said. “Did he use that term, too?”

  “He did,” she replied. “Although he said that was your phrase.”

  “God, no.” Kepler laughed. “Really? No, that’s his phrase. You can check the script. I cut it out, actually. That’s from his draft, not mine.”

  Hunter shifted in the hard chair, feeling the grip of her gun.

  “Script?”

  “Yes. He still has all the drafts, I’m sure. I don’t even have the damn thing. Did you ask him? Did he tell you about that?”

  “No,” Hunter said. She looked behind her, seeing something moving in the yard. Then not sure. “What do you mean, the script?”

  “That’s what this is. That’s where all this comes from. He didn’t mention it?”

  “No.”

  Kepler displayed a reflective frown before explaining. “Many years ago,” he began, “Scott Randall and I took an art class together. At Columbia. We got to know each other and even became friends. Of a sort. And, for a while, we got it in our heads that we’d write a screenplay together. And so, before the semester was over, we went to work on it, full of high hopes.

  “Our story was about a man who makes a fortune in the art world by flipping masterpieces. We could never quite agree on the ending, and for that reason, and others, mostly pertaining to motivation—­his, not mine—­we never finished. I eventually moved on. Which I think bothered him. At any rate, we haven’t spoken since.”

  “This was thirty-­some years ago.”

  “Thereabouts,” he said. “We were just two men in our early twenties, you understand, both with large but somewhat impractical ambitions. The world was our oyster. But only one of us figured out how to get the damn thing opened properly.” He laughed at his characterization. “Some ­people grow beyond their youthful ideals, others don’t. That’s what high school reunions are for, I suppose. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been back to all of his.”

  Hunter studied him, still trying to figure what Walter Kepler was up to.

  “We came from very different worlds, of course. He loved art but never could make it work for him. Which, I think, bothered him enormously. He was studying criminal justice at the same time. So it’s kind of fitting, isn’t it, that he ended up in the art crimes division?”

  “You weren’t friends for long.”

  “About a year. When we took the class together and then that summer and fall.”

  “His first wife worked in your gallery, too, I understand.”

  “Catherine, that’s right. Not for long. You’ve done your homework, I see.”

  “You had a relationship with her, too?”

  “Well.” He smiled. “Yes, and I think that’s the only reason he wooed Catherine, to be candid. I’m sure he didn’t love her. I think marrying her represented some sort of early victory in Scott’s life. I probably brought out the worst in him, I hate to say. Not surprisingly, the marriage was short-­lived. I am told he married again and that they have a fairly well-­adjusted daughter, grown now. I’ve never met them, of course. I barely thought of him at all, in fact, until several years ago, when I found out—­purely by happenstance—­how insanely jealous he was of me. Which was quite stunning, really, after so many years. And that he’d somehow gotten it into his head that I was involved with organized crime and terrorism. Did he tell you all that?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Well.” He showed the wide grin, but was regarding her more carefully now. “It’s not true, of course, I hope you realize that.”

  Hunter shrugged. “He also thinks you’re a dealer of stolen art
,” she said. “The New York Times seemed to imply the same thing several years ago.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Why do ­people think that?”

  “Because I haven’t bothered to correct them, I suppose,” he said. “I’m a private art dealer. I trade in rare, high-­end work. ­People in the field know who I am—­it’s a very small field—­people on the outside don’t.”

  “My interest,” Hunter said, “is a Rembrandt painting called The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. It’s been suggested that you’re trying to purchase it.”

  “Really.” He smiled, holding it longer than seemed natural. “And why would that interest you?”

  “Because Susan Champlain made reference to it before she died,” Hunter said. “She had a picture of it.”

  “A picture of it.”

  “Yes. Which the police have now. I’m investigating the death of Susan Champlain, as I said. That’s why I contacted you.”

  “Yes, I know that,” he said brusquely. He stood and stepped to a side window, looked out at the dark countryside surrounding them. “Well, I can’t help you there, I’m afraid,” he said. “I didn’t know Miss Champlain. Never met her.”

  “But you know her husband.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not doing business with him?”

  This time he didn’t answer.

  “And Elena Rodgers?” Hunter said. “Or Elena Fiorille?”

  He turned to face her. She could tell she had surprised him, although it was too dark to read his expression. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because the police have some evidence now linking her with Susan’s death,” Hunter said, using “the police” as an entity separate from herself. Her hand was inside her jacket, touching the grip of the .22.

  When he didn’t respond, she asked, “How do you know her?”

  “How I know her isn’t your business. Is it? What sort of evidence do they have?”

  “Something she left at the scene. DNA.”

  Kepler turned back to the window. And then, as if on cue, a cell phone rang, several notes of classical music that Hunter recognized but couldn’t identify. Kepler pulled a phone from his pants pocket. He walked into a back room, talking in a low voice. Hunter stood and tried to glance into the other rooms, but it was too dark to see anything.