Read Online The Tempest by James Lilliefors - Free Book Online

with someone, a younger man with dark, floppy hair, walking just behind. But when they reached the sidewalk, they veered off in different directions, exchanging a glance, but not saying goodbye, and she wasn’t sure.
    Pulling away from Widow’s Point, Hunter called Henry Moore, who was the commander of the State Police Homicide Unit, and Hunter’s boss. “Who’s handling notification?” she asked.
    â€œDunn’s ­people. They’re on it.”
    â€œThey’ve found him?”
    â€œEvidently.” Moore sighed. He was an Eastern Shore native with a lot of old-­fashioned wisdom about law enforcement; but he gave Hunter slack, knowing she worked best without much supervision. “What do you think?”
    She told him, relaying the gist of what Pastor Luke had said to her that morning about Susan Champlain and then her own observations from the scene. State police troopers trained in death notification had already handled that end of it, she knew; Hunter would have liked to see his reaction.
    Three possibilities. The fact that Nick Champlain had threatened his wife days before ratcheted up the odds that this was a homicide. But there was one aspect of her death that made Hunter think it wasn’t the husband. Nick Champlain’s alleged threat had been “I could make you disappear and no one would ever find you.” But what had happened was different. What’d happened was very public: the opposite, in a way.
    Hunter drove down to the wide-­porched house the Champlains were renting, a mile and a half farther along the coast road at Cooper’s Point. It was a large Victorian-­style place with gabled windows and gingerbread latticework. A front light had been left on but there were no lights inside. Hunter parked and walked a loop around the property, through the night shadows of a big oak in back.
    She took the rural route to the PSC, figuring what might’ve happened. Tidewater was a resort town this time of year, but there were still a lot of large, dark spaces—­farm fields and marshlands and back bays. The image of Susan Champlain’s crumpled body was stuck in her head now; it would never go away for good, she knew.
    She was almost back when Moore called again. “The husband’s on his way over to give a statement,” he said. “Voluntary. They caught up to him having dinner at Kent’s. Just got back into town around nine, supposedly. If you want to walk upstairs, you can see him.”
    T W O HOURS AFTER the incident, Belasco still heard the police sirens, racing with false urgency through the night. Belasco had watched the official activity from a distance for a while, and then returned home, confident that tonight’s event would become nothing more than it seemed: an unfortunate accident.
    It was a warm, breezy evening, with a trace of fog coming in over the water. Belasco was driving into town, still feeling a spike of adrenaline, and the lingering thrill. Killing, done right, could be an art form, an activity that aroused the higher emotions. Belasco had nearly forgotten that. Tonight’s work, which had been carried out quickly, with purpose and precision, but also with passion, had been a reminder. Kepler would appreciate that. There had been a sense of inevitability to it, as well: Susan Champlain’s recklessness had become a threat to everything they had planned. Belasco had confirmed that tonight in going through her cell phone.
    Normally, Belasco was better at killing men than women; but tonight’s incident had unfolded with a surprising ease, as if guided by some divine force. There had been just one small mistake, a hitch that Belasco should have anticipated; but it wasn’t likely that local law enforcement would pick up on it. Belasco wasn’t going to mention it to Kepler when they spoke in the morning. What would be the point? There were far more important, and practical, things to discuss.