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And anyway, Belasco had a knack for making mistakes disappear. This one was already beginning to seem insignificant, an undetectable flaw in the finished work.

 
    Chapter Eight
    S usan Champlain’s husband, Nicholas, was upstairs in the interview room at the Public Safety Complex, wearing a royal blue golf shirt, his eyes lowered, his right hand over his left on the tabletop. John Dunn and Kyle Samuels, the sheriff’s investigator, were with him.
    â€œTwo questions?” Hunter said to state police troop commander Gary Martin. They were standing in the adjoining room. Martin was a blond, round-­faced man with a rosy complexion.
    His eyes turned to Champlain through the one-­way glass. Champlain was gesturing now, looking surprisingly put together.
    Okay , he nodded. “He’ll probably enjoy the change of scenery, anyway.”
    Hunter decided to let that one go. Pick your battles , her father used to tell her.
    She took a seat and waited, watching through the glass as Nick Champlain fielded questions. It didn’t take long to see that, for whatever reasons, investigators weren’t pushing him as hard as they should be. Part of it was the fact that he had an alibi. But some of it was his manner: Champlain was cool and sort of interesting to watch. Hunter was reminded that he’d been a politician, a one-­term city councilman in a small town in central Pennsylvania, not far from where she had been raised. Maybe the donations he’d made to the local FOP had something to do with it.
    â€œYou’re up,” Martin said seemingly arbitrarily, coming in and gripping one of her shoulders.
    Hunter walked in and John Dunn came out. She took a seat at the table beside Kyle Samuels, the sheriff’s detective, and nodded hello.
    â€œMr. Champlain, Amy Hunter, Maryland State Police. I’d just like to ask a ­couple of follow-­ups.”
    His face softened with cordiality even as his eyes gave her a quick once-­over. It was warm in the room. Hunter caught a trace of expensive cologne. She glanced at her notes.
    â€œSir, I just want to clarify, we need to ask these questions: You said it didn’t surprise you that your wife had gone to the bluff at Widow’s Point to watch the sunset this evening. She went there frequently, you said?”
    â€œSporadically.”
    â€œSporadically. And she would take pictures of sunset there?”
    â€œSometimes. Sometimes the Bay. Or the trees. That’s correct.”
    â€œOkay. And you’re aware there’s no evidence of a camera or a cell phone at the scene.”
    â€œNo, they just asked me that,” he said, his eyes turning, with a flicker of annoyance, to the other detective. “I’m guessing it fell in the Bay.”
    â€œIn fact, your wife didn’t normally use a camera, did she? She used her cell phone as a camera, isn’t that right?”
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    â€œAnd as I understand it, a lot of her artwork came from photos she’d taken on her phone, isn’t that right?” His eyes gave her another quick up and down. Hunter cleared her throat and checked to make sure her shirt was buttoned properly. “And sometimes, she’d take pictures of ­people when they didn’t know it.”
    There was a tiny delay in his response. “Sometimes.”
    â€œWas that ever a source of friction between you?” Hunter asked.
    â€œWas that—­?” Crinkles formed around Champlain’s eyes and then he smiled; for an instant she saw something he didn’t want her to see. “I don’t understand the question.”
    â€œDidn’t you argue earlier this week about a particular photo she’d taken on her cell phone?”
    The other detective squared up his papers perpendicular to the table.
    â€œSay that again,” Champlain said.
    Hunter felt her heart accelerate. She said it again.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHadn’t you and