Free The Tempest by James Lilliefors

pointed out, his face colored and he said, “I can’t remember exactly.”
    It was past midnight when Amy Hunter swiped her badge into Homicide. Inside was a reception desk and four small offices—­one for Tanner, one for Fischer, one for her; the fourth was open, used as a conference room and sometimes by their supervisor, Henry Moore. She was surprised to see that Tanner and Fischer were both still here. Tanner’s door stood wide open, Fischer’s about two inches. It was only a ­couple of minutes before Tanner was in her office.
    â€œThe alibi seems to check,” he said, resting a hip on a corner of Hunter’s worktable and opening his worn-­out leather notebook. “We’re pulling highway surveillance.”
    â€œAlibis are sometimes overrated, though.”
    â€œYeah.” Tanner studied her. “Why, what are you thinking?” Hunter shrugged. “You think the husband did this.”
    â€œI think it’s possible he was involved. Whether he was here or not.”
    Tanner waited for more, staring with his long wooden face. He had a spiel he gave about how cheap opinions were. My daddy used to say you ought to have a license before they allow you to carry an opinion . It was ironic considering how much he liked to hear other ­people’s opinions.
    â€œSanders’s story had problems.”
    â€œI know,” she said.
    â€œYou think he was involved?”
    Hunter shrugged. “What do you think?”
    â€œMaybe Champlain arranged it?” he said. “Made sure he was out of town when it happened?”
    â€œWhy, though?” she said.
    â€œThe usual, I guess. Maybe he saw the writing on the wall. D-­I-­V-­O-­R-­C-­E?” He spoke each of the letters, like in the song. Tanner’s voice had a wide, expressive range, but his face never changed. The effect could be slightly comical. “Save him a ton of money if she had an accident before that happened.”
    â€œMaybe,” Hunter said. “Except I don’t know that they were at that stage in their marriage. I don’t think they were.”
    â€œSpeculation.”
    â€œI know. It’s too early for that. We’ll know more when we hear from the M.E. There was a broken nail,” she added. “Something under her other nails, might be skin cells.”
    â€œLump on the back of her head, too, right?”
    â€œYes. Although she may have just hit her head on the way down.”
    â€œThat’s what the sheriff’s saying,” Tanner said. “Of course, maybe it was an accident.”
    â€œMaybe.” Hunter gave him a cursory smile. “But I don’t think so.” Tanner stared, expecting her to say more. But Hunter wasn’t ready to do that yet.
    Several minutes after Tanner left for the night, giving her his “Hasta la Vista,” Fischer emerged. He filled his coffee cup with cooler water and then leaned against Hunter’s doorway.
    â€œHow’s Geronimo?” he asked. Gerry Tanner’s real name was, in fact, Geronimo, although no one called him that. Hunter shrugged, knowing better than to get between them. Fischer was a fitness and organic food nut, half Cuban, half African-­American. He was one of the most meticulous and focused investigators Hunter had known. But, unlike Tanner, he wasn’t a ­people person. He was great at sorting through information, finding a story in piles of data.
    â€œWhat can I do?” he said.
    Hunter had been waiting for him to ask; she was as pleased to give Fischer an assignment as he was to receive it. Fischer readied his pen to write on his steno pad.
    â€œI’d like to know more about Champlain’s whole setup here.”
    â€œ ’kay.”
    â€œWho he’s with and why. Backgrounds on everybody. Sanders is his bodyguard, supposedly, Elena Rodgers his personal assistant. There’s a part-­time housekeeper named Sally